Classical Antiquity Vol 14 N1 April 1995

CLASSICAL ANTIQUITY Volume 14 / Number 1 April 1995 (California Studies in Classical Antiquity, Volume 26 / Number 1)

University of California Press

CLASSICAL ANTIQUITY Continuing

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Published twice each year by the University of California Press. ISSN: 0278-6656 Editorial correspondence should be addressed to the Editor, Classical Antiquity, University of California, Department of Classics, 5303 Dwinelle Hall #2520, Berkeley, CA 94720-2520. Address business correspondence, including inquiries regarding advertising and request for permissions, to University of California Press, Journals Dept., 2120 Berkeley Way, Berkeley, CA 94720. Annual subscription rates for Classical Antiquity are $32.00 for individuals ($18.00 for students with evidence of current registration) and $64.00 for institutions. Outside the U.S. add $4.00 for postage. The price of a single copy is $18.00 for individuals (including students) and $36.00 for institutions; $4.00 postage outside the U.S. Send checks, payable to The Regents of the University of California, to Classical Antiquity, University of California Press, 2120 Berkeley Way, Berkeley, CA 94720. Pre-payment is required. Copying notice: Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use, or the internal or personal use of specific clients, is granted by The Regents of the University of California for libraries and other users registered with the Copyright Clearance Center (CCC) Transactional Reporting Service, provided that the base fee of $1.00 per article per copy is paid directly to CCC, 21 Congress Street, Salem, MA 01970. Indicate fee-code 0278-6656/84 $1.00. Classical Antiquity is included in Academic Abstracts/ CD-ROM, MLA International Bibliography, Current Contents, Arts and Humanities Citation Index, and Arts and Humanities Index. The poppy motif used throughout Classical Antiquity reproduces an intaglio design on a bronze ring of the fourth century .., from Olynthus 10 (Baltimore, 1971) 136, pl. 26, no. 448.

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CLASSICAL ANTIQUITY Volume 14 / No. 1 / April 1995 California Studies in Classical Antiquity Volume 26 / No. 1

1  .   

Abstracts

5 Julius Caesar in Jupiter’s Prophecy, Aeneid, Book 1 41 Dog-Helen and Homeric Insult

 

62 Brilliant Dynasts: Power and Politics in the Oresteia

 . 

130 The Perils of Leukippos: Initiatory Transvestism and Male Gender in the Ekdusia at Phaistos

   . 

164 The Kypria and its Early Reception 193 Stoning and Sight: A Structural Equivalence in Greek Mythology

EDITORIAL BOARD Statement of Editorial Policy Page duBois Thomas N. Habinek Lisa Kallet-Marx Donald J. Mastronarde, Chair Gary Miles Sarah P. Morris Amy Richlin Susan Stephens

The object of Classical Antiquity is to publish significant research on topics from the entire spectrum of ancient Greek and Roman civilization. No particular area or methodology is preferred. In general, the editors look for articles that combine detail with a broad vision of the subject. Narrowly technical work and brief notes are discouraged. The journal does not publish reviews but welcomes critical appraisals of current work on major authors or topics. Classical Antiquity appears twice a year.

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Abstracts

R F. D , “Julius Caesar in Jupiter’s Prophecy, Aeneid Book I” The identity of the Caesar at Aeneid, 1.286 is a long-standing problem. The prevailing opinion since Heyne favors Augustus, but a few scholars agree with Servius that the Dictator is meant. In recent years the suggestion that Vergil was being deliberately ambiguous has been advanced as a solution to the problem. I argue the case for Julius Caesar anew. The paper is in five sections. The first four deal respectively with (1) the question of nomenclature; (2) chronology; (3) the descriptive epithets applied to Caesar, especially spoliis Orientis onustum in 289; and (4) the rhetoric of the passage. The fourth section confronts the challenge posed to my reading by the well-known view of Ronald Syme, held to throughout his lifetime, that Julius Caesar was a virtual non-person in the Rome of Vergil’s day because the princeps tried to avoid awkward comparison with the Dictator. But this view has been challenged, and I draw on recent work in this area. In the fifth and final section I support my reading with references to Vergil’s earlier poetry, attending especially to what it can tell us about Vergil’s attitude toward Julius Caesar. Of particular relevance is the use he makes of the sidus Iulium, an image found in the Eclogues and important in connection with the apocalyptic outlook abroad at the time of Caesar’s assassination. This section of the paper expands on Servius’ generally neglected note, which maintains that the Caesar in question is Julius.

M G , “Dog-Helen and Homeric Insult” Helen’s self-disparagement is an anomaly in epic diction, and this is especially true of those instances where she refers to herself as “dog” and “dog-face.” This essay attempts to show that Helen’s dog-language, in that it remains in conflict with other features of her characterization, has some generic significance for epic, helping to establish the superiority of epic performance over competing performance types which treated her differently. The metaphoric use of kÔwn and its derivatives has not been well understood: the scholiast’s gloss “shameless” is no more than a functional equivalent, and interpretations linking it primarily with reckless courage or with sexual misconduct are not well founded.

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An analysis of contexts suggests that “dog” as an insult has a fundamental association with physical greed and even cannibalism. The implied notion of avarice, however, may also be extended into other behavioral spheres, including those of fighting and sexuality. A character may also be called “dog” for reviling or slandering another unjustly. These strongly negative implications are out of keeping with the character given to Helen in epic. For where tragedy and lyric generally represent Helen as blameworthy, Homeric epic tends to absolve her of blame and to make her personally as well as physically attractive. The unexpected application of dog-terms to her may therefore be read as an allusion to other versions of the Troy legend which were more hostile to Helen. Negative portrayals of Helen are likely to have figured in the ancient kitharodic narrative which was a precursor of both tragedy and lyric; these are perhaps the unfriendly “songs” mentioned by Helen at Il. 6.357. By referring to such defamatory narratives through the dog-insult and through other instances of Helen’s self-blame, the epic performer marks his own more favorable treatment as a generic preference.

M G , “Brilliant Dynasts: Power and Politics in the Oresteia” Intertwined with the celebration of Athenian democratic institutions, we find in the Oresteia another chain of interactions, in which the elite families of Argos, Phokis, Athens, and even Mount Olympos employ the traditional aristocratic relationships of xenia and hetaireia to renegotiate their own status within—and at the pinnacle of—the civic order, and thereby guarantee the renewed prosperity of their respective communities. The capture of Troy is the result of a joint venture by the Atreidai and the Olympian “family” (primarily Zeus xenios and Athena). Although Agamemnon falls victim to his own mishandling of aristocratic privilege, his son is raised by doryxenoi in Phokis (Strophios and Pylades), a relationship which is mirrored by that with the Olympian “allies,” Hermes and Apollo. Orestes’ recovery of his father’s position is thus shown to depend upon a network of “guest-friends” and “sworn-comrades,” reinforced by the traditional language of oaths and reciprocal loyalty. In the Eumenides, the alliance between the Olympian and Argive royal families is re-invoked as the basis both for Athena’s protection of Orestes, and finally for Zeus’ concern for his daughter’s Athenian dependents. In contrast to this successful “networking,” and the resultant benefits that trickle down to the citizens of Argos and Athens, stand the seditious oaths and perverted “comradeship” of Aigisthos and Klytaimestra; likewise, the Erinyes are unable to draw on equivalent claims of pedigree or xenia to those enjoyed by Orestes and Apollo. Like all Greek tragedies, the Oresteia presents the action through constantly shifting viewpoints, those of aristocrats and commoners, leaders and led, while the propriety of this hierarchy itself is never questioned. And although the action moves from monarchical Argos to an incipiently democratic Athens, paradoxically we hear less and less about “ordinary,” lower-class citizens as the trilogy progresses. Thus, at the same time that the trilogy reinforces the sense of collective survival and civic values (the perspectives, e.g., of the Argive Elders, Watchman, Herald, and Athenian Propompoi), it also suggests that these can be maintained only through the proper interventions of their traditional leaders. Aeschylus’ plays were composed during a time when the Athenian democracy was still developing, and elite leadership and patronage were still taken for granted. Attic tragedy and the City Dionysia may be seen as a site of negotiation between rival (democratic and aristocratic) ideologies within the polis, wherein a kind of “solidarity without consensus” is

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achieved. Written and staged by the elite under license from the demos, the dramas play out (in the safety of the theater space) dangerous stories of royal risk-taking, crime, glory, and suffering, in such a way as to reassure the citizen audience simultaneously of their own collective invulnerability, and of the unique value of their (highly vulnerable, often flawed, but ultimately irreplaceable) leading families.

D D. L , “The Perils of Leukippos: Initiatory Transvestism and Male Gender Ideology in the Ekdusia at Phaistos” This article aims to interpret an annual initiation ritual celebrated in Hellenistic Phaistos (Crete), at a festival known as the Ekdusia, in which young men had to put on women’s clothes and swear an oath of citizenship before they could graduate from the civic youth corps (the agela) and enter the society of adult male citizens. It begins by reconstructing the ritual and situating it within its historical and social context. It then reviews the two major theories which have been used to explain transvestism in Greek initiation—structuralist and psychological—and attempts to expose their shortcomings. The author remedies the difficulty with the structuralist approach—its focus on abstract symbols divorced from their social context—by understanding the ritual change of clothes (feminine clothes exchanged for masculine clothes) at the Ekdusia in terms of the radical gender segregation in Cretan society and the gradual transition Cretan boys made from feminine spaces to masculine spaces in both city and home. The author remedies the main problem with the psychological approach—its focus on the psychological dynamic between mother and son rather than the motivations of the rite’s adult male sponsors—by looking at how adult men, particularly in modern non-Greek societies which hold initiation rites, understand male adolescent development and create rituals in accordance therewith. This comparative model shows how men in gender-segregated societies think of boys as feminine themselves and believe that their masculine development is at risk if they are not rescued from the dangerous feminine realm, and forced to undergo a combination of defeminization and masculinization rituals. Although there is no direct evidence to suggest that Greek men thought of boys’ transition rites in this way, the myths told about three different figures named Leukippos, related directly (etiologically) and indirectly to the Ekdusia, reveal this pattern of thought in its full form.

R S , “The Kypria and its Early Reception” This article analyses the remains of the seventh-century epic known as the Kypria from literary as well as iconographical perspectives. The literary study of the Kypria includes a provisional reconstruction followed by a defense of the poem against many critics, beginning with Aristotle, who have found it tediously linear and unsophisticated. The Kypria apparently made artful use of catalogues, flashbacks, digressions, and predictions as traditional sources of epic poikilia. The second part of this study examines several (but not all) instances in which the Kypria influenced representational art of Archaic Greece. Study of the iconographical tradition often yields details which may be retrojected into the poem, albeit with varying degrees of certitude. The influence of the Kypria on the iconography of Greek art, especially pronounced considering the greater overall prestige of the Iliad and the Odyssey, is explained on the basis of the themes and purposes of the cyclic poem. First, the Kypria was so often translated into the visual medium because of the high number of potentially interesting subjects which it offered to artists. Second, Proklos commented

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that the poems of the epic cycle were later preserved less for their literary quality than for the concatenation of epic events which they preserved. In choosing to transfer this poetic tradition to their own media, archaic artists simultaneously evoked the powerful causality of the poem and, more importantly, alluded to the larger story of the Trojan War.

D T. S , “Stoning and Sight: a Structural Equivalence in Greek Mythology” This article examines a series of Greek myths which establish a structural equivalence between two motifs, stoning and blinding; the two penalties either substitute for one another in alternative versions of a single story, or appear in sequence as repayments in kind. After reviewing other theories concerning the motives behind blinding and lapidation, I argue that both punishments—together with petrifaction and live imprisonment, which frequently figure alongside the other motifs—are directed against individuals whose crimes generate pollution. This miasma affects not only the perpetrator of the deed, but risks spreading to the community at large, and prompts measures aimed at containing the source of the disease. Both blinding and lapidation are designed to cordon off the contaminant by removing him from all visual and tactile contact with other men. But it is not only the nature of the crimes that explains the kinship between the two penalties. I further argue that the attributes Greek thinking assigned to stones, repeatedly characterized as unseeing, mute, immobile, and dry, and symbolic of the condition of the dead, elucidate the connections and clarify the antagonism that myth suggests between lapidation and sight. Stoning, blinding, imprisonment, and petrifaction all consign the criminal to an existence exactly parallel to that of the stone, stripping him of the properties that distinguish the living from the dead, and making him both unseeing and unseen. Three examples drawn from archaic and classical literature provide examples of these interactions between stones, blindness, invisibility, and death: the snake portent sent by Zeus in Book 2 of the Iliad, the Perseus myth, and Hermes’ activity in both the Homeric Hymn to Hermes and Aeschylus’ Choephoroe.

ROBERT F. DOBBIN

Julius Caesar in Jupiter’s Prophecy, Aeneid, Book 1

nascetur pulchra Troianus origine Caesar, 286 imperium Oceano, famam qui terminet astris, Iulius, a magno demissum nomen Iulo. hunc tu olim caelo spoliis Orientis onustum accipies secura; vocabitur hic quoque votis. 290 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 saeva sedens super arma et centum vinctus ae¨nis 295 post tergum nodis fremet horridus ore cruento.

T

J concludes his speech of consolation to Venus in the first of the Roman prophecies in the Aeneid (Book 1, lines 254–96). Readers will recall the occasion of the speech: Venus is distressed by the rough treatment her son and the rest of the Trojans have received at Juno’s hands. She protests (229–53) that her father has forgotten his oath that a race would emerge from the remnants of Troy to rule a great empire. Jupiter calms her fears and in an extremely condensed survey lays out the destined future of Aeneas, the Trojans, and the Roman people. The prophecy mainly proceeds in five- or six-line increments: Aeneas, who is destined for immortality, will wage war in Italy and found Lavinium, where he will reign for three years (261–66). Ascanius, now Iulus, will succeed him and reign for thirty years in the new settlement of Alba Longa (267–71). Here his descendants will live for three centuries, until Romulus founds Rome (272–77). Jupiter goes on to I wish to thank Professors Erich Gruen, Tom Habinek, Charles Murgia and Peter White, along with two anonymous readers, for their help at various stages in the preparation of this paper. Not all would agree with the conclusion, and any errors are my own.

© 1995        

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promise that Juno will come around to the Romans’ side and with divine sanction they will enjoy “empire without limit” (278–82); they will conquer Greece and other lands (283–85). Then, quite suddenly, appear controversial lines on Caesar (286–90), followed by a concluding vision of universal peace (291–96). In tracing the trajectory of fortune in the career of Venus’ descendants Jupiter concentrates on events toward the beginning and the end. That helps bring out parallelisms in Rome’s long history (signalized, for instance, by the quoque in 290). It also means that certain details regarding the means that brought Rome to her glorious end are left for narration later. The identity of the Caesar in 286 is a venerable problem.1 Recently the case for deliberate ambiguity has been advanced, by O’Hara, Bishop, and others. The latest contribution to the debate, however, by Kraggerud, has defended the apparently still dominant view that Caesar is Augustus. In this paper I will argue the case for Julius Caesar: a view that prevailed in antiquity (to judge from the imitation of Ovid, and the commentary of Servius), and one that may again be gaining ground.2 That Caesar is the Emperor remains the communis opinio, however, supported in the present generation by the comment of R. D. Williams. He has lent the authority of his name to what has actually been the majority view since Heyne. But Williams was hardly dogmatic about it, and my position is consistent with his insofar as I argue that, although the Caesar may not be Augustus, the passage is still about the Augustan age. Argument for this involves exploring some byways of Roman religion in the turbulent period of the late Republic, with particular attention to the apocalyptic expectations attending Julius Caesar’s death. My position draws on an important new study of Caesar in Augustan Rome, and expands on the neglected note of Servius. Some thoughts, first, on the issue of ambiguity. One reason it has flourished of late is the perception that straightforward exegesis has failed, the traditional choice between Julius Caesar and Caesar Augustus having finally proven unsatisfactory. But in fact the case for Julius Caesar has not yet been properly made, in the way Kraggerud, for instance, has defended Augustus. And as Kraggerud points out, there is at least a prima facie case in favor of clarity in a context, as he puts it, “of explicit 1. Literature on the passage: Norden 273–75; Quinn 47 n. 1; G. Williams 1968, 427; Kenney 106; Austin 1971, 108–10; R. D. Williams 1972, 181–82; Clarke; Basson 28 n. 73; Kinsey; G. Williams 1983, 141; Sirago 753; Stahl 340 n. 46; Binder 1988, 269; Bishop 13–16; Koster 142–43; O’Hara 155–63; Horsfall 1991, 86–87; Powell 145–46; Kraggerud. Most argue that the whole passage is in reference to Augustus. Austin, Kenney, Quinn, Koster and Horsfall are exceptions in at least suggesting the possibility that lines 286–290 refer to Julius Caesar. In the Index nominum to his OCT of Vergil, R. A. B. Mynors assigned the Caesar in 286 to Julius. Sirago asserts that these lines refer to Augustus, but invoked in terms more appropriate to his great-uncle. While prepared to find Julius Caesar here, Kenney and Austin finally argue for ambiguity in the passage. Bishop and O’Hara, too, argue that the whole passage is intentionally ambiguous. Of the standard commentaries on the Aeneid, special mention should be made of Conway and Henry for their defense of Julius Caesar. A review of the older literature, which includes a thorough survey of the many commentaries, is provided by Basson. 2. E.g., Horsfall, and compare West 15–16.

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revelation (cf. 262 volvens fatorum arcana movebo).”3 Like him, I am uncomfortable with the notion that Vergil would promise enlightenment on a fundamental point and then equivocate. We have to wonder, too, what possible reason he could have had for not being precise about events within the memory of his original audience. We need to distinguish on the one hand between questions of interpretation that arise from a vantage point 2,000 years removed, and the idea of intentional ambiguity on the other. As I hope to show, appreciation of the passage benefits from a study of factors historical, archaeological, religious, and literary that were familiar to Vergil’s contemporaries but are inevitably less familiar to readers now. These factors have so far not been brought to bear on the problem. The difficulties involved on either view of Caesar’s identity have been set forth before, e.g., by Austin and O’Hara. It is worthwhile reviewing them. Four especially stand out: (1) the problem of nomenclature; (2) the problem of chronology; (3) the aptness of the epithets, especially spoliis Orientis onustum in 289; and (4) the rhetoric of the passage, insofar as that creates expectations that seem to go unfulfilled if one or the other Caesar is omitted. I will discuss each of these, then proceed to other considerations. I

As indicated above, the prevailing view today favors taking Caesar in 286 as Augustus, but scholars have their hands full trying to explain why Vergil refers to him in 288 as Iulius. For the time at which he was writing, this would be an unexampled way to mention the Emperor. The evidence has been cited before and need not detain us long. A survey of all Augustan poets turns up no other instance where he is called Iulius.4 In a recent study C. Rubincam observes that not one historian of the Augustan era applies the nomen Iulius to the Emperor.5 Octavian had used it for a brief period after his adoption by the elder Caesar,6 but for our purposes it is important to realize that he had stopped doing so as early as 40 , if not before. The change coincided with his adoption of Imperator as a praenomen. As Syme succinctly put it, “the Iulius is discarded.”7 Mommsen observed that all the early emperors avoided the family name and believed the practice was intended “to draw a dividing line between the ruling family and the other citizens.” He traced the innovation to the young Octavian and also dates it to around 40 .8 Thenceforth Octavian was, with his full complement of titles,

3. Kraggerud 105. 4. Checking Vergil, Horace, Gallus, Ovid, Propertius, Tibullus, Manilius, the Appendix Vergiliana, and the relevant sections of Fragmenta Poetarum Latinarum and Poetae Latini Minores. 5. Rubincam 101–102. 6. He is designated C. Iulius C. f. Caesar at CIL IX 2142, soon after the adoption: see RE 10.276. 7. Syme 1979, 374. 8. T. Mommsen, Ro¨misches Staatsrecht ii.2 (Berlin, 1887) 765–66.

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Imperator Caesar Divi Iuli Filius.9 After 27 he becomes Imperator Caesar Divi filius Augustus. It is therefore somewhat misleading to say, with Austin, that Augustus “was Iulius by adoption.” The Emperor had long shed Iulius by the time Vergil wrote these lines, and this was simply not part of his nomenclature any longer. The name he continued to share with his adoptive father was Caesar. Whether for reasons of style, as Mommsen supposed, or just for clarification, Iulius was reserved to the Dictator.10 His case is simpler. He always remained C. Julius Caesar.11 Rubincam writes that when “a writer of the Augustan period needed to refer retrospectively without ambiguity to the elder Caesar, he would resort to the title ‘divus’ or the gentilicium ‘C. Iulius.”’12 I would point out that, although the title divus is not expressly found in our passage, the divinity of the Caesar is stressed and the gentilicium Iulius thrown into high relief,13 so that both criteria for invoking Julius Caesar are virtually met. An explanation sometimes found for the putative aberration in his choice of names is that Vergil uses the gentile to underscore Augustus’ descent from Iulus. He certainly does wish to make that connection, for whichever Caesar he intends. But if it is Augustus, why stress descent from Aeneas’ son Iulus, why not Aeneas himself,14 especially as the choice of Iulus results in confusion with the Dictator, a circumstance Vergil could have foreseen? As Austin writes, “The name Iulius must instantly have been taken of the dictator when the passage was heard or read by contemporaries.”15 Let us therefore see if we cannot defend the plain meaning of the passage with its reference to Iulius Caesar. 9. As attested by the coinage: see Crawford RRC 535 (#534); and Reinhold 231 for additional testimonia. 10. Cf. W. H. Gross, “Ways and Roundabout Ways in the Propaganda of an Unpopular Ideology,” in The Age of Augustus, ed. R. Winkes (Louvain, 1985) 29–45, esp. 32: “It is understandable that Octavian never used the family name Iulius on coins, which, befitting the custom of his time, he limited to mean his deified adoptive father.” 11. Dio 43.44.2 reports that in 45  he took the name Imperator “as a proper name,” ¹sper ti kÔrion (compare Suet. JC 76.1), but Syme 1979, 365–66, and Reinhold 231 argue that this is an anachronism retrojected from the practice of his successor. In Julius’ case the title had not yet acquired the status of a name. 12. Rubincam 94. This applies, of course, only to the practice of Latin authors; in Greek authors of around the same time he is regularly distinguished as ÇIoÔlioj or KaØsar å qeìj: cf. Diod. Sic. 1.4.7; 4.19.2; 5.21.2, etc.; Strabo 4.3.3; 13.1.27, etc. 13. By enjambment, hyperbaton, and position at the head of the line. Compare the reference to Julius at Man. 1.798–99 (in a roster of the divinized dead in the Milky Way): Venerisque ab origine proles / Iulia. 14. As, for instance, at Hor. Sat. 2.5.61–62, Tempore quo iuvenis Parthis horrendus ab alto / demissum genus Aenea . . . Contrast Silius Italicus 13.862–64, verses modeled in part on Vergil’s, and about the Dictator: ille deum gens / stelligerum attollens apicem, Troianus Iulo / Caesar avo. 15. Austin 1971, 109.

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The second issue concerns the chronology of the passage. Scholars on both sides of the debate face a problem here. In lines 286–96, Jupiter basically promises three things: (1) in the first three lines (286–88), the birth of an invincible Caesar; (2) in the next two (289–90), the deification of that Caesar, concluding with the assurance, vocabitur hic quoque votis; (3) in 291–96, the advent of an age of peace. The difficulty lies in determining the chronological relation among these three.16 Williams and Austin in their commentaries have focused attention on the adverb tum in line 291 as the crux, and rightly so. Williams: “With Servius’ interpretation the word tum has to take us from Julius Caesar to Augustus.” Austin: “If tum . . . is backwardlooking, then there is no case at all for referring 286–90 to Iulius, since . . . his death was followed by fifteen years of civil strife. But if tum is forward-looking (‘next’, ‘after that’), as it can be, the previous lines can refer to Iulius, with the advantage that the chronological problem disappears.” We want to build on these insights. In view of its importance, a full discussion of the word tum is first in order. Two categories of usage appear potentially relevant. The first is tum as the demonstrative temporal adverb meaning “at that time,” indistinguishable from, but more common than, tunc in this sense during the classical period.17 The other is as an adverb (or quasi-conjunction) to indicate sequence, meaning “next” or “after that,” the equivalent of deinde.18 Respectively, they answer to what Austin has called the “backward-looking” and “forward-looking” senses of the word. The job of cataloging all the appearances of tum in the Aeneid fell to A. Mandra, and though one could quibble with details of his analysis, the trend which he discovered is not in doubt.19 Of 237 occurrences, 192 were found to have the sequential force and mean “after that.” This use predominates, then, by a factor of over four to one. Certain facts favor this meaning in our passage also. Line 291 is a “golden line.” Vergil was discriminating in his use of this device in the Aeneid, as it tends to disrupt the movement of the narrative. Where one does occur it is the more notable, but usually does not exist for its own sake but rather to help articulate the rhetorical structure of the passage in which it operates. T. Habinek has explored 16. The last two especially. One way to relate the items in the prophecy is to take tum with nascetur, i.e., tie the beginning of the peaceful age to the birth of Caesar. On such an interpretation we have to assume that the lines on deification, which stand between nascetur and tum, are parenthetical. This is how P. A. Brunt (1967, 64–65; 1990, 440) apparently reads the lines, and on this understanding says that they point to Augustus. But this is less natural than taking tum with what immediately precedes, the lines on deification, and in any case, though Brunt is right that Julius’ birth in 100 (or 102) did not inaugurate an age of peace, Octavian’s birth in 64 was hardly more auspicious. So this reading does not seem to decide the issue either way. 17. On the historical frequency of tum and tunc relative to one other see Leumann-HofmannSzantyr 2.519–20. 18. In the OLD, s.v. tum the first or demonstrative use (“at that time”) covers senses 1 through 3; the sequential use corresponds to their 8a. 19. Mandra 178–79.

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the context of these lines; by his count the majority of instances in the first six books mark a major transition.20 The presence of tum in 291 strengthens the assumption that this is the case here too, because as Habinek notes, the class of golden lines that indicate a transition can be identified “either by emphatic conjunctions such as tum or by a new paragraph” in the text (60). There is no paragraph break here as Jupiter is not quite finished speaking; but the formally imposing and self-contained golden line, complete with tum, alerts us to the fact not only that a new subject is pending, but that we have arrived at the rhetorical climax of the speech. My view, in short, is that 291 is transitional, that tum means “next,” or “afterward,” and that, at this point, the prophecy moves from Julius Caesar to its culmination in Augustus.21 There is no question that the final six lines concern the Emperor. But the structure of the whole speech further argues for confining him to these alone. Jupiter does not linger over any one subject. His survey is extremely rapid, and composed, as Austin says (ad 257ff.), “with careful symmetry.” Either five or six lines are assigned each stage in the historical pageant. These last eleven should be no different. They may be resolved into two units of sense: Julius Caesar in the first five, then (tum), in the last six, the end of the iron age (aspera . . . saecula) of wars and growing imperium,22 the era which Caesar had belonged to and even symbolized, and, after his death, an age of peace under his successor. 23 Now, if this is right so far, we must next confront the chronological problem our reading entails. It seems to ignore the decade and a half between Caesar’s death in 44 and Actium in 31, when peace actually materialized. Again, the possibilities of tum need to be canvassed. If it marks succession, must the events follow each other directly, or can a period of time intervene? Mandra believes that Vergil’s practice in the Aeneid was to apply tum in such cases “only to connect an action to another that has just preceded.” In other words, if sequence is indicated, tum must mean not just “after that,” but “immediately after that.”24 To this rule, however, he admitted a significant exception. At 8.328–30 tum is used twice in an account of the decline 20. Habinek 59–60, where 32 of 57 instances in the first half of the poem are so characterized. Habinek does not provide comparable data for the last six books, but it seems fair to assume that the pattern holds, i.e., that roughly half the golden lines in the Aeneid function this way. 21. Although tum may contrast with the nunc some thirty lines earlier in 249 (Troia, nunc placida compostus pace quiescit: see Wlosok 70), its meaning derives from its more proximate setting. 22. Cf. Wlosok 71: “Die aspera saecula entsprechen der Eisernen Zeit des Mythos, die Vergil in dem blutigen Geschichtsabschnitt der Zwischenzeit erkennt.” 23. In this connection it is worthnoting that several ancient sources give 44  as the start of the Augustan Age: for references see V. Gardthausen, Augustus und seine Zeit (Leipzig, 1891–1904) i.524; J. Be´ranger, Recherches sur l’aspect ide´ologique du principat (Basel, 1953) 25–28; Reinhold 231. This is the year Augustus starts with in the Res Gestae. It is also when he chose to begin the account of his life in the Autobiography: cf. Nic. Damasc. vita Caes., based on this source, esp. §§ 18ff., and compare W. Eder, “Augustus and the Power of Tradition,” in Raaflaub and Toher 72: “It is easier to accept Octavian’s adoption in the year 44 .. as the point at which he began to exercise a long and continually growing influence over politics.” 24. Mandra 33.

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in Latium from the conditions of the Saturnia regna.25 Mandra remarks that “a very long time must have elapsed between the passing of the golden age and the deteriorated age.”26 A like situation could apply in our case, only with progress toward, rather than away from, a golden age. The gods Jupiter and Venus view history sub specie aeternitatis. Small or remote periods of time are foreshortened to insignificance. Or as Kenney put it, “the interval between the murder and Actium can be glossed over without embarrassment by tum . . . mitescent . . . in a speech in which time is measured by centuries.” So much for the moment in extenuation of Julius Caesar’s time problem. We might just add that he had already been made a god in Vergil’s lifetime, so that a reference to this is so far unobjectionable. Furthermore, taking Augustus’ deification to mark the beginning of the peaceful trend involves difficulties of its own. Death precedes deification. So if peace is to attend Augustus’ removal to heaven, Vergil will be wishing him a speedy demise. One scholar, at least, is prepared to accept this implication (Clarke), but most are probably not. The real problem, though, lies not in forecasting deification for Augustus, even if death is the pre-condition. Death is not final if you become a god soon thereafter.27 The problem for the majority reading is that peace, it seems, will have to wait until after the Emperor dies. But peace in Augustus’ reign was celebrated as an accomplished fact. [C]laudentur Belli portae in line 294 clearly describes closing the gates of Janus, which Augustus boasted of having done three times, and for the first time in almost two centuries in 29 .28 Scholars are close to unanimous in believing that these lines are about the pax Augusta, the conditions of Vergil’s own day, not some age in prospect when the Emperor is dead. So both sides have some explaining to do. For my part, I would not deny a time problem in taking Caesar as Julius, but in an historical survey as summary as Jupiter’s, tum, as noted above, can accommodate the ellipse of thirteen years. Here, as elsewhere in the poem, it may simply mean “after that,” leaving it to the reader to infer that a brief hiatus ensues. Yet even if we take the adverb to mean “immediately thereafter,” in line with its usual meaning in the Aeneid, I maintain that one can still justify Julius’ presence in the preceding five lines. I will offer reasons, in anticipation 25. tum manus Ausonia et gentes venere Sicanae . . . tum reges asperque immani corpore Thybris . . . Compare its use three times in an identical context at Geo. 1.139–45. 26. Mandra 33 n. 83. In 4.622–23 tum vos, o Tyrii, stirpem et genus omne futurum / exercete odiis the tum again, I think, must signal succession and a lapse of time. Williams comments: “From her specific curse upon Aeneas Dido turns to the longer vista of history and undying hatred through the generations.” This clearly implies a transition, and a significant stretch of time between the incidents that tum connects. 27. Austin writes that Conway’s argument to the effect that a poet’s promise of deification would be tactless because it presumes the subject’s death “carries no weight,” but this exaggerates somewhat. Cf. Hor. Odes 1.2.45–50 and Housman ad Manil. 1.926 for the way this delicate subject was often handled. 28. Again in 25: Res Gestae 13. Syme 1978, 25–26 speculates on the date of the third and final closure.

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of arguments later in the paper. (1) It is a bit unfair to object that the civil wars of the 30s are left out of account, because in Jupiter’s speech no notice is taken of Rome’s civil troubles at all. Instead he concentrates on what Rome (or Venus) could be justly proud of, her success in extending imperium over the world in externa bella. Nevertheless, the version of peace offered by the tableau in the last three lines is instructive: “Unholy Rage, sitting on savage arms, bound by a hundred bronze shackles, shall roar with blood-stained lips.” This is an uncommonly violent image to convey so pacific a message. The background of civil war (Furor impius relates to civil war especially), including the ones set off by Julius’ assassination, may be subtly acknowledged here. In visual terms, it illustrates parta victoriis pax, “peace secured through victories.”29 The final round of civil war is assimilated to the peace process insofar as it represents victory over the forces of disorder.30 (2) In criticism of this argument it might be argued that the ablative absolute positis . . . bellis gives a more precise fix on the chronology. This phrase in particular may seem to require a date after 31. But it is possible to take the participle as contemporaneous with the main verb mitescent, or as timeless in aspect. The perfect passive, as often, functions in lieu of a present passive participle, particularly when it specifies the circumstances accompanying the main verb, or in which the main verb consists.31 The line can be translated: “The rough ages then will soften, as wars are set aside.” Finally (3), it may seem that only a Pangloss could say that Caesar’s apotheosis coincided with the birth of a golden age, but in fact there is no effort made in the poem to conceal that Jupiter is deliberately putting the best face on things for his daughter’s sake. In its willful optimism it corresponds, on the divine plane, to the pep-talk pater Aeneas has just given his men. As C. Murgia remarks, “Jupiter does not tell Venus everything.”32 He does not tell her that Aeneas will die before his time, only (lines 259–60) that he will be deified. Likewise he does not inform her that Julius will die prematurely, assassinated in the forum by his close associates, only that he will be worshipped in heaven beside her. (The parallel with Aeneas is not enough to identify the Caesar as Julius, but it helps.)33 Similarly, Jupiter does not choose to give Venus details of the civil wars among her descendants that will lead to the climactic period of peace, only that peace will be achieved eventually. That omission will be made good, so far as readers of the Aeneid are concerned, in the generic lament (as many read it) over Rome’s civil wars at 6.826ff., and in the description of Actium on the Shield. The prophecy of Rome’s future voiced by Dido 29. As Augustus described the conditions required to close the gates of Janus: cf. Res Gestae 13: Ianum Quirinum, quem clausum esse maiores nostri voluerunt cum per totum imperium populi Romani terra marique esset parta victoriis pax . . . 30. This is an old, and perhaps still distasteful idea, but its vitality during the Augustan age is demonstrated anew in Gruen 1985. 31. Cf. Ku¨hner-Stegmann 1. 757–59; Woodcock, New Latin Syntax 82; Eden ad Aen. 8.37, 407f., and 636; Fordyce ad Aen. 8.636. 32. Murgia 51. 33. That quoque in line 290 refers us back to Aeneas and the promise of his deification in lines 259–60 was the opinion of Servius. It is supported by Conington, Williams et al. in their commentaries.

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before her death also supplies a few unpleasant facts omitted from this somewhat patronizing (olli subridens, 254) address to Venus. But whereas O’Hara and others see these discrepancies as signs that Jupiter’s prophecy is corrupt and misleading, I would prefer to regard it as one-sided, but nevertheless true as far as it goes.34 Dido’s speech, in turn, is distorted in its wholly negative view of events. I concede that my reading seems to entail an inconsistency, viz. overlooking the wars of Octavian’s youth before he became Augustus and declared peace on land and sea. But (1) there is a degree of dissimulation on Jupiter’s part that helps account for this; (2) tum is flexible in the amount of time it implies; and (3) for the Romans, peace and war pursued for worthy ends were quite compatible concepts. In section V I will argue that there were religious reasons for dating the start of a new age from the time of Caesar’s passing. III

A third factor in the dispute is the relevance of the descriptive phrase in 289, spoliis Orientis onustum. Austin writes that this “undeniably points to Augustus, and can only be made to apply to Iulius by a not very convincing explanation, although he is not ruled out by it.” Why undeniably to Augustus? “The words . . . would at once, and pre-eminently, suggest the victory over Parthia in 20 .., as well as over other Eastern peoples.” But Austin leaves the door open for Caesar. “The allusion might be taken to refer to Iulius’ victories at Alexandria in 48 .. and over Pharnaces in 47 ..; he held a triumph for both (Livy, epit. 115; Sueton. Iulius 37, where we learn that in his Pontic triumph ‘praetulit titulum VENI VIDI VICI’).” To outline my own approach. I make the case for Julius on the grounds nearly all defenders of Julius have done (including Austin, at least for argument’s sake): his triumphs in the Pontic region and around the Nile. An objection often raised is that these victories were insignificant. But insignificant historically or poetically? Victories in the Orient were invested with a wealth of associations going back to Homer that are at least as relevant as the facts of history when they appear in Vergil’s epic. I suggest, in other words, that the lines be read as poetry first and foremost. But even if they are read as sober history I hope to show that Caesar could challenge comparison with his grandnephew on this point. The historical record, particularly the record of triumphs celebrated by either Caesar, is the proper place to start (but not to end). Augustus’ historical claim to the phrase in question rests on three things: the battle of Actium, the negotiated peace with Parthia, and a number of other minor operations in the East considered collectively. It is unnecessary to review them in detail. But surely it involves more than a little good will on Vergil’s, or anyone’s part, to imagine the Emperor “loaded with spoils 34. O’Hara, esp. 161–63. Contrast the formulation of Murgia 51: “[Jupiter’s] diction is selected to satisfy the rhetorical needs of his reassurance, but the prophecy is not otherwise deceptive.”

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of the Orient” on the strength of these campaigns. It is well known, for instance, that the Parthian affair was not a victory at all. It was a diplomatic settlement distinguished mainly by the return of the standards lost in 53 . Augustus declined a triumph, hence there were no spoils. It would appear to have little connection, then, with the phrase spoliis Orientis onustum. If the spolia are the recovered Roman standards, why are they Orientis, of the East?35 But these negative considerations are only half the story. The Senate voted Augustus a triumphal arch in consequence of the event, and it is treated as a victory in contemporary sources and monuments.36 The battle of Actium is similar. It was primarily a civil war Octavian waged against Antony and his nineteen Roman legions.37 But unlike the Parthian affair, it was an undoubted victory, complete with spoils.38 The essential consideration, though, may lie in the popular representation of the war as waged mainly against eastern forces. This is too well known to belabor. Vergil’s description of the battle at Aen. 8.685–88 will suffice: hinc ope barbarica variisque Antonius armis, victor ab aurorae populis et litore rubro, Aegyptum virisque Orientis et ultima secum Bactra vehit, sequiturque (nefas) Aegyptia coniunx. The recurrence of Oriens here could support reading our passage as an allusion to Actium, although the geographical reference is vague and the resemblance slight enough. The Emperor’s subsequent progress through the Eastern provinces may be thought pertinent. In consequence of the battles of Actium and Alexandria Augustus boasted that he “added Egypt to the empire of the Roman people” (Res Gestae 27.1), and (27.3) that he “recovered all the provinces beyond the Adriatic sea towards the east, together with Cyrene, the greater part of them being then occupied by kings.” He characterized his settlement of the areas assigned to Antony in the pact of Brundisium as another set of acquisitions for Rome that he made personally. Such a view of events could be questioned, but seems reflected in the poets, if only indirectly. At the end of the Georgics, for example (4.560–61), Vergil says that he is completing his poem, Caesar dum magnus ad altum / fulminat Euphraten, which hints at another round of campaigning in the Orient.39 A like discrepancy between facts and the heightened reality of panegyric applies to the Arabian and Ethiopian expeditions, in 25–24 and 24–22  respectively. They 35. Although he argues for Augustus, Kraggerud 109–10 is also inclined to discount Parthia as the source of the spolia Orientis for this and other reasons. 36. Cf. Hor. Odes 4.5.25; 4.15.6–8; Epodes 1.12.27–28; CAH x 263; Zanker 185ff. 37. “About 60, 000 to 63, 000 men, all Italians” (CAH x 100). Antony’s force was supplemented by a much smaller troop of Asiatics. 38. Res Gestae 4.3; cf. CAH x 107. 39. In Geo. 2.170–72 the poet addresses Augustus, qui nunc extremis Asiae iam victor in oris / imbellem avertis Romanis arcibus Indum; cf. also 3.26–31.

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are mentioned with pride in the Res Gestae and Propertius lists the former among Augustus’ gains.40 But the Arabian expedition was an unqualified disaster, and the Ethiopian episode (if it was “Oriental” at all) did not lead to the occupation of that country but merely concluded with a peace treaty under which the Ethiopians were excused from the tribute that had been imposed on them.41 We need not go on. The point is that there is an element of exaggeration, or poetic license, involved in projecting the part of Oriental conqueror onto the Emperor. “Augustus took a sane view of Rome’s Eastern question. . . . He clearly realized that what the empire needed was, not expansion beyond the Euphrates, but consolidation and peace.”42 If Austin can say, in commenting on the phrase spoliis Orientis onustum, that readers would have thought first of Parthia, that just shows how precarious Augustus’ claim to the epithet was, since, literally at least, he was decidedly not so encumbered as a result of this arrangement. Eastern operations, however, appealed to the imagination, so tended to be singled out and inflated beyond their real merit.43 We will now try to show that Julius Caesar earned or, partly on this basis, at least received, a reputation as conqueror in the East equal to the Emperor’s. Augustus celebrated his triple triumph in 29. In 46 Julius Caesar celebrated a triumph in four parts that has been regarded in some measure as a model for his adopted son’s.44 On successive days he celebrated victory in Gaul, in the Pontic war with Pharnaces, in the African war against Juba, and against King Ptolemy in Alexandria. It is with the second and last of these that we have to do. His defeat of King Pharnaces at Zela was memorialized by his boast of Veni Vidi Vici, a flourish intended to trade on the reputation of invincibility he had acquired especially since Pharsalus.45 Now he proved it among the kingdoms of the East. Cicero in the Pro

40. Res Gestae 26.5; Prop. 2.10.16. 41. See CAH x 242. At Res Gestae 31–33 Augustus mentions ambassadors and suppliants from India, Parthia and other points East. He implies that this amounted to a form of control over them. For just how insubstantial these pretensions to hegemony were see Brunt 1990, 435–38. 42. J. G. C. Anderson in CAH x 256. For a similar view see Syme, ibidem 340–42, who notes that the Emperor concentrated his warring activities in Europe. “The East might remain more or less as Pompey and Antony had left it” (341). Cf. also Gruen 1990, who argues that, in his propaganda, Augustus consistently advertised a policy of universal conquest, while actually pursuing a much more modest policy of consolidation. Of his approach to the Orient in particular he writes, “In the East generally Augustus affected war but practiced diplomacy” (397). 43. Besides Augustus’ mopping-up operations after Actium, and the Arabian fiasco, compare his son Gaius’ expedition against Parthia, represented as a clear victory in the Res Gestae (27.2), and envisaged by Ovid at AA 1.177–228 as a full-fledged campaign of conquest. A. S. Hollis (Ovid: Ars Amatoria, Book 1 (Oxford, 1977) 72) remarks on “the ludicrous disparity between the language heralding the event and the final outcome.” 44. Vell. 2.56.2; Suet. JC 37; Dio 43.19–22; App. BC 2.101–102; Plut. Caes. 55; Livy, epit. 115; CAH2 ix 436; Gelzer 284–85. DuQuesnay 33 calls the quadruple triumph in 46 “the all-important precedent for the triple triumph of Augustus” in 29. 45. The ease of his victory at Zela prompted Caesar to remark that if Pompey’s reputation as a great general depended on his conquest of Asiatics he was fortunate indeed (Suet. JC 35.3; App. BC 2.91). But according to Dio (42.48.1) Caesar took great pride in this victory, an assertion supported by his decision to hold a separate triumph for it and by the ostentation of his Veni Vidi

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Murena had used Oriens of the Pontic region specifically, which shows that Vergil’s spolia Orientis could apply to Zela.46 The war Caesar earlier waged on the Nile on behalf of Cleopatra, his long sojourn in Egypt in the company of the queen, the way his experience there transformed him and the way he looked at political power—all these are relevant too in considering his title to the phrase.47 The Orient affected him the way it had Alexander and would Antony. We are told that Caesar extracted a fortune from the Eastern states and can be sure that he appeared loaded with Oriental spoils in the Alexandrian and Pontic segments of his triumph.48 There is no doubt, either, that the Romans could regard Egypt as part of the Orient, even if Oriens is a general term that does not admit of precise definition. The Roman geographers conventionally divided the world into the continents of Europe, Africa (Libya), and Asia. Egypt was assigned to Asia.49 And Egypt perhaps best represented the qualities associated with the exotic East, qualities it would be tedious to rehearse. The important point is, if Octavian’s victories at Actium and Alexandria could be considered Oriental, then why not Caesar’s at Alexandria and with greater cause, since he battled Egyptian forces exclusively? Alexandria probably, but certainly Zela, was an Eastern victory. If that is the only issue, we can stop. But there are other factors to consider. Why should Vergil single these out? After all, it is probably fair to say that most of us do not think first of Eastern spoils in connection with Julius Caesar. Why not spoils of Gaul? Considerable cash flowed into Rome in the wake of his activity there, as Catullus’ attacks on Mamurra attest. But Gaul’s wealth pales beside that of the gilded East. Spoils and the Orient go together. This is poetry before it is history, a poet’s selective view of history to be exact; and in that other poetic passage whose relevance for our own can hardly be overestimated, Ovid gives a more detailed version of the same thing:50 scilicet aequoreos plus est domuisse Britannos perque papyriferi septemflua flumina Nili

Vici. We should probably take his professed scorn for the enemy with a grain of salt. It was evidently a form of one-upmanship in his (ongoing) rivalry with Pompey, a sneer originally used against Alexander by those intent on proving his achievement inferior to Philip’s conquest of the Greeks; it was, in other words, a topos. Cf. Quint. Curt. 8.1.37, and compare Livy 9.19.10–11; Gellius 17.21.33. 46. As pointed out by O’Hara 158, citing Pro Murena 89. 47. For the significance of the Egyptian interlude see Gelzer 277–78, 313. 48. Dio (42.49) reports that after Zela Caesar exacted a heavy toll on the Asian states in tribute and (44.46.1, quoting Antony) that he bestowed on the Roman people the wealth that he earlier had acquired in Egypt. See E. Badian, Roman Imperialism in the Late Republic (Ithaca, 1971) 90. 49. Cf. Pliny NH 3.3; 5.47f.; Polyb. 3.37.3–5; Strabo 2.130; and Housman ad Manil. 4.27. 50. That the long passage on Julius Caesar’s deification concluding Ovid’s epic poem draws on Vergil’s disputed lines is acknowledged by Norden 387 (who writes that the episode is an “obvious imitation”); by Austin 1971, 109; by Bo¨mer 1986, 459; and see now R. A. Smith, “Epic Recall and the Finale of Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” MH 51 (1994) 45–53.

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victrices egisse rates Numidasque rebelles Cinyphiumque Iubam Mithridateisque tumentem nominibus Pontum populo adiecisse Quirini . . . (Met. 15.752–56) Gaul is overlooked in this survey of Caesar’s career, but as Kenney remarks, “Is there not Ocean, are there not Eastern triumphs here?” It is true we think of Pompey in connection with the East, Caesar with the West, insofar as expansion of the empire in the late Republic is concerned. But Caesar challenged Pompey on his own ground, leading in turn to wars with Eastern potentates. His defeat of Pharnaces paralleled Pompey’s victory over Mithridates, his father. Ovid again: Mithridateisque tumentem / nominibus Pontum populo adiecisse Quirini. After Pharsalus many cities and countries of the Orient that had previously supported Pompey defected to Caesar. By virtue of defeating him he replaced Pompey as the general who represented Roman imperium over the East in his person. The same pattern would be replayed in the careers of Octavian and Antony, largely establishing whatever claim the former had on Oriental spoils: which is to say, hardly more than Julius.51 But being so used to the rhetoric of Oriental conquest in the honorific poetry of the Augustan age we have come to take such exploits for granted in his case and not in Caesar’s. Other factors may be at work. The controversial phrase is part of the lines on apotheosis: hunc tu olim caelo spoliis Orientis onustum/ accipies secura; vocabitur hic quoque votis. Not just any conquests but, as we know, Eastern conquests especially were required to scale heaven. This grew out of the legends of Heracles and Dionysus52 reinforced, in Vergil’s day, by the example of Alexander.53 Whoever would attain immortality through victories ought, by convention, to have them in the Orient. In the Commentaries Caesar himself made light of the time he spent there (one reason, perhaps, that the scholars of today, relying mainly on the literary record, tend to slight it in turn).54 Vergil is led to the other extreme. He was in a position to witness personally Caesar’s impressive eastern triumphs; but for reasons that have 51. With Aen. 8.685–88, characterizing Antony’s Oriental armament, compare 6.831, of Pompey “arrayed with hostile armies of the East (adversis instructus Eois)” against Caesar at Pharsalus; nearer the truth, in fact, since Pompey’s army did consist largely of foreigners, to the chagrin of Cicero (Att. 9.10.3; 11.6.2). 52. Cf. Hollis ad Ov. AA. 1.187–90, where the assimilation of earlier Roman generals to Dionysus (Bacchus) or Hercules is noted; also J. Griffin, Latin Poets and Roman Life (Chapel Hill, 1986) 189. That Vergil in the 5th Eclogue intended an identification between Caesar and Dionysus returned from the East in triumph is argued by DuQuesnay 32–34. 53. With whom Caesar was often compared. Strabo 13.1.27 shows that the comparison was current in Vergil’s day. Plutarch pairs them in his Lives: cf. Alex. 1.1 and Caes. 11.3 (the sÔgkrisij is missing); also Suet. JC 7.1; Dio 37.52.2. For the complicated question of Caesar’s precise relation to Alexander, see Green 1978 and literature cited by Woodman ad Vell. 2.41.1. 54. Cf. BG 3.106, paucos dies in Asia moratus. The subsequent account of the Alexandrian war is merely a sketch. (The Bellum Alexandrinum, of course, is not his). See Gelzer 245 for speculation as to why Caesar chose to downplay his Eastern activities to his audience in Rome.

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more to do with poetry than history, he focuses on the Asian campaign because Asian spoils are de rigueur in a passage on deification. The Dictator’s Oriental affectations certainly hastened him to the grave; to those more sympathetically disposed to him than Brutus and Cassius the association with the East helped pave his way to heaven. I do not claim that discerning the connection between these ideas is enough to identify the Caesar as Julius. The association of Eastern victory and deification is found in poetry praising Augustus (and others) as well, just as the parallel with Alexander was revived on the Emperor’s behalf.55 My point is that it was plausible for Julius by the time Vergil was writing and, what has often been denied, at least as apt in his case as in the Emperor’s. Compare Ovid Am. 3.8.51–52: templa . . . Liber et Alcides et modo [Iulius] Caesar habent. One reason these three are grouped together is, I imagine, their shared credential as despoilers of the East. Perhaps this seems to involve an error in emphasis. But there is an element of poetic conventionality to Vergil’s (and Ovid’s) language that puts it at odds with the version of events we expect from history. We need hardly point out that the lines on Caesar’s divinity take us right out of the realm of history as we know it. The associated idea of Oriental conquest, while not inappropriate for Julius Caesar, is adapted to the context. Some scholars have claimed that to describe the Dictator arrived in heaven as “loaded with spoils of the Orient” would be cruel irony, since his murder cut short the most grandiose Eastern enterprise of all, the projected march on Parthia.56 But Caesar himself had originally planned that this should succeed his victory at Zela.57 He was emboldened to push further into Asia by the good fortune he had already met with there, just as the British episode encouraged him to contemplate another attack in the North, on the Dacians and Getae.58 The fact that the assassination cancelled one war in the Orient cannot detract from what he had already achieved, including a victory at Zela swift and decisive enough to inspire visions of something, it is true, that might have been appreciably greater. Let us consider now another phrase from the text. On line 287, imperium Oceano, famam qui terminet astris, Servius comments, apropos of Julius: aut ad laudem dictum est aut certe secundum historiam. re vera enim et Britannos, qui in Oceano sunt, vicit. The phrase imperium Oceano, in contrast to spoliis Orientis onustum, has perhaps not received enough attention. It is a rhetorical commonplace, and that is probably why. But it has special meaning for Julius. As Servius says, it recalls the celebrated campaign against Britain.59 Cicero was moved 55. For other passages linking Eastern victory and immortality, cf. Aen. 6.789–805, of Augustus, and Ovid AA 177–228 (esp. 204), of Gaius, where the examples of Hercules and Bacchus are also cited. 56. See Grimal 2; Kraggerud 109 n. 19. This abortive campaign helps decide the identity of the Caesar in the new Gallus fragment: see R. D. Anderson et al., “Elegiacs by Gallus from Qasr Ibrim,” JRS 69 (1979) 125–55, esp. 151–52; E. Courtney, The Fragmentary Latin Poets (Oxford, 1993) 265. 57. Dio 44.46.3; cf. CAH ix 713. 58. Suet. JC 44.3; App. B.C. 2.110; 3.25; for the connection with Britain see Gelzer 322. 59. The expedition took place in 55–54  and is described at Caes. BG 4.20–38; 5.8–23. Cf. Tac. Agric. 30.4: omne ignotum pro magnifico. For just how ignotum Britain was at the time, cf. BG 4.20. For its air of great remoteness and inaccessibility, compare Verg. Ecl. 1.66.

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to write an epic on the expedition, and even Catullus was impressed.60 If the final results came up short of expectations, that hardly affected the popular view of the thing.61 It caused a sensation. The legend survives in Ovid’s account at Met. 15.752: aequoreos . . . domuisse Britannos, where aequoreos is an epithet transferred from the Britons’ residence in Ocean. Servius thinks Oceano recalls Britain, but the Gallic wars are relevant too. Caesar’s proconsular command cleared the way to Ocean, the assault on Britain followed in consequence.62 It helps in appreciating the nuance of Vergil’s passage to be acquainted with the language customary in connection with Caesar’s adventures. Cicero describes the result of the Gallic wars this way: Nihil est enim ultra illam altitudinem montium usque ad Oceanum, quod sit Italiae pertimescendum (De Prov. Cons. 34). In the Pro Marcello (28) he predicts that “future generations will marvel at Caesar’s imperia, provincias, Rhenum, Oceanum, Nilum . . .” Nicolaus of Damascus begins his obituary notice of Julius Caesar by describing him as “a man who drove toward the West as far as Britain and the Ocean” (vita Caes. 26). In other eulogies of Caesar Ocean comes up continually.63 It was a topos in the language of empire,64 but, as these citations show, became a fixture in descriptions of Caesar’s career because he actually did reach and cross it in his combined Gallic and British operations. The Cicero citations prove that Caesar was linked to Ocean before the Aeneid was written, and Britain especially evoked the connection. 65 When applied to Julius, imperium Oceano is more than hyperbole.66 Vergil refreshes traditional tropes by drawing on recent history. In section V I will argue that the second half of the line, famam qui terminet astris, escapes cliche´ by likewise functioning on a secondary historical (or quasi-historical) level. This is a real Ocean and these are real stars. IV

A fourth element in the debate concerns the rhetoric of the passage. Most commentators think it impaired if Augustus is left out. He is featured in the two later Roman prophecies, he ought to be here as well. Explicitly or implicitly, comparison 60. Cf. Catul. 11.9–12; 29.4, 12 and 20; for references to the letters of Cicero mentioning this poem, see Gelzer 139 n. 4. 61. Cicero’s letters reflect disappointment that the island proved no Eldorado (Att. 4.17.6); Plut. 23.2–3 represents the expedition’s mixed success. But Suet. ;JC 25.2 indicates that the glory of the expedition survived undiminished, and compare Dio 39.53. 62. Caesar crossed the channel on the pretext that the Britons had aided the Gauls throughout his wars (BG 4.20), but as Brunt (1990, 312) remarks, “this hitherto unmentioned assistance cannot have been significant.” The crossing was largely motivated by the exotic appeal of the island. 63. Cf. also Sen. Ad Marc. 14.3; Plut. Caes. 23.2; App. BC 2.150; Dio 44.42.4. 64. Cf. Catul. 115.6; Tibul. 4.1.147; Sen. Ep. 94.63; Tac. Ann. 1.9. 65. For the association of Britain with Ocean see also Caes. BG 3.7.2; Cic. Q. fr. 2.15.4; Hor. Odes 4.14.48. 66. For a discussion of how Vergil regularly invests such expressions with a unique, secondary meaning, see P. Hardie, Cosmos and Imperium (Oxford, 1986) 241–92.

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with the Heldenschau and the Shield seem largely to have controlled interpretation of our lines.67 While it is legitimate to bring them to bear, it is also essential to realize that Vergil need not have repeated himself. There are significant differences among the three scenes, which P. Grimal has registered in detail.68 But the overall purpose is not dissimilar. As Servius says of our lines: Omnis poetae intentio ad laudem tendit Augusti, sicut et in sexti catalogo et in clipei descriptione. My view is that Servius is right in the sense that Augustus is here, though not by name and therefore not quite in the way he appears later in the poem, when he blazes forth in person (for the first time, as I think) in the emphatic hic vir, hic est, of book 6, line 791, and later in the scenes on Vulcan’s shield. But if one concedes that the poem is in any way about Augustus, then this would be the place to indicate it. So I maintain that Vergil has chosen to acknowledge Augustus subtly by (1) referring not to him, exactly, but to the age he represents; and (2) doing that by spotlighting the event that marked its inception. We will speculate on his motives for that below. But first, there are considerations inherent in the rhetoric of the passage that weigh as much or more in Julius’ favor. One point in particular has already drawn comment.69 Venus provokes Jupiter’s speech by complaining to him of the hardships her family has suffered. Jupiter’s reply is in keeping. His survey of Roman history centers on prominent members of the Julian gens because Venus wants to hear of them and them only. As Austin observes, “Complete omission to mention [Julius] in this passage, with its special significance for the gens Iulia, would have been remarkable.”70 Now, any assertions as to his ancestry are going to apply equally well to Augustus, since the latter appropriated it as part of his adoptive legacy (cf. Dio 44.37.3). Still, Augustus’ membership in the gens Iulia was adventitious, while Julius’ claim to be descended from Venus was very well known.71 Enemies and skeptics took to calling him simply “the offspring of Venus,”72 a sarcastic tribute that mocked his own pretensions and, as Weinstock (83) says, “shows how strongly he stressed his claim.” Among reminders and reinforcements in Augustan Rome of this affiliation were: the Temple of Venus Genetrix built by Julius in the Forum Iulium;73 a statue of the deified Julius set up by Octavian in 44 before this same temple;74 the temple of Divus Iulius dedicated by 67. As Basson (28) puts it, in those two scenes “the central place is given to Augustus. Why should it be given here to Julius Caesar, or even shared by him?” 68. Grimal 1989. Cf. also R. Girod, “Virgile et l’histoire dans l’E´ne´ide,” in Pre´sence de Virgile, ed. R. Chevallier (Paris, 1978) 17–33; on 18 he notes how our passage, unlike the others, operates exclusively on the divine plane. 69. Cf. Horsfall 1982, 14. 70. Austin 1971, 109. Cf. Basson 10: the whole speech is “an enumeration of the most famous members of the gens Iulia and consequently an example of a genealogical catalogue.” Wlosok 62–63 cites “der genealogische Aspekt dieses ersten Geschichtsabrisses.” Henry remarks that omitting Julius here would be like omitting Napoleon in a review of famous Bonapartes. 71. On Julius’ alleged ancestry Dio 44.37 gives the essentials. For the whole subject see now N. Horsfall, “Roman Myth and Mythography,” in BICS Suppl. 52 (1987) 12–24, esp. 22–24. 72. Cf. Cael. apud Cic. fam. 8.15.2, Venere prognatus. 73. See now Ulrich 66–71. 74. Dio 45.7.1 and 47.18.4; Suet. JC 88; Pliny NH 34.18.

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Augustus in 29, modelled after the temple of Venus Genetrix and decorated with Apelles’ painting of Venus Anadyomene;75 a statue of Divus Iulius alongside Venus and Mars in the Temple of Mars Ultor, built by Augustus and dedicated in the Forum Iulium in 2 .76 It is true that this last postdates Vergil. But he lived most of his adult life surrounded by the other monuments, and collectively they attest to the Emperor’s perpetuation of the idea.77 As will be clear by now, my interpretation inevitably touches on the issue of Julius Caesar’s reputation in Augustan Rome. This is a large subject, which has generated its own bibliography.78 We cannot ignore it, because our passage was singled out by Ronald Syme as ideally suited to illustrate one of his best known views.79 The Dictator, he always maintained, was an unwelcome figure in the Res Publica Restituta of his successor. Contemplation of him could only serve to remind Romans how far the Emperor’s power depended on his great-uncle’s, and how similar their governments really were. Syme further assumed that, as Vergil faithfully reflected the wishes of the princeps, the reference in our passage had to be to Augustus, could not be to the Dictator. Now, O’Hara believes our passage is ambiguous. But his discussion is influenced insofar as he argues that this ambiguity serves to confuse Augustus with the elder Caesar, the very thing Syme thought Augustus tried to avoid by imposing a ban of silence.80 Syme’s thesis has been challenged, however, in a recent article by Peter White. He shows that Julius Caesar is actually a large and persistent presence in the culture of the Augustan age; that he is, after the Emperor himself, the figure most often mentioned by the Augustan poets, and that virtually all the references are favorable. But Syme himself admitted one exception to this supposed campaign of neglect: “It was expedient for Augustus

75. Ulrich 65–66; for the painting cf. Strabo 14.2.19; Pliny NH 35.91. 76. See Zanker 193–97, 211; T. J. Luce, “Livy, Augustus, and the Forum Romanum,” in Raaflaub and Toher 125. An altar of the Lares dating to around 7  shows Venus receiving Julius into heaven, a precise visual counterpart to what I believe Vergil is describing: see Zanker fig. 177. 77. It is implied in Vergil’s choice of the epithet Dionaei at Ecl. 9.46, Idalio at Prop. 4.6.59, and Troianus in our passage, highlighting Caesar’s connection to Venus by way of Aeneas. Lucan makes of this a separate episode, Caesar’s pilgrimage to Troy (9.950–1004), and compare Strabo 13.1.27. 78. The topic is associated particularly with Ronald Syme. P. White (below) writes that he has noted at least ten places in Syme’s œuvre in which the idea comes up, but the principal discussions can be found at Syme 1939, 317–18; and Syme 1958, i.432–34. For further references see White 334 n. 3 and Ramage 223 n. 2. In line with Syme on this point are the following: W. H. Alexander, “Julius Caesar in the Pages of Seneca the Philosopher,” Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada 35 (1941) sec. II, 15–28; L. R. Taylor, Party Politics in the Age of Caesar (Berkeley, 1949) 179–80; and Ramage 223–45. White’s is the first serious attempt to qualify Syme’s thesis. The recent attempt by G. Herbert-Brown (109–29) to defend it on the basis of Ovid’s Fasti alone is not quite convincing. Her narrow concentration on one work of the Augustan corpus, while providing a certain focus, as she claims, also inevitably yields a less comprehensive picture than White’s broad survey; and even within her self-imposed limits the reading of individual passages is often speculative. 79. Syme 1958, i.433; cf. Syme 1939, 317–18. 80. See O’Hara 161, where Syme’s position is adduced. O’Hara states that “[i]t is unusual for an Augustan poet to mention Julius Caesar,” an opinion derived from Syme, but now effectively challenged by White.

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to dissociate himself from Caesar: the one destroyed the Republic, the other restored it. How could that be done? Easily, and with the fairest pretext. Caesar had been deified, he was no longer a mortal man. . .”81 And again: “Only the Iulium sidus is there—the soul of Caesar purged of all earthly stain, transmuted into a comet.”82 Let it be said that, although he interpreted the evidence a bit too cynically, Syme discerned a genuine pattern: both as regards a preference for the star imagery, and in other respects. The one weakness in his position is his inability to enter sympathetically into the cult of Divus Iulius that flourished in Augustus’ day under Augustus’ direction. Historians are interested in the man, “the Dictator,” the Caesar of modern political and military history. Caesar the god they just cannot take seriously. But Augustus did.83 Syme was aware that this was an exception to his view. But he treated it as a trivial exception, or as a subtle form of censorship, and so an exception that proved the rule. Once he wrote, “The deification of Caesar made it easy to de-personalize him.”84 Although there is an element of truth in this, Syme did not explain how far the depersonalization went, or could be expected to go. It is true that Augustus preferred to advertise Caesar as Divus Iulius, but he never lost touch with those exceptional qualities that brought him to the brink, if not the actual attainment, of divine honors even in his own lifetime.85 White has convincingly argued that Julius’ deification was not arbitrary, it was based on his achievements as a man and had to be. To say that his cult “depersonalized” him is, without further qualification, misleading. It served instead to highlight aspects of his personality and career. It drew attention to qualities that Augustus promoted, especially through the medium of art.86 In the Forum Augusti, for example, galleries with statues of heroes from Rome’s past flanked the temple of Mars Ultor on either side.87 As Zanker

81. Roman Papers vol. i (Oxford, 1979) 214. 82. Syme 1939, 318. 83. Certainly the plebs did also: cf. Suet. JC 88 for the role they played in his deification; also Nic. Damasc. vita Caes. 19: plèon £ Šnqrwpoj ‚ciÀn eÚnai, toØj màn polloØj âqaumˆzeto; and see Yavetz 185–213. For the place of Caesar’s cult in the Augustan restoration see K. Latte, Ro¨mische Religionsgeschichte (Munich, 1960) 302–303. For details relating to the cult see RE Supp. 4, 819; P. Herz in ANRW II.16.2, 1150. 84. “Livy and Augustus,” HSCP 64 (1959) 27–87; the quotation is on 58. 85. A controversial question, to be sure, whether he received divine honors in the last years of his life. Besides Weinstock, passim, see V. Ehrenberg, “Caesar’s Final Aims,” HSCP 68 (1964) 149–61, E. Rawson, “Caesar’s Heritage,” JRS 65 (1975) 148–59, and CAH2 ix 749–55, siding with Weinstock against the scepticism of Syme (1939, 54) et al. 86. Of course the evidence of the visual arts is interesting because they addressed all segments of society. Syme did not reckon with the evidence of archaeology. That omission is repaired by Ramage, but his interpretation of the material, as everywhere tending to “remove” or “neutralize” the Dictator, is rather idiosyncratic. For a more balanced view of the cult of the emperors and of the deified dead generally, which shows that they were regarded as living presences or efficacious gods and honored accordingly, see D. Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West (Leiden, 1987); S. R. F. Price, “Between Man and God: Sacrifice in the Roman Imperial Cult,” JRS 70 (1980) 28–43; Fishwick, “Ovid and Divus Augustus,” CP 86 (1991) 36–41; our passage is cited on p. 38 of the last publication (though Fishwick reserves judgment on the identity of Caesar). 87. See Zanker 194, fig. 149; also Gruen 1990, 412–13.

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writes, “Individuals singled out for inclusion were above all those ‘who had brought the Roman people from its modest beginnings to its present position of greatness and world rule’ (Suet. Aug. 31). By this criterion, the greatest Romans were the imperialists, generals, and triumphators.” Certainly Julius Caesar was at home in such company. The rest of Zanker’s remarks on the monument are worth quoting: “The display of statues in the sanctuary of Mars suggested a coherent overall view of Roman history. Onetime enemies stood united in this national Hall of Fame: Marius beside Sulla, Lucullus beside Pompey. . . . Only the dictator Julius Caesar himself was missing from the gallery of Julian worthies, for as a god he could not be included among the mortals. Instead, a place within the [adjacent] temple was reserved for the Divus Iulius.”88 This prompts a pair of reflections. The announcement of a restored Republic was merely one element in Augustus’ propaganda. It occupies only a small part of the Res Gestae (34), for instance. The theme of imperium bulks much larger (e.g., RG 26–33).89 As an exemplum Caesar could hardly be bettered in this regard. Jupiter’s prophecy in the Aeneid is all about imperium (sine fine dedi, 279), and so inclusion of Caesar, featured now as a god, is of a piece with Augustus’ programme. Second, it has been alleged by scholars who find evidence of a tolerant attitude in Augustus’ Rome toward Caesar’s enemies, Pompey and Cato in particular, that this entailed some slight to Caesar himself.90 But insofar as Augustus rewrote the past, or cast the future using historical typologies, the message was not partisan at all but eirenic. If a sympathetic view of Pompey or Cato is countenanced in the new regime, it is not necessarily at Caesar’s expense: the focus is on concordia (adopting in a thematic way Caesar’s own policy of conciliation as urged by Cicero and Sallust). That is the message of Remo cum fratre Quirino / iura dabunt in Vergil’s passage. In the new order old enemies are reconciled or, as Zanker says, “united”; this in contrast to the falling out of Caesar and Pompey which Vergil deplores in the lines on the triumvirs in the Heldenschau.91 The only persona absolutely non grata from the past was Antony, still marginalized as leader of a traitorous faction.92 In any case, Caesar did not have to compete with Cato (or Pompey, or Cicero) for favor because they could be honored for different things.93 Certainly the fact that, as Syme puts it, Caesar “destroyed the Republic,” was not made the centerpiece of Augustus’ treatment of the man. There were other qualities he could commend to what, evidence suggests, was a far from unreceptive audience.94

88. Zanker 211. 89. The centrality of the imperialist theme in Augustan Rome is emphasized in Gruen 1990. 90. Cf. Alexander, passim, and Ramage 234–35. 91. Likewise a plea for concordia: cf. lines 827–29: concordes animae nunc . . . heu quantum inter se bellum . . . quantas acies stragemque ciebunt . . . 92. Cf. Res Gestae 1.1; Dio 51.19.3–5; Plut. Cic. 49.4; Ant. 86.5; Reinhold 146–48 with literature. 93. As demonstrated by Sallust at Cat. 53–54. 94. On Julius Caesar’s popularity see especially Yavetz 192–213.

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To turn now to evidence of immediate relevance for Vergil’s passage. White has collected forty references to Julius Caesar in the Augustan poets.95 These findings challenge Syme’s contention that the poets preserve a discreet silence on the subject of Julius in deference to the Emperor’s unease. Two points can be objectively made, both important to bear in mind in connection with our lines. Most of the citations involve reference to his deification, especially his katasterism. To be precise, 25 of the 40 passages that White counts as certain references to Julius Caesar in the Augustan poets concern the Dictator’s divinity.96 Evidently this was an approved way to speak of him, not surprising when we consider that it was Augustus himself who sponsored the cult (a fact duly noted in some of the references).97 Thus Servius’ reading fits in with a pattern traceable throughout the literature of the era. The conclusion of Ovid’s Metamorphoses is the fullest example. It illustrates the other pattern, the way treatments of Caesar’s deification prepare for laudatory references to the Emperor himself. This movement can even be found in our passage in the way tum takes us from Caesar’s deification to the Augustan era. Finally a word about the one passage of the Aeneid in which Julius Caesar unmistakably appears, and is lectured by Anchises for his part in civil war (6.826–35). These lines especially have been pressed to prove that the dominant attitude toward Caesar was hostile,98 and that the Caesar in Book 1, who is most respectfully treated, cannot be the Dictator.99 The lines are eloquent of disappointment, it is true, but how far are they really damning? The final two verses (834–5), tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo / proice tela manu, sanguis meus, were characterized by Syme as a “veiled rebuke.” But this, again, is one-sided. Anchises presumes on the familiarity of direct address because Caesar is related to him, as sanguis meus shows. And his words are actually flattering: “you who descend from Olympus.” As 95. White 346. To his list add Ov. Pont. 4.8.63. 96. A majority, then, but not all, as Syme’s thesis requires. Caesar is a god, or a star installed in heaven, at: Verg. Ecl. 9.46–50; Aen. 6.792; 8.681; 9.642; Hor. Odes 1.12.47; Ov. Fasti 1.510, 530; 2.144; 3.157; 3.697–704; 5.567–78; Pont. 2.2.84; 4.5.21; 4.8.63; Met. 15.745–818; 840–51; Amores 3.8.52; Prop. 3.18.34; 4.6.59–60; Manil. 1.9, 926; 4.57, 934; Epic. Drusi 245; Eleg. Maec. 178. Of the Augustan poets, Ovid has the most references to Divus Iulius; Horace, the former Pompeian, the fewest (Odes 1.2.44; 1.12.47; Sat. 1.9.18). But I wonder if it is mere fancy to detect in Horace’s apparent reference to the deified Heracles (not actually named) at Sat. 2.1.10–14 an indirect allusion to the deified Julius. The context (prelude to praise of Augustus) supports it, and the reform in attitude that Horace discusses, or admits to, makes little sense in relation to Heracles, while the view that the Dictator was undone by invidia (line 12), or by the unreasonable ambition of his friends, was widespread in Augustan circles and afterward among supporters of the imperial power. Augustus himself promoted it in the Autobiography (cf. Nic. Damasc. vit. Caes. 19–20); and compare Vell. 2.56; Dio 44.1.1; and DServ. ad Aen. 1.286 (Caesaris processibus invidebant). The fulgor in line 13 may be the Iulium sidus of Odes 1.12.47 (compare fulgura, Geo. 1.488); with the exstinctus in 14 compare Verg. Ecl. 5.20 and Geo. 1.466. 97. Ov. Fasti 2.144; 5.567–78; Manil. 4.934. 98. E.g., Syme 1939, 317; Ramage 231. White 349–51 offers a more balanced appreciation. 99. Austin 1971, 110: “Virgil’s feelings about Iulius Caesar were tinged with deep unhappiness, as 6.834f. show”; R. D. Williams 1972, 182: “on the one occasion when Julius Caesar is certainly referred to (6.834f.) it is in a context of sorrow.”

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D. Little remarks, “Even while making the plea, [Anchises] endorses the Julian myth of divine descent.”100 Caesar is singled out, not because he is held solely responsible for Rome’s internal wars, but because, as the outstanding representative of Rome’s first family, more is naturally expected of him. And neither he nor Pompey is referred to by name. White reads these verses as a general lament for Rome’s recent past, involving Marius and Sulla, Octavian and Antony, no less than Caesar and Pompey. I would add that, in their capacity as gener and socer, Caesar and Pompey best reflect the horror of all civil war, unnatural conflict between members of the same (extended) family; and that is another reason Anchises directs his remarks at them specifically. Caesar is still a hero here, not a villain, but like Hercules or Ajax, or Achilles perhaps, he erred because his great strength did not stop short of harming family and friends. But that is the fault of tragic heroes; and the tragedy of Rome, that its virtus, embodied above all in Julius Caesar, was misdirected. If it is a rebuke it is aimed at many, but I would prefer to call it a plaintive appeal; whose poignancy depends, in part, on being addressed to a figure Vergil otherwise admired. Neither Anchises, nor Vergil speaking through him, is disowning Caesar. Far from it: he is family, he is the pride of the Julian gens, he is one of Rome’s great heroes. It is to his greatness that the appeal is made. Just by virtue of his appearance in the Heldenschau Caesar is valorized, more so indeed than Pompey, who remains in Caesar’s shadow. Certainly there is an element of reproach, entirely missing from Jupiter’s optimistic speech, but then it would not be in place there. Cumulatively such otherwise similar passages complicate the moral outlook of the poem. The prophecies do not duplicate, but build on one another. 101 Alone these verses in Book 6 cannot prove that the Caesar in Book 1 must be someone else. I would suggest instead that the scene in Book 1 prepares for this passage by supplying the terms in which Anchises makes his plea to Caesar, heightening the consequent mood of regret. It is time to do what was promised earlier, and speculate on a corollary of our argument: why the Emperor is absent from a passage written, as Servius said (and nearly all modern scholars agree), ad laudem Augusti. In essentials our reading will be thought “neo-Augustan.” But note at least that it depends upon reading Augustus out of lines he has long been thought to occupy. The omission may be made up in books 6 and 8, but that does not really explain his absence here. The assumption all along has been that this is a doublet of the Heldenschau or Shield, where Augustus is given pride of place. If we are to understand our passage, we have to rid ourselves of that assumption. Like the others, it culminates with the Age of Augustus. But the tum? What does that imply? Not that the Caesar in question will usher in the new age by his own efforts, as at 6.791ff.: Augustus Caesar divi genus aurea condet saecula. . . . By itself tum implies no more than coincidence between the deification, or mere appearance of Caesar, and the new order. Heyne’s comment 100. Little 262 n. 23. Note, too, no trace here of Caesar the Republic-wrecker. 101. For a discussion of this principle see Murgia, passim.

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on saecula aspera mitescent is perceptive: “Tribuitur tempori, quod hominum est.” Now, Heyne thought the Caesar in question, in other words the person of most consequence, was Augustus. But he saw that in this passage, at least, Vergil makes saecula the subject of change, not the Emperor or anyone else. Jupiter’s prophecy is impersonal to a degree that contrasts sharply with other surveys of Roman history in the poem, especially the Heldenschau.102 Here history is the product not of personalities but of destiny. In the dialectic of divine and human will, the accent now is all on the former, identified for present purposes with fate, the fata of Jupiter. Human agency recedes in importance. Note that, after mentioning the founding of Rome under Romulus in lines 276–77, no more names are named until we come to Caesar in 286, a lapse of some 700 years. There are, in fact, no historical figures at all in Jupiter’s prophecy, only gods, allegories (cana Fides, Furor, etc.) and heroes of legend. Caesar is the one apparent exception. We may think there was sufficient reason to make this exception in the Emperor’s case. But I think Vergil included Julius Caesar for the same reason that Ovid ended his epic poem with Caesar’s apotheosis, because he wanted to link the mythical past with the historical present, and he found that a contemporary form of legend, katasterism, would suit his purpose. Julius Caesar was the first Roman in centuries, i.e., since Romulus, to have been honored with deification, and the first Roman ever to whom the Hellenistic fashion for katasterism was extended.103 Fabor, Jupiter says, et volvens fatorum arcana movebo. These programmatic words hint at a degree of mystification. That there are arcana here has been recognized before in connection with the number symbolism underlying the passage.104 We find, not obfuscation exactly, but oracular language and lore that has contributed its share to the confusion over who Caesar is. This is anything but a straightforward version of the past. As noted earlier, Jupiter’s sketch of Rome’s prehistory in lines 261–72 is built up from segments of three, thirty, and 300 years respectively: a schematic and highly arbitrary account. The ensuing lines trace the progress of world dominion (277–85), focusing especially on the theme of revenge in the conquest of Greece by Troy’s descendants. They are based on Cassandra’s prophecy in Lykophron 1226–80, and adopt an Alexandrian style of reference in regard to personal and place-names.105 Then the lines on Troianus Caesar, continuing the vengeance theme but enhancing the oracular manner by the use of nascetur and 102. With lines 284–85 in our passage compare 6.836–40. 103. Factors in weighing the force of quoque in 290. For the popularity of katasterism in the Hellenistic age as a form of contemporary, creative mythology see M. Nilsson, Geschichte der Griechischen Religion (2nd ed., Munich, 1961) 2.2.58–61; on katasterism elsewhere in the Aeneid and its pre-history in Roman culture see S. Skulsky, “Invitus, regina . . . : Aeneas and the Love of Rome,” AJP 106 (1985) 447–55; A. F. Segal in ANRW II.23.2, 1333–94. 104. Cf. Austin ad 267; Horsfall, 1974. 105. On Vergil’s debt to Lykophron, and to the literature of prophecy generally, see S. West, “Notes on the Text of Lykophron,” CQ 33 (1983) 114–35, esp. 132–35; N. Horsfall, “Virgil and the Poetry of Explanations,” G&R 38 (1991) 203–11, esp. 206; and now W. Stroh, “Horaz und Vergil in ihren prophetischen Gedichten,” Gymnasium 100 (1993) 289–322.

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the reference to saecula, etc. What was Vergil’s model here? Lykophron, again, but more immediately the Sibylline oracles, a source Vergil had already demonstrated an affinity for in the Eclogues.106 In the Sibylline style god is the master of history and people are his instruments. Caesar is present, but not doing anything, not effecting anything, or if he is, only by virtue of being displaced to make room for something even better. It is, I submit, futile to try to work out a formal system of saecula at work in these lines, but that is their subject, the pre-ordained progress of eras. That secular hopes and fears were ripe at the time of Caesar’s passing, excited, in fact, by that event, is demonstrable. We will return to that in the next section.107 Syme can help us. Julius Caesar’s appearance hardly disrupts the impersonal manner of Jupiter’s prophecy because by this time he was, as Syme says, depersonalized: first by being made a god, and second, a comet; and as a comet, thirdly, the omen of a new era. This is known, but deserves to be better known. Caesar had been identified with a star, the sidus Iulium. Which does not mean that he was completely replaced or mythologized, but that his already legendary status had acquired another dimension. It is this astral imagery that is crucial for the understanding of our passage. Here is another point of contact with the oracles, several of which feature signs in heaven, comets especially, as evidence of imminent, momentous change.108 And the comet appearing soon after Julius’ death certainly functioned that way. V

In what follows I propose to survey all of Vergil’s references to Julius Caesar, references that concentrate, as it happens, on his death or enhanced status as a star and god in heaven. That the poet’s earlier allusions to Divus Iulius might provide relevant background has been suggested before,109 but never pursued in any detail. In fact this is probably more important than the factors considered thus far. I imagine Vergil was motivated to recur to the subject in part by the attention he had earlier paid it. Internal allusion was much in his manner, as readers are aware.110 I will attempt to show that we have here an overlooked instance. 106. With nascetur compare the use of gen setai at Oracula Sibyllina (ed. Geffcken) 11.69, 276; 2.12; 3.779. Line 286 recalls Cat. 64.338 nascetur vobis expers terroris Achilles. It is well known that the long prophecy at the end of Catullus’ poem influenced Vergil in his 4th Eclogue. At points our passage recalls the 4th Eclogue. All three draw on the language of oracular forecast. 107. Horace’s Secular Hymn is a fit comparandum for our lines, and Augustus is not directly named there either. The impersonal style can be paralleled in much art of the period: Zanker 79– 100. Cf. Pomathios 252: “Au livre 1, la personne du Prince s’efface meˆme derrie`re son œuvre.” See also the remarks of Powell 144 about the Aeneid’s comparative reticence with regard to the Emperor. 108. Cf. Orac. Sib. 2.34f.; 3.334f.; 5.155f.; 8.190f.; 14.270f. 109. See Powell 145–46. 110. For a discussion of this Vergilian trait within the context of literary allusion generally see R. Thomas, “Virgil’s Georgics and the Art of Reference,” HSCP 90 (1986) 171–98, esp. 182–85.

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On line 287, after the mention of Caesar’s British expedition, Servius continues, in reference to the second half of the line: et post mortem eius, cum ludi funebres ab Augusto eius adoptivo filio darentur, stella medio die visa est, unde est “ecce Dionaei processit Caesaris astrum.” “And after his death, when funeral games were being given by his adoptive son Augustus, a star appeared in the middle of the day, whence the line ‘Behold the star of Dionaean Caesar has come forth’ ” (Ecl. 9.47). If you read the available literature, you would learn that Servius supports Julius Caesar in 286, but would never guess that he did so in part because he found here a (covert) reference to the star of Caesar. Scholars are pretty nearly unanimous in passing over this scholium in silence. Either it touches on an area of ancient religion they would prefer to ignore, or it merely reflects Servius’ overactive imagination. Both seem implied by the almost complete lack of attention accorded his comment. Although Servius was sometimes too quick to find topical references and secondary meanings in his Vergil, we might do well to give his opinion a hearing if sense is ever to be made of these lines. Students of Augustan literature are familiar with the star of Caesar, or sidus Iulium (to use Horace’s designation which has become almost standard in modern discussion), as a recurrent symbol in the poetry of the age.111 It will be worthwhile recounting its history. In 46  Julius Caesar had created games in honor of Venus Genetrix, ancestral goddess of the Romans but of the Julian house especially.112 These were instituted in conjunction with the temple to the goddess that he vowed on the eve of Pharsalus.113 Caesar entrusted their supervision to a non-priestly college, but after his assassination there was reluctance to proceed with them. At this point in July of 44 Octavian, recently arrived in Rome, stepped forward to take control and see that the games were performed. 114 Evidence suggests that he combined them with funeral games for his adoptive father;115 for this display of loyalty he won the admiration of the common people, and gained support from

111. For ancient sources on the sidus Iulium cf. Dio 45.7.1–2; Julius Obsequens 68; Pliny NH 2.94; Plut. Caes. 69.3; Seneca NQ 7.17.2; Servius ad Ecl. 9.46, Aen. 6.790, and Aen. 8.681; Suet. JC 88; Val. Max. 3.2.19; 6.9.15. For literary references in the Augustan poets, cf. Verg. Ecl. 9.47, Aen. 8.681; Hor. Odes 1.12.47; Prop. 4.6.59; Ov. Met. 15.745–870, Fasti 3.697–704. For the evidence of contemporary coinage see Weinstock 377–81; Zanker 35–36; Kaiser Augustus und die verlorene Republik: Exhibition Catalogue (Berlin, 1988) 500–502, 506–507, 513–14, 520. For modern literature on the subject see RE 10, 282–83; RE 11, 1186–87; RE Suppl. 4, 819; T. Mommsen, Gesammelte Schriften vol. iv (Berlin, 1906) 180–82; Taylor 89–92; Pesce; Scott; Bo¨mer 1952; Cramer 78–80; Wagenvoort 6–18; Klingner 96–99; Binder 1971, 226–32; Weinstock 370–84; Zanker 34–36; Hahn 13–16; Hall 2575–78; Kyrieleis; additional references in Bo¨mer 1986, 480. 112. CIL 1.1.225, 244. These were combined with the ludi Victoriae Caesaris: cf. Cic. Fam. 11.28.6: ludos quos Caesaris victoriae Caesar adulescens fecit. Cf. RE Suppl. 5, 629–30; Weinstock 91, 156; Bo¨mer 1952, 27. 113. Cf. Dio 43.22.3; Appian BC 2.102; on the chronology see now Ulrich 66–71. 114. Dio 45.6.4; Suet. Aug. 10; App. BC 3.28; Nic. Damasc. vita Caes. 28. For the political background to the appearance of the comet see Syme 1939, 116–17. 115. Servius ad Aen. 1.287 (quoted above); also ad Ecl. 9.46 and ad Aen. 8.681.

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Caesarians who had been lying low.116 It signalled his intention now to represent Caesar and the Julian family. And his determination to assume that role (in the face of Antony’s opposition) was evidently strengthened by what he and others saw as a supernatural occurrence. For it was during these games that an especially bright comet appeared in the sky over Rome for seven days. The account of Pliny the Elder is worth quoting, as he reports Octavian’s own published account of the event, together with his private response:117 Cometes in uno totius orbis loco colitur in templo Romae, admodum faustus divo Augusto iudicatus ab ipso, qui incipiente eo apparuit ludis quos faciebat Veneri Genetrici non multo post obitum patris Caesaris in collegio ab eo instituto. namque his verbis id gaudium prodit: “Iis ipsis ludorum meorum diebus sidus crinitum per septem dies in regione caeli quae sub septentrionibus est conspectum est. id oriebatur circa undecimam horam diei clarumque et omnibus e terris conspicuum fuit. eo sidere significari volgus credidit Caesaris animam inter deorum immortalium numina receptam, quo nomine id insigne simulacro capitis eius, quod mox in foro consecravimus, adiectum est.” haec ille in publicum: interiore gaudio sibi illum natum seque in eo nasci interpretatus est; et, si verum fatemur, salutare id terris fuit. (Pliny the Elder, Natural History, 2.94) Which may be translated: The only place in the whole world where a comet is worshipped is in a temple at Rome. It was judged very propitious by divine Augustus himself, as it had appeared early in his career at some games which, not long after the death of his father Caesar, he was celebrating in the college founded by Caesar in honor of Venus Genetrix. In fact he made public the joy it gave him in these words: “On the actual occasion of my games a comet was visible for seven days in the northern part of the sky. It would rise about the eleventh hour, and was bright, visible from all lands. The crowd believed this star signified that the soul of Caesar had been received into the divine company of the immortal gods; and on this account the emblem of a star was added to his bust that soon afterward we dedicated in the forum.” This was his public statement; but privately he rejoiced because he interpreted it as meaning that the comet had been born for him and he in the comet; and, to tell the truth, it did prove beneficial to all lands.

116. Dio 45.6.4. Cf. Cic. Fam. 11.28.6 for the co-operation that Matius, a Caesarian, gave Octavian in the performance of the games on this occasion. Matius is obliged to defend himself to Cicero, who disapproved; cf. Att. 15.2.3 ludorumque eius apparatus et Matius ac Postumus mihi procuratores non placent. As Shackleton Bailey remarks ad Fam. 11.27.7, the support of Matius et al. supports the supposition that Octavian combined the traditional games with some sort of ceremony in Caesar’s honor, for “[i]n the latter character especially they would attract the assistance of Caesar’s friends.” 117. The Pliny passage comes from the Autobiography and is registered among the collected remains of Augustus’ writing, Malcovati fr. vi section XII.

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Pliny distinguishes two interpretations of the comet: the spontaneous popular view that this was Caesar’s soul en route to heaven, which arose because it appeared during the rites of Venus Genetrix, at the same time funeral games in Julius’ honor were being put on; and Octavian’s own view of the matter, which is somewhat hard to follow but evidently related to him personally and pleased him. The two are not incompatible. Octavian’s immediate reaction, as Pliny indicates, was to set up in the temple of Venus a bronze statue of the Dictator with a star above his head.118 This served to endorse the common reaction. But if the young Octavian fostered this view of the comet he inferred some additional meaning for himself. This private interpretation is harder to construe. In particular the phrase sibi illum natum seque in eo nasci interpretatus est in the last sentence above has given trouble.119 Possibly it reflects the language of astrology.120 The star later appears in contemporary art as an astrological symbol in conjunction with Capricorn, Augustus’ sign of conception. 121 From other sources we learn that at least two other interpretations of the comet were current. As was customary in such cases, the portent engaged the attention of professional seers and led to the consultation of the Sibylline books. 122 DServius reports that an Etruscan haruspex named Vulcanius took the comet to indicate that the ninth saeculum was ending and the tenth about to begin.123 In Etruscan lore the tenth was the last in the cycle of ages.124 This interpretation is therefore important for its apocalyptic implications. Finally, comets were apt to set off a flurry of unofficial prophetic speculation, most of it dire in nature, because comets were usually, though not always, regarded as unfavorable omens.125 This negative interpretation thrived in later years owing to the civil wars, and because the comet of 44 came to be grouped with a rash of prodigies that appeared around the same time, some of which, famously, preceded the assassination itself.126 But the same omens that bode ill could also be

118. Cf. also Dio 45.7.1; Suet. JC 88; DServ. ad Ecl. 9.46. 119. See Rose 191: “whatever these words may mean.” 120. Cf. Cic. De Fato 12; Manil. 4.371, cuius signi quis parte creatur, eius habet mores atque illo nascitur astro; 4.518, etc.; Petronius 39.7–9. 121. See Zanker 84 fig. 66. G. Bowersock in Raaflaub and Toher 385–87 and 393 positions astrology in the mainstream of Augustan religious concerns. 122. See G. Wissowa, Religion und Kultus der Ro¨mer (2nd ed., Munich, 1912) 538–43. 123. DServ. ad Ecl. 9.46: Vulcanius aruspex in contione dixit cometen esse, qui significaret exitum noni saeculi et ingressum decimi. 124. Serv. ad Ecl. 4.4; see Hall 2564–89. 125. See RE 10, 1147–50. Cf. Dio 45.7.1, where the popular interpretation of the prodigy as manifesting Caesar’s apotheosis is contrasted with the view of the comet as “portending the usual things” (proshmaÐnein oÙa pou eÒwqe), which must mean famines, floods, wars, and the like. For the dread aspect of this particular comet cf. Verg. Geo. 1.488; Tibul. 2.5.71. But the emphasis that Augustus in his version of events put on its brightness (clarumque) may have been intended to show that it was benign: see C. Gruzelier, Claudian: De Raptu Proserpinae (Oxford, 1993) 138 for the background to such beliefs. 126. See Gelzer 325 n. 2 for references in prose to these omens; Mynors ad Geo. 1.469ff. for the references in poetry.

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regarded as signs of better things to come;127 and when the comet was brought into relation with the Etruscan belief in the tenth and final age, it could be seen as marking the end of the old, decadent age of saecula, and heralding the imminent return of a more welcome age in the not too distant future. In Rome many evidently chose to interpret this declaration of the ultimate saeculum in such positive terms.128 J. Hall has charted the effort to coordinate this expectation with traditional Etruscan belief regarding the ten ages: some juggling of dates was required. But he concludes (2578): “Not in technical terms, but in the more powerful language of public opinion, the portent of 44 had, in fact, caused the inception of a new saeculum at Rome, in a particular sense, that of the sidus Iulium and Octavian Caesar.”129 The Secular Games put on by Augustus in 17  represent the culmination of this millennial spirit. Vergil, of course, did not live to see the games. But their celebration, long delayed,130 only gave formal recognition to what had been officially implied and popularly supposed for some time, namely that the new saeculum started around the time Caesar died and the comet appeared at his memorial service. Support for this comes mainly from archaeology. Rather than review the monuments one by one we quote Zanker’s summary remark: “Soon the star appeared as a symbol of hope on . . . finger rings, and seals. . . . The star later appeared repeatedly on coins, especially together with celebrations of the saeculum aureum.”131 Taylor’s review of

127. Cf. Calp. Sic. 1.77–81, where it is asserted of the comet of  54 (in Nero’s reign) that it portends only good. DServ. ad Aen. 10.272 lists conditions under which comets may bode well; compare Serv. ad Geo. 1.488. A comet appeared at Mithridates’ birth, and again at his succession: both good omens for him (Weinstock 371). 128. Hall 2577. See, however, Coleman 130–31, and Cramer 79, for the willful optimism of this interpretation; the anticipation of the final age could just as readily be cause for alarm. 129. Hall 2578. As indicated earlier this system of ten ages was subject to different interpretations and distributed among various dates accordingly; it seems never to have been formalized. See Weinstock 191–97; Horsfall 1974, 115. 130. On the delay of the Secular Games see Fraenkel 366; R. Merkelbach, “Aeneas in Cumae,” MH 18 (1961) 83–99, esp. 90ff.; Weinstock 191–97, esp. 196; Hall 2577. 131. Zanker 35, with illustrations of the relevant monuments 34–35. Of particular significance in this regard is the coin issued on the occasion of the Ludi Saeculares in 17  depicting the youthful head of Caesar with the comet above. The moneyer was one Sanquinius. It is illustrated and discussed in Kaiser Augustus und die Verlorene Republik 520–21; Raaflaub and Toher 303, 352, and 362; Zanker 168 and 193. Obsequens 71 reports another comet in 17 , which has complicated the interpretation of this coin in the past. Recently, however, P. J. Bicknell has argued that what appeared in that year was not a comet and has no bearing on the iconography of the coin. He writes: “Given that no comet was observed at Rome in 17 .. it is clearly necessary to identify the tailed star placed above the head of Julius Caesar on coins of Sanquinius solely as that which appeared in 44 .., not long after the dictator’s assassination on the Ides of March within that year” (“The Celestial Torch of 17 ..,” AHB 5.5/6 (1991) 123–28. The quotation is on 126.). A similar conclusion is reached in Kaiser Augustus und die verlorene Republik 520–21: “Der Stern auf dem Schild des Herolds mag den Kometen meinen, der 17 vor Chr. zu de Sa¨kularspielen erschein; er erinnert aber doch auch sehr an den ‘caesarischen’ Stern. . . . Der Stern u¨ber dem Kopf der Ru¨ckseite ist eindeutig das sidus Iulium.”

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the material led her to the conclusion that “the comet was interpreted as a sign that a new age was at hand.”132 To return now to Eclogue 9. Vergil’s brief reference to the sidus Iulium is probably the earliest in the Augustan canon; brief but much to the point, because it suggests that under its influence the earth and all its crops will thrive, which, we recall, is what the conclusion of the Pliny passage says actually did occur (salutare id terris fuit). Lines 47–49 read: ecce Dionaei processit Caesaris astrum, / astrum quo segetes gauderent frugibus et quo / duceret apricis in collibus uva colorem. “Look, the star of Caesar, Venus’ son, has come forth, that star at which the crops might rejoice in their fruit, and the grape draw her color on the sunny hills.” We should guard against taking this too literally. Vergil is using poetic imagery suited to the context, but the star’s appearance heralds a time of happiness politically as much as agriculturally.133 The symbol comprehends not only Julius but the man who would replace him, since the comet appeared at Octavian’s public debut and since he saw in it some meaning for him personally. He gloried in the light reflected from the image: he adopted the title of divi filius and used the symbol as his coat of arms.134 There is an obvious connection here with the Aeneid passage if Servius is right in finding a veiled reference in the latter to Caesar’s star, in that both present the deification of Julius (and emergence of the new Caesar) as conducing to a better era. Eclogue 5, a lament over the death of Daphnis, has been regarded since antiquity as an allegory of the death of Julius Caesar because the poem, besides mourning his death, also celebrates his deification in terms that seem more appropriate to Caesar than to a humble shepherd. This interpretation, of course, has been the subject of endless debate.135 Literary scholars tend to resist such a reductive approach to poetry, and in the tranquil world of pastoral find incongruous the glorification of a political figure and man of arms like Julius Caesar. Some point out that Daphnis is called a puer (54), whereas Caesar was 56 (or so) at the time he died. But the emphasis on Daphnis’ youth is intended to heighten the pathetic theme of premature death, a fate he shared with Julius. Such stylization is consistent, too, with the 132. Taylor 91. The comet did not create this millennial climate by itself, but did its part to sustain it. Cic. Cat. 3.9.19, Sallust (or whoever wrote the second letter to Caesar) and Lucan 1.564–65 all witness to this mentality and attendant prophetic activity during the Republic’s last years. 133. Compare Hor. Odes 4.5.18–19; 4.15.4–5; CS 29–32; 59–60; and see Zanker 172–83. 134. Cf. Aen. 8.681, patriumque aperitur vertice sidus and Servius ad loc: in honorem patris stellam in galea coepit habere depictam. See Klingner, Ro¨mische Geisteswelt (Munich, 1965) 278: references to the star of Caesar in Vergil stand for “die weltgestaltende Macht des Divus Iulius, vermittelt durch seinen Sohn Octavianus.” This complex image, comprehending Caesar and Augustus both, helps explain the ambiguity some have found in our passage. The Caesar is Julius. But references to his deification relate closely to the onset of the Augustan Age. A similar ambiguity is at work in the eponymous reference at Hor. Odes 1.12.47: see Fraenkel 296 and Nisbet-Hubbard ad loc. Both take it as a reference to Augustus, and the latter cite Syme in support, but Syme always assumed that this was an oblique reference to the Dictator (Syme 1939, 318; 1978, 191 n. 1). See now West 6–7. 135. A bibliography on the question by W. W. Briggs is available in ANRW II.31.2, 1326–27; it should be supplemented by Sirago’s in the Enciclopedia Virgiliana vol. 1, 756.

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rejuvenated image of Caesar that emerged after his death and that can be traced in the posthumous portraits.136 The poem also owes something to Bion’s Lament for Adonis,137 and in Caesar’s case the comparison with Adonis was assisted by the close relationship he claimed with Venus. We cannot go into all the arguments for or against the allegorical reading here; but we side with Griffin, Coleman et al. in adopting a compromise position and supposing that, even if it is a loose match, the poem must have evoked memory of Julius in contemporaries and thus have at least partial reference to him and the events of 44.138 In that case some of its language can be interpreted, like the astris in our passage, as a literal description of Julius’ installment in heaven, rather than as mere figures of speech: cf. Daphnis . . . usque ad sidera notus (43); and especially: Daphnimque tuum tollemus ad astra; Daphnim ad astra feremus (51–52; cf. 56–57). Compare Caesar . . . famam qui terminet astris in our passage.139 By itself this resemblance proves little. But Vergil also echoes the formula he had used earlier to forecast the worship of Caesar: compare the end of line 290, vocabitur hic quoque votis, with the conclusion of line 80 in the Eclogue, damnabis tu quoque votis. Again, it could be coincidence, but cumulatively such similarities go some way towards reinforcing the identification of the Caesar in our passage with the Dictator.140 The connection is important because in lines 56ff. the elevation of Daphnis to the stars is cited as the cause of rural prosperity, just as the star of Caesar was in Eclogue 9. And, mutatis mutandis, the effect of Caesar’s apotheosis in Aeneid 1 is cast in a similarly favorable light. In considering the passage in connection with Vergil’s expectations of a golden age we cannot turn from the Eclogues without a consideration of the Fourth. But here the evidence is more problematic, as is practically everything else connected with the poem. The relevance of the 4th Eclogue for our passage is suggested initially by the similarity of language. Both announce a change of saecula (lines 5 and 291 respectively). Furthermore, the Sibylline style prevails in both: one notes in particular the resonant “o” sounds, which Austin has drawn attention to as a feature of this type of oracular poetry:141

136. Cf. Toynbee 2–9; also her Roman Historical Portraits (Ithaca, 1978) 32–33. An eternally youthful image symbolizes immortality: Michel 99. 137. Cf. DuQuesnay 22: “Virgil has . . . assimilated his Daphnis to the well-known figure of Adonis.” 138. Cf. Coleman 15–16 on the dating of the poem, 28–29 for its relevance to Caesar, and his comment on 173: “It is incredible that anyone in the late 40s could have read a pastoral poem on this theme without thinking of Caesar.” See also Griffin, Latin Poets and Roman Life 186–87; and The Oxford History of the Roman World (Oxford, 1991) 249, where he supports the view that the 5th Eclogue indeed has some connection with Caesar. 139. And et modo, Caesar, avum, quem virtus addidit astris (Ov. Pont. 4.8.63). The avus is Julius. 140. The similarity of the two formulas has been remarked before, e.g., by Taylor 112. Coleman 268 notes that the choice of Daphnis as the observer of the astrum Caesaris in Ecl. 9.46ff. underscores the connection between Eclogues 5 and 9. Together we get a network of references to Caesar and the astrum Caesaris. 141. See Austin 1927, 100–105; also Nisbet 12.

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(Ecl. 4.5–9)

Compare Aen. 1.286–90: nascetur pulchra Troianus origine Caesar imperium Oceano, famam qui terminet astris Iulius, a magno demissum nomen Iulo. hunc tu olim caelo, spoliis Orientis onustum accipies secura; vocabitur hic quoque votis. Not only the sound of the verse but certain formal similarities heighten the sense that we have been here before. This is noted by Austin; of line 291 he writes: “In pattern and style it recalls the Golden Age of the fourth Eclogue.”142 For our reading of the Aeneid passage, it is necessary to bear in mind the expectation of a change in saecula that the comet of 44 brought; and helpful if we can relate this to the subject matter of the 4th Eclogue. Coleman regards the connection as likely: “It is probable that the appearance of the famous comet, sidus Iulium, in July 44 .. led to an official consultation of the Sibylline books as well as a wave of unofficial prophetic speculation. . . . Some of the optimistic interpretations current may well be alluded to in the apocalyptic imagery of [Ecl. 4, lines] 5–10, and the Golden Age symbols of caduceus, cornu copiae and Sol are common on coins of the late 40s.”143 It is impossible, however, to prove that there was a direct connection between comet and poem, and, for our purposes, unnecessary to hypothesize one. Line 4, ultima Cumaei venit iam carminis aetas, recalls the prediction of Vulcanius that the tenth and ultimate age was at hand. Much beyond this we cannot go. There is otherwise no reference, direct or indirect, to Julius’ star. Two points, however, are worth making in connection with the poem, both chronological. The first is quite simple. On a strict interpretation of the Aeneid passage as we read it, the age of peace begins in 44 or not long after. This, of course, is also around the time Vergil composed his Eclogue. The exact date is a matter of considerable dispute, but even though our argument requires only approximate agreement, one point in particular seems to favor a date closer to 44 than to 40 . Murgia and others point out that it was the very scelus of the age that inspired apocalyptic visions of peace in Vergil, Horace (Epode 16) et al., not the Peace of Brundisium. This psychological insight is grounds for dating the poem earlier than the end of 40; the very insupportability of the situation forced the imagination to find 142. Austin 1971, ad 291. 143. Coleman 130. Cf. also 134 and 141–42. For reference to the coins he mentions, see Crawford, RRC 502–11, 740; Taylor 91. Others who connect the 4th Eclogue with the sidus Iulium include Wagenvoort (at length), Klingner 1967, 75, and W. Krauss in ANRW II.31.1, 611.

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an idealized alternative. Any proposed date must be tied to Pollio’s consulship (cf. te consule dignus in line 11), but as Murgia points out (27): “As early as 43 Pollio was known to be consul designate for the year 40.”144 The second point concerns the reckoning of time inherent in the poem itself. It can help with the main problem involved in our reading, that the deification of Caesar in 44 does not seem to have precipitated or coincided with an age of peace. The feature of the 4th Eclogue we draw attention to is the schedule Vergil envisages for the arrival of the golden age. He shapes it, of course, on the organic model, invoking the image of the child who will grow along with it. There will be a formative period. The new age will not come suddenly, but needs time to develop: incipient magni procedere menses (12). The language hints that the transformation is gradual. In contrast to many another apocalypse, this one will not happen overnight. 145 The same cautious outlook is reflected in Jupiter’s words, carefully chosen by the poet to hint at process: aspera tum mitescent saecula. The inceptive, mitescent, is important. And considering that Caesar’s assassination actually set off another dozen years of civil war, lines 31–36 of the Eclogue are particularly relevant, with their (grudging) prediction of altera bella, “other wars,” before the peaceful age begins. We are not arguing for Vergil’s powers of prescience. But when he came to write the Aeneid, he had good reason to invoke the substance of his earlier poem in view of the fact that his instincts had proved correct. It is for this reason that I cannot fully agree with R. Thomas when he writes that, by the time Vergil came to write the Georgics, “the fantastic solutions of the fourth eclogue, with its promise of a tranquil golden age, were exposed as such.” 146 Vergil’s optimism had been qualified from the beginning by intimations of a dark future, and the 4th Eclogue is not wholly utopian. But in the Georgics the mood is certainly grimmer. And it is this period when they were composed that poses the biggest challenge to our reading of the Aeneid passage and the chronology it assumes: the decade and a half of civil war after Caesar’s murder. In tracing the source of the troubles, it is to the murder that Vergil turns. This itself is significant. The incident did lead logically to Philippi and then to Actium. But in describing it, he reprises the apocalyptic language of the late 40s, which 144. C. Murgia, Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue (Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture 1975) 27. See also J. Griffin, “Virgil,” in The Oxford History of the Roman World (Oxford, 1991) 250, who would also detach it from the circumstance of the peace treaty and push the date of composition back closer to Caesar’s death. 145. But an interim or formative period is an acknowledged feature of much apocalyptic: cf. A. Y. Collins, The Apocalypse (Wilmington, 1979) 56–75. Wlosok 71 designates the time introduced by tum in our lines as the “Zwischenzeit.” For the idea, compare John Milton, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity,” 165–68, “And then at last our bliss / Full and perfect is, / But now begins,” lines I have the impertinence to quote only because they are modelled on our own (often imitated) passage, as the subsequent verses (167–72) indicate, being an adaptation of the Furor image to Christian iconography. Compare Manil. 1.922–26 for another variation: the way Divus Iulius is alluded to in 926 is potentially significant in reflecting on the original. Other imitations at Ovid Fasti 1.702; Calp. Sic. 1.46; Edmund Spenser F.Q. 2.4.15. 146. Thomas vol. i, 16–17.

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suggests that, for the purposes of his poetry anyway, his view of the event continued to be shaped by some of the old associations. Toward the end of Book 1 Vergil is discussing signs in heaven, and cites the omens attending the affair. This serves as a transition to a jeremiad on conditions of his own day. The style anticipates the Aeneid passage (and recalls the 4th Eclogue): ille etiam exstincto miseratus Caesare Romam, cum caput obscura nitidum ferrugine texit impiaque aeternam timuerunt saecula noctem. (Geo. 1.466–68). The final line in particular deserves note. A “powerful golden line,” with interlocking word order,147 it resembles line 291 in our passage, aspera tum positis mitescent saecula bellis, especially with its reference to saecula in penultimate position. What had been implied in the Eclogues is more evident here, that Vergil associated Caesar’s death with fundamental changes in the order of things. Thomas (ad line 268) states that “saecula is used with the same reference to the metallic ages at . . . Aen. 1.291.” While it may be questioned whether the Hesiodic conceit of metallic ages should be assumed there, Thomas is right to see that in both passages a similar concept involving cosmic ages (whether Hesiodic, Etruscan, or whatever) is at work; and my claim of course is that not only is the style of the passages similar but the subject is the same: Julius Caesar. The sun sympathetically mourns with Rome for his death: ille etiam exstincto miseratus Caesare Romam. The implied attitude toward the Dictator is wholly favorable, as I imagine it to be in our passage. But the mood of the passages is different. There is no mention of Caesar’s deification in the Georgics, whereas in the Aeneid passage not only is this emphasized but the tragic circumstances of his death are suppressed. And whereas in the Aeneid Vergil hints that Caesar will take his place among the stars, here in the Georgics there is only a grim, passing reference in 488 to fulgura and dirae cometae among the prodigies witnessed around the time of the assassination; no allusion, in other words, to the sidus Iulium as such, with the bright promise earlier attached to it. Do not the Georgics, moreover, contradict the Aeneid passage most obviously in that the former associate Caesar’s death with war, the latter (on our reading) with peace? Yes, but the same event is still charged with apocalyptic significance, whether for good or ill, and described in comparable terms. Both focus on saecula, as Thomas has noted. Both invoke Romulus (or Quirinus) and Vesta, as indigites dei; both refer obliquely to civil war through the trope of Mars (or Furor) impius.148 The vatic organ notes are sounded again in lines such as armorum sonitum toto Germania caelo / audiit, insolitis tremuerunt motibus Alpes (474–75), and so on. We have here, I suggest, another case of Vergilian self-reference. 147. Thomas ad 468. 148. See 498 in the Georgics, 292 in the Aeneid passage for Romulus and Vesta; lines 468 and 511 in the former, 294 in the latter, for the specter of civil war; and see Mynors ad 511 on this image.

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Admittedly the similarities could be explained on other grounds. But that the passages can refer to the same event, even though the implications seem different, stems from the nature of the evidence. Weather signs and other omens were ambiguous. What one person sees as dreadful, threatening doom, another could regard as promising. As Mynors observed: “phenomena which in ordinary life would have to be treated as prodigies . . . in happier circumstances might even have been symptoms of a return to a golden age.”149 Thus it was with the comet. Vulcanius had parsed it as the start of the final era, itself tidings of a decidedly dubious character. Crisis and dissolution seem implied before things improve. In the generally optimistic 4th Eclogue this is called another heroic age, but while Vergil actually experienced such conditions in the 30s it seemed more like an age of iron. He nearly convinced himself that Caesar’s death and the attendant omens portended disaster after all. But following Actium, peace arrived. With the benefit of hindsight in writing this vaticinium ex eventu Vergil was able to revert to the spirit of the Eclogues because his earlier hopes were now realized. The Georgics passage is an interim report on the consequences of Caesar’s passing. Jupiter’s prophecy is the follow-up.150 They compare with each other not unlike the way Dido’s speech compares with Jupiter’s prophecy, for as O’Hara has pointed out, the mood of the latter is projected at some cost to sincerity and full disclosure. In consideration of his audience Jupiter only hints at the price of peace and the difficulties Venus’ descendants will have to come through in the meantime. But he does hint at it. The historical background to his ultimately sanguine message can even be read in Venus’ frustration: quem das finem . . . laborum? (241). Jupiter consoles her with the statement, manent immota tuorum / fata tibi (257–58). We can postulate some earlier promise made to Venus extra scaenam to account for this assurance, but we might even detect in these words the voice of the poet speaking to his generation as he had once spoken for them when articulating the hopes widespread in the late 40s; and now vouching for their validity. He is able to do so by putting the prophecy into Jupiter’s mouth, for (ostensibly) Venus’ edification, because this is a prophecy literally Olympian in its range. The deep-focus perspective of the gods illuminates connections that are obscure or simply nonsensical on the human scale of time. In secular, or apocalyptic terms, we would have to say that our reading involves making the end of the old order correspond to the beginning of the new: war conduces to peace only as the war to end all wars. The realization of such hopes is predicated on the attitude messages like Jupiter’s instill. That it takes patience and endurance, that a lapse of time is always involved between a promise and its delivery, are themes of the whole Aeneid it would be otiose to dwell on. In Aeneid 6.791ff., Anchises speaks of Augustus Caesar founding a golden age:

149. Mynors ad 3.537–40. 150. Epode 16 and the Carmen Saeculare taken together reflect a similar reversal of mood.

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Hic vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis, Augustus Caesar, divi genus; aurea condet saecula qui rursus Latio, regnata per arva Saturno quondam . . . It has often been remarked that this represents the fulfillment of Eclogue 4.151 For most scholars, this implies that Caesar is Augustus in Aeneid 1 too. But we might consider the possibility that in Aeneid 1 Vergil claims that the new age began when he originally said it would. As Rose has written, the prophecy of peace expressed in the Eclogues “never was falsified in the poet’s lifetime. . . . Times were bettering, little by little, paulatim, as Vergil had said, and the fears which for a while succeeded his optimism proved unjustified.”152 Those fears are glossed in Jupiter’s address to Venus. But, to repeat what was said earlier, he is not obliged to tell her everything. My view, then, is that the passage makes most sense viewed on a continuum going back to the 40s, to the 4th Eclogue, to Julius Caesar’s death and deification. Servius cited the 9th Eclogue to support his comment on the line. What I have tried to do in this section is extend the scope of (self-)reference a bit further. In conclusion: the lines in question concern Julius. But the passage is also about Augustus, and is all the more elegant for being indirect, in keeping with the change from the straightforward poem of praise Vergil contemplated when composing the Georgics, to the more complex, allusive pattern of the Aeneid. Owing to the circumstances of its appearance the image of the sidus Iulium came to include both Caesars in its range of allusion. But rather than insoluble ambiguity I find levels of meaning in our passage, and this paper has been an effort to sort them out. Seattle, Washington BIBLIOGRAPHY Austin, R. G. 1927. “Virgil and the Sibyl.” CQ 21: 100–105. . 1971. P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos Liber Primus. Oxford. Basson, W. P. 1975. Pivotal Catalogues in the Aeneid. Amsterdam. Binder, G. 1971. Aeneas und Augustus. Meisenham am Glam. . 1988. “Aitiologische Erza¨hlung und Augusteiches Programm in Vergils Aeneis.” In G. Binder, ed., Saeculum Augustum, vol. 2. Darmstadt. ¨ ber die Himmelserscheinung nach dem Tode Caesars.” In Bonner Bo¨mer, F. 1952. “U Jahrbu¨cher 152: 27–40. 151. Cf. H. Mattingly, “Virgil’s Golden Age: Sixth Aeneid and Fourth Eclogue,” CR 48 (1934) 161–65; M. Manson, “L’enfant et l’aˆge d’or,” in Pre´sence de Virgile, ed. R. Chevallier (Paris, 1978) 49–62; Wilamowitz, “Vergil: On the Occasion of his 2000th Birthday,” translated and reprinted in Vergilius 34 (1988) 115–27, esp. 118. 152. Rose 212.

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. 1986. Kommentar zu Ovid, Metamorphosen, vol. 7. Heidelberg. Brunt, P. A. 1990. Roman Imperial Themes. Oxford. Brunt, P. A., and J. M. Moore. 1967. Res Gestae Divi Augusti. Oxford. Clarke, M. L. 1974. “Aeneid i. 286–96.” CR 24: 7–8. Coleman, R. 1977. Vergil: Eclogues. Cambridge. Cramer, F. 1954. Astrology in Roman Law and Politics. Philadelphia. DuQuesnay, I. M. 1976–1977. “Virgil’s Fifth Eclogue: The song of Mopsus and the new Daphnis.” PVS 16: 18–41. Fraenkel, E. 1957. Horace. Oxford. Gelzer, M. 1968. Caesar: Politican and Statesman. Cambridge. Grimal, P. 1989. “Jupiter, Anchise et Vulcain: Trois re´ve´lations sur le destin de Rome.” In Studies in Latin Literature and its Tradition in Honor of C. O. Brink, 1–13. Cambridge. Green, P. 1978. “Caesar and Alexander: Aemulatio, Imitatio, Comparatio.” AJAH 3: 1–26. Gruen, E. 1985. “Augustus and the Ideology of War and Peace.” In R. Winkes, ed., The Age of Augustus, 51–72. Louvain. . 1990. “The Imperial Policy of Augustus.” In Raaflaub and Toher, 395–416. Habinek, T. 1985. “Prose Cola and Poetic Word Order: Observations on Adjectives and Nouns in the Aeneid.” Helios 12. 2: 51–66. Hahn, I. 1985. “Augustus und das politische Verma¨chtnis Caesars.” Klio 67. 1: 12–28. Hall, J. F. 1986. “The ‘Saeculum Novum’ of Augustus.” ANRW II. 16. 3: 2564–89. Berlin. Herbert-Brown, G. 1994. Ovid and the Fasti: A Historical Study. Oxford. Horsfall, N. M. 1974. “Virgil’s Roman Chronography: A Reconsideration” CQ 24: 111–15. . 1982. “The Structure and Purpose of Vergil’s Parade of Heroes.” Ancient Society 12: 12–18. . 1991. Virgilio: l’epopea in alambicco. Naples. Kenney, E. J. 1968. Review of Norden 1966 in CR 18: 105–107. Kinsey, T. E. 1981. “Virgil, Aeneid 1. 286–8.” LCM 6: 27. Klingner, F. 1967. Virgil: Bucolica, Georgica, Aeneis. Zu¨rich. Koster, S. 1990. “Vergil und Augustus.” In W. Go¨rler and S. Koster, eds., Pratum Saraviense. Stuttgart. Kraggerud, E. 1992. “Which Julius Caesar? On Aen. 1, 286–296.” SO 67: 103–12. Kyrieleis, H. 1986. “QeoÈ åratoÐ : zur Sternsymbolik hellenistischer Herrscherbildnisse.” In Studien zur klassischen Archaeologie: Friedrich Hiller zu seinem 60. Geburtstag am 12. Marz 1986, 55–72. Saarbruck. Little, D. 1982. “Politics in Augustan Poetry.” ANRW II. 30. 1: 254–370. Berlin. Mandra, A. 1934. The Time Element in the Aeneid of Vergil. Williamsport. Michel, D. 1967. Alexander als Vorbild fu¨r Pompeius, Caesar und Marcus Antonius. Brussels. Murgia, C. 1987. “Dido’s Puns.” CP 82: 50–59. Mynors, R. A. B. 1990. Virgil: Georgics. Oxford. Nisbet, R. G. M. 1991. “The Style of Vergil’s Eclogues.” PVS 20: 1–14.

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Norden, E. 1901. “Vergils Aeneis im Lichte ihrer Zeit.” Neue Jahrbu¨cher fu¨r die klassische Altertum 7: 249–82, 313–34. Reprinted in Norden, Kleine Schriften, 358–421. Berlin, 1966. O’Hara, James J. 1990. Death and the Optimistic Prophecy in Vergil’s Aeneid. Princeton. Pesce, G. 1933. “Sidus Iulium.” Historia 7: 402–15. Milan. Pomathios, J.-L. 1987. Le pouvoir politique et sa repre´sentation dans l’E´ne´ide de Virgile. Brussels. Powell, A. 1992. “The Aeneid and the Embarrassments of Augustus.” In A. Powell, ed., Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus, 141–74. London. Quinn, K. 1968. Virgil’s Aeneid. London. Raaflaub, K., and M. Toher, eds. 1990. Between Republic and Empire. Berkeley. Reinhold, M. 1988. From Republic to Principate. Atlanta. Rose, H. J. 1942. The Eclogues of Vergil. Berkeley. Rubincam, C. 1992. “The Nomenclature of Julius Caesar and the Later Augustus in the Triumviral Period.” Historia 41: 88–103. Scott, K. 1941. “The Sidus Iulium and the Apotheosis of Caesar.” CP 36: 257–72. Sirago, V. 1984. “Cesare.” In the Enciclopedia Virgiliana vol. 1. 753–56. Rome. Stahl, H.-P. 1985. Propertius: “Love” and “War”: Individual and State under Augustus. Berkeley. Syme, R. 1939. The Roman Revolution. Oxford. . 1958. Tacitus. Oxford. . 1978. History in Ovid. Oxford. . 1979. “Imperator Caesar: A Study in Nomenclature.” In Roman Papers vol. 1. 361–77. Oxford. Reprinted from Historia 7 (1958) 172–88. Taylor, L. R. 1931. The Divinity of the Roman Emperor. Middletown. Thomas, R. E. 1988. Virgil: Georgics. Cambridge. Toynbee, J. M. C. 1957. “Portraits of Julius Caesar.” G&R 26: 2–9. Ulrich, R. 1993. “Julius Caesar and the Creation of the Forum Iulium.” AJA 97: 49–80. Wagenvoort, H. 1956. Studies in Roman Literature, Culture and Religion. Leiden. Weinstock, S. 1971. Divus Iulius. Oxford. West, D. 1993. “On Serial Narration and the Julian Star.” PVS 21: 1–16. White, P. 1988. “Julius Caesar in Augustan Rome.” Phoenix 42: 334–56. Williams, G. 1968. Tradition and Originality in Roman Poetry. Oxford. . 1983. Technique and Ideas in the Aeneid. New Haven. Williams, R. D. 1972. The Aeneid of Virgil, Books 1–6. New York. Wlosok, A. 1967. Die Go¨ttin Venus in Vergils Aeneis. Heidelberg. Woodman, A. J. 1983. Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narratives. Cambridge. Yavetz, Z. 1983. Julius Caesar and his Public Image. Ithaca. Zanker, P. 1988. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Ann Arbor.

MARGARET GRAVER

Dog-Helen and Homeric Insult

H

  what no other Homeric character does: she insults herself— der âmeØo, kunäj kakomhxˆnou ækruoèsshj, “Brother-in-law of mine, of a dog cold and ill-contriving!” (Il. 6.344).1 No one else in the Iliad or Odyssey employs such strong language in self-description, and no other character speaks so of Helen. Alone among epic speakers, Helen wishes that she had died before the poem began (Il. 3.173–76, 6.344–48, 24.764–65) and calls herself “hateful” (stuger n, Il. 3.404).2 In particular, she refers to herself as “dog” (kÔwn) and “dog-face” (kunÀpij), terms which otherwise are never self-directed, though they are often used in insult or disparagement of others. The anomalous first-person usage appears four times and is integral to Helen’s characterization. In the Teichoskopia of Iliad 3, it closes her description of Agamemnon: da˜r aÞt' âmäj êske kun¸pidoj, eÒ pot' êhn ge, “And he was brother-in-law to me, a dog-face, if indeed he ever was.” (Il. 3.180). In the sixth book of the Iliad, it opens her speech to Hector, as quoted above, and is repeated near the close of the same speech: âpeÐ se mˆlista pìnoj frènaj ‚mfibèbhken eÑnek' âmeØo kunäj kaÈ ÇAlecˆndrou ének' Šthj

For trouble has come upon your heart, more than any other, because of me, a dog, and the blind folly of Alexander. (Il. 6.354–55) I would like to thank Gregory Nagy, who guided this study in its initial phase, William Wyatt, who commented on an earlier version, and the readers and editors of Classical Antiquity, who supplied many helpful suggestions and corrections. 1. Citations of the Iliad and Odyssey are taken from the Oxford texts of Munro and Allen. Translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 2. Cf. the wishes for her death or drowning in Attic tragedy (below, note 38), and stugerìn in Stesich. fr. S104.17 SLG.

© 1995        

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It appears also in the Odyssey, in her initial speech in that poem: âmeØo kun¸pidoj eÑnek' ÇAxaioÈ ¢lqeq' Ípä TroÐhn, pìlemon qrasÌn årmaÐnontej.

Because of me, a dog-face, did you Achaeans come up to Troy, stirring up hardy war. (Od. 4.145–46) The words kÔwn and kunÀpij in these passages pose something of a mystery. The general tenor of Helen’s speeches would encourage us to read them as disparagement, yet there is nothing in the context to specify what sort of criticism is intended. The semantics of kÔwn / kun- in metaphor have not been well understood in general: glosses are often frankly interpretive, and assumptions concerning its meaning often will not stand up under close scrutiny.3 For this reason, it is well to approach Helen’s metaphors through a careful study of comparable expressions throughout the poems, those in which “dog” and related words are applied to human beings or human actions. If we can analyze the usage of metaphoric kÔwn closely enough to learn what associations it carried for the early audiences of epic, we may be in a position to discover something of value about the Homeric portrayal of Helen. For Helen’s dog metaphors, though strange and idiosyncratic, are nonetheless a traditional feature of epic diction.4 The element “me, a dog” should itself be considered a “memorable” repetition rather than a formula, and yet there are some details of its usage which appear to be standardized by repeated use, rather than remembered: its fondness for the genitive case, and its repeated collocation with “brother-in-law” and with “because of.”5 Variations in its phrasing are also of the sort associated with ordinary formular modification: in particular, the alternation between kunìj and kun¸pidoj appears to answer to metrical rather than semantic considerations.6 If it is traditional, however, and if the semantic analysis proposed below is correct, then Helen’s dog metaphor must have remained in conflict with much else that is traditional in her Homeric characterization. In the second part of this essay I will argue that this conflict has some generic significance for epic, helping 3. In using the terms “metaphor” and “metaphoric” to identify a definable set of linguistic phenomena, I do not mean to imply that the Greek poets themselves conceived of such expressions in terms of semantic transference (metaforˆ). On the distinction between literal and metaphoric expressions prior to the fourth century, see Padel 9–10, 33–34. On Homeric metaphor, see esp. Moulton; also Parry, who anticipates recent discussions of transference in his odd insistence that Il. 1.225, “having the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer” is not metaphoric: “Achilles means that Agamemnon really has the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer” (Parry 1971a.371). 4. Martin, in his analysis of idiosyncratic diction in Achilles’ speeches, makes it clear that “new” or rather deviant expressions need not be new in the temporal sense (182–83). 5. For memorable repetition see Martin 173–74. 6. On formulas and formular modification see Visser, together with Bakker 1991. According to the peripheral/nuclear semantics proposed in these articles, kun¸pidoj can be treated as a functional equivalent of kunìj, used to lengthen the expression by half a foot; the use of âmìj rather than âmeØo in Il. 3.180 similarly “makes room” for another semantically functional element (êske).

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to establish the superiority of epic performance over competing performance-types which treated Helen differently.7 The use of kÔwn / kunÀpij in Helen’s selfdescription can thus be related to the stance which epic performers choose to adopt in relation to the essential poetic functions of praise and blame. kÔwn IN METAPHOR: USAGE AND IMPLICATIONS

The dog metaphor in its application to Helen is essentially unmotivated. This is not a case where a character is reviled for some specific action or characteristic; it is not, “You dog! You escaped my spear!” or, “Doglike, she stood apart.” Helen merely blurts out “me, a dog” without explanation, as if her first-person pronoun alone were enough to suggest the appellation. Given this absence of strong contextual cues, one is naturally inclined to interpret on the basis of one’s own cultural assumptions—so that Lattimore, for instance, gives “slut that I am” for âmäj . . . kun¸pidoj and “dishonored me” for âmeØo kunìj. Alternatively, some have attempted to explain epic kÔwn by observing the behavior of modern dogs, their “fawning gaze combined with unabashed sexual and excremental interests”8 or the “dissolute impudence [which] characterizes bitches particularly when on heat.”9 This is equally unsatisfactory, for obvious reasons. For one thing, we know very little about the dogs of archaic Greece: what we can gather from the poems is only a composite of several different types, and in some passages it is uncertain even whether the dogs in question are domestic or wild animals. 10 Furthermore, even our own dogs exhibit a multiplicity of agreeable and disagreeable behaviors: how are we to decide which of these gives point to the epic metaphor? My methodology also prohibits explicating the metaphoric use of kÔwn by referring to the characteristics of dogs in simile or direct narrative. Although this entails excluding much interesting information, it protects against the possibility that the portrayal of dogs may have been regularized differently on differing levels of epic diction. A useful essay by Manfred Faust demonstrates the importance of this step. At the level of direct narrative, Faust shows, dogs may be hunters, watchdogs, or pets, while dogs in simile are nearly always hunters. Aside from the Iliad proem, which appears to be a special case, dogs as carrion-eaters appear only in indirect narrative, i.e., unfulfilled wishes, threats, worries.11 Dog metaphors constitute a fourth level of diction; in treating them as a class, we allow for the possibility that the dogs imagined there will have their own salient characteristics. The problematic semantics of sÐdhroj, “iron,” offer a familiar parallel: neither the practical everyday iron of the similes nor the much rarer and apparently much older iron of the narrative

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

On the competitive milieu of archaic poetry see Ford 93–130. Kirk 1985.77. Lilja 22. Lilja 14–21, Richter 1245–49. Faust 1970.22–23; cf. Pagliaro 31–33.

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itself supplies any real clue to the meaning of sid reoj in such metaphoric usages as “an iron sky” (Od. 15.329, 17.585), “an iron tumult” (Il. 17.424), or “the iron strength of fire” (Il. 23.177).12 Fortunately, the truly metaphoric uses of kÔwn and its derivatives are still numerous enough to afford a basis for analysis. The frequency with which dogs are featured in metaphor in fact gives them some special importance in epic diction, for in comparison with the rich variety of animals seen in simile, the species named metaphorically are surprisingly few in number. Apart from “ox-eyed” and one or two other fixed epithets of doubtful meaning, true animal metaphors encompass only the dog, the deer, the fly, and the lion.13 Of these, the dog metaphor is by far the most common (thirty-one occurrences) and the most flexible: it can appear in the first person (of Helen), in the third person, and as a term of address; the base term kÔwn may also be compounded (kun¸phj, kunˆmuia) or made into an adjective (kunÀpij, kÔneoj, kÔnteroj, kÔntatoj). Within this diversity of form, a certain uniformity of application gives us reason to look for semantic continuity among all such expressions.14 Dog metaphors belong almost exclusively to character-speech (the only exception is kÔntatoj at Il. 10.503) and are universally pejorative, whereas dog similes are sometimes positive in tone.15 Another unifying factor is that these thirty-one expressions all refer to humans or (in the case of kÔnteroj / kÔntatoj) to human actions; one instance of a “doglike” belly is hardly an exception, as there is a strong element of personification. There is no particular reason why a dog metaphor should not have been applicable to such impersonal objects as a grief, or a bad year for crops—both called “doggish” in the Hymn to Demeter (90, 306)—or why “dog” should not simply be an expression cursing one’s luck, a usage that can be inferred from dicing terms in Greek, Latin, and Indic.16 But the diction of epic reserves this metaphor for the human domain. The scholiasts regularly gloss metaphoric kÔwn with the adjective ‚naid j, “shameless.”17 Similarly, the lexicon of Liddell, Scott, and Jones informs us that kÔwn in metaphor “denotes shamelessness or audacity,” citing in evidence a number 12. See the excellent article by Gray 1954, esp. 13–15. 13. Stanford 131. Clader 46–47 associates kunÀpij of Helen with boÀpij, glaukÀpij of Hera and Athena. We should be careful, however, about blurring Parry’s distinction between fixed and particularized epithets (Parry 1971b.153–56). For an interesting comparison with blosurÀpij (“vulture-eyed”?), see Leumann 141–48. “Horses of the sea,” for ships (Od. 4.704), is a kenning, rather than a metaphor. 14. Semantic congruence between simplex and comparative is the more likely if, as Chantraine asserts (259), the latter is a bardic coinage comparable to basileÔteroj from basileÔj. KÔnteroj and kÔntatoj appear to have little currency outside of epic: tragedy re-forms the comparative as kunter¸teroj (LSJ s.v. kÔnteroj). 15. Examples include Il. 10.183–86, Od. 20.14–16 (dogs keeping watch); Il. 10.360–64, 22.189–92 (hunting); Od. 10.215–17 (greeting their master). It should be noted, however, that dogs in simile are more often characterized as timid, hesitating to attack some fiercer animal. For a survey of positive aspects of the dog in Greek culture, see Burnett 152–57. 16. Faust 1969.109–25. 17. S Il. 1.225, 13.623, 21.394, etc.

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of passages in which kÔwn and related terms appear in conjunction with the adjectives ‚naid j, “shameless,” ‚de j, “fearless,” and qarsalèoj, “bold.”18 One might question the validity of thus reading the implications of a word out of the adjectives that are used with it; after all, English speakers are quite capable of repeating the phrase “cowardly lion” in a way that would not help anyone to understand the meaning of “lionize” or “lion-hearted.” Certainly it cannot be right to take kÔwn as implying boldness per se, for epic speakers may address a warrior as “dog” even when he is fleeing from the field, hardly an instance of audacity. Still, the association between kÔwn and, in particular, ‚naid j is well worth keeping in mind. AÊd¸j or “shame” is a notoriously difficult concept in Homeric Greek, but it will not be too far wrong to define it as a kind of internalized social constraint, the check that is put on an individual’s actions by his or her sense of how others in his community will regard them.19 A person who is “shameless,” then, is one whose behavior demonstrates a lack of respect for the viewpoint of others. This broad notion of ‚naÐdeia is relevant to most instances of the dog metaphor in the Iliad and Odyssey, even some in which the circumstances motivating its use do not seem perfectly congruent with an English speaker’s concept of “shamelessness.” For example, Hephaistos complains that his kunÀpij mother hurled him from Olympos “because she wished to hide me since I was crippled” (¡ m' âqèlhsen / krÔyai xwlän âìnta, Il. 18.386–87). English speakers would probably not describe Hera as “shameless” in this action, and yet it is aÊd¸j that ought to have restrained her from it. The retreating warrior, likewise, could be described by an epic speaker as ‚naid j despite his lack of boldness, for it is aÊd¸j that compels men to fight against odds (e.g., at Il. 15.561). But the ‚naid j gloss is ultimately not very informative, and at some points risks reducing the text to tautology. “Shamelessness” is, after all, a broad abstraction: if we are to learn anything more useful about the metaphor, we must examine the specific behaviors to which it is applied. Let us consider, for instance, the two passages on which the scholiasts seem to rely for their equation of dog metaphors and shamelessness. Both occur in the context of the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. In Iliad 1, Achilles uses the expression  mèg' ‚naidèj and follows it in the next line with the vocative kunÀpa (1.158–59), while in the Embassy Scene of Iliad 9, he says that Agamemnon is “clothed in shamelessness” (‚naideÐhn âpieimènoj) and then remarks that “doglike as he is (kÔneìj per â¸n), he does not dare to look me in the face” (9.372–73). While these passages do suggest a relation between dogs and ‚naÐdeia, the relation need not be one of synonymity. Achilles may be saying both that Agamemnon lacks the proper feeling that should restrict his behavior, and also that the behavior he engages in is doglike. In this case,

18. LSJ s.v. kÔwn II; “shameless” also appears as a gloss in LSJ s.vv. kunˆmuia, kÔneoj, kÔnteroj, kun¸phj. 19. For extended discussion and bibliography see Lowry 59–78, Collins 22–23, 31.

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doglike behavior would seem to consist in grabbing an unfair share of the prizes of war, for this is the substance of Achilles’ complaint: ‚ll€ soÐ,  mèg' ‚naidèj, ‰m' áspìmeq', îfra sÌ xaÐrhùj, tim˜n ‚rnÔmenoi Menelˆwú soÐ te, kunÀpa, präj Tr¸wn; tÀn oÖ ti metatrèphù oÎd' ‚legÐzeij.

But for you did we follow, o very shameless one, to give you gladness, winning the reward of honor for Menelaos and for you, dog-face, from the Trojans. About these facts you do not concern yourself at all or take any interest. (Il. 1.158–60) Tim  here is not some abstract notion of “honor”; it refers to the material rewards which are gained by fighting, and which, Achilles charges, have accrued to the Atreids’ share in undue proportion to their physical prowess. Avarice coupled with personal timidity is again the charge in the Book 9 passage, where Achilles says first that Agamemnon may attempt to cheat someone else just as he has unfairly confiscated Briseis, second that he is “clothed in shamelessness,” and third that he “will not look me in the face, doglike as he is.”20 The possibility that Agamemnon is called a dog specifically in token of his material greed (cf. kerdaleìfron, 1.149) is strengthened by several interesting parallels. Perhaps the least ambiguous is the usage of kÔntaton in the following passage from Iliad 10: ûoÐzhsen d' Šra pifaÔskwn Diom deð dÐwú. aÎt€r å merm rize mènwn í ti kÔntaton êrdoi, £ í ge dÐfron ál¸n, íqi poikÐla teÔxe' êkeito, ûumoÜ âcerÔoi £ âkfèroi Íyìs' ‚eÐraj, ª êti tÀn pleìnwn QrhùkÀn ‚pä qumän éloito.

And he [Odysseus] whistled, signaling to godlike Diomedes. But the other paused, and began to ponder what most doggish thing he might do, whether to take the chariot, where splendid arms were lying, and drag it off by the pole, or pick it up and carry it, or whether he should take the life from still more of the Thracians. (Il. 10.502–506) The question Diomedes ponders here is clearly not one of expediency, for he and Odysseus have already achieved their purpose in attacking the camp of Rhesos, 20. The participial phrase kÔneìj per â¸n follows a pattern which is normally concessive in epic (Bakker 1988.107–10), and ought therefore to imply that the doggish person would be willing to approach Achilles if not prevented by some other circumstance. Here, the circumstance is Agamemnon’s cowardice; this does not entail, however, that doggishness and cowardice are directly opposed. Compare Od. 11.424–26, where Clytemnestra is called kunÀpij without the concessive sense. In her case it is doggish to remain aloof from her victim, withholding the final offices for the dead, while here the truly doggish action would have been to confront Achilles and confiscate Briseis in person.

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and their interest is now best served by an expeditious departure. Nor would there be anything particularly “shameless” or “audacious” in the actions Diomedes contemplates, given the deeds he has already performed this night. The issue that concerns him seems rather to be one of quantities: how much plunder can he get away with? or how many Thracians can he kill? Notice how both bloodshed and looting are expressed in terms of taking something (ál¸n, éloito)—as if the lives of Diomedes’ enemies are a commodity whose value can be measured against the more portable property. What is most doggish for him to do seems to be determined by a purely materialistic calculation: the most gain in the shortest time. This use of kÔntaton has sometimes been considered anomalous. Redfield, for instance, claims that it is Homer’s only positive use of the metaphor,21 and Lattimore translates it as “best,” even though he elsewhere renders kÔnteron “worse” or “more vile” (Od. 20.19, 11.427). We must realize, however, that for the speaker, in this case as in others, there is nothing positive in the actions described as doggish. The apparent anomaly is created by the fact that here kÔntaton is applied by the poet-narrator, who is anticipating the appearance of Athena to prevent the actions improperly contemplated by his hero. If Diomedes himself were speaking, he would no doubt refrain from using the pejorative term to describe his own intentions: from his point of view, the question should be expressed, “Which action is more profitable?” (kèrdion, cf. Il. 13.458, etc.). The judgment that Diomedes’ conduct (or potential conduct) is unduly acquisitive belongs only to the narrator, who here departs for a brief instant from his usual objectivity. The dog often figures in the Aesopic tradition as a type of the person who thinks only of his belly, sometimes to his own detriment.22 That the dog-insult of epic has its origin in the dog’s proverbial voracity is not something that can be proved; however, it is worth noting that on several occasions the metaphor is closely associated with greed of the most physical sort. In Book 7 of the Odyssey, Odysseus complains that there is nothing more doggish (kÔnteron) that the belly, which “bids a man woo her of necessity” even when he does not want to. The figurative language here makes the belly into a demanding female, in whom it is “doggish” to expect more attention and/or gifts than her suitors are prepared to supply. Still very much present, though, is the thought of the belly as the seat of hunger, doggish in its insatiable demands for food. KÔnteron again relates to eating at Od. 20.18–20, where the disguised Odysseus, hearing his slave-women talking and laughing on their way to the suitors’ beds, steadies his angry heart with the memory of conduct even more doggish: tètlaqi d , kradÐh; kaÈ kÔnteron Šllo pot' êtlhj, ¢mati tÀú, íte moi mènoj Šsxetoj ¢sqie KÔklwy ÊfqÐmouj átˆrouj.

21. Redfield 260. 22. E.g., Perry no. 206, in which the dog drops a piece of meat into the water through snapping at its reflection; see also Perry nos. 135, 253, 254, 264, 342, 415.

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Endure it, heart! You endured something even more doggish before, on that day when the Cyclops, unchecked in might, devoured my stalwart companions. The choice of a cannibalistic monster as a paradigm of doggishness should awaken us to the seriousness of Odysseus’ reflection. Odysseus is not merely offended at the maids’ impudence; he is outraged at the transfer of their loyalty, which, as Russo points out (108–109), amounts to a form of theft from the master of the house. Comparison to the Cyclops makes of their conduct something monstrous, a selfishness akin to cannibalism, if less extreme. Seen in this light, the women seem almost to deserve the savage punishment Odysseus will later inflict. Another link between the dog metaphor and cannibalism can be inferred at Il. 8.483, where Zeus tells Hera that he does not care for her fury “for nothing is more doggish (kÔnteron) than you are.” The epithet is not explained in this context, but the audience will be aware that Hera’s anger is elsewhere described by Zeus as cannibalistic: “if you should eat Priam and his children and the other Trojans raw, then would your anger be satisfied” (Il. 4.34–36). At this point we might remember that Agamemnon also is a kind of cannibal, at least in the judgment of the speaker who insults him. Nussbaum points out the proximity of the expression dhmobìroj, “eater of the people,” to the puzzling expression “having a dog’s eyes and a deer’s heart” at Il. 1.225; she argues that the dog-insult refers to Agamemnon’s “self-regarding behavior.” 23 The sequence of ideas in the passage as a whole supports this reading, as opposed to the older view which holds that the dog’s eyes signify an external or specious boldness.24 Achilles complains in lines 226–28 of his leader’s cowardice, which makes him unwilling to take on any real fighting. As these lines are clearly intended to explain the “deer’s heart,” the two that follow should be referred chiastically to the “dog’s eyes”: oÊnobarèj, kunäj îmmat' êxwn, kradÐhn d' âlˆfoio, oÖte pot' âj pìlemon ‰ma laÀú qwrhxq¨nai oÖte lìxond' Êènai sÌn ‚rist essin ÇAxaiÀn tètlhkaj qumÀú; tä dè toi k˜r eÒdetai eÚnai. ª polÌ l¸ðìn âsti kat€ stratän eÎrÌn ÇAxaiÀn dÀr' ‚poaireØsqai íj tij sèqen ‚ntÐon eÒphù; dhmobìroj basileÔj . . .

Drunkard, having a dog’s eyes and a deer’s heart! Neither to arm yourself ever for battle along with the troops, nor to set an ambush together with the Achaean chieftains, have you endured in spirit, but to you these things seem deadly. Indeed, it is much easier to go throughout the broad army of the Achaeans 23. Nussbaum 414. 24. H. Fra¨nkel 85.

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taking away gifts from anyone who speaks against you, people-devouring king. (Il. 1.225–31) If, as Nussbaum suggests, the behavior for which Agamemnon is considered doggish is that specified in lines 229–30, then we may safely assert that the “dog’s eyes” are not bold eyes at all, but greedy eyes, eyes that range here and there looking for something to consume. This is quite consistent with our earlier observation that the dog-terms used of Agamemnon in Il. 1.159 and 9.372 refer not so much to his lack of shame as to the acquisitive behavior which shame ought to have prevented. We have already observed that the dog-insult is not incompatible with a charge of cowardice. This is an important point to bear in mind when we come to the use of kÔwn in battlefield taunts or “flyting.”25 This is the most frequent use of metaphoric kÔwn in the Iliad; it is found in direct address at 11.362, 13.623, 20.449, 21.394, 421 (kunˆmuia, “dog-fly”), 21.481, 22.345, and in the third person at 8.299 and 527. “Dog” as a direct insult seems to have a particular affinity for fighting contexts, so much so that in the Odyssey, when Odysseus wishes to announce that a state of open combat now exists between himself and the suitors, the first words he utters are  kÔnej (22.35). Widely applicable, the vocative kÔon may be hurled at opponents behaving in cowardly fashion, like Hector retreating from Diomedes (Il. 11.362–63; cf. 20.449–50), as well as at those whose behavior is more bold, like Artemis challenging Hera (Il. 21.481). Yet the term is more than a general-purpose insult. Implications of base and inordinate greed are well suited to the agenda of eristic flyting, in which the speaker tries to derogate the opponent’s previous accomplishments in order to aggrandize his or her own.26 Whatever damage the other has done in the past is represented as an unjustified seizure of privilege. Thus Hera claims that Artemis, a “fearless dog,” has yet to learn of warfare even though she has often killed in the past; Zeus has made her a “lion” only “against women” (Il. 21.481–88). Her point is that Artemis’ many slayings do not prove her heroic, though they do make her dangerous: her destructiveness exceeds her real prowess. The adjectives “rabid” (Il. 8.299) and “death-bringing” (Il. 8.527) similarly stress the destructiveness of the metaphoric dog without granting him any legitimate heroism. It is exactly the point Odysseus must make to the suitors in the passage mentioned above: “You have indeed gained a great deal for yourselves—in fact, you have consumed it with your own mouths—and yet you are no match for me!” One can hardly help thinking of the carrion dog, feared and yet despised. 27 One passage makes a close verbal connection between the battlefield vocative and avarice expressed as physical hunger. In Iliad 13, Menelaos takes advantage 25. For the term see Parks, who defines it as “verbal contesting with an ad hominem orientation” (6); also Martin 68–72. 26. Parks 44. 27. Scholars who associate the dog-insult with carrion consumption include Nagy (1979.226), Clader (18), Redfield (195), Faust (1969.110–11).

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of a typical flyting occasion (he has just killed the Trojan Peisandros) to issue an indictment of the whole army of Trojans, whom he calls collectively kakaÈ kÔnej, the feminine gender suggesting weakness or cowardice. 28 Note especially the way he treats the Trojans’ eagerness to fight as a personal affront, of a piece with the theft of his wife and property. leÐyetè qhn oÕtw ge nèaj DanaÀn taxup¸lwn, TrÀej ÍperfÐaloi, dein¨j ‚kìrhtoi ‚ôt¨j, Šllhj màn l¸bhj te kaÈ aÒsxeoj oÎk âpideueØj, ƒ hn âmà lwb sasqe, kakaÈ kÔnej, oÎdè ti qumÀú Zhnäj âribremètew xalep˜n âdeÐsate m¨nin ceinÐou, íj tè pot' Ömmi diafqèrsei pìlin aÊp n; oÑ meu kouridÐhn Šloxon kaÈ kt mata poll€ m€y oÒxesq' ‚nˆgontej, âpeÈ filèesqe par' aÎt¨ù; nÜn aÞt' ân nhusÈn meneaÐnete pontopìroisi pÜr æloän balèein, kteØnai d' ¡rwaj ÇAxaioÔj.

Even so, indeed, will you leave the ships of the Danaans of swift colts, haughty Trojans, insatiate of the dread battle cry? You were not lacking before in disgrace and abuse with which you abused me, you good-for-nothing bitches, and did not fear at all in your hearts the terrible wrath of loud-thundering Zeus of Guests, who will someday destroy your high city. For you took my wedded wife and many of my possessions and thoughtlessly made off with them, after she welcomed you. And now again, you strive to cast destructive fire upon our seafaring ships, and to kill the Achaean heroes. (Il. 13.620–29) Menelaos’ point is certainly not that the Trojans are fearless, although he does blame them for not worrying about the avenging wrath of Zeus. The central idea of his speech is that their continuing to fight after they have been destined for defeat is a form of avarice: they are taking lives they are not entitled to take, just as on the previous occasion they took a woman and other property that did not belong to them. All this is neatly summarized in the phrase ‚kìrhtoi ‚ôt¨j, “insatiate of the battle-cry,” which makes bloodshed a commodity, as it were, which one can literally consume—for kìroj is the condition of having one’s belly full, and korèsasqai is to glut oneself (it is a regular verb for what dogs do with corpses, Il. 8.379, 13.831, 17.241, 22.509). So important is this notion of battle-greed to Menelaos that he repeats it in expanded form at the close of his speech. The Trojans cannot sate themselves with war, he says: there is kìroj in war as in all things, although there may be some who are even more reluctant to have their fill (âc êron eÙnai) of war 28. The gender varies in the MSS. Even with the masculine kakoÐ, there is an imputation of cowardice (LSJ s.v. kakìj 1.3). For imputations of effeminacy in battlefield flyting, see Parks 13, 24.

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than of pleasant activities like lovemaking or dancing—but the Trojans, once again, are “insatiate of battle” (634–39). In all of the passages we have looked at so far, the behavior to which the dog metaphor is attached shows a disregard specifically for societal norms of meum et tuum. In its crudest form this disregard manifests itself in eating too much, reminding us that the fair division of meat serves in myth as the archetype of civilized conduct.29 But other kinds of selfish behavior can also be described as doggish, notably the theft of property and the taking of human life. We have seen in the case of Odysseus’ serving-maids how sexual license, too, can be regarded as a form of grabbishness. For another case where the metaphor is associated with female sexuality, we turn to Od. 8.319, where Hephaistos applies the epithet kunÀpij to his unfaithful wife, Aphrodite. Hephaistos says that he will hold the guilty pair in his net until her father returns the bride-gifts, íssa oÉ âgguˆlica kun¸pidoj eÑneka koÔrhj, oÕnekˆ oÉ kal˜ qugˆthr, ‚t€r oÎk âxèqumoj.

as many as I gave him in contract because of the dog-faced girl, for his daughter is beautiful, but not self-controlled. Hephaistos is in a position to demand return of the bride-gifts because his fatherin-law (Zeus!) is in breach of contract: the bride’s chastity, like her beauty, is a commodity for which the groom has paid, so that in seeking her own pleasure Aphrodite is in effect stealing from her husband on her father’s behalf.30 Sexual behaviors, then, may have an economic dimension in archaic Greece: in Hesiod the woman waggles her hips to distract attention from her theft of food (Erga 373–74), giving a concrete meaning to the mythology of Pandora’s “doggish (kÔneon) mind and thieving ways” (67).31 For this reason, it is incorrect to assume, as translators sometimes do, that kÔwn or kunÀpij applied to a woman is necessarily a sexual slur, “slut” or “sluttish”.32 It is true that dog metaphors are applied disproportionately to women in the Homeric poems, but this may reflect attitudes toward women not based on sexual mores. Lefkowitz33 argues persuasively that Greek misogyny relates not to women’s sexuality per se but to their supposed moral weakness and susceptibility to destructive passions, avarice as well as sexual desire. Sexual transgressions such as Aphrodite’s may simply be one manifestation of a general lack of restraint.

29. Detienne 1979.220–30. 30. The reverse would not be true, since the marriage-payment is normally made by the groom (Morris 105–12). 31. See West’s notes on the two passages, making the connection between them. West explains that “women stole food because they were kept half-starved by their husbands, who resented their habit of eating” (251). 32. See Lattimore’s rendition of Il. 3.180, Od. 11.424, 17.372. Nothing in these lines makes any reference to sexual conduct. 33. Lefkowitz 112–26.

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This point has obvious relevance to the situation of Helen, and we will return to it. In the meantime, we need to consider one other type of behavior that is regularly called doggish. This is exemplified by Melantho in Od. 19.91–92, where the specific behavior that is being criticized is her insolence to the beggar Odysseus. pˆntwj, qarsalèh, kÔon ‚deèj, oÖ tÐ me l qeij êrdousa mèga êrgon, ç s¨ù kefal¨ù ‚namˆceij.

Indeed! You bold, you fearless bitch! It does not escape me that you are misbehaving in a big way. You will disgrace your own self. In calling Melantho a “fearless bitch,” Penelope echoes Odysseus’ similar complaint about the maid’s sharp tongue in Od. 18.338. But Melantho is not the only person called kÔwn for speaking out of turn. Eumaios is chastised in the same way by Melanthius at Od. 17.248, and Eurykleia refers to the entire group of serving-women as kÔnej when she complains about the way they jeer at Odysseus.34 ±j sèqen aÉ kÔnej aÑde kaqeyiìwntai ‰pasai, tˆwn nÜn l¸bhn te kaÈ aÒsxea pìll' ‚leeÐnwn oÎk âˆaøj nÐzein.

just as these bitches all mock you, and you, to avoid their slander and manifold humiliations, do not allow them to wash you. (Od. 19.372–74) Is there a connection between this usage, where kÔwn is applied to persons who have themselves been dishing out insults, and the pattern we observed above, in which the metaphor was used to pick out various forms of greedy or selfish behavior? The use of l¸bh as a generic term suggests that there is. In the passage above, l¸bh refers to the verbal abuse directed at Odysseus, and the word is used in a similar sense elsewhere; for instance Thersites is an âpesbìloj lwbht r, “a word-flinging slanderer” (Il. 2.275; cf. Il. 3.42, Od. 18.347, 24.326).35 But the meaning of l¸bh is much wider in epic, encompassing any unjustified abuse. Menelaos’ speech from Iliad 13, which was quoted above, uses the verb lwb sasqe with reference to the disfigurement brought upon the speaker by the theft of his wife and property. 36 Similarly, in Il. 1.232, Achilles complains that Agamemnon goes around stealing people’s prizes, and the verb he uses is lwb saio. The damage caused by such “abuse” is a very serious matter, serious enough to be the cause of a war or of 34. Compare Od. 19.154–55, where Penelope relates how the weaving ruse was exposed by her maids, “uncaring bitches,” to the suitors, who rebuked her for it verbally (åmìklhsan âpèessin). 35. On lwbht r of the slanderer (“the one who blames others and is blamed”) see Suter 3–4, 14–15. 36. See Lowry 17–19 for the collocation of l¸bh and aÚsxoj in this passage and in Eurykleia’s speech quoted above. It should be noted that in both cases the l¸bh and aÚsxoj are directly assigned to the metaphoric “dog,” and that here kakaÈ kÔnej is directly appended to lwb sasqe, as if suggested by it.

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many deaths in a war. That the same term is used to denote mere verbal abuse suggests that, for epic speakers at least, it is not true that “words will never hurt me”: expressions of blame are considered to cause real harm to the person at whom they are directed. A speaker who indulges in unjustified blame is in effect robbing another of his dignity, in flagrant disregard of societal norms which distribute to each person his due portion of praise or blame.37 It is not surprising, then, that dog-insults should be directed at some persons whose offense is primarily verbal. It is interesting to compare this usage with Semonides’ satiric description of the woman who comes of a dog, in which the point of similarity is the woman’s “barking”—her ceaseless gossiping (7.12–20). DOG-HELEN AND THE POETRY OF BLAME

It should be clear from the preceding discussion that metaphors drawn from the kÔwn group are a rather harsh form of abuse, one which labels its object as greedy and potentially cannibalistic in the domain of material goods, or of fighting, sexuality, or speech. When applied to the Helen of epic, such abuse strikes the ear as unduly powerful, inappropriate to her character and actions. For where tragedy gives us a blameworthy Helen, with all the invidious comparisons and destructive imprecations that might have been predicted from her role as the cause of war, the portrait we find in epic is generally quite different.38 Though not without sinister capabilities (her magic drugs, her voice, her prophetic loom), the Homeric Helen remains a surpassingly lovely woman, intelligent, magnetic, deeply concerned for her home and family, very possibly more sinned against than sinning.39 “You are not at all to blame,” says Priam to her in Iliad 3.164, and the respectful admiration he accords her is universal among the heroes. Helen herself remarks as a matter of simple fact that “many shames and reproaches are upon me” (Il. 3.242), and yet we never hear these words of reproach.40 For instance, the Trojan elders, who should have ample cause to detest Helen, still feel that it is “no cause for indignation that the Trojans and Achaians suffer hardships over such a woman” (Il. 3.156–57). Even Achilles will not fault the Atreids for their willingness to expend lives for her sake 37. Detienne 1973.18–25. 38. Aeschylus’ chorus compares Helen to a lion-cub turned murderous, and puns on her name, álènaj, élandroj, álèptolij: “ship-wrecker, man-destroyer, city-sacker” (Ag. 689–90). In Euripides, Helen is oÎ gˆmon ‚llˆ tin' Štan, “no bride, but blind folly” (Andr. 103); ‚lˆstorìj tij oÊzÔj, “a cursed distress” (Hec. 949); mØsoj eÊj ‡Ellhnaj, “a thing of hatred for the Greeks” (IT 525); pikr€n pikr€n duselènan, “bitter, bitter Helen-amiss” (IA 1315–16); others wish that she may die (Rh. 906–14, Tr. 772–73) or be shipwrecked (Hec. 943–51) or sacrificed (IT 440–46). On Helen’s portrayal in lyric and tragedy, see Homeyer 13–36. On Helen as casus belli see Suzuki 29–43. 39. For the favorable portrayal of Helen in Homeric epic see Lefkowitz 135–36. Cf. the abusive language meted out to Paris, also a casus belli: Paris’ different relation to the poetry of blame is discussed in Suter. For a survey of secondary literature on Helen’s characterization see Collins 14–18. 40. Other instances where Helen reports on the blame of others include Il. 410–12, 6.351, 358, 24.768–75; see Collins 45.

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(Il. 9.337–43), though elsewhere, in a moment of deep emotion, he does refer to her as “bone-chilling Helen” (ûigedan¨j). The closest we come to a serious charge against Helen from a Homeric hero is when Hector calls her a “woe” (p¨ma) for the Trojans and an “embarrassment” (kathfeÐh) to Paris (Il. 3.50–51)—hardly a serious enough indictment to merit the dog-insult as we have analyzed it. It is from a sense of the unfitness of Helen to be called “dog” that G. S. Kirk comments on âmäj . . . kun¸pidoj as a peculiarity of usage; he suggests, not very convincingly, that “such terms may have been less violent in their application to women.”41 But I see no reason to try to soften the force of the expression, which, after all, is not out of keeping with the rest of Helen’s strangely passionate self-deprecation. The unexpected ugliness should rather be accepted as a signal that the epic performer knows of a version of Helen’s story which is considerably uglier than his own. Homeric epic assumes familiarity with the entirety of the Troy legend, including plot elements which are barely mentioned in the poems we have. Apparently, it also expects its audience to be aware of other possible perspectives on the characters and events it presents. Thus it has been shown that some features of the Odyssey cannot be explained without reference to “the concealment, but not complete suppression, of the dark or Autolycan side of Odysseus.”42 Similarly, the strongly negative, strongly ad hominem associations of kÔwn, incongruously applied to the noble Helen of epic, can function as an allusion to an alternative version of her story. In this version it is Helen’s own depravity of character that is to blame for what happens at Troy: the war is fought “because of her” not merely in the sense that she is the prize for whom others venture their lives, but as a direct result of her own behavior. Taking a clue from the behaviors elsewhere associated with the dog metaphor, we can guess that the charge against her specifically concerns some form of avarice or self-indulgence at the expense of others. In sailing with Paris, Helen perhaps becomes a thief making off with the “many possessions” of Menelaos, so that the Homeric habit of treating her as herself a possession, rather than a moral agent, must be considered a conscious choice of the less damning alternative. Or, as seems more likely, the charge may be sexual in nature, without lessening the implication of the seizing of privilege. We have seen how the sexual misconduct of Odysseus’ serving women is compared to the doggish greed of the Cyclops, and how Aphrodite’s father must answer financially for her “dog-faced” adultery. Similarly, Helen may become a “dog” in token of sexual misconduct that is construed not as impure, dishonest, unpatriotic, and so forth, but as a form of avarice, a taking of more than her share. By the codes of equivalence which operate in epic diction, the sexual license of Helen and Paris is equated with the elemental greed of the carrion animal, and is expiated in a different currency, by the loss of human life. Such is the portrait that comes fleetingly to mind when Helen is called kÔwn or kunÀpij, even though the Iliad 41. Kirk 1990.205; cf. Kirk 1985, “perhaps it [“dog-face”] was not quite so bad, for the Greeks, when applied to a woman as when applied to a man” (290). 42. Clay 188.

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otherwise makes every effort to excuse her union with Paris, presenting her as a rape victim (2.356) or as the pawn of Aphrodite (3.390–420). Could such a depraved and culpable Helen have figured in narratives known to early performers of epic, even in poetic narratives? We have some reason to think that it did. Direct attestation of Helen’s infamy is hardly to be found, of course, before the fifth century and the chorus of Aeschylus: ʸ; parˆnouj ÃElèna, mÐa t€j pollˆj, t€j pˆnu poll€j yux€j ælèsas' Ípä TroÐaø, nÜn dà teleÐan polÔmnaston âphnqÐsw dÊ aÙm' Šnipton; ª tij ªn tìt' ân dìmoij ^Erij ârÐdmatoj ‚ndräj oÊzÔj.

Oh, Helen, distracted in mind! You alone destroyed the many, the very many lives at Troy. Now you have garlanded yourself with a final garland, long to be remembered, through blood uncleansable. Truly, then was in the house a Strife strong-subduing, a husband’s sorrow. (Ag. 1455–61)43 But we need not assume, with Homeyer,44 that the negative portrayal we know from Greek tragedy necessarily postdates the blameless Helen of Homeric epic. One thinks immediately of Stesichorus, who according to Plato’s somewhat playful report attacked Helen so vigorously that he was punished with blindness.45 The meager fragments of his Helen and Sack of Troy scarcely bear this story out, though one fragment does make Helen “thrice-wed” and a “husband-leaver” because of a curse from Aphrodite (P 223; cf. P 191). But Alcaeus clearly defames Helen as “out of her wits” and “violating guest-friendship” in “leaving her child and her husband’s well-made bed” (LP 283). Significantly, Alcaeus in another fragment attributes the blame of Helen to “tradition” (±j lìgoj, LP 42). The truth about the famous Palinode of Stesichorus (more likely two Palinodes, as in P 193) may well be that there was an ancient tradition of defamation in lyric, against which the sixth-century poet chose to define himself. Sappho, too, appears to react against a tradition far more critical of Helen than are the Homeric poems; her tone is defiant as she endorses Helen’s preference for “the one she loves” over home and family (LP 16).46 43. For the text and translation see Denniston and Page 204–205; E. Fraenkel 690–93. 44. Homeyer 5–6. 45. Phaedrus 243a. Note that Plato’s report does not (quite) make slanders against Helen the cause of Homer’s blindness; Homer is contrasted with Stesichorus in that he “did not know the reason” (and hence remained blind). It could perhaps be argued that in stressing Homer’s ignorance on this point, Plato acknowledges the ambivalence of Helen’s portrayal in epic. 46. See Collins 56–57. Collins argues that Sappho refers to “an ethics like that of the Iliad” but not necessarily to the Iliad itself (56).

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There was a hexameter tradition against Helen from earliest times. Hesiod says that Aphrodite “cast her into ill repute” along with the other daughters of Leda, and that she “defiled Menelaos’ bed” (MW 176). In the cyclic epic Cypria, it is Momos (“Censure”) who suggests that Zeus should beget Helen, and Nemesis (“Indignation”) is her most unwilling mother (fr. 1,7 Allen). We cannot say whether Helen was directly blamed in the Cypria itself: the genealogical use of these synonyms for blaming-discourse perhaps suggests (as does Hesiod’s f mh) that the defamatory tradition is actually anterior to the narrative at hand. But it seems likely that the real precedent for the tragedians’ sustained attack on Helen, and for the lyric fragments as well, was to be found in the ancient tradition of kitharodic narrative. What we know of this poetry, mainly from papyrus fragments attributed to Stesichorus, suggests that it related mythological stories, including the Troy legends, at considerable length and in lyric meters.47 Its manner of narration was dramatic and strongly partisan: Burkert describes it as “emotional, even larmoyant,” in comparison with the more austere tone of epic.48 These lengthy “Stesichorean” narratives must have competed with epic performances from an early period, and it is not unreasonable to look for traces of this competition within Homeric epic, even though our fragmentary textual evidence makes the former appear less ancient. 49 Certainly the preexistence or at least coexistence of some strongly emotional type of mythological narrative is suggested by the Odyssey’s comment on Klytemnestra: stuger˜ dè t' ‚oid˜ êsset' âp' ‚nqr¸pouj, xalep˜n dè te f¨min æpˆssei qhlutèrhùsi gunaicÐ, kaÈ ¡ k' eÎergäj êhùsin.

She [Klytemnestra] will be a hateful song among people, and will attach a harsh reputation to all women, even to her whose works are good. (Od. 24.200–202)50 As often, what is future for the epic speaker is past or present from the perspective of performer and audience. Like Achilles predicting that his klèoj will never diminish (Il. 9.413), Agamemnon here “sees into the future” to describe the standing of a character in poetry at the moment of performance.51 Unlike Achilles, however, Agamemnon does not appear to be referring to a state of affairs that obtains within 47. On Stesichorus and kitharodic narrative see Segal 145–51, Gentili 122–25, Nagy 418–22; also Burkert 50–53, with the reservation that the kitharodic narrative need not have originated with Stesichorus, as Burkert assumes. 48. Burkert 52. 49. Nagy 1990.23, 419–22. 50. On this passage see Nagy 1979.36–38, 255. 51. Similarly Alkinoos in the Odyssey is able to describe epics which are yet to be composed (Od. 8.579–81), and Telemachus looks forward to a major role in poetry for Orestes (Od. 3.204– 205). A common feature in such passages is the dative plural âssomènoisin in combination with ‚oid  / ‚oÐdimoi, as in Helen’s words at Il. 6.357. See also Ford 127–29.

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epic itself, for Klytemnestra does not belong to the subject matter of the Odyssey, though she is mentioned there, and the Homeric poems in general do not pass on a “harsh report” about women, but offer numerous examples of women “whose works are good.” Rather, the “hateful song” that is Klytemnestra’s future must be a different poetic treatment, one that is known to the epic singer but not claimed by him. Similarly Helen, in her speech in Iliad 6, is grieved by the prophetic awareness that she and Paris are to become the butt of unfriendly songs. âpeÐ se mˆlista pìnoj frènaj ‚mfibèbhken eÑnek' âmeØo kunäj kaÈ ÇAlecˆndrou ének' Šthj, oÙsin âpÈ ZeÌj q¨ke kakän mìron, ±j kaÈ æpÐssw ‚nqr¸poisi pel¸meq' ‚oÐdimoi âssomènoisi.

For trouble has come upon your heart, more than any other, because of me, a dog, and because of the blind folly of Alexandros, upon whom Zeus laid an evil fate, that even hereafter we should be subjects of song for persons of the future. (Il. 6.355–58) From the standpoint of performance, Helen’s words direct us to a poetic tradition which treated her and Paris quite harshly, as morally degenerate, or as responsible for the deaths of Hector and other heroes. Only in such a tradition could it be considered an “evil fate” to be made the subject of song. In view of the two passages just quoted, it is particularly interesting that Klytemnestra, like Helen, is described as kunÀpij. Agamemnon’s shade applies this adjective to her in telling how she turned away from his dying body and withheld from him even the final offices for the dead (Od. 11.424). By this superlatively selfwilled action, emblematic of that whole course of action which robs the king of his power, his sexual prerogative, and finally his life, Klytemnestra is said to have cast shame on all her sex for the future, so that “there is nothing more doglike (kÔnteron) than woman” (11.427). Now, the narrative tradition of epic refuses to participate in the defamation of Klytemnestra just as it refuses to participate in defaming Helen. It does so, however, by presenting the Klytemnestra legend as one which it does not itself narrate. Her story is always the other story, the excluded material which serves as negative space defining the positive virtue of Penelope. This means of dealing with the defamatory narrative is considerably more straightforward than that employed in the case of Helen. For in Helen, the epic tradition welcomes the figure of scandal into its own subject matter, but welcomes her on the epic poet’s own terms. Both Iliad and Odyssey present a narrative about her—not the narrative of her infamy, but a different narrative—and both do so in a way that studiously avoids direct censure. Helen, then, is rather carefully segregated from her sister: the fleeting description as “dog (-face)” is almost the only link between these two whose names are so naturally joined by Stesichorus and others (Stesich. fr. 223 P, Hes. fr. 167 MW). But kunÀpij is at least in keeping with what we are explicitly told in the Odyssey about Klytemnestra, while the same metaphor applied to Helen

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seems strange, out of place, as if seeking to draw attention to itself. The poem’s hearers are reminded (if they need reminding) that the gentle treatment given to Helen, and the skewing of the parallel with Klytemnestra, are a matter of preference for epic performance. I have suggested that the incongruity of Helen’s self-description can function as a reference to harshly negative treatments of her in other poems or poetic traditions. As such it signals to the audience that what will be given here is a revisionist history of Helen, if not of women in general. The reflexive use of the metaphor is another such signal. Leslie Collins has given one reason for such stringent limitation on the circuit of Helen’s blame in the Iliad:52 The fact that the blame of Helen is expressed primarily by Helen herself— for Helen is made to testify to a public hostility which Homer otherwise does not directly depict—further advances the ideological interests of the poem. In a word, only Helen can blame Helen without exposing the paradox that the poem wishes to remain hidden: that the very act which necessitates a war over her also condemns her from the poem’s point of view, and renders her an unworthy object of struggle. To this we may add that the self-blame of Helen, including preeminently her selfapplied label “dog (-face),” may help to establish the ethos of epic performance in relation to the act of blame. Helen’s dog metaphor might simply be a quotation from the verbal abuse hurled at her in some strongly negative poetic treatment, or it might be a summary reference to the sort of treatment generally given her in such poetry. But it may also be related to the characterization of blame poetry itself, in parallel to the regular application of “dog” to slanderers in the Odyssey. Gregory Nagy has pointed out instances in which the praise poetry of Pindar and Bacchylides depicts speakers of blame biting or feeding as if upon the corpses of heroes; he argues that this feature is comparable to the description of the slanderer as mˆrgoj, “gluttonous,” within epic, at Odyssey 18.2.53 That is, within the context of a poetic performance which disowns blame as a mode of discourse, a blaming performance can be represented as a form of material greed, for which doggishness is an appropriate metaphor. Archilochean iambos may even have accepted kÔwn as a description of its own ethos, if we can accept the evidence of Horace’s imitation in his Epodes (Ep. 6.5–6, 12.3–6).54 But any form of blame is highly suspect in epic, whether it be direct insult of one’s contemporaries such as we associate with Archilochus, or simply storytelling with a negative emphasis. Either of these, when spoken by a character in epic, can be treated as a blaming performance, subject to criticism by other characters.55 In the fourth book of the Iliad, for instance, 52. 53. “fattens 54. 55.

Collins 57. Nagy 1979.224–31; see also Suter 8–9. At Pi. P. 2.55–56 it is specifically Archilochus who himself on heavy-worded hatreds” (trans. Nagy). For dogs in Horatian invective see Oliensis 116–18. For character-speech as performance see Martin 47.

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Agamemnon tells an exploit of Tydeus in order to shame Diomedes (370–400) and is immediately contradicted by Sthenelos, whose retelling of the story is in turn criticized by Diomedes as an inappropriate way of speaking to one’s general (404–18).56 This hostility to blame as a mode of discourse may help to explain the reflexivity of Helen’s blame. It is a device answering to the especial need of performers to subjectivize the blame of this character who is so central to the Troy legend. By restricting the reminders of a defamatory tradition to the purview of a single character, herself the object of defamation, the poet-narrator is able to protect his own threatened objectivity. Helen emerges as a self-slanderer, one who merits the label “dog” through the language she uses, as well as through her unreported actions. That is not to say that the character of Helen within epic is necessarily debased by her self-criticism. Paradoxically, it is even ennobled, in that her term “dog (-face)” marks a rejection of past misdeeds—just as to call oneself “shameless” implies that one (now) feels a becoming sense of shame for one’s actions. My argument has been rather that the self-directed dog metaphor, like the rest of Helen’s self-blame, has a meaning not only for Helen but for the epic performer as well. By it, he indicates that the gentleness which he in his tradition prefers to display toward Helen is in fact a rhetorical position. Like Priam, he projects his own ethos through his handling of the casus belli: oÖ tÐ moi aÊtÐh âssÐ, qeoÐ nÔ moi aÒtioÐ eÊsin, “As far as I am concerned, you are not at all to blame. For me, then, it is the gods who are responsible” (Il. 3.164). Brown University BIBLIOGRAPHY Allen, T. W., and D. B. Munro, eds. 1917–1919. Homeri Opera. Vols. 3–4. Odyssea. Oxford. , eds. 1920. Homeri Opera. Vols. 1–2. Ilias. Oxford. Bakker, E. J. 1988. Linguistics and Formulas in Homer. Amsterdam. Bakker, E. J., and F. Fabbricotti. 1991. “Peripheral and Nuclear Semantics in Homeric Diction: The Case of Dative Expressions for ‘Spear.’ ” Mnemosyne 44: 63–84. Burnett, A. P. 1994. “Hekabe the Dog.” Arethusa 27: 151–64. Burkert, W. 1987. “The Making of Homer in the Sixth Century ..: Rhapsodes versus Stesichorus.” In Papers on the Amasis Painter and His World, J. Paul Getty Museum, 43–62. Malibu, Calif. Chantraine, P. 1958. Grammaire Home´rique. Vol. 1. Paris. Clader, L. L. 1976. Helen: The Evolution from Divine to Heroic. Mnemosyne Supplement vol. 42. Leiden.

56. See Vodoklys 27–32 for further examples.

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Clay, J. S. 1983. The Wrath of Athena. Princeton. Collins, L. 1988. Studies in Characterization in the Iliad. Frankfurt. Denniston, J. D., and D. L. Page, eds. 1957. Aeschylus Agamemnon. Oxford. Detienne, M. 1973. Les maˆıtres de ve´rite´ dans la Gre`ce archa¨ıque. Paris. Detienne, M., and J. Svenbro. 1979. “Les loups au festin ou la cite´ impossible.” In M. Detienne and J.-P. Vernant, La cuisine du sacrifice en pays grec: 215–37. Paris. Erbse, H., ed. 1969. Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem. Berlin. Faust, M. 1969. “Metaphorische Schimpfwo¨rter.” IF 74: 54–125. . 1970. “Die ku¨nstlerische Verwendung von kuoˆn ‘Hund’ in den homerischen Epen.” Glotta 48: 8–31. Ford, A. 1992. Homer: The Poetry of the Past. Ithaca. Fraenkel, E., ed. 1950. Aeschylus Agamemnon. Vol. 3. Oxford. Fra¨nkel, H. 1977. Die homerischen Gleichnisse. 1921. Reprint, Go¨ttingen. Gentili, B. 1988. Poetry and Its Public in Ancient Greece. Baltimore. Gray, D. H. F. 1954. “Metal-Working in Homer.” JHS 74:1–15. Homeyer, H. 1977. Die Spartanische Helena und der Trojanische Krieg. Wiesbaden. Kirk, G. S., ed. 1985. Iliad: A Commentary. Cambridge. , ed. 1990. Iliad: A Commentary. Cambridge. Lattimore, Richmond, trans. 1951. Iliad of Homer. Chicago. , trans. 1965. Odyssey of Homer. New York. Lefkowitz, M. R. 1986. Women in Greek Myth. London. Leumann, M. 1950. Homerische Wo¨rter. Basel. Liddell, H. G., R. Scott, and H. Stuart Jones, eds. 1940. Greek-English Lexicon. 9th ed. Oxford. Lilja, S. 1976. Dogs in Ancient Greek Poetry. Helsinki. Lobel, E., and D. L. Page, eds. 1955. Poetarum Lesbiorum Fragmenta. Oxford. Lowry, E. R. 1991. Thersites: A Study in Comic Shame. New York. Martin, R. 1989. The Language of Heroes. Ithaca. Merkelbach, R., and M. L. West, eds. Fragmenta Hesiodea. Oxford: 1967. Morris, I. 1986. “The Use and Abuse of Homer.” ClAnt 5: 81–138. Moulton, C. 1979. “Homeric Metaphor.” CP 74: 279–93. Nagy, G. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans. Baltimore. . 1990. Pindar’s Homer. Baltimore. Nussbaum, M. 1986. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge. Oliensis, Ellen. 1991. “Canidia, Canicula, and the Decorum of Horace’s Epodes.” Arethusa 24:107–38. Padel, R. 1992. In and Out of Mind: Images of the Greek Tragic Self. Princeton. Page, D. L., ed. 1962. Poetae Melici Graeci. Oxford. , ed. 1974. Supplementum Lyricis Graecis. Oxford. Pagliaro, A. 1971. “Il Proemio dell’ Iliade.” In Nuovi saggi di critica semantica: 3–46. Rev. ed. Messina. Parks, W. 1990. Verbal Dueling in Heroic Narrative. Princeton.

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Parry, M. 1971a. “Traditional Epithet in Homer.” 1928. In Adam Parry, ed., The Making of Homeric Verse: 1–190. Oxford. . 1971b. “Traditional Metaphor in Homer.” 1933. In Adam Parry, ed., The Making of Homeric Verse: 365–75. Oxford. Perry, B. E., ed. 1952. Aesopica. Urbana, Ill. Redfield, J. M. 1975. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hector. Chicago. Richter, W. 1967. “Hund.” In Kleine Pauly, vol. 2: 1245–49. Stuttgart. Russo, J., M. Ferna´ndez-Gallo, and A. Heubeck. 1992. A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey. Vol. 3. Oxford. Segal, C. 1985. “Archaic Choral Lyric.” In P. E. Easterling and B. M. W. Knox, eds., The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, vol. 1: 165–201. Cambridge. Stanford, W. B. 1972. Greek Metaphor: Studies in Theory and Practice. 1936. Reprint, New York. Suter, Ann. 1993. “Paris and Dionysos: Iambos in the Iliad.” Arethusa 26:1–18. Suzuki, Mihoko. 1989. Metamorphoses of Helen: Authority, Difference, and the Epic. Ithaca. Visser, E. 1988. “Formulae or Single Words? Towards a New Theory on Homeric VerseMaking.” WJA n.s. 14: 21–37. Vodoklys, E. J. 1992. Blame-Expression in the Epic Tradition. New York. West, M. L., ed. 1978. Hesiod: Works and Days. Oxford.

MARK GRIFFITH

Brilliant Dynasts: Power and Politics in the Oresteia

I

    that the peak period of Greek tragedy coincides precisely with the most glorious and successful years of Athenian democracy. Virtually all the surviving plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides were written and produced in Athens, and all date from the years between the defeat of the second Persian expedition in 479  and the catastrophic end of the Peloponnesian War in 404. Nor does this coincidence seem to be merely accidental: tragoˆidia is transparently more “democratic” as an art form, in its audience and occasion, its structures and conventions, even to some degree its language and meters, than both the epic and the various other kinds of choral and individual lyric, or iambic, that we know of. That is to say, Attic tragedy is an art form that, within and beneath its mythological and grandiose trappings, its bizarre stories of gods and Bronze Age royal families, is designed to appeal to a mass citizen audience, and to explore some of their fundamental concerns.1 In recent years, attention has focused on the ways in which the festival of the City Dionysia, and in particular its dramatic performances, were used to display This article began as a lecture given at the University of Missouri in March 1994. A truncated version was read in December 1994 at the APA meeting in Atlanta. I am grateful to members of both audiences for comments and encouragement. I should also like to thank the members of my Aeschylus seminar at Berkeley (Spring 1993), and a number of friends and colleagues, for their constructive criticisms: especially Erik Gunderson, Leslie Kurke, Donald Mastronarde, Victoria Wohl, and two unusually attentive and helpful anonymous referees. None of these should be held responsible for any mistakes, silly ideas, clumsy expressions, or long-windedness that may remain, though I have tried hard to heed their advice on all these scores. 1. An infinitude of modern studies could be cited in support of these “truisms”: a few representative specimens must suffice. On audience and occasion: Longo 1990, Goldhill 1990, Winkler 1990.37–58, Meier 1988.54–74, Nagy 1990.382–91. On structure, language, meter: Else 1964, Jens 1971 passim, Rosenmeyer 1982.29–44, 77–108, Herington 1985.103–50, Rose 1992.186–93. On civic concerns: Vernant 1988, Goldhill 1986.57–78, 1990, Meier 1988, Connor 1989, Zeitlin 1986, 1990, Rose 1992.197–235, 246–65, Rosenbloom 1993.184–96, 1995.

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the cultural riches of the city, both to the Athenians themselves and to hundreds of distinguished visitors from the rest of Greece;2 and critics have emphasized the function of these performances as opportunities to examine and (re)define Athenian “civic ideology”—what it means to be a Greek, a male, a citizen, an Athenian.3 In other cities, the most exciting and rich poetical occasions seem to have been the choral productions commissioned privately by individual tyrants or leading families, for the cult celebrations, athletic victories, or other special occasions for which they were responsible; high cultural status continued to be accorded also to the epic recitations of heroic myth and theogonies, and to sympotic elegy or lyric.4 But in Athens, while many of those same kinds of athletic and musical performances persisted, it was the annual dramatic festivals that commanded pride of place; and these involved, and spoke to, a much larger cross section of the whole population.5 Of the three tragic poets whose work survives, it is Aeschylus who seems to address himself the most directly and eloquently to the issues of democracy, to the rule of law and the courts, and to the enduring achievements of his city. While “political” readings of Sophocles and Euripides come in many different stripes, Aeschylus, writing in the glorious days after Marathon and Salamis, and before the horrors of the Peloponnesian War, impresses almost every modern reader as the proudest advocate of Athens and its new democracy. 6 In the Persians, he presents Athens, with its navy, spearsmen, olive trees and silver currency, as the brave and resourceful defender of Greece against the gold-rich barbarian hordes of archers and cavalry; in the Suppliant Maidens, Pelasgos and his quasidemocratic city of Argos resemble a kind of proto-Athens as they undertake the protection of the defenseless maidens against exotic, despotic invaders; while the Seven against Thebes, by contrast, can be seen as portraying the archetypically

2. Goldhill 1990 (based largely on Pickard-Cambridge 1988.57–101), Winkler 1990; cf. too Connor 1987, 1989. 3. Goldhill 1986.57–78, 1990.114–27, Meier 1988.19–53, Hall 1989.160–200, Zeitlin 1986 and 1990, Winkler 1990, Ober and Strauss 1990, Rose 1992.197–221. That “civic ideology” was not, and could never be, a single monolithic construct, and that the ideology implicit in tragedy was by no means univocally “democratic,” are two of the main theses of the present article. See Section V below, esp. n. 143. 4. On non-Athenian poetry in the sixth and fifth centuries, see Herington 1985, Bowie 1986, Nagy 1990. 5. As many as 15,000 to 20,000 people may have attended the dramatic performances. Over 1,200 Athenian males must have participated each year in the performances at the City Dionysia, with ten men’s and ten boys’ choruses of 50 each for dithyramb, three sets of 12–15 chorus-members for tragedy, and five sets of 24 for comedy, plus three or four main actors for each playwright, as well as scores of (usually silent) extras. (Some were not Athenian citizens, like the dramatists Ion of Chios and Pratinas of Phleious.) 6. All this despite Aristophanes’ comments in the Frogs on his elevated and difficult style, and the biographical tradition of his unhappy departure from Athens on at least one occasion (Life of Aesch. [= Radt TrGF vol. 3 T 1] 8–11, Suda ai 357 [= TrGF T 2] 7–9; cf. TrGF T 57).

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un-Athenian (or pre-democratic) city, a city where the ruling family has run amok for generations.7 As for the Oresteia, does it not depict the near-miraculous resolution, through the institution of the Court of the Areopagus, of a familial and religious impasse too difficult, too bloody, and too entrenched, for any other city to manage? By the end of the third play, as the Furies agree to join the torchlit procession out of the orchestra, how can we refrain from feeling the glow of patriotic, and specifically democratic, pride at the transformation that has been brought about? Whether we read the trial and its verdict as an idealized triumph of legal process over vendetta and blood-feud, as the instantiation of a new kind of divine justice on earth, or as the crude reassertion of male domination in the home, in the city, and on Mount Olympus—and each of these interpretations has good claims to being valid and “correct” for this trilogy—by any account, the ending of the Eumenides represents a ringing endorsement of Athens and its political system. Such, I take it, is the prevailing view of Aeschylus’ masterpiece. And I do not wish to contradict it, at least not directly. But the purpose of this article is to present, alongside this view, or intertwined within it, another perspective on the political processes that are represented in the Oresteia as working towards a solution to the woes of the House of Atreus, and as cementing, or lubricating, the joints of civic unity and integrity among the newly-fledged citizens of Athens. This perspective will highlight primarily two sets of relationships: (i) the vertical relationships between rulers and ruled, in both Argos and Athens; and (ii) the horizontal relationships between the elite ruling families of the different communities that are represented as interacting in the course of the Oresteia. By focusing closely on these relationships, we shall come to recognize the processes whereby, even as “democratic” and “civic” pride are being reinforced, the unique and irreplaceable value of an international network of elite families is simultaneously reaffirmed. So far from being regarded as an obsolete or reactionary element under the new democracy, the old elite8 emerge as being essential to the prosperity and very survival of even the more “democratic” communities. The aim of this article is thus, first, to improve our understanding of the Oresteia in both historical and literary terms (if the two need to be distinguished), 7. On Persians: see e.g. Gagarin 1976.29–40, Hall 1989.69–100; on Suppliants, Grossmann 1970.148, Podlecki 1986.82–87, Hall 1989.192–93; on Seven, Winnington-Ingram 1983.51–54, Zeitlin 1986; and in general, Rosenbloom 1995. 8. By “elite,” here and in what follows, I mean “those distinguished by birth and/or wealth and/or upbringing (paideia).” I shall use the term interchangeably with “aristocratic” and “upper class,” following the definition and usage of (e.g.) Davies 1984, Ober 1989. By “old,” I do not mean that membership of the elite was confined to a prescribed set of “noble” (Eupatrid) families, for it obviously was not: wealth counted for at least as much as birth in establishing a family’s prestige (though usually both were required), and “new” wealth and prestige could occasionally be acquired and consolidated on a large scale within one man’s lifetime, just as (more easily) they could be lost, temporarily or permanently. By “old elite,” then, I mean, “individuals and groups qualified by the same criteria of birth, wealth, and prestige as were required for political activity in the sixth century, and in other non-democratic Greek states” (i.e., “of the old style”). See further Ober 1989.11–17, 248–92, Finley 1983.1–23.

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and at the same time, to propose a way of looking at Athenian tragedy in general as an exercise, on the part of rulers and ruled, in mutual mystification and reassurance about the exercise of “democratic” power. For this trilogy provides perhaps our most extensive and subtle representation of competing class interests in the early Athenian democracy,9 the analysis of which will yield, I hope, both a better understanding of the social dynamics of Aeschylus’ Athens, and a deeper appreciation of the intricacy and coherence of his drama. Before proceeding with discussion of the Oresteia itself, I need to begin by sketching certain elements of the socio-historical context within which the trilogy was composed and performed, elements that are in themselves quite well known, but have not been brought to bear in combination on this trilogy. I: DEMOCRACY

Isonomia, or deˆmokratia, was still relatively new, and the political system initiated by Kleisthenes still in the process of gradual (or fitful) development, when Aeschylus began to compose tragedies.10 And, although precious little reliable evidence survives from this period,11 it appears that, both at the local level of the deme, and on the larger scale, that of the polis, public affairs continued to be dominated by the members of the old elite. Even as larger measures of genuine power were 9. In referring throughout this article to “upper/lower classes,” or “elite” and “mass,” or “aristocratic” vs. “democratic ideology,” I do not mean to commit myself to a particular model of clear-cut “classes” in Athens, for in many respects it is more productive to think in terms of a broad spectrum of statuses and interests, rather than a crude opposition of haves and have-nots. Among the elite themselves, there were clearly sharp differences of attitude towards the democracy, and disagreements as to who belonged in the elite. Nonetheless, Classical political theorists, in addition to making the fundamental (but rarely clear-cut) distinction between free and unfree, regularly speak of two broad classes (rich/poor, best/worst, noble/base), and it seems pedantic to disagree with them (though in some contexts it was, and is, appropriate to subdivide the non-elite population into those of moderate means and the destitute; Davies 1984). On these matters, see further Finley 1983.1–23, De Ste Croix 1981.31–98, Ober 1989.11–17, 192–96, 248–59, Rose 1992.21–42; and see Section III below. 10. Aeschylus was born (ca. 525 ) and lived his early years under the rule (tyrannis) of the Peisistratid family; and he was already a teenager when the tyrant family was expelled and the leaders of the Alkmeonid clan instituted the extraordinary new “democratic” system of voting, tribal reorganization, assemblies, law-courts, ostracism, etc. Aeschylus’ surviving plays span the years 472 (Persians) to 458 (Oresteia); he died in Sicily in 456/5. The first attested occurrence of the term deˆmokratia could be said to be A. Supp. 604 d mou kratoÜsa xeÐr, though some have regarded this juxtaposition of words as mere coincidence (see Friis Johansen & Whittle 1980 on Supp. 601, 604); cf. too Supp. 699, 942–43. It is unclear whether dhmokratÐa or ÊsonomÐa (“equality before/through the law”) was the preferred term in Athens during the earlier fifth century; see Thomas 1989.257–61, Hansen 1991.69–71, 82–84, for recent discussion and references. 11. For the internal affairs of Athens up to 450 , apart from the contemporary evidence of Aeschylus’ plays, and a few inscriptions, we rely largely on Herodotos (composed ca. 440–425), Thucydides (ca. 430–400), Aristotle (ca. 350), and Plutarch (ca. 100 ). Even this of course amounts to far more than we know about the internal workings of any other Greek community of this period—a sobering thought. For detailed discussion of the events of 462/1  (“Ephialtes’ reforms”) and their reflections in the Oresteia, see Livingstone 1925, Dover 1957, Dodds 1960, Podlecki 1966.80–100, Macleod 1982, Jones 1987.69–74.

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progressively being assigned to the (predominantly poor) majority, 12 nonetheless the city’s leaders, spokesmen, and elected officials continued to be drawn almost exclusively from among the rich and well-born, and the rewards and perils of political leadership were experienced by relatively few.13 A contradiction was developing between the new democratic ideology on the one hand, emphasizing equality of all citizens, checks and balances on the exercise of power, and responsibility and loyalty to the polis before all else, and, on the other, the old aristocratic ideology of family, entitlement, and competitive display of personal worth and achievement.14 For the 20,000 to 30,000 middling or poor male citizens of Aeschylus’ Athens, their “freedom of speech” and equality before the law to even the richest and most illustrious of the elite undoubtedly were sources of intense pride and collective fervor. Nonetheless each and every one of them still looked to this elite for commands, direction, protection, and examples of deportment and style, in virtually all important dealings with the world beyond his own domestic affairs. As a hoplite or light-armed soldier in the army, he would usually be part of a deme-contingent within his tribal unit, drafted and led by an upper-class officer (often a prominent member of his deme, who would already know him personally); and he would look to upper-class taxiarchoi, strateˆgoi, and polemarchos (“captains,” “generals,” and “commander-in-chief”) for orders.15 Or, as a sailor in the navy, he would row on a ship that had been commissioned, named, and built by a prosperous trierarchos, whose responsibilities might include conscripting him and his fellows for a particular campaign, and (as nauarchos) distributing State wages to them, commanding the ship on the seas and in battle, and sharing with them any windfall prizes of booty that he could pick up in the process.16 And despite the glorious

12. On the one hand, through restrictions on the access to, and use of, power by the elite (lottery, euthunai); on the other, through providing increased access to power for the masses (voting in elections and assemblies, pay for service, lotteries, broader access to the Council of 500, and above all the jury-courts); see Sinclair 1988, Ober 1989, Hansen 1991 for details. 13. Calhoun 1913.126–36, Connor 1971, Davies 1984, Finley 1981.70–96, Ober 1989. Hansen 1991.306 sums things up well, “Political activity can be divided into passive participation—that is, listening and voting—and active participation, which means proposing things and taking part in political argument: what the Athenians expected of the ordinary citizen was the former . . . whereas active participation was left to those who might feel called to it.” As for the perils: “Athenian leaders were called to account more than any other such group in history: to be a rhetor or general [sc. in the fourth century] was to choose a perilous career that could easily lead to condemnation and execution.” (310). In the early fifth century, the lines between passive and active participation were probably more sharply drawn than in the fourth, and the value of noble birth for election to office was still preeminent. 14. Donlan 1980, Sinclair 1988.34–43, Ober 1989, Morris 1992.118–55, Brock 1991. 15. Whitehead 1986.224–26; cf. Lazenby 1991.87, who draws a contrast with the increased professionalism of the 4th C. career soldiers and generals. (In Sparta, hoplites belonged to small, close-knit groups of “sworn comrades” [ânwmosÐai].) In the Oresteia, several 5th C. military terms and relationships are employed, mainly with reference to Agamemnon’s leadership of the Argive army (see n. 66 below). 16. Whitehead 1986.133–34, Pritchett 1971.85–92; cf. Cho. 723 with Garvie’s note, and n. 66 below.

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achievements of the infantry and the navy at Marathon and Salamis, in the public parades and monuments it was still the swanky cavalry (hippeis) who claimed pride of place.17 In the Assembly, though the herald would invite “any who wish” to speak (tÐj ‚goreÔein boÔletai?), debate would be initiated by the elected officials, and was normally dominated by the educated and influential. Lower class opinion might be expressed by intermittent murmurs or shouts of approval or disapproval, and eventually by a show of hands.18 In the law courts too, unless someone was personally presenting a case (probably a rare occurrence for the poor), participation would be confined to listening and voting, while the archon (another member of the elite) introduced and presided over the wrangling litigants. Occasionally, jurors and/or audience might be roused to tears or “uproar” (qìruboj)—but never to speech.19 Foreign states and rulers, or individual visiting foreigners, who wished to conduct business with the city of Athens, would normally depend on their designated Athenian “representative” (proxenos), or on the strateˆgoi, to bring their issue to the Council or the Courts. Similarly, outside Attika, Athenian foreign affairs would be handled by the strateˆgoi or by private citizens who enjoyed personal connections abroad (a topic to which we shall return). Local and state festivals would usually be conducted either by members of a specific priestly clan, or by prominent local demesmen: it is they who would lead the procession, utter the prayers, carve and distribute the meat, and thus represent the community in its negotiations with divinity20 —and, on the grandest occasions, as at the Panathenaia or City Dionysia, it would be the archons themselves, together with the wealthy choreˆgoi and poets in their crowns and sumptuous robes, who would preside, proudly representing Athens to the visitors from all over Greece (and, if victorious in the Dionysia, receiving

17. Bugh 1988.3–78, including full discussion of Athenian hippotrophia in general. It is instructive too to browse through the Aesopic Fables, and observe how dignified a role the horse is usually given, in comparison with the dog, wolf, bird, ox, or (especially) donkey; see Babrius & Phaedrus, ed. B. E. Perry (Loeb CL, Harvard 1965), Index s.v. “horse.” Thus Agamemnon’s entry in A. Ag. on a horsedrawn chariot, as well as being a continuation of epic-heroic tradition, and a conventional marker of “royalty, particularly of oriental royalty” (Taplin 1977.76–79, esp. 78), may also evoke associations of ostentatiously aristocratic behavior in Athens itself (cf. Aristoph. Clouds 69–70, etc.; also the Panathenaic and other civic parades, including victory parades? cf. E. Tro. 569ff.)—though these associations may be replaced, once we notice Kassandra, with those of the bride’s eisagoˆgeˆ in an upper-class wedding (Rehm 1994.14–21 with Figs 4–5). 18. Sinclair 1988.114–35, Hansen 1991.125–60; cf. A. Supp. 601–607, 623–24 (and n. 13 above). 19. Hansen 1991.196–203. On interruptions, heckling, applause, protests, etc., in the Assembly (spontaneous or orchestrated), see Calhoun 1913.121–23, Hansen 1991.146–47; on qìruboj in the lawcourts, Bers 1985, Kelly 1994.98–113. As we shall see, the role of “the people” (of Argos, of Troy, and of Athens) in the Oresteia falls squarely within these parameters of silent or semi-articulate complaint or approval. 20. Garland 1990.75–91, who argues that after 462 an increasing proportion of priestly and other religious functions in Athens came to be performed by non-elite and non-specialist citizens (through lottery, rotation of offices, etc.), but that under the early democracy, as during the sixth century, things were probably different. See too Whitehead 1986.180–85.

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a crown and subsequently dedicating their names on victory tripods placed along the road to the Theater).21 So over and over, the middling or small citizen, though “free” and master of his own oikos, would continue to look up to his “betters”22 for protection, supervision, representation, and direction, and especially for the verbal and symbolic articulation of his own identity and interests, in commemorative edicts, prayers and monuments, in the annual Funeral Oration,23 and of course in poetical, sophistic, and musical recitations, including the annual dramatic competitions.24 II: ARISTOCRATIC NETWORKING: XENIA AND HETAIREIA

Before we pass on to consideration of the Oresteia itself, there are two other spheres of political activity that need to be mentioned. Neither is directly addressed by Kleisthenic or Ephialtean reform, and neither is directly discussed by Plato, Aristotle, or other Classical theorists; but both are nonetheless crucial to the interaction of oligoi and deˆmos in Athens (and elsewhere) during the fifth century. They are the (separate, but related) institutions of xenia and hetaireia. These two features of Archaic and Classical Greek aristocratic society are widely accepted by modern historians as being of fundamental importance; but they have not usually been considered to have much bearing on this trilogy, or even on Greek tragedy in general.25 Xenia is usually translated as “guest-friendship” or “the guest-host relationship,” or “ritualized friendship.”26 In the Archaic period, the chief method of increasing wealth, prestige, and power among the elite families of the whole Mediterranean area, aside from outright conquest, is through reciprocal and alternating exchanges of favors (hospitality, gift exchange, supplication, marriage of daughters). This aristocratic system of long-range, intergenerational “networking” comes

21. Pickard-Cambridge 1988.57–125, esp. 57–63, 84–96. That tragic and dithyrambic poets always came from wealthy families is probable, though not certain. Reliable biographical information about the pedigrees and circumstances of poets is notoriously hard to find (Lefkowitz 1981), but it is certain that Aeschylus, Sophocles, Agathon (and Aristophanes) came from prosperous and/or noble families; and no certain case of a low-born and/or impecunious Athenian dramatist is attested. (Euripides’ alleged low birth is a fiction, Lefkowitz 1981.88–104.) Indeed, it is hard to imagine how any impecunious Athenian could ever acquire the education and leisure to master the verbal, musical, choreographical, and Thespian techniques necessary to win himself a Chorus and attract a likely choreˆgos; for there was no professional theater in which to train, as in Shakespeare’s and Webster’s England, or Plautus’ and Terence’s Rome. 22. The terminology applied to these “betters” could vary: Finley 1983.2–3, Ober 1989.12–17 with references. 23. Loraux 1986a, Burgess 1902.146–57. 24. I shall return to consideration of the social function(s) of these in the final section of this article. 25. See, however, Roth 1993, and two recent studies of xenia in Sophocles: Belfiore 1994, Smith 1993; also Seaford 1994.50–51, 392–93. 26. The last is the term preferred in the excellent recent study of Herman 1987, which builds on work done by Marcel Mauss, Louis Gernet, Moses Finley, and others. Fundamental too is Gould 1973.

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increasinglyinto collision during the fifth century with the locally-focused system of (synchronic, and ever-shifting) loyalties and obligations required by the democratic polis.27 One important form of xenia is the military alliance between families: doryxenoi (“spear-friends”) are personal allies who have “done one another favors in a military context,”28 i.e., usually by serving together on a campaign.29 Thus, when in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, King Agamemnon mentions that only Odysseus behaved like a “trusty harness-mate” (Ag. 842 átoØmoj seirafìroj), we may take it that the two are thereby established as doryxenoi.30 In aristocratic ideology,31 xenia, proxenia, doryxenia are marks of high standing in the international arena, guaranteeing support, protection, and prestige even through the generations, for a son can cash in the symbolic credit accumulated by a father or grandfather. Such networks of friendship and alliance may often outweigh loyalties felt towards, and benefits derived from, the particular local community (polis) to which one’s family belonged (especially if that community was governed, as Attika was, by a democracy that aimed to minimize opportunities for any one family to accumulate excessive credit and dominate perennially). Conversely, in democratic ideology, a family that enjoyed powerful and flashy xenia connections, though it might win for itself a role of unofficial ambassadors, representing Athens and its interests to the world outside, would tend thereby also to incur a dangerous presumption of opportunism and disloyalty, even outright treason (prodosia)—especially if it included among its xenoi members of an enemy state (and, in the volatile and militaristic jockeying of the sixth and fifth centuries, almost any polis or ethnos might suddenly become an “enemy” of Athens).32 27. For detailed analysis of these issues, see Herman 1987; and for a revealing study of their reflection in the poetics of epinikion, see Kurke 1991. On the “exchange of women,” see now Wohl 1994, Rabinowitz 1994. 28. oÉ kat€ pìlemon ‚ll louj filopoihsˆmenoi, Ar.Byz. fr. 302 (W. J. Slater, ed. Aristophanis Byzantii Fragmenta [Berlin, 1986]) s.v. dorÔcenoj (cited by Fraenkel on Ag. 880). 29. Or possibly through having met in combat and spared one another’s life (like Glaukos and Diomedes, Hektor and Aias in the Iliad); see Herman 1987.54–58, Seaford 1994. 50–51. 30. Unlike most of the other Greek chieftains at Troy, Odysseus had not sworn an oath to Tyndareus guaranteeing future support for Helen’s husband: so his loyalty is the more remarkable. Further instances of doryxenia in the Oresteia will be discussed in Section IV below. 31. I am aware that the term “ideology” is used in many different ways (Eagleton 1991). I shall be using it, here and elsewhere, quite broadly to mean “ideas and beliefs (whether true or false) which symbolize the conditions and life experiences of a specific, socially significant group or class” (Eagleton 1991.29 = his “second” definition, out of six, similar to Williams 1977.55, “a system of beliefs characteristic of a particular class or group”). See further Section V below, esp. n. 149 (on “hegemony”). 32. Heffelfinger 1991, Herman 1987. So, in the early years of the Peloponnesian War, Perikles, who had long been a xenos of the Spartan King Archidamos, announced that he would give up his own land-holdings, if Archidamos in his annual invasion of Attika should spare them in order to jeopardize Perikles’ standing with his own fellow-citizens (Thuc. 2.13.1). In the previous generation, nearer to Aeschylus’ time, we may note especially the exalted family of the Kimonidai, renowned for their

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The second feature of aristocratic networking that we need to bear in mind is synoˆmosia or hetaireia. These terms denote a semi-formal group of “sworn companions, conspirators” (synoˆmotai) or hetairoi (“male comrades, buddies”), and are sometimes translated “club” or “clique.”33 Membership is exclusive, male, and usually upper-class; the group meets in private houses, to feast and drink; it may give itself some peculiar, even silly, name; its purpose may be entirely social, or may be determinately political (usually anti-democratic). Often both purposes are present: like-minded drinking companions would also be mutual supporters in canvassing for office or awards, intimidating opponents in the agora or the law courts, bolstering the egos of the ambitious, confirming the musical and artistic good taste and shared values of the group, complaining about the inadequacies and inequities of the way things are in the polis at large. Occasionally the meetings and complaints spill over the confines of the symposium and the koˆmos, and develop to the point of outright conspiracy and revolution; sometimes, it seems, the initiatory oath was followed by some shared outrageous act which served to bind the “comrades” to loyalty and secrecy before they ventured further into more seriously revolutionary activity.34 Of course, being a hetairos (“comrade”) to others need not be a formal title (though being a synoˆmoteˆs does involve an element of formality); nor were all “comrades” members of the elite. But most were, and the popular associations of the terms were predominantly aristocratic. Membership in an upper-class hetaireia was based on the agreement and trust of the other members. Usual prerequisites were age-group, wealth, and/or birth, but the ideological catch-words are those emphasizing ethical integrity and unanimity: especially pistos and its derivatives (“trusty, loyal, reliable”) and the various activities and terms associated with eating, drinking, swearing oaths, and sacrificing (írkoj, írkwma, and esp. sunwmosÐa,

hospitality and foreign connections (see esp. Plutarch’s Life of Kimon, and Davies 1971.293–308). Kimon, son of Miltiades, named his sons Lakedaimonios, Eleos, and Thessalos in acknowledgement of his ties of doryxenia and proxenia with leading families in those three communities—a source of some recurrent suspicion of him from the deˆmos and its leaders. Kimon’s response was to appeal to the Athenians to foster an alliance between Athens and Sparta that would make them the “twin trace-horses of Greece” (cf. Ag. 842 and n. 30 above), thereby metaphorically extending the personal aristocratic relationship to include ties between whole cities, as Orestes does for Argos and Athens (see below, pp. 100–104). 33. Calhoun 1913, Murray 1982, 1990.6–7, Sinclair 1988.141–45. 34. Calhoun 1913.17–39, 97–111, with particular emphasis on the events of 413, 411, and 404  (Thucydides 8.48–94, Andokides 1, Xenophon Hell. 1.7), but also on those of 514–507 (Hdt. 5.70ff.). N.B. too Thucydides’ analysis of civil war in Kerkyra: “Reckless daring was held to be loyal (filètairoj) courage . . . the club bond (tä átairikìn) was stronger than blood relationship, because the comrade was more ready to dare without asking why” (3.82, tr. Jowett; quoted by Calhoun, p. 39). It could be argued that Athenian sympotic hetaireiai were less “political” in the early 5th C. than they later became (and than they had been earlier, and were in other communities): but there seems to be too little evidence to determine this one way or the other.

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etc.).35 Several features of xenia and hetaireia thus overlap,36 and both encourage an individual to value personal and family friendships and obligations more highly than the claims of the demos or the city as a whole; hence both tend to arouse the intense mistrust of democratically-minded onlookers. In the Archaic period, hetaireiai appear to have been central to the socio-political life of such communities as Alkaios’ Mytilene and Theognis’ Megara. 37 In Athens, it is possible that Harmodios and Aristogeiton, the famous tyrant-slayers of 514, belonged to such a group; but the evidence is confusing.38 In any case, the role of hetaireiai in bringing about Kleisthenes’ rise to ascendancy, and, a century later in 411, in overthrowing democracy, is explicitly attested by Herodotos and Thucydides; probably the grisly procedures of 404 were planned in similar fashion. So there is no good reason to doubt that they formed an integral component of political, as of social, life at the time of the Oresteia. To summarize: in addition to family-based claims and obligations defined in terms of their own kin, spouse, and property (oikos, genos, keˆ destai, kteˆmata, chreˆmata), some of the more prominent Athenians of the early fifth century could draw additional support, if needed, from reciprocal xenia-alliances with foreign families, and from reciprocal hetaireia-connections with like-minded age-mates (usually, but not necessarily, fellow-Athenians or metics). Both of these supportsystems were deeply entrenched in the aristocratic Greek life-style;39 both were sanctified, not by legal statute, but by traditional religious observance (oaths, feasting, sacrifice) and thus by Zeus xenios, horkios, etc.; and both made it possible for particular individuals and families to promote their interests on a far greater scale, both at home and abroad, than would be possible through the carefully

35. Murray 1990.6–7 “Greek commensality was essentially an all male activity. . . . The size of the sympotic group . . . [was] normally between fourteen and thirty persons. . . . The size of the group and of the space within which it operated had an important effect on the nature of the group loyalties and formation of hetaireiai. The symposion became in many respects a place apart from the normal rules of society, with its own strict code of honour in the pistis there created, and its own willingness to establish conventions fundamentally opposed to those within the polis as a whole”; see further Murray 1982, Schmitt-Pantel 1990, and below, pp. 94–98, for a discussion of A. Cho. 900–902, 977–79, etc. 36. Herman 1987.29–31, Murray 1990.5–6, Donlan 1985.224, 228. 37. Many of Alkaios’ poems seem to be addressed to age-mates and peers who share political and sympotic affiliations, and his references to oaths made and broken, political groupings and friendship, etc., certainly fit the pattern of hetaireia (e.g., fr. 115 V, 129 V). In Theognis’ case, the reiterated yearnings for a “faithful friend,” and complaints about “betrayal,” are similar (Heffelfinger 1990.15– 17), though there is the added dimension of the homoerotic (erasteˆs/eroˆmenos) relationship with Kyrnos, which involves a process of education of the younger man into the company of ‚gaqoÐ. See in general, Donlan 1985, Schmitt-Pantel 1990.20–25. 38. Thomas 1989.238–61. See too nn. 101, 112 below. 39. This is not say, of course, that lower-class Athenians could not and did not practise xenia or enjoy hetairoi at all: only that the most distinctive tokens of both systems were essentially or primarily aristocratic (acquisition and exchange of luxury goods; foreign travel; leisurely feasting and sympotic drinking; gymnastics and homoeroticism); and that as a mode of self-definition for the pair, family, or group, neither was as significant among the poorer citizens as e.g. being a fellow-soldier/sailor and messmate (sussiteØn), or fellow-worker, or relation by marriage.

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restricted channels of democratic activity. Consequently, even though neither could be explicitly challenged or abolished—who could object to such Hellenic ideals as hospitality, loyalty, comradeship, charis?—both were widely (and correctly) regarded by non-participants as elitist (i.e., undemocratic, and often as avowedly antidemocratic) in their effects on the social fabric of Athens as a whole.40 III: FOCUS AND VIEWPOINT IN THE ORESTEIA

The action of Aeschylean, as of Shakespearean, tragedy involves an extraordinarily broad range of participants. While the key events are carried out largely by and among aristocrats (kings, queens, divinities, champion warriors, and their relatives), a host of messengers, heralds, priests, prophets, nurses, tutors, herdsmen, attendants, and guards are constantly—visibly and audibly, though for the most part anonymously—present, to say nothing of the sundry choruses of elders, citizen wives or maidens, visitors, or slaves,41 who hover perpetually round the fringes of the action, and describe and comment on its significance, past, present, and future. In the absence of an external narrator, our point of view shifts incessantly and unpredictably back and forth with the different “focalizers” of the action.42 Sometimes we may accept one character’s utterance as a more or less transparent expression of an objective (fictional) fact or situation; at other times we may be aware of the need to filter out our own interpretation of the content from the distorting medium of one character’s perspective. The choral voice especially may be licensed (and may in turn license us) to shift registers and point of view with a freedom inappropriate to

40. Xenos, xenia, etc., in the sense of “guest-friend,” never seem to be be used pejoratively, so strong are the positive associations (cf. especially ceinÐzw). (xenos = “stranger, foreigner,” or in the semitechnical sense of a prostitute’s “client,” obviously involves different sets of associations.) In the case of hetaireia, it appears that, by the later fifth and fourth centuries, the participants themselves preferred to be called átaØroi (and to appropriate to themselves the positive aura surrounding such terms as eÎnomÐa, ™suxÐa, eÎfrosÔnh, pistìj, âpit deioj, fÐloj, and even ÊsonomÐa? Grossmann 1950.30–48), whereas disapprovers might call them sunwmìtai (or sÔstasij). But earlier, sunwmìthj was free of the sinister associations of “conspiracy”; see Calhoun 1913.4–7. Aristotle records an oligarchic oath, “I will be evilly disposed toward the deˆmos, and will contrive against it whatever ill I can” (Pol. 1310a 9). 41. It is remarkable how seldom a tragic Chorus comprises young male citizens (Sophocles’ Ajax and Philoctetes are in this respect exceptional; see pp. 119–22 with n. 176 below, and Winkler 1990.) 42. I do not have room here for a full-scale narratological analysis; but it would be productive (and not difficult) to adapt and apply to the Oresteia, e.g., the terminology and methodology of De Jong 1989 (derived from Mieke Bal and Ge´rard Genette), which are geared specifically to epic narrative, i.e. to a story presented by means of an external narrator. For our present purposes, it is enough that we distinguish between Aeschylus as “author” (but not “narrator”), and the various characters in his text who present the different parts of the story to us (i.e., “focalize” it) through their words (direct or reported), actions (visible or reported), and points of view (expressed or implied). For a good introduction to questions of “point of view” in literature (less technical than De Jong’s), see Booth 1961, especially pp. 1–9, 16–20, 149–65; and for “identification” and “subject position” in film audiences, Ellis 1982.40–50, Clover 1992.

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other characters;43 and such structural devices as kommos, amoibaion, agoˆn, and stichomythia all lend themselves readily to the simultaneous or alternating presentation of contrasting identities and points of view.44 Thus an audience in the theater experiences simultaneously (or in rapid alternation) at least three quite different perspectives on the action unfolding before it: (i) it empathizes with the ambitions or horrified anxieties of the leading character(s); (ii) it shares and enjoys the gods’ or prophet’s (and author’s) ability to look down on those leaders, from a distance, as misguided and error-prone objects of pity or scorn; (iii) along with the fearful choral group or minor character, it gazes up at these leaders from below in wonder, as stupendously superior pillars of strength, ambition, and determination. And from first to last, safe in his/her theater seat, every member of the audience knows that this “internal audience” of minor characters and chorus, will survive, to resume their lives after the drama of the leaders has played itself out,45 just as they themselves (the theater audience) will resume their everyday lives upon leaving the theater. To that extent at least, these minor characters and this chorus are felt to be more like the theater audience, and closer to them, than are their leaders, upon whom so much attention (from both internal and theater audiences) is so fiercely focused. Attic tragedy thus provides, despite its strictly formal structure and uniformly “high” diction,46 a remarkably fluid exploration of relations between higher and lower members of the social hierarchy, a fluidity that is facilitated by the indeterminacy of the imagined socio-political world of the drama—not quite then, not quite now, floating between a mythical Bronze Age monarchy and a contemporary democratic polis.47 Written, paid for, and performed by the elite48 before a mass

43. For Aeschylus’ choruses in particular, see Podlecki 1972, Rosenmeyer 1982.145–87, Schenker 1990. Comparable in some respects to the typical chorus, in their combination of physical frailty with psychological/epistemological power, are the tragic prophets and prophetesses (Kassandra, Teiresias, etc.). 44. Of these devices, only the agoˆn, with its opposition of formally paired speeches, is paralleled in Homeric narrative; and though Archaic lyric poetry of various kinds sometimes employs amoibaia between two or more “voices” (and may have done so more often in non-literary, i.e., cultic and/or popular, contexts, such as hymenaeal, threnody, invective), it must have been a factor of the contexts themselves that these voices will rarely have been either oppositional or drawn from sharply differentiated social classes. For a convenient account of these forms in tragedy, see Jens 1971, with further references; also Broadhead 1960, Appendix IV “Kommos, Threnos, Amoibaion,” pp. 310–17, Alexiou 1973, Nagy 1990.382–91, 344–52, 410–13. 45. There are exceptions, especially among choruses (e.g., Aeschylus’ Suppliants, Euripides’ Trojan Women, whose imminent fate as the play ends is far from reassuring); but the rule holds nonetheless. See further pp. 119–24 below. 46. In Attic tragedy, there are no thoroughly “low” (colloquial and/or prose) scenes or interludes, as in Marlowe and Shakespeare. In general, see Jens 1971; but also Seidensticker 1982 for a discussion of techniques of “comic relief” (= contrast, or coloring) in Greek tragedy. 47. Podlecki 1966, Easterling 1984, Vernant 1988. The political “indeterminacies” of the Oresteia itself will be discussed later in this section. 48. Perhaps “performed” is too strong a claim: “staged” might be safer. The choreˆgos paid for all the choral expenses (costumes, aulos-player, rehearsal-time for choreuts, post-performance feast); it

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audience, it juxtaposes and splices together all levels and aspects of society, oikos and polis, soldier and general, slave and free, female and male, Greek and foreigner (though not necessarily in equal quantities, nor with equal degrees of sympathy), and leaves the audience’s own relationship to the various focalizers open to exploitation in several different directions. That is what Dionysian drama is expected to do.49 It is of course dangerous to claim to be able to isolate too precisely “the audience’s” point(s) of view and sympathies in response to a dramatic work as it plays on the stage. Although the playwright and director (in the Attic theater, the same man) exercise considerable power over our reception and interpretation of events and speeches, they have nothing like the same degree of control over us as a movie director and editor, or as an epic or lyric narrator (or novelist). 50 Sitting in the theater, audience members can focus on what and whom they choose, and can project their own fantasies and assumptions with relatively little authorial restriction: in effect, they edit-in their own “close-ups.”51 An Athenian audience will have been quite diverse in age, social status, education and literary sophistication, political bias, and (probably) gender; and I do not wish to pretend that all its members will have identified simultaneously, in the same ways, and to the same degree with the stage characters. In fact, part of the appeal of is not known who paid for the actors and their costumes, or for the production costs of set-building, masks, crew (skeuopoioi), etc. (Pickard-Cambridge 1988.86–90). By the end of the 5th C., playwrights were apparently receiving a stipend from the state (Aristoph. Frogs 367 with schol.), and in the 4th C. dithyrambic choruses were given cash prizes (Pickard-Cambridge 1988.90). But in the early days of tragedy, when poets (like Aeschylus) were their own lead-actors, choreographers, and set designers (and before payment for political service had extended beyond the dikasteˆrion and bouleˆ), it seems to me more likely that poet and/or choreˆgos were responsible for all these expenses. (In the case of dithyramb, there is indeed evidence that the aulos-player was at first paid for by the poet and/or choreˆgos, but that from the mid-5th C. the state paid instead: Pickard-Cambridge 1988.75–78, 88 n. 9.) As for the social origins of the performers: we have virtually no evidence as to where and how the choreuts, actors (once the poet ceased to be his own lead-actor), and extras were selected, though we can assume that talent-spotting and scouting went on at the deme level, and that good singers from boys’ choruses often graduated to men’s choruses. But a good singing voice, graceful gestures and dance techniques, and mastery of difficult diction, idiom, and meter, all require training and practice, so it is probable that most of the performers were drawn from among the better-educated, or even leisured, young Athenians, i.e., those of at least hoplite status, and usually higher. (This probability would be increased if, as Winkler 1990 argues, the tragic chorus evolved out of, or in parallel with, ephebic military manoeuvers; cf. also Goldhill 1990.112–14, 124–25.) While a chorus drawn partly or predominantly from the hoplite class cannot strictly be regarded as “elite,” the exclusion (de facto) of banausic elements, together with the close working relationship with their “teachers” (poet and choreˆgos), does, I think, justify the claim that the performers of tragedies came from the upper levels of Athenian society. 49. I shall return to these larger issues in the final section (V) of this article. 50. For helpful narratological analyses of the movie-going experience (in particular of the “eye” of the camera and of the audience, and the allocation of “subject position”), see e.g. Ellis 1982.38–61, 81–90, Clover 1992.1–20, 166–81, 199–205. For epic and the novel, see De Jong 1989, Booth 1961 and n. 42 above. 51. For example, as Agamemnon delivers his homecoming speech (Ag. 810–54), our eyes must stray from time to time (but exactly when?) to Klytaimestra, to the Chorus, even to the female figure in the chariot behind him; a modern production might even find room for the Watchman somewhere onstage, whose slightest reactions would be eagerly observed.

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the tragic theater must have resided in the license it gave the individual audience members to share in the dramatic “pretense” (mÐmhsij), and (temporarily, partially, intermittently) to abandon their personal identities through vicarious participation in the events unfolding before them. (The peasant can experience what it is like to be an Agamemnon, even a Klytaimestra; and the Eupatrid can experience the perspective of an Asiatic domestic slave or citizen commoner.) Nonetheless, the verbal, musical, gestural, and spatial structures of an Athenian tragic performance do impose certain patterns of response on the whole body of onlookers, and can be said thereby to create an implied “ideal audience”; and the “subject position” occupied most characteristically by that audience, I would claim, is one that plays into and shares the hierarchical organization represented onstage. In the last resort, the audience (as a collective) has to accept that there are “superiors” and “inferiors,” “leaders” and “subordinates,” and that their own status as onlookers—and survivors—places them closer to the led than to the leaders. Any competent modern reader of a Greek tragedy tries to include herself/himself in that audience; and it is one of the commentator’s and critic’s chief tasks to trace the patterns of response (both large-scale and small) elicited in such an ideal audience by the text, and to attempt to measure these against the experience, expectations, assumptions, and propensities of the “actual” (empirical) audience of Athenian theater-goers who witnessed the play’s first performance. Many modern readers and critics have preferred to see Oidipous or Agamemnon as a mythologized Athenian “Everyman,” writ large, an individual whose aspirations and mistakes mirror those of any and every citizen in the audience; and such readings doubtless correspond to one level of response in the Athenian audience. But it would be perverse to deny the pervasiveness and force of the hierarchical relationships played out in every surviving tragedy, and remiss not to attempt to trace the ways in which those relationships affect our experience of the action. Let us therefore turn to the Oresteia itself, which presents perhaps the most intricate web of overlapping, and often contradictory, viewpoints in extant Greek drama.52 Throughout the trilogy, not only does Aeschylus employ a number of different characters to report, describe, comment on, and respond to the action, but several of these characters in turn quote or paraphrase or imply the words and feelings of yet others whom we never see.53 One might expect, given the 52. This is true even without the fourth and concluding play, the satyric Proteus, which dealt with Menelaus’ return home from Troy via Egypt (including, presumably, several new perspectives: Menelaus’ recovery of Helen, and perhaps the announcement of Iphigeneia’s rescue from Aulis—all enlivened by a satyr-chorus, perhaps disguised as seals?). If critics are to make much of Aeschylus’ choice of trilogic form, they should acknowledge that he did not in fact compose trilogies, but tetralogies (see Gantz 1980). The show isn’t over until the satyrs have sung. 53. In more formal narratological terms (those of De Jong 1989; see n. 42 above), we can say that in Agamemnon the plot is presented by: (i) “primary narrators” (e.g., Watchman, Chorus, Klytaimestra, Herald, etc.), (ii) “embedded narrators” (e.g., Kalchas 122–57, 199–202; Agamemnon 206–17; the spokesmen of the House 408–26?; the Argive families 445–51, etc.), (iii) “embedded focalizers” (e.g., Klytaimestra 10–11, 83–103; the Argive community 23–24, 403–405, 456–58, 808–809, 938, 1410–11;

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movement of the action from an ancient, distant, aristocratic-monarchical Argos to the new democratic Athens, that “lower-class” focalization would increase during the course of the trilogy. Paradoxically, however, such perspectives—the view from below—become in fact less prominent (certainly less audible), as the trilogy progresses. In Agamemnon, the royal characters (Agamemnon, Klytaimestra, and Aigisthos) speak barely more than one quarter of the lines in the play. But we hear at length from a Watchman, a Herald, the captive slave Kassandra,54 and from the loquacious and multi-faceted chorus of Elders, who themselves occupy a middle level between royal and lower-class,55 but who also serve to provide us with constant communications about the hearts and minds of the long-suffering populations and armies of Argos and Troy.56 dhm- words in Agamemnon occur frequently of “the people’s feelings” (458, 883, 938, 1409, 1413, 1616), as do laìj (189–98, 824–26), ‚stoÐ (403– 405, 456–60, 1349, 1411, 1413), and strat- (passim); and often this perspective is differentiated (at least implicitly) from that of the Chorus, and presented as if this is the view of “the masses,” “the rabble.” Particularly striking is the usage of dhmo- words for semi-articulate complaint or approval: “murmurs,” “uproar,” “groans,” and “curses” (938 f mh dhmìqrouj, 883 dhmìqrouj ‚narxÐa, 1409, 1413 dhmìqrouj ‚rˆj, 458 dhmokrˆntou ‚rj, 1616 dhmorrifeØj ‚rˆj).57 As for pìlij and polØtai, these terms in Agamemnon “are used far more often with

the House 18–19, 37–38; those-in-the-know 39; Artemis 134–37, 140–45; Zeus 42–71, 111–12, 160–83 [et passim]; Agamemnon 184–87, 202–204, 217–27, 230–36, etc.; Iphigeneia 228, 233–47, 1525–27, 1555–59; the Argive army 231, 240–42; erstwhile Argive feasters 243–47; relatives of the war-dead 445–51; a lion-cub owner 718–36; the Trojans 321–29, 707–16, 737–46; the daimoˆn 1468–74; etc., etc.). Behind all these viewpoints, of course, lurks the implied “author” of the whole plot himself, Aeschylus. It is notable that, apart from the Chorus, whose utterances would naturally be expected to contain the largest amount of “embedded focalization,” it is the two female characters, Klytaimestra and Kassandra, whose abnormal “insight” enables them to present the greatest range of viewpoints other than their own: e.g,. Klytaimestra 281–316 passim, 321–40, 1439, 1438–48, 1525–29, 1554–58, 1568–76; Kassandra “focalizing” Apollo (passim), the House (1090–92), the children (1096–67, 1217–22), a riddling oracle (1178–82), a chorus of Erinyes (1186–93), Klytaimestra (1228–37, 1258–65, etc.), her own clothing (1264–68), and Orestes (1279–85). 54. Kassandra, as a former Trojan princess and consort of Apollo, might be said to bring more of an “elite” than a servile perspective. On the other hand, as a foreigner, bereft of family, dishonored and abandoned by her former patron, and reduced to ignominious concubinage, she is the embodiment of the disenfranchised and down-trodden. 55. They are (once trusted, now ignored) citizen advisors to the royal family (a kind of Council of Elders), and thus implicitly of upper-class status, as is confirmed by their behavior towards the Herald, Klytaimestra, and especially Aigisthos. On the other hand, their obtuseness and indecisiveness, together with their readiness to voice the feelings and viewpoints of others lower in the social scale (sometimes with implicit disapproval, sometimes sympathetically), tend to reduce them to the level of “typical citizens” rather than an elite. See further Schenker 1990 ch. 1 and passim. 56. See n. 53 above. 57. d mioj, dhmioplhq j also occur (640, 129), but in the sense of “public, belonging to all the people.” îxloj, which occurs several times in Aeschylus, esp. for foreign “hordes,” is not found in the Oresteia. See in general Brock 1991.164–65.

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reference to Troy than to Argos”; 58 and when the terms are applied to Argos, they usually suggest a more cohesive geopolitical unit (“the whole city,” “my loyal citizens”)—but this hoped-for cohesion is for the most part belied by the surrounding action and words, and the unified body of citizens finds no convincing spokesman. Overall, the play conveys a vivid, though vague and indeterminate, sense of Argos as an unstable community torn by dissension and fear: just as the ruling elite are bitterly divided amongst themselves, so too the men and women of Argos, with their muttered, half-suppressed dissatisfactions with the royal family, represent an important ingredient in the building of anxiety throughout this first play of the trilogy. In Choephoroi, the balance between elite and lower-class perspectives is more equal: Orestes and Elektra, Klytaimestra and Aigisthos dominate the dialogue; but we experience also the powerful (occasionally even domineering) lyrics of the slave chorus, and we witness short but forceful interventions by a Nurse and a household Attendant. The focus for the most part is on the “House” rather than the city, but references to the political situation in Argos contrast a “popular” reverence and regret for the former king (55–56 sèbaj . . . di' ºtwn frenìj te damÐaj peraØnon), with the citizens’ “subjection” (304 Íphkìouj) to the unpopular rule of the usurpers. It is noticeable that, by now, the “citizens” of Argos are presented more concretely as a unified body, closely identified with the interests of Agamemnon and his returning son (302–303 polÐtaj eÎkleestˆtouj . . . TroÐaj ‚nastat¨raj, 431–33 Šneu politn Šnakta . . . qˆyai, 824 pìlei tˆd' eÞ, 864 ‚rxˆj te polissonìmouj(?), 972 x¸raj, and especially 1046 šleuqèrwsaj psan ÇArgeÐwn pìlin),59 but noticeable too that these citizens do not themselves come to speak at all, even indirectly. In the (Athenian, “democratic”) Eumenides, except for the Pythian Priestess at the beginning, and the Propompoi (“Escorts, Attendants”) at the end, we hear from no “lower-class” characters (i.e., non-aristocratic human beings) at all, and relatively little mention is made of popular sentiment in Argos or Athens. References are made to the laìj (Eum. 15, 290, 638, 681, 775, 997), stratìj = “people” (566, 569, 668, 683, 762, 889; also = “army” 631, 637, 687), and ‚stoÐ (487, 691, 807, 862, 1045, 697, 708, 908); but most of these references situate “the people” as recipients of instruction or benefaction (occasionally as regimented and obedient subjects of “fear”), and rarely are their own spontaneous attitudes or opinions presented.60 Instead, the theater audience is assimilated to the vital, but silent, role 58. Podlecki 1986.91 n.22. He exaggerates slightly with “far more”: pìlij = Troy: 29, 127, 267, 278, 321, 331, 532, 710, 739, 812, 818, 824, 1065, 1167, 1171, 1200, 1287, 1335 (plus 1210 polÐtaij). pìlij = Argos: 476, 501, 580, 605, 638, 640, 647, 809, 844, 1106, 1355, 1412, 1586 (plus 1410 ‚pìpolij, and 809, 855, 1639 polØtai, 338 polissoÔxouj). (At 395, pìlij is unspecific, but implicitly applies to Troy.). 59. Relevant too are the Chorus’ references to Agamemnon as “admiral” (723 nauˆrxwi) and “general” (1072 polèmarxoj); see n. 66 below. 60. dhm- words barely occur in Eum. (only 160 and 655, both involving d mioj in the sense of “public,” and neither referring to Athens or popular opinion at all); contrast e.g. the language of

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of the jurors—who are, after all, the characters in the play whose status61 and points of view most closely resemble theirs, but who say nothing, merely listening to the arguments about their well-being that are presented by the mighty deities onstage, and ultimately delivering a split and indecisive (silent) vote, which is entrusted to Athena to report and evaluate.62 Thus, as the internal audience (Athenian citizens of yesteryear) is made the explicit focus and beneficiary of the stage action, the theater audience (today’s Athenian citizens) finds itself increasingly being spoken for, and comfortingly taken care of, by its trusty elite patroness. This is not the place to discuss every shift of perspective and focus, and every interplay of “high” and “low” perspectives, in the whole trilogy. But a brief look at the Watchman’s speech that opens the first play is immediately instructive.63 qeoÌj màn aÊtÀ tÀnd' ‚pallag˜n pìnwn, frourj âteÐaj m¨koj, ›n koim¸menoj stègaij ÇAtreidÀn Šgkaqen, kunäj dÐkhn, Šstrwn kˆtoida nuktèrwn åm gurin kaÈ toÌj fèrontaj xeØma kaÈ qèroj brotoØj lamproÌj dunˆstaj, âmprèpontaj aÊqèri . . . t€ despotÀn g€r eÞ pesìnta q somai trÈj ƒec baloÔshj t¨sdè moi fruktwrÐaj; gènoito d' oÞn molìntoj eÎfil¨ xèra Šnaktoj oÒkwn t¨ide bastˆsai xerÐ.

The gods I beg for deliverance from these toils, From my watch a year long, through which, sleeping upon the house of the Atreidae, like a dog, Aesch. Supp. (cited in n. 10 above). The preferred (neutral) terms throughout for “the whole community” are pìlij, polØtai. (See also Rosenbloom 1995.) 61. The jurors are anonymous, mortal, and citizens, several cuts below the arguing divinities on stage; and though, as Areopagites, they must be technically of the Athenian “elite” (i.e., drawn from the top two property classes; see n. 128 below), they are still socially far inferior to King Orestes and Queen Athena. (Peter Hall’s National Theatre production brought this out strikingly.) The archonship at Athens—which brought with it subsequent life-long membership of the Areopagos Council—may already have been opened up to men of hoplite status by the time of the Oresteia, but only recently; so the members of the Council would still have been almost exclusively of the elite. 62. According to a few critics, it is the Areopagite jurors who become the singing Propompoi at the end of Eum. (e.g., Taplin 1977.410–11, Gantz 1983.68 n.12, 86; contra Brown 1984.274, Sommerstein 1989 on Eum. 1032–47). I cannot make up my mind on this; but in any case they will have ceased to be acting as jurors at this point, as they instruct “everyone . . . in the region” (1035 xwrØtai, 1038 pandameÐ) to voice their joy. It could be argued that, for much of the play, it is really the diminished Orestes whose point of view we mostly share (diminished, in the sense that he is now not a “leader,” but a social inferior to the gods who surround him, and is politically and rhetorically reliant on their testimony and protection); but, as we shall see, his modest and retiring manner during the trial by no means obscures his elite status and claims. 63. On this speech and character, see Fraenkel 1950 (esp. on Ag. 6, and pp. 25–26), Vaughn 1975, Seidensticker 1982.69–71, Porter 1990. Translations of all continuous passages of the Oresteia, unless otherwise specified, are taken from Lloyd-Jones’ admirable version (1970); the Greek text is for the most part D. L. Page’s 1972 OCT (with occasional reference where necessary to West 1990).

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I have learned to know the assembly of the stars of night and those who bring winter and summer to mortals, the bright potentates, shining in the sky . . . . . . for my master’s throw has been lucky, and I will turn it to my advantage, now that this beacon-watching has thrown triple-six for me. Well, may it come to pass that the lord of the house comes back, and that I clasp his well-loved hand in mine. (Ag. 1–6, 32–35) Who is this Watchman? A slave, perhaps64 —yet he quickly acquires a stature and authority that merge his aspirations and attitude imperceptibly with our own.65 If Agamemnon is his beloved “master” (32 despotÀn) and “lord of the House” (35 Šnaktoj oÒkwn),66 whose return and familiar handshake he desperately awaits, then 64. He is not Aigisthos’ paid spy (as in Hom. Od. 4.524–28); he refers to Agamemnon as “master” (32 t€ despotÀn) and “king” (34–35 Šnaktoj); he is afraid of, and commanded by, Agamemnon’s wife (10–11, 26), and compares himself to a dog (2–3): all of which suggest servile status. But there are other places in Greek tragedy where free citizens refer to members of the ruling family as “masters” (e.g., Soph. El. 764, Tr. 363); and the Watchman’s “guard-duty” (Ag. 2 frourj) might be a military assignment, rather than a servile chore. Such indeterminacy of status is in itself not unusual: cf., e.g., several Messengers, the Guard of Soph. Ant., even Hermes in Prom. (941 trìxin, 942 diˆkonon, 954, 983 Íphrèthj,966 latreÐa, 987 paØj); and 5th . Athens was notorious for not distinguishing slave from free as clearly as other communities, by dress or deportment. 65. Cf. Porter 1990.37–41. By “our own,” I mean (in the first instance, and begging many critical questions) “those of the ideal/original Athenian audience,” whose responses every more-orless competent reader should attempt to replicate and re-experience (while also adding to them, or contrasting with them, her own reactions as a modern and quite unAthenian reader). 66. Agamemnon is consistently referred to as “king, royal” (as are Menelaos and Klytaimestra) throughout the first two plays: Šnac Ag. 35, 41, 205, 523, 530, 599, 907, 961; Cho. 431; basil- Ag. 84, 96, 114, 157, 521, 783, 1346, 1513; Cho. 343, 360, 724, 1065, 1070; and cf. Ag. 109 dÐqronon krˆtoj, 110 tagˆn, etc. Not surprisingly, turann- is mainly reserved for Klytaimestra and Aigisthos (Ag. 1355, 1365, 1633; Cho. 972), though the term is also indirectly applied twice to Agamemnon (Cho. 358, 479) and once to Priam (Ag. 828). Apart from Ag. 32 (discussed below), and the metaphorical usages at Eum. 527, 696, the despot-/ despoin- roots are largely confined to Cho. (53, 82, 104, 153, 157, 537, 770, 875, 942), where the domestic focus is most intense. More civic/democratic terms are occasionally used in reference to Agamemnon, but mainly as a military commander: Ag. 581, 1627 (strathgìj), 799 stèllwn stratÐan, 184–85 ™gem°n . . . neÀn, 1227 neÀn Šparxoj—and also, retrospectively, later in the trilogy: Cho. 723–24 nauˆrxwi s¸mati . . . tÀi basileÐwi, 1072 polèmarxoj ‚n r, Eum. 456 ‚ndrÀn naubatÀn rmìstora, 637 toÜ strathlˆtou neÀn (see Podlecki 1986.82– 96, and above, nn. 15 and 16). (Rosenbloom [1993.192 and 1995] finds sinister implications in the references to Agamemnon as “admiral,” in the light of Athens’ expansionist naval policies of the period: “Aischylos’s Agamemnon personifies Athenian naval hegemony”; but I doubt that this perception had dawned on Athenian consciousness as early as 458; and while it is true that Aeschylus gives prominence to Agamemnon’s role as naval commander, this is already explicit in Hom. Iliad 2.576 nhÀn ªrxe kreÐwn ÇAgamèmnwn and e.g. Soph. Ajax 1232–33 nauˆrxouj . . . ™mj ÇAxaiÀn, Eur. IA. 82–84, 232ff., El. 2–3.) For Orestes, the pattern is strikingly different: he is never addressed or referred to as Šnac, basileÔj, or tÔrannoj: usually in Cho. he is paØj or tèknon (264f., 324, 372, 478, 523, 829, 896, 920, 922), cènoj (575, 657, 668, 674, 700–706, 730) or simply ÇOrèsthj. The inhabitants of Argos are his polØtai (Cho. 302–304; cf. 1046 šleuqèrwsaj)—but cf. too Ag. 855, 1210, 1639, and Cho. 431 of Agamemnon’s subjects (as too Pers. 556, of Dareios’ subjects). The attempt by Pope 1986 to demonstrate a benevolent and “democratic” character for Agamemnon throughout the first two plays is unsuccessful. His efforts to distinguish rigidly (p. 14 and nn. 8 and 9) between basileus (used of

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we too are cast, temporarily but inescapably, in that subservient role of expectation and dependence—not literally as slaves, of course (and we can smile condescendingly at the Watchman’s occasional anacoloutha and homely expressions);67 but we are comfortable in the recognition that he, like Hamlet’s Horatio (if not the Gravedigger), is closer to most of us (socially, behaviorally, sartorially, even linguistically) than his doomed, strutting master or monstrous mistress can ever be. The Watchman’s speech prefigures the action and imagistic patterns of the whole trilogy, and his point of view permanently colors that of the audience, instilling in us an ineradicable desire, not just for “a release from toils” (1, 20), but also for restoration and reintegration, a return of the days when “the House was managed best” (19). And, as we witness the convulsions of domestic and political intrigue and violence through the first two plays of the trilogy, while it is the constellations of “brilliant dynasts” (or “bright potentates,” 6 lamproÌj dunˆstaj) “shining in the sky,” that command our gaze and wonderment, we ourselves remain gratefully earthbound and obscure, where we belong, among the numberless “assembly” (4 åm gurin) of nameless stars.68 Similar dynamics operate, though less straightforwardly, with our responses to the returning Herald,69 and to the Chorus of Elders too, though in this latter case, in particular, tracing the audience’s shifts of viewpoint and identification is a complex and delicate matter.70 It is noteworthy that the Chorus adopt a tone of moral and social superiority towards the Herald, just as they do towards Agamemnon, the legitimate Atreids, and Olympian Zeus), and tyrannos (applied to Priam, Aigisthos, and the gods below), involves him in an impossible reading of Cho. 479–80 (pp. 14–15). Furthermore, in asserting the “since Agamemnon’s opponents, Priam and Aigisthos, are both ‘tyrannical’, it ought to follow that Agamemnon is ‘democratic’ ” (Pope 1986.19; and again p. 23, “a democrat . . . a true citizen”), Pope ignores the several other kinds of (non-tyrannical) aristocrat, admirable or disgusting, familiar to 5th C. Athenians. 67. Fraenkel 1950, Seidensticker 1982.69–71. More extensive “lower-class” and comic elements can be identified in the Guard of Antigone, and above all in the Phrygian of Orestes (Seidensticker 80–85, 101–14). 68. Fraenkel 1950 ad loc.; cf. Maitland 1992.29–30. 69. In Archaic and Classical Greek practice, heralds (keˆrukes) might sometimes hold “a specific and honourable status in society” (Adcock & Mosley 1975.152); but there was generally no clear line drawn between the various “heralds,” “messengers” (angeloi), “envoys” (presbeis), and other go-betweens (Adcock & Mosley 152–53), and in tragedy their status usually seems almost menial (e.g., Hermes, the gods’ “errand-boy,” at Prom. 941–42). This Herald in Ag. is hailed as a keˆrux, and is garlanded (though the significance of this is unclear; see Fraenkel on Ag. 493–94), but is obviously not of high status; indeed, he is little more than a messenger, seemingly a hoplite or light-armed soldier, or at least from that “middling” social level (i.e., non-servile but relatively much lower-ranking than the King or even the Elders). As such, he encapsulates ambiguities of status and identification similar to the Watchman’s. In places, his speech presents him as the obedient servant of an oriental-style or old-fashioned Greek monarch (e.g., Ag. 518–23 Ê° mèlaqra basilèwn, “O palace of our kings, etc.,” 530–32); but in the same scene he refers to “the city and its generals” (Ag. 580–81 pìlin kaÈ toÌj strathgoÔj), and describes an army of fellow-citizens at Troy that seems quite contemporary and “Athenian” in its resonances; see further Podlecki 1986.87–94. 70. On the character of the Chorus in Ag., see Rosenmeyer 1982.164–80, Scott 1969, Schenker 1990.

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“the people” (deˆmos) of Argos in general.71 So we should beware of making too crude a division between “aristocrats” such as Agamemnon, and “citizens of Argos,” when the latter may range from a (presumably wealthy and fairly wellborn) “Council of Elders” (i.e., the Chorus, in their capacity as advisors to the King, like the Chorus in Sophocles’ Antigone) to poor, low-born soldiers and widows whose reactions do not coincide perfectly with the Chorus’ own. This Chorus indeed displays, within a single homogeneous body, the most extreme fluctuations, if not of class and status, then of mood and degree of authority, alternating as it does between the roles of citizen advisers, inspired sages, and submissive and ineffectual dependents of the august royal family. Overall, however, in its anonymous, collective character (shared by all tragic choruses), its occupation of orchestra rather than stage and palace-interior, and its complete inability to affect the actions of the royal family, this group is marked instantly and unmistakably as functioning (like the Watchman, and like us—all of “us,” Athenian elite and mass alike) on a lower social and psychic level than the larger-than-life dynasts of the House of Atreus. IV: FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES: THE BRILLIANT DYNASTS

Only in Athens, and only through the operations of the newly-instituted Court of the Areopagus, could Orestes have been successfully cleared to return to a healthy and governable Argos; and only through the persuasive power of Athena Parthenos and Polias (Virgin and Protectress of the City of Athens) could the Furies have been converted into guarantors of civic harmony and military-political success. The deeply entrenched patterns of crime and suffering are finally erased through the creation of a new civic order, and we feel ourselves to have been liberated, like Orestes himself, from the tribulations and excesses of the old, monarchicalaristocratic world, by our initiation into a Brave New World of Athenian democracy. So runs the conventional interpretation of the trilogy: and so it should run, for it is obviously a valid reading. The chord struck by this triumph of law, democracy, and diplomacy over family-based loyalties and knee-jerk retaliation has reverberated powerfully with audiences through the centuries. This chord of civic consonance, or (to push the musical metaphor)72 this harmonic progression from minor (oikos) to major (polis), this transposition through the three movements of the trilogy from the distant key of Argos to the home key of Athens, from the exotic tonalities of Bronze Age heroics, vendettas, and 71. But Gantz 1983.68 goes too far, I think, in attributing to the Chorus of Elders “coresponsibility with the ‘actors’—Agamemnon, Klytaimestra, Aigisthos—for the continuing chain of bloodshed,” which he sees as an extension of their role as “spokesmen of society.” It is certainly true that their support for their king appears stronger than that of the invisible “people of Argos” who mutter intermittently in the background (above, p. 76); but they express reservations, even strong distaste, for their king’s actions at various points during the play. See further Schenker 1990 ch. 1. 72. This metaphor does have some basis in the text; see Haldane 1965, Fleming 1977, Scott 1984.

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chthonic goddesses to the familiar patriotic fanfares of the final Saint Athena’s Day Parade, is sometimes supplemented by an even more exalted strain, one of religious enlightenment and salvation: Aeschylus’ Athena is seen as the sanctified, benevolent, all-wise resolver of difficulties, absolver from sins, protectress of the weak, guardian of her flock, representing on earth (or at least in Athens) the will of Zeus the Father, the stern, but idealized eye, Word, hand, and heart of social order and patriarchal reassurance.73 Again I do not seek to deconstruct this majestic symphony. I propose rather to map onto it, or into it, another insistent counter-theme, with its own Leitmotive and logic, a theme that does not negate or clash directly with the first, but that alternately challenges and combines with it, and finally leaves room for the ear and the mind to hear a subtle resolution and unexpected combination between the two different key signatures.74 I shall argue that, along with the successful evolution from family-based blood-vengeance to city-administered legal process, and from Bronze-Age Argos to contemporary Athens and its Areopagos Council, Aeschylus presents his citizens with a parallel and interlocking structure of elite international relations, in which the brilliant dynastic families of Argos, Phokis, and Athens, together with the supremely “aristocratic” family of Olympians,75 work together, first, to victimize the foreign and decadent Trojans, and later to restore and confirm one another’s power and prestige (at the expense, chiefly, of the transgressive usurpers, Klytaimestra and Aigisthos, and of the socially inept and uncouth Erinyes), while at the same time assuring their respective communities a mutually profitable and honorable outcome. The security and justice that are finally achieved are shown to depend heavily on the ability of elite families to draw on their long-standing connections, to outmaneuver their opponents, and to (re)assure the rest of the non-elite population of their own unquestionable legitimacy as leaders and guarantors of prosperity and order. I suggest (as a preliminary oversimplification) that, whereas the conspiracy to murder Agamemnon is presented unequivocally as an intolerable violation of social 73. Even, according to some critics, of compassion and humanity (see below, p. 105). For a reading that seeks, through the study of repeated metrical types, to trace the emergence of mutually reinforcing religious and musical harmonies, see Scott 1984, esp. 136–51: “Music and content fuse in the harmonious joining of the two themes, the justice of Zeus and the assignment of punishment for crime” (148). 74. Whether one “key” finally emerges as the “tonic” or “home key” or both are sustained in perpetual irresolution and ambivalence will be discussed in the final section (V) below. 75. Doubtless it is an oversimplification to treat the Olympian gods in Greek tragedy as “superaristocrats,” just as it is an oversimplification to treat all Bronze-Age kings and queens as “aristocrats,” and everybody else as “lower-class” (as I tend to do in this article). But in general, I think, both oversimplifications are broadly true—as they more obviously are for Homeric epic, and for 6th and 5th C. sculpture and painting: witness the problems frequently faced by modern scholars in their attempts to identify who is represented (is this kouros “Apollo,” or an idealized “young aristocrat”? is this warrior on a vase a hero or a god?—though in either case, sheer size and deportment distinguish these “upper-class” characters from mere attendants and bit-players); and in the case of the Oresteia, I hope that the following discussion will justify this claim in detail. Of course I do not wish to deny that Aeschylus’ gods can occupy other dimensions too, far removed from mortal crimes and politics.

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and political norms, defensible neither from a “democratic” nor a traditionally “aristocratic” standpoint, the killing of Klytaimestra and Aigisthos in Argos, and the subsequent acquittal of Orestes in Athens, succeed almost subliminally in combining and reconciling what tend otherwise to be contradictory impulses. For, at one level, these appear to be community-oriented acts of liberation, making the polis safe for all its citizens, so that paternity, civic order, and democracy itself may flourish. But, at another level, they are experienced as discreet victories of aristocratic friendshipdeals and patronage, vesting the salvation of the polis in the continued benevolence and diplomatic skill of its elite. The first level is widely enough acknowledged to need no further demonstration. But let us turn now to look in more detail at the playing-out of the second level, at the drama of the brilliant dynasts. The Trojan War, with its prodigious expenditure of effort and human life, and concomitant acquisition of wealth and prestige, was provoked by a transgression of xenia (Ag. 60–62 ÇAtrèwj paØdaj . . . pèmpei ZeÌj cènioj). The capture of Troy is thus presented as the result of a joint venture by Zeus (King of Gods, Patron-Divinity of guests-and-hosts) and the Atreidai (the aggrieved family-heads, commanders-in-chief, and collectors of the lion’s share of the loot, as well as of Helen herself).76 This alliance between the Olympian and Argive kings amounts indeed to a virtual “spear-friendship” (doryxenia);77 and, like so many male homosocial alliances in the ancient and modern world, it soon turns out to involve the infliction of hideous and unforeseen crimes and sufferings.78 Not only do Agamemnon and the other Greeks (and Zeus) squander hundreds of valuable male lives in the war, but also, in recovering one misplaced female (Helen), each violates the person and/or prerogatives of his own daughter (Iphigeneia and Artemis, respectively), and thus incurs a sure payback upon the return of the expedition.79 76. Cf. the conquering Agamemnon’s address (Ag. 810–12) qeoÌj . . . metaitÐouj (who presumably include Zeus agoraios and xenios). Indeed, the unorthodox decision by Aeschylus in this play to present the Atreidai brothers (Agamemnon and Menelaos) as a pair who still seem to reside together in their father’s house, helps to maintain this strong sense of a collective family identity, which is further reinforced by their combined intimacy of relations with Zeus: “king of birds to kings of the ships” (Ag. 114–15), with grammar and word-order welding the two sets of kings into an inseparable unit. 77. See Section II above. In Ag. 61 pèmpei can mean “sends,” but suggests too “escorts.” Doryxenia is essentially conceived as an alliance between equals, and it may at first seem fantastic or incongruous to propose it here, given Zeus’ divine status and the extravagant claims made within the trilogy for his supreme wisdom and power. But the interdependence and cooperation between gods and humans (as reflected, e.g., in the reciprocal xˆrij of prayer, sacrifice, and hymn, and even in the practice of the theoxenia [“banquet of/for the gods,” cf. Burkert 107, 213]) are essential components of Greek religion; and, as we shall see, the Oresteia does provide further evidence that such a relationship is lurking suggestively in the background—ready to move into the foreground in a few key passages. 78. On male homosocial domination and its effects, see Sedgwick 1985, Wohl 1994.46–53 (with further references); also Murray 1982, 1990. 79. For a detailed analysis of the elements of marriage and rape within the Iphigeneia-sacrifice, see Wohl 1994.158–89; for Artemis as victim of her father’s militaristic and male-bonding zeal, cf. Ag. 119–20, 134–55. In both cases, the payback takes the form of a perverted meal or sacrifice: Artemis causes the Greeks to starve (Ag. 187 kenaggeØ, 193 n stidej, and cf. 150); and as for Klytaimestra, see below, pp. 85–87. Of course, Agamemnon also labors under the crippling burden of a separate

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In his behavior at Aulis, at Troy, and before the palace door when confronted by his wife, King Agamemnon represents in many respects the embodiment of the democratically-perceived upper-class wastrel: ever amassing, flaunting, and squandering wealth, indiscriminate in violence, disrespectful of boundaries, sexually inconsiderate, yet easily dominated by a woman (mother or wife) in a way that a welldisciplined and free-minded Greek (especially Athenian) should find disgusting.80 (Aigisthos represents the same type in even more outrageous guise, softer, a domestic stay-at-home, briefly posturing as a tyrannical bully of the defenseless, with the help of an armed bodyguard.)81 Although early on in the play (and then increasingly, after his death, at the end of Agamemnon and throughout Choephoroi), Agamemnon and his dilemmas are pathetically, even sympathetically presented, the impression made on us by the description of his daughter’s sacrifice, and again by his behavior in the tapestry scene, is indelible. The Chorus of Elders intermittently recognize the disgraceful aspects of their king, and hold him up to account as they voice their own (or their townspeople’s) disapproval and advice, much as a citizen group

xenia-violation, that of his own father Atreus in the ghastly Thyestes-feast (Ag. 1583–1602); cf. Roth 1993.7–8. But the chief enormity of this crime is the shedding of kin blood and the cannibalism: the theme of Thyestes’ “exile” (1586 šndrhlˆthsen âk pìlewj) and “hospitable welcome home” (1587 prostrìpaioj ástÐaj mol°n pˆlin, 1590 cènia, 1593 daØta, etc.), while it prefigures to some degree Orestes’, lacks the key ingredient of external guest-friendship (these are brothers, after all). In any case, this aspect of the family history is quickly suppressed once the first play is over. 80. Many of the negative attributes ascribed by Classical Greeks to “barbarians” (especially Easterners: Persians, Medes, Lydians, Phrygians) were also attributed by Athenian democrats to aristocratic and oligarchic (or what Maitland terms “dynastic”) elements within their own city. Cf. Plato Laws 694d-695c, Hdt. 1.136, [Aristotle] Ath. Pol. 35.2, Plutarch Pericles 24, and Demosthenes’ Meidias, etc., for representations of (upper-class) “undemocratic” behavior that is tainted with “Asiatic” (and/or sometimes “Spartan”) characteristics; see further Crane 1993, Hall 1989, Dover 1977, Grossmann 1950.103–11, Maitland 1992, Rose 1992.197–232, Wohl 1994.144–213. I believe that the preoccupation with images of the barbarian “Other” in tragedy and elsewhere (well documented by Hall 1989), while it undoubtedly does reflect a burst of chauvinistic consciousness following the Persian Wars and rapid growth of Empire, may also reflect the sharpened class conflict between rich and poor, elite and mass within Athens itself. For example, the figure of Xerxes in the Persians (whose resemblance to Agamemnon in Ag. is often remarked; e.g., Di Benedetto 156–65) may suggest, behind the obvious paradigm of foreign impiety, folly, and greed (Thalmann 1980, Hall 1989), also that of a young Greek nobleman ineptly attempting to live up to parental, and age-group, expectations and to maintain a family tradition of display and achievement (cf. n. 144 below). We should perhaps distinguish two overlapping models of “undesirable aristocrat” in democratic ideology: one, the effete, mother-coddled and/or wife-bossed stay-at-home, the other the archetypical “tyrant,” more assertively masculine (militarily, politically, sexually), more suspicious, and more gratuitously cruel (like Kreon in Antigone, Zeus in Prometheus Bound, Pentheus in The Bacchae). “Tyranny” in any case exists constantly in the Athenian imagination to be invoked as the dreaded extremity, and opposed to any version of the civic ideal: thus excessive demagoguery is as likely to incur accusations of “tyranny” as are excessive elitist displays. 81. Even before Aeschylus, Aigisthos is frequently represented as long-haired, musicianly, and luxurious (Prag 1985). For the trope of the “indoor spearsman,” luxuriating at home with the women (or as a “woman”) instead of campaigning abroad, cf. Pers. 756, Ag. 1225, 1626, 1671, Cho. 137, 630, 919–21, Homer Il. 17.588, Soph. Tr. 354–55, El. 301–302, Eur. Or. 754, Pindar O. 12.3–15 (with Kurke 1991.13–15), Eur. Ba. 811f., 961–70, etc.; see too Grossmann 1950.102–11, Hall 1989.208–209.

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might review the conduct of a general or elected magistrate. 82 But, for the most part, like the Watchman and the Herald (and later, the Chorus of Libation Bearers), they back away from this recognition, and continue to regard Agamemnon as “king” or “master” of the royal household, sole source of salvation and strength for the whole community. Their impulse to reassure themselves that male, benevolent-despotic order (Agamemnon’s—and Zeus’) has not been overturned, despite appearances to the contrary, leads them to gloss over the ugliest aspects of their rulers’ crimes and failings, and to dissociate themselves from the sharpest criticisms. They may voice them—but only to ascribe them immediately to other sources, other occasions (“then,” “once”), or sheer fantasy.83 For all his revered status and prowess, Agamemnon utterly fails to negotiate his return into house and city, and reclaim his role as master of “a house perfectly administered” (Ag. 19 oÒkou . . . Šrista diaponoumènou). He is ignominiously duped and butchered, and Argos is plunged into “tyranny” at the hands of a woman and a womanish man, whose oaths of mutual devotion (Ag. 1431, Cho. 977–79) represent a sickening perversion, not only of legitimate marriage-vows (cf. Ag. 877– 78), but also of the traditional “loyalty oath” sworn among hetairoi.84 In contrast to the salutary, male homosocial “comradeship” exemplified by Orestes and Pylades (a bond that would normally be sealed not only by “trusty oaths,” but also by wine, song, travel, hospitality, and exchanges of gifts), the “pledges and oath” sworn between Aigisthos and Klytaimestra (Cho. 977, etc.) betoken both an illicit heterosexual relationship and a treasonous conspiracy against Agamemnon’s rule— i.e., the most treacherous and irresponsible kind of hetaireia imaginable: secret, violent, sacrilegious, and heterosexual. Neither a properly married couple, nor a band of comrades united for conventional political ends, the pair of usurpers consistently misuses the language and procedures of sacrifice, hospitality, and feasting, as they attempt to legitimize, stabilize and ritualize their rule.85 In invoking the wellknown images of hetaireia, Klytaimestra seems half-heartedly to be attempting 82. Podlecki 1972.195–96: “. . . something closer to the usual Greek political form of the Boule . . . The Chorus . . . are the polis, the People united and reacting to their leaders’ action and undertakings, no longer Homer’s faceless and all-but-ignored laos, but the newly organized demos of the city-state.” Cf. Harriott 1982. But see above, pp. 76–77. 83. E.g. Ag. 248ff., 408ff., 448–51., 475ff., 799–804. See further, on this Chorus’ recurrent “reluctance . . . to face facts” and “evasion,” Winnington-Ingram 1983.208–13, Schenker 1990 chs. 2 and 3, Goldhill 1984a. 84. On male homosocial camaraderie and oaths, and the negative connotations of oligarchic heteireiai, see Section II above, esp. nn. 34 and 35. 85. Zeitlin 1965, 1978, Lucas 1969, Lebeck 1971.85–91, Goldhill 1984a and 1984b, Burian 1986.335, Bowie 1993. Indeed, Leslie Kurke points out to me that Klytaimestra’s oaths of affection to her paramour in effect turn her into a kind of “hetaira”; cf. Murray 1990.6 “Greek commensality was essentially an all-male activity,” 7 “the distinctive manipulation of Greek sexuality in the homosexual bonding of young males through symposion and gymnasion is one aspect of this self-conscious separation [sc. of commensality and hetaireia from polis] ; another is the creation of a type of ‘free love’ associated with the hetaira and the other attendants or entertainers in the symposion.” Indeed, Klytaimestra herself sneers at Kassandra in just these terms (Ag. 1442 pist˜ cÔneunoj).

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to construct (out of her adulterous and conspiratorial “oaths” of devotion, “good will,” and “loyalty” to Aigisthos) a social smoke screen of “sworn comrades.”86 Most shockingly of all, her invocation of Zeus as she prepares to murder her husband (Ag. 973–74 ZeÜ ZeÜ tèleie, t€j âm€j eÎx€j tèlei; / mèloi dè toÐ soi tÀnper “n mèllhij teleØn), and her revolting description of the bloody “sacrifice” itself (Ag. 1379–95), amount almost to a parody of male sympotic celebration, and thus comprise an act of simultaneous retaliation against both these “fathers/kings”: she offers three “libations” and prayers, the third for Zeus Savior, and the blood flies spattering across the room (as in the kottabos-game?);87 then she concludes with the startling boast—startling because so masculine in associations—(1397–98) tosÀnde krat¨r' ân dìmoij kakÀn íde/ pl saj ‚raÐwn aÎtäj âkpÐnei mol¸n (“Such was the mixing-bowl of accursed evils that he filled up in his home; and he has drunk deep of it himself, now that he has returned!”). It is precisely her perversion of this language, and of this institution, that Orestes so savagely mocks after her death: semnoÈ màn ªsan ân qrìnoij tìq' ¡menoi, fÐloi dà kaÈ nÜn, ±j âpeikˆsai pˆqh pˆrestin, írkoj t' âmmènei pist¸masin; cun¸mosan màn qˆnaton ‚qlÐwi patrÈ kaÈ cunqaneØsqai; kaÈ tˆd' eÎìrkwj êxei.

Majestic were they then, seated upon their thrones, and dear to each other even now, as we may read by the fate they have suffered; and their covenant abides by its sworn terms. Together they swore death for my unhappy father, and together they swore to die; and they have kept their oath. (Cho. 975–79) 86. Ag. 1431 årkÐwn âmÀn qèmin, 1436–37 eÞ fronÀn, cf. Cho. 895 oÖti m˜ prodÀij pote, etc. (as well as Cho. 975–79, discussed below); Aigisthos is her “shield” of protection (1437 ‚spÐj, cf. Solon 5.5 W), and together they enjoy the “song” and “salad” of a comradely “feast” of vengeance (1445 mèlyasa, 1447 paroy¸nhma); their partnership is as unnatural and disastrous as that of “fire and sea” at Ag. 650–52 (cun¸mosan . . . pÜr kaÈ qˆlassa, kaÈ t€ pist’ âdeicˆthn fqeÐronte). For the significance of these and related terms in Greek commensality, see Murray 1990.5–7, SchmittPantel 1990.19–24. Euripides characteristically takes this idea of perverted “hospitality” further, in the elaborate feast between Aigisthos and Orestes (El. 774–858, cf. 318–31). In this context, we may note too the demonic kÀmoj of Erinyes at Ag. 1186–92, a female (per)version of the cheerful male comasts customarily received into a house: “Like an unruly human kÀmoj, [the chorus of Erinyes] is emboldened by drink—but its drink is human blood; it sings—but sings of ruin and destruction, not victory” (Heath 1988.194); see further n. 126 below. When Orestes returns, however, the Chorus rejoice that true symposiastic celebration can at last resume: Cho. 344 pai°n . . . neokrta fÐlon komÐseien (“may the paean usher in the welcome newly-mixed bowl of wine,” Garvie ad loc.); and the “pledges” of true marriage are reasserted strongly in the third play (Eum. 214 pist¸mata, etc.; cf. Ag. 878); cf. Zeitlin 1978. For a different assessment of Orestes’ actions, see Roth 1993.9–11. 87. Ag. 1390 bˆllei m' âremn¨i yakˆdi foinÐaj drìsou / xaÐrousan ktl. yakˆj is used elsewhere of “drops” of wine (Kritias 1.10 BromÐou yakˆdessi); and cf. Pind. O. 7.2 ‚mpèlou . . . drìswi.

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Just as Klytaimestra fails in her attempt to recast her phony marriage as a “comradeship,” so does her behavior fall short of aristocratic propriety and panache in her dealings with the outside world. Her reception of Kassandra is far from hospitable, and, despite the skillful system of beacon communications that she and her husband had prepared, and the limitless wealth of which she boasts (Ag. 958ff.), she never succeeds in establishing any useful and reciprocal relationship abroad (nothing indeed outside her own “hearth,” Ag. 1435–36). The usurpers can call upon no new resources or connections to benefit the household or the city,88 and for (para)military support, like so many tyrants, they rely, not on loyal citizen soldiers or guest-friend allies, but on a bodyguard of (hired? or slave?) underlings (Cho. 768 loxÐtaij, 769 dorufìrouj æpˆonaj, cf. Ag. 1650–53).89 Their only close, reciprocal ties are with each other—until, after her death, Klytaimestra does find, or create, a new ally in the hideous female dogs of vengeance, the Erinyes, embodiments of her own curses (while Aigisthos fades into oblivion). Meanwhile, the royal son, Orestes, has been sent abroad, to stay with an old spear-friend (doryxenos) of his father’s:90 âk tÀndè toi paØj ânqˆd' oÎ parastateØ, âmÀn te kaÈ sÀn kÔrioj pistwmˆtwn, ±j xr¨n, ÇOrèsthj; mhdà qaumˆshij tìde; trèfei g€r aÎtän eÎmen˜j dorÔcenoj Strìfioj å FwkeÔj . . .

This, I say, is why our son does not stand here, the warrant of your pledges and of mine, as he should have stood, Orestes; do not be surprised at this. For he is the guest of a kindly ally, Strophius the Phocian . . . (Ag. 877–81) The “pledges” (pist¸mata), once exchanged by bride and bridegroom, ought to be continuously guaranteed and protected by the presence of the son and heir: his absence is conspicuous and requires explanation. And the reason that Klytaimestragoes on to give for Orestes’ residence abroad “as guest of a kindly ally” is noteworthy: . . . ‚mfÐlekta p mata âmoÈ profwnÀn, tìn q' Íp' ÇIlÐwi sèqen kÐndunon, eÒ te dhmìqrouj ‚narxÐa 88. Instead, they are guilty of “pollution” and “wastage of property” (Cho. 943–44 kteˆnwn tribj Ípä duoØn miastìroin), cf. Ag. 18–19, 958–62, Cho. 135, 301, 865, etc. For the failure of Klytaimestra and Aigisthos, and of Klytaimestra’s avenging Erinyes, to establish meaningful xeniarelations of any kind, see further pp. 92–93, 101–103 below. 89. See Garvie’s note on Cho. 769, and Friis-Johansen & Whittle on Aesch. Supp. 985–88. 90. For doryxenia, see Section II above, esp. nn. 28 and 29; and cf. Pindar P.11.16, 34, S. El. 46, etc.

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boul˜n katarrÐyeien, ¹j ti sÔggonon brotoØsi tän pesìnta laktÐsai plèon.

. . . who warned me of trouble on two accounts, of your peril before Ilium, and of how the people’s lawless clamor might overthrow the council, since it is inbred in mortals to kick the man who has fallen. (Ag. 881–85) It was Strophios, not Klytaimestra herself, who provided the initiative for removing Orestes from his parents’ house; and his chief motive was anxiety about popular (i.e., presumably, democratic) rebellion against the royal family in Agamemnon’s absence.91 But in Choephoroi 132–36, 913–17, as part of the process of discrediting any claims to respectability that Klytaimestra might have as parent—or even as true adherent to aristocratic values and conduct—Elektra and Orestes assert that he was “sold” by her into slavery abroad:92 pepramènoi g€r nÜn gè pwj ‚l¸meqa präj t¨j tekoÔshj . . . k‚g° màn ‚ntÐdouloj, âk dà xrhmˆtwn feÔgwn ÇOrèsthj âstÐn . . . Or. tekoÜsa gˆr m' êrriyaj âj tä dustuxèj. 91. Of course, Klytaimestra’s version of the events is inevitably suspect. But why should she lie about this detail, which does not lend her any added credit (save perhaps that of paying attention to the good advice of Agamemnon’s trusted friend)? By contrast, in the case of her feigned grief over Agamemnon’s and Orestes’ announced deaths, her motive for lying is evident to the audience; and in both cases the lie is soon exposed, in the one case by Klytaimestra herself, in the other, by the Nurse. Strophios’ “real” motive (if we are entitled to inquire so literally into a fictional event and character) is likely to have been in fact to protect Orestes from his mother (cf. Pind. P. 11.17–18, Soph. El. 295–97), etc. Nonetheless, this alleged anxiety about “the popular noise of lawlessness” (883 dhmìqrouj ‚narxÐa) strikes a resonant chord with other references in the play to popular discontent (see above, p. 76): nowhere in the trilogy is “democratic” or “popular” feeling as such represented in laudatory or constructive terms. In sum, we are given by Aeschylus no positive reason to distrust Klytaimestra’s version of Orestes’ departure for Phokis. 92. Apart from the shameful violation of maternal and sexual norms involved in “selling” one’s son to “buy” a lover (915–17), the charge of such a mercenary transaction, involving direct “exchange” (133 ‚nthllˆcato), a “price” (916 tØmoj), loss of “possessions” (135 xrhmˆtwn), and “selling abroad” (132, 915), relegates Klytaimestra to a distinctly sub-aristocratic class of traders, in contrast to the gift-exchange of the elite—to say nothing of the implications of lower-class poverty surrounding the selling of one’s own family members into slavery (135 ‚ntÐdouloj, 913 âj tä dustuxèj, 915 âleuqèrou patrìj) to pay off debts. (To Athenian ears, this may all sound reminiscent of the debtslavery and political exile common in Solon’s and Peisistratos’ days, and memorialized in Solon’s poetry.) See Kurke 1994, and Bourdieu 1990.123 on “the opposition between the ‘sacrilegious cunning’ to be expected in market transactions and the good faith appropriate to transactions among kinsmen and friends,” which seems to describe the contrast between Klytaimestra’s and Orestes’ “transactions” quite nicely.

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oÖtoi s' ‚pèrriy¯ eÊj dìmouj dorucènouj. aÊkÀj âprˆqhn »n âleuqèrou patrìj. poÜ d¨q' å tØmoj íntin' ‚ntedecˆmhn? aÊsxÔnomaÐ soi toÜt' æneidÐsai safÀj.

[El.] “For now are we, as it were, vagrants, sold by our mother. . . . I live the life of a slave; and from his possessions Orestes is an exile. . . .” [Or.] [Kl.] [Or.] [Kl.] [Or.]

“You gave me birth, and yet cast me out into misfortune. I did not cast you out when I sent you to the house of an ally. Vilely was I sold, though born of a free father. Then where is the price I got for you? I am ashamed to taunt you outright with that.” (Cho. 132–33, 135–56; 913–17)

These accusations of “sale” and “enslavement” are hyperbolic, and not to be taken literally, as is made clear by the inclusion of Elektra as “vagabond” and object of “sale,” and by Orestes’ acknowledgment elsewhere (Cho. 561–62) that Pylades is indeed a “spear-friend (dorÔcenoj) of the family,” thus indirectly confirming Klytaimestra’s version of the procedure.93 Nonetheless they make an effective point, as, on the one hand, xenia and the male homosocial bond are reaffirmed, while, on the other, Klytaimestra’s participation in both is denied: for it is Strophios, Agamemnon’s friend, who has saved Orestes from his mother, and raised him with his own son, Pylades, until the two youthful age-mates are ready to reclaim Agamemnon’s heritage.94 So, just as alliance with Zeus (and with a number of lesser, mortal, chieftains like Odysseus) has enabled Agamemnon successfully to recover his family’s prestige, his brother’s wife, and a huge haul of loot and captives from Troy—despite the unpopular losses and expenditures that he has exacted from his own citizen army and 93. Thus Garvie’s comment on 915, “It is idle to enquire which version is closer to the truth,” seems unduly sceptical. (The rest of his note is closer to the mark.) 94. A similar cloudiness surrounds Klytaimestra’s role as nurturer of the infant Orestes. On the one hand, her snake-dream and the direct gesture of baring her breast assert her physical connection with him; but on the other, the Nurse’s speech and conduct confirm that hers was the nurturing presence (Cho. 749–62)—and all “for his father” (Cho. 762 âcedecˆmhn patrÐ). The error in our (only) manuscript at Cho. 760, StrofeÔj for trofeÔj, suggests that the scribe had subconsciously grasped the parallel roles of the Nurse and Strophios-Pylades (cf. too n. 122 below). We should note also that earlier, in his speech of self-justification, Aigisthos (Ag. 1604–11) presents a short rehearsal for Orestes’ subsequent departure-into-exile-and-vengeful-return: but, whereas Orestes will enjoy the xenia of his father’s friends and will return from exile accompanied by his doryxenos Pylades to claim vengeance and patrimony, no such external support is mentioned for Aigisthos, who claims to have been “exiled” and “raised” abroad together with his father (if the text is sound: 1605–1607 ‚qlÐwi patrÈ / sunecelaÔnei tutqän înta . . . / trafènta d' aÞqij...), and then to have been brought back from exile (presumably alone) by a solitary female figure, “Justice” (DÐkh 1607, 1611; cf. Th. 646–48, 659–71), who may be faintly suggestive of Klytaimestra herself (see n. 85 above); even then he remains “outside” the house (1608 quraØoj) as his mistress performs the vengeful act for him.

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their families, frequently mentioned by the Chorus—likewise, it is his pre-existing guest-friendship with Strophios that guarantees his own eventual (posthumous) recuperation and rehabilitation, through the killing of his murderers and the restoration of his son and heir to his rightful place at the head of family and city. Without a foreign host-friend to support him in his penniless “exile,” and a foreign spear-friend to accompany him on his stealthy “return from exile,”95 Orestes would be doomed to perpetual disinheritance and disenfranchisement, as would Elektra, and the whole “Pleisthenid line” (Ag. 1602). Much though the Argive deˆmos suffers from the tyranny of the usurpers Aigisthos and Klytaimestra, it appears to be quite unable to organize itself to resist—witness the sputtering ineffectuality of the Elders at the end of Agamemnon. It is only through the aristocratic networking of xenia, symbolized and instantiated by feast, sacrifice, spear, and oaths, that the loyal members of the ruling family can husband their resources, negotiate their return, and eventually wreak their revenge, and thus reclaim domestic and political authority at Argos. Without Pylades and his family, Orestes’ enterprise could not succeed, and Argos could not be saved. This last remark needs some amplification and justification; for, on the face of it, Pylades’ presence in Choephoroi is little more than a formality: he is given far less to say or do than the Pylades-character in Euripides’ Elektra, IT, or Orestes, and he is mentioned less prominently than, e.g., in Pindar’s 11th Pythian.96 But there are several pieces of evidence to suggest that Pylades and his family may be felt to play a deeper and more essential role than appears on the surface. The first indication depends partly on names and etymologies (admittedly, often a slippery basis for argument; but here pretty transparent and firm). Pylades, son of Strophios, lives in Phokis, the region around Delphi. The names “Pylades” (“Gateman,” from pÔlh = “gate,” cf. Cho. 561–62 ¡cw sÌn ‚ndrÈ tÀid' âf' árkeÐouj pÔlaj / Pulˆdhi . . .) and “Strophios” (“Turner,” from strèfw = “turn”) are both closely identified with Hermes, god of doorways, twists, well-oiled hinges, burglary, and other liminal activities.97 From the first line of Choephoroi (ÃErm¨ xqìnie . . .), to the end of that play, and right up until Orestes’ arrival in Athens to supplicate Athena in Eumenides, Hermes accompanies and assists Orestes, as his guardian spirit or companion.98 In so acting, we are told, he is representing the interests, and 95. “Exile” (feÔgw, fug , fugˆj): Ag. 1282, 1668, Cho. 135–6, 254, 337, 939–41, etc. (cf. too Ag. 1412, Eum. 424, 604); “return from exile” (katèrxomai ktl., the technical term): Ag. 1283, 1647, Cho. 3, Eum. 462, etc. (also Ag. 1607 kat gagen, Eum. 756 kat¸ikisˆj me). 96. P. 11.16, 34, and passim. For this poem’s intensive focus on xenia, see Slater 1979, Robbins 1986.4–5. The dating of Pythian 11 before or after the Oresteia is not settled: most critics place it after, but see Robbins 1986. In any case, it is likely that a prominent role for Pylades was a traditional motif (perhaps already contained, e.g., in the Homeric Nostoi and/or in Stesichoros’ Oresteia); cf. n. 101 below. 97. Garvie 1970; also Garvie 1986.xiv–xv. 98. See Garvie 1986 Index s.v. “Hermes.” In Cho. his “supervision” (1, 1063 âpopteÔwn) and “protection” (Eum. 89 fÔlasse, cf. Cho. 1064) are figurative, in as much as he never appears before our eyes on stage (though his statue is probably present throughout); in Eum., he is again silent, but

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following the orders, of (brother) Apollo and father Zeus.99 Pylades, then, as escort and accomplice, is the human Hermes to Orestes’ human Apollo. (Pylades : Orestes :: Hermes : Apollo; and correspondingly, in relation to the act of vengeance, Orestes : Apollo :: Pylades : Hermes.) In another sense, however, because he is a Phokian and thus a neighbor of the Delphic oracle, Pylades himself possesses some affinity with Apollo. Thus, while Pylades’ speaking role is almost non-existent, and his presence only (and literally) shadowy, the insistently looming agencies of Hermes and Apollo, hovering over every word and action of Choephoroi, and leading Orestes every step of the way to Athens during the first half of Eumenides, can be said to represent verbally and symbolically what Pylades represents physically before our eyes: the Atreids’ international support system, dedicated to restoring to Orestes the lost prestige of his father (Cho. 1 patrÀia krˆth = “your/my/the father’s kingdom”).100 Our second set of indications of Pylades’ importance derives not from the Oresteia itself, but from the other fifth century texts that tell this story: for they all make a point of emphasizing his role as xenos, or virtual brother, of Orestes.101 Apparently his participation in Orestes’ return and act of vengeance is mandatory, and his status as xenos is an integral element in that action.

probably visible, like Pylades in Cho., or so most editors have concluded. Taplin 1977.364–65 prefers to keep Hermes offstage even in Eum.: “One god can call on another [sc. as at Eum. 89ff.] when the latter is not actually present. . . . There are reasons for not bringing Hermes on. His role would be silent and secondary and he would not even be noticed for 25 lines. And if Hermes is actually seen going off with Orestes, this would imprint his role very clearly in the minds of the spectators, and would make his absence later in the play conspicuous.” But much the same arguments could be mounted against Pylades’ presence in Cho.; and, as I argue in what follows, the shadowy, taken-for-granted presence of both is dramatically significant. But, even if Hermes does not appear, the frequent references to him in both plays (perhaps reinforced by a herm visible on stage) alert us to his constant presence at/on Orestes’ side. 99. He performs a similar role (disguised as a young ephebe) in Book 24 of the Iliad, escorting Priam through the lines of the Achaians to visit Achilleus, and even unfastening the bolts on the doors for him (24.331–77). For the difficult problems surrounding Hermes’ and Apollo’s various entrances and exits, see Taplin 1977.362–407, 1978.38–40. 100. The phrase is richly ambiguous (like Eum. 738 kˆrta d' eÊmÈ toÜ patrìj), as the critique by Aristophanes’ “Euripides” shows in Frogs 1141–46; see Garvie 1986 ad loc. There is nothing to be gained by limiting the reference of patrÀia to either “Zeus’ ” or “Agamemnon’s”: the interests of the two are assumed to coincide perfectly. 101. Pindar P. 11.16 Pulˆda . . . cènou, Soph. El. 44–46 . . . cènoj màn eÚ / Fwkèwj par' ‚ndräj Fanotèwj ¡kwn; å g€r / mègistoj aÎtoØj tugxˆnei dorucènwn (Phanoteus, not Strophios, is here named as Pylades’ father), Eur. El. 16–18, 1284–87, Or. 725–28 (and 1401ff.), IT 492–98, 917–21, etc.; cf. Slater 1979. In many versions, Pylades is married off to Elektra after the vengeance is completed, so that the alliance between the two families is further strengthened (e.g. E. El. 1284–87). In art, Pylades is often represented side by side with Orestes in the act of vengeance (Prag 1985). As Robbins 1986.8 n. 8 points out, “The sudden appearance of Orestes, frequently in the company of Pylades or Talthybius, on early red-figure vases around 500  . . . coincides with the prominence of tyrannicides in the Attic scolia. This is probably not fortuitous. Orestes and Pylades suggest Harmodius and Aristogiton” (see n. 112 below). In due course, Orestes and Pylades come to be regarded as a comradely/homoerotic pair comparable to Theseus and Peirithous, Achilleus and Patroklos/Antilochos, etc.

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Within the text of Choephoroi itself we find a striking pair of passages, which, though they have not received much attention on this score, in fact emphasize the central significance of xenia, and the obligations that it imposes: cènoj mèn eÊmi DaulieÌj âk Fwkèwn, steÐxonta d' aÎtìforton oÊkeÐai sag¨i âj ^Argoj, ¹sper deÜr' ‚pezÔghn pìdaj, ‚gn°j präj ‚gnÀt' eÚpe sumbal°n ‚n˜r âcistor saj kaÈ safhnÐsaj ådìn, Strìfioj å FwkeÔj . . . âg° màn oÞn cènoisin Ád' eÎdaÐmosin kednÀn ékati pragmˆtwn “n ¢qelon gnwtäj genèsqai kaÈ cenwq¨nai; tÐ gˆr cènou cènoisÐn âstin eÎmenèsteron? präj dussebeÐaj d' ªn âmoÈ tìd' ân fresÐn, toiìnde prgma m˜ karanÀsai fÐloij katainèsanta kaÈ katecenwmènon.

I am a foreigner from Daulis among the Phocians, and as I traveled carrying my own pack toward Argos—it is here that I have ended my journey— a stranger met me and spoke to me, after asking me my errand and telling me his, Strophius the Phocian . . . For my part, my hosts being so prosperous I should have wished it were on account of good news that I had been known to them and had been entertained; for where is good will greater than between host and guest? But piety made it seem wrong to me not to fulfill such an office for Orestes’ friends, when I had given my promise and become your guest. (Cho. 674–79, 700–706) Here Orestes, disguised as a Phokian “stranger” (i.e., xenos in its more neutral sense), first insists to Klytaimestra that he is coming from a chance encounter with Strophios on the road: the two of them were “absolutely unacquainted with one another” (677 ‚gn°j präj ‚gnÀta); then he harps riddlingly on the wish that he could deliver good news, as “acquaintance and guest-friend to guest-friends . . .” (700–702 cènoisin . . . gnwtäj genèsqai), so that he could be “properly entertained” on that basis (702 cenwq¨nai, 706 katecenwmènon). In these two speeches, cènoj and its derivatives occur eight times,102 as Orestes poses the riddle: Who can recognize 102. Cf. too 560 cènwi g€r eÊk¸j... sÌn ‚ndrÈ tÀide (of Orestes’ and Pylades’ disguise), and 575 podapäj å cènoj? (in Orestes’ imagined version of Aigisthos’ greeting), plus Klytaimestra’s welcoming words (668 cènoi, 710 cènouj, 712 ‚ndrÀnaj eÎcènouj), and the Chorus’ sly n˜r å cènoj (730); further 734, 741, 840, 848, and in general, Garvie 1986 on 653–718, Roth 1993.

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whom? and which kind of xenos is this Phokian—or that one?103 Unable to decipher the enigma (i.e. to penetrate the disguise and recognize that these are no “strangers,” but kin and guest-friend), Klytaimestra, and Aigisthos in turn, accept the role of “stranger-host” that Orestes imposes on them. Just as earlier (565–70) Orestes rehearses an imagined scenario in which Aigisthos would shamefully fail to meet the expectations of suppliant-hospitality, so here the usurpers again fail to measure up to the aristocratic code of mutual evaluation, recognition, and hospitality. 104 The strongest indication, of course, of the central importance of Pylades’ role within Orestes’ successful homecoming and revenge comes with his startling intervention at Choephoroi 896–903, though the significance of what he says there has not, I think, been fully grasped. As Orestes is faced at last with his mother, who is baring her breast and begging him to “hold back and show compunction (aidoˆs),” he turns to his hitherto silent companion and asks, point-blank (899): Pulˆdh, tÐ drˆsw? mhte' aÊdesqÀ ktaneØn? (“Pylades, what am I to do? Am I to feel compunction at killing my mother?”). To the wonderment of every theater audience, the “mute character” (kwfän prìswpon) suddenly gives voice; and this voice speaks equally for the god of Delphi and the guest-friend from Phokis. 105 What he says is brief, but decisive: poÜ daÈ tä loipän LocÐou manteÔmata t€ puqìxrhsta, pistˆ t' eÎork¸mata? ‰pantaj âxqroÌj tÀn qeÀn ™goÜ plèon. 103. H. J. Rose 1937 proposed that, of the two “fully-laden” travellers (560) speaking “Phokian dialect” (563–64), it is Pylades, not Orestes, who actually speaks throughout this scene (652–733)—an inspired and illuminating, though obviously mistaken, idea. It would of course be possible to stage the scene in such a way that the identities of the two were uncertain even to the audience, or that (with the help of the masks) it might be hard to tell which one was speaking (as it might be hard to tell if Pylades’ [hitherto-presumed mute] actor, or a “Loxian” [offstage] voice, utters 900–902); and the blurring and merging of the separate identities of these two young, male comrades is thematically important (in contrast to the “pair of women” who murdered the king in the previous play, who remain sharply distinct from one another throughout). 104. For a rich store of analogous nostos-stories, with their built-in systems of hospitality, introductions, recognitions (and occasionally disguises), all involving the appropriate etiquette, we may consult the Odyssey (Telemachos and the families of Menelaos and Nestor; Odysseus with the Phaiakians/Eumaios/Suitors/Penelope, etc.); cf. Murnaghan 1987. We might add another small, but possibly significant piece of evidence confirming the ability of Agamemnon’s network to succeed, where Klytaimestra’s and Aigisthos’ fails, in fostering “proper” relations, even in adverse circumstances: Kassandra’s penultimate speech of lament before her death, in which she terms her promise of future vengeance a gracious “hospitality-gift” to Agamemnon’s loyal heirs (Ag. 1315–20 Ê° cènoi . . . âpicenoÜmai taÜta d' ±j qanoumènh), in tune with her hopeless surrender to the male world that is destroying her (cf. Wohl 1994.247–57). See further Roth 1993.6–7. 105. It has plausibly been argued that the third speaking actor had only very recently been added to the playwright’s repertoire when the Oresteia was composed, and that the unexpected utterances of both Kassandra and Pylades are taking advantage of this new license; see Knox 1979.39–55, esp. 41–42. However the utterance was delivered in the original performance, and wherever Pylades is standing (Taplin 1977.351–54), we should perhaps think of this voice as equivalent to Hermes’, i.e., as the hermeneutic voice of the gods’ messenger, who is simultaneously Apollo’s intermediary and the avenger’s spear-friend.

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Where henceforth shall be the oracles of Loxias, declared at Pytho, and the covenant you pledged on oath? Count all men your enemies rather than the gods! (Cho. 900–902) Critical discussion of these famous lines has tended to ignore, or to make heavy weather of, the striking phrase in 901, pist€ eÎork¸mata. Whose “oaths” are being referred to? The scholiasts suggest they must be Pylades’ and Orestes’, as sworn hetairoi and doryxenoi;106 but most modern critics have concluded that Apollo is meant (i.e., that LocÐou in 900 governs both manteÔmata and eÎork¸mata).107 It is probably best to accept both interpretations at once: the sworn comradeship of the human xenoi is mirrored and reinforced by a (literal or metaphorical) oath of allegiance binding Apollo to Orestes. Furthermore, we might extend the range of reference still wider, to include the Olympians and Atreids in general, as allies and friends “sworn” to vengeance on behalf of Agamemnon, just as Kassandra asserted (Ag. 1279–91).108 “Trusty oaths of loyalty” demand that this act of vengeance not be abandoned, and that Orestes not betray the ties that bind all true xenoi and hetairoi of Agamemnon’s family: for betrayal, as Pylades reminds him, will earn him the enmity of the gods (902). In sum, Pylades is indispensable to Orestes. His support must be recognized as being not only moral, psychological, and religious (as modern critics have made it), but also military, material, and political.109 Through the constant presence of Pylades, and through the accompanying references to xenia and oaths, the stage action and text of Choephoroi suggest subtly but insistently that “outside” support, 106. Schol. vet. on Cho. 901 t€ årkwmìsia ‹ sunwmìsamen. Pista is indeed the vox propria for such alliances; see Section II above, esp. n. 35. 107. In this latter case, the “oath” may be either Apollo’s oracular promise (“The oracle itself is equivalent to an oath in which Orestes can put his trust,” S. Sa¨ıd, quoted by Garvie ad loc.) or Orestes’ oath to Apollo (perhaps uttered or mentioned in the missing lines at the beginning of the play?) that he will avenge his father. Garvie summarizes the alternatives clearly. 108. The order of lines there, and even the authenticity of 1291 æm¸motai g€r írkoj âk qeÀn mègaj, is much disputed. If 1291 is placed after 1283 (as in Page’s OCT), then Orestes’ revenge is explicitly said to be the subject of an Olympian “oath.” Even if it is not (or the line is excised completely), 1279–81 indicate strong divine approval for Orestes’ act of vengeance (as do the Chorus’ remarks at Ag. 1646–48, 1667). 109. Perhaps these six categories should not be separated out in any case; for the male homosocial bond can be very tight, often including the erotic too (Murray 1982, 1990.5–7, cf. Sedgwick 1985.1–5, 21–27, Wohl 1994.46–66, 332–45). Objection may be taken to my claim that Pylades’ support is “military,” for the text makes plain that Orestes acts alone in killing both his mother and Aigisthos: only one hand and one sword are employed. Yet, as we have noted, Pylades is seen (presumably, sword in hand) standing at Orestes’ side right up until the moment of the killings; and the image of these two armed comrades is, in a way, decisive (in suppressing any hope of armed resistance) and definitive (in recalling that of the famous Athenian tyrannicides; cf. n. 101 above). In the event, when it comes time for actual blood-letting, sole responsibility for the action must be given to Orestes, for several reasons: (i) to maximize the horror of matricide; (ii) to take full advantage of the familiar motif of the “solitary returning folk-hero in disguise”; and (iii) to mirror Klytaimestra’s single-handed deed (attended, but not assisted, by Aigisthos).

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provided from other aristocratic families through the xenia-network, is a precious and indispensable component of the social order: without it, an elite may not be able to protect and maintain its position, support itself in exile during hard times, and reassert its claims after periods of absence or exclusion from its own polis.110 And, whereas democratic ideology might welcome the opportunity for the citizens to free themselves through assassination from subjection to a ruling family, in the Oresteia such a prospect is always presented by the voices of aristocratic ideology (as represented by the persons of Orestes and Pylades, and also by the reported voices of Apollo and Hermes) as being tantamount to anarchy, with a likely consequence of renewed tyranny.111 Thus, when the Chorus cheerfully hail Orestes as “liberator of the whole city” (Cho. 1046 šleuqèrwsaj psan . . . pìlin), they—and implicitly the audience with them—are endorsing a view of the interdependence of the dynastic interests of the Atreid family and the demands of an Athenian-style polity that squares perfectly with Orestes’ own (cf. 302–304 polÐtaj . . . Íphkìouj ktl.).112 As we noted earlier, no “citizen” voice is heard from directly in Choephoroi (by contrast to the frequent descriptions and acknowledgments of popular opinion in Agamemnon);113 rather,

110. Another distinctively “aristocratic” feature of Cho. that appears to be both problematized and yet, in the end, validated, is the elaborate ritual lament (kommos) over the king’s tomb. In violation of contemporary “democratic” Athenian standards, the “memorial service” lament is conducted in lyric by males and females together, with the lead provided by the foreign slave women of the Chorus (= virtual “professional mourners,” with their Eastern costume, gestures, and music); see Holst-Wahrhaft 1993, Hall 1989.83–84, Alexiou 1977, Foley 1992, Seaford 1994.139–43. Holst-Wahrhaft suggests that, in the context of 5th C. Athens and its Solonian sumptuary laws, this female-dominated and old-fashioned dirge, directed towards private vengeance, would strike the audience as dangerous and disruptive, i.e., as one of the many features of “royal Argive” behavior shown in the first two plays that needs to be eradicated in the (democratic Athenian) third. This is probably true, up to a point (and it is significant in this regard that Orestes’ male ally, Pylades, is excluded from the kommos). But I think too that this kommos, as a musical and psychagogic composition, possessed a considerable (risque´, forbidden, but exciting) appeal of its own: within the play, it unquestionably succeeds in “reaching” Agamemnon’s ears in the Underworld, and in driving Orestes forward in renewed rage and determination against his father’s murderers, and it would probably have had much the same effect on many members of the Athenian audience, whether or not they ever practised or witnessed comparable ceremonies outside the theater. (This is demonstrably true of the kommos of the Persians, since Aristophanes testifies to the positive impact of that exotic scene on audiences even late in the 5th C.: Frogs 1026–29.) 111. Similarly the Persian Elders regard the prospect of popular freedom as catastrophic (Pers. 584– 97, esp. 592–93 lèlutai g€r laäj âleÔqera bˆzein, in contrast to Atossa’s confident words at 212–14), and we are given no clues that their voice should affect us ironically. See further n. 132 below. 112. The context of both passages suggests an analogy with that most famous act of “tyrannicide,” immortalized in the sympotic Harmodios-songs known to every Athenian (PMG 893–896). In their case too (at least, if we follow the interpretation of Thucydides and several modern scholars), an act of private aristocratic vengeance has been assimilated to the civic ideal of “political liberation”; but the language seems to present a distinctive difference, for, in the Harmodios-song, the specifically democratic purpose of the killing appears to be emphasized (893.4 and 896.4 Êsonìmouj t' ÇAq naj âpoihsˆthn)—though the source(s), historicity, and intentions of the Harmodios-song(s) are far from unambiguous (for example, ÊsonomÐa at certain periods, like eÎnomÐa, could apparently be used with oligarchic implications); see Thomas 1989.238–61, and n. 101 above. 113. See above, pp. 76–78 above, with nn. 53, 58, 60, 66.

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Orestes and the Chorus speak for the city, and Orestes displays his achievements to the general Argive public—who thus begin to be assimilated into the theater audience, the actual “witnesses” of his tableau (972, 980 Òdesqe). The benevolent rule of the legitimate monarchical family is thereby distinguished sharply from “tyranny,”114 not least (as we have seen) by means of the contrast between the salutary “comradeship” of Orestes and Pylades, and the perverted pairing of the tyrannical usurpers, Aigisthos and Klytaimestra.115 Later, after his renewed exile, Orestes finally arrives in Athens, and, following the instructions of his patron Apollo (Eum. 79–83), seeks to supplicate Queen Athena (Eum. 288, 443 Šnassa).116 “In this play, unlike all other surviving tragedies set in Athens, the Athenians seem to have no king, and the function which would normally be the king’s (and which in Aeschylus’ time belonged to the basileus 114. This is true also in several other Attic tragedies, especially those featuring Theseus (Soph. OC, Eur. Supp., Herakles); the “tyrannical” monarchs appear par excellence in Thebes (Zeitlin 1986) or outside Greece (Hall 1989); see further Easterling 1984, Podlecki 1986, Grossmann 1970, Di Benedetto 1978. In reality, most tyrants seem to have been (a) members of wealthy, elite families, but (b) relatively popular with the mass of the deˆmos: the frequently negative associations of “tyranny” in extant Greek literature are primarily due to the tyrants’ violent cancellation of reciprocal obligations to other families. 115. See pp. 85–89 above. Despite the horror of the matricide and the torments that are about to ensue, there is something deeply reassuring (for those who crave paternal reassurance) about Orestes’ appearance at 973ff.: a boy/man (master, prince), long-awaited and no longer disguised, finally declaring himself in public as his father’s son, directing the gaze of all at his (no-longer desirable, nor threatening) mother, and (re)claiming what is due to him (and to the Father, the Word, the Law, the Symbolic Order . . .); cf. Cho. 812–37, with Loraux 1986b. It is not clear whether 973, 980 Òdesqe are addressed only to the household of Chorus and attendants, or to “Argos” (cf. 1040 pˆntaj ÇArgeÐouj), or to “the world at large” (cf. Taplin 1977.357–58, Garvie 1986 on 973–1076, 980); .. too 984–85 ±j Òdhi pat r . . . (which has to include Agamemnon, despite Orestes’ disclaimer). 116. Again, in Eum. 79–83 we may note how Apollo’s words seamlessly splice the personal (aristocratic) hikesia/xenia relationship (Pallˆdoj . . . Ñzou ktl.) with the civic (democratic) reliance on a jury (dikastˆj). By this point, of course, Orestes’ ties to Apollo have been reinforced and complicated: he is now a suppliant (91–92, 232–34; cf. Cho. 1034–36) and has undergone ritual cleansing under Apollo’s supervision (276–86—an operation that some have considered an intrinsically aristocratic operation, cf. Thomson 1966b.272, Di Benedetto 1978.266; also Kreps 1990). Thus Orestes’ relationship to Apollo now resembles that of Theoklymenos to Telemachos (Hom. Od. 15.256ff., 17.150–65, 20.345–71) or Adrastos to Kroisos (Hdt. 1.34ff.). Unlike those two, however, Orestes was not previously a stranger to his protector, but already strongly connected by previous mutual favors. (The same is true, as we shall see, for Orestes’ relationship with Athena.) For the similarities and overlaps between xenia and hikesia, see Gould 1973, Herman 1987.54–58, 118–28, Seaford 1994.50–51, 392–93. A parallel is suggested during the course of Eum. between the situations of Orestes and Ixion (Eum. 441, 718), who is twice cited as an example of someone who, through Olympian suppliancy (preceded, in Pindar’s version at least, by virtual hetaireia: P. 2.25–26 eÎmenèssi g€r par€ KronÐdaij glukÌn ál°n bÐoton) was successfully cleansed of pollution. (No mention is made in Eum. of the second of Ixion’s “two crimes,” the attempted rape of Hera; cf. Pind. P. 2.21–48 with schol.) Insofar as both Athena and Apollo appear to regard Ixion’s case as providing a favorable precedent for Orestes’, because he gained the protection of Zeus hikesios (717–18)—a “fact” that the Erinyes do not dispute (719 lègeij)—we seem here to receive further confirmation of the overriding power of the international network to protect its own, whatever local atrocities they may have committed. For further discussion of the complicated issue of Orestes’ pollution and cleansing, see Parker 1983.138–40, 386–88, Kreps 1990, Bowie 1993.22–24 . I am grateful to Clifton Kreps for drawing my attention to the significance of the Ixion references.

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[sc. archoˆn]) of organizing and presiding over a homicide trial, is assumed by Athena herself.”117 So Athena, in creating and supervising (and voting with) the Court of the Areopagos, operates correctly and impartially as chief magistrate of the city. But she also, in personally offering protection to Orestes and representing him at law, is in effect serving as proxenos in Athens for the Argive royal family. 118 And this personal protection is based, not only on the obligations incurred through the recent process of suppliancy itself, but also (as we shall see) on the recognition of a previously existing bond of mutual loyalty and obligation between Orestes’ family and Athena’s. In inviting Athena in particular to protect Orestes in his legal and religious entanglement, Orestes and Apollo are thus not only engaging the wisest arbiter and the most enlightened democratic city in all of Greece, but they are also taking discreet—but in the event decisive—advantage of their privileged position within the old-boy (and old-girl) network.119 This process is indeed so discreet that it appears to have escaped the notice of modern scholars, who have concentrated instead on the “religious” dimensions of pollution/purification, and chthonian/Olympian deities, or on the “civic” and “legal” processes of this first Athenian homicide trial, or on the “political” issues of the Reforms of Ephialtes, or the “social” issues of patriarchy and gender. These aspects are all indeed present, and of great importance to the original audience, as to modern scholars of a historical bent. But no less interesting, I suggest, is the process whereby, within the new apparatus of democratic government,120 the old families are 117. Sommerstein 1989.132, cf. Dodds 1969. Of course, the formal constraints of a “suppliant play” virtually require the presence of such a king/queen (cf. Pelasgos, Theseus, Demophon, etc.). On the “sons of Theseus” (Eum. 402), see pp. 99–100 below. 118. This point is not mentioned by Sommerstein, nor by other critics who emphasize the religious and/or political and legal correctness of Athena’s procedure. Of course, in describing Athena as “basileus archoˆn” and “Argive proxenos,” I do not mean to straitjacket the fictional world of Eum. in an allegorical one-to-one relationship with the Athens of 458  (any more than I should wish to indulge in the search for endorsements by Aeschylus of this or that particular platform or politician—Kimon? Perikles? anti-Perikles?; so Cole 1977, Calder 1981, etc.). The legal procedures of Eum., though they follow actual Athenian practice in many respects, also depart from them in many others, as Sommerstein 1989 notes. 119. Apollo never ceases to be Orestes’ advocate in court. But as a non-resident alien in Attika, he is unable to offer the necessary protection (physical, ritual, legal) against the Erinyes’ pursuit and prosecution: hence his enlistment of his co-Olympian sister, who is both quintessentially “Athenian” and a closer, longer-term ally of the Atreid house than he. (Pythian Apollo’s connection with Agamemnon’s son might in fact be thought to sit rather awkwardly with Apollo’s traditional antagonism towards the Greek cause at Troy. But this tradition is largely suppressed in the Oresteia; cf. Ag. 55–59, 146–52, 509–13.) See further Roth 1993.12–17 on Orestes’ xenia with Athens. 120. Of course, in relation to the Kleisthenic constitution and the reforms of Ephialtes, the Council of the Areopagos represents an extremely old and traditional organ of power; indeed, it was one of the chief targets of Ephialtes’ democratizing measures. But Aeschylus has succeeded to a large degree in amalgamating in his text, and probably in the minds of his Athenian audience, the “aristocratic” composition and tendencies of the Areopagos Council (comprised of ex-archons; in this play, handpicked by Athena: Eum. 483, 487 “the best of my citizens”) with those of the ephetai, who were probably drawn from a broader demographic base and who comprised the jury of, e.g., the Delphinion Court. See Sommerstein 1989.14–17 for a good summary of homicide procedures at Athens, with

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revealed as continuing to find ways to maintain their prestige and integrity through the old channels. In their initial contacts with one another, and again at the end of the trial, Athena and Orestes reaffirm his credentials as a family friend. We have already noted how, in the first two plays, Zeus is presented as Agamemnon’s “spear-friend” (doryxenos) in the capture of Troy,121 and how Apollo and Hermes operate as Orestes’ “sworn companions” in his return from exile and conspiracy of revenge.122 Father helped father, so sons help son, to the mutual benefit of Olympians and Atreids—if Orestes’ restoration to power and prestige can be preserved from the usurper Klytaimestra and her Erinyes. Orestes has now only to remind Athena of her own obligations within this special relationship to ensure himself of her sympathetic support against his uncouth pursuers; and that is what he proceeds to do. When Athena first arrives on stage, she explains that she has come straight from the Skamandros River (i.e., near Troy): prìswqen âc kousa kl donoj bo˜n ‚pä Skamˆndrou, g¨n katafqatoumènh, ›n d¨t' ÇAxaiÀn Šktorèj te kaÈ prìmoi, tÀn aÊxmal¸twn xrhmˆtwn lˆxoj mèga, êneiman aÎtìpremnon âj tä pn âmoÐ, âcaÐreton d¸rhma Qhsèwj tìkoij. ênqen di¸kous' ªlqon . . .

From far off I heard the sound of your summons, from the Scamander, while I was taking possession of the land which the chiefs and leaders of the Achaeans— a great share of the spoils their spears had won— assigned me to be mine utterly and forever, a choice gift for the sons of Theseus. From there I have come . . . (Eum. 397–403)

further references. He notes that the jurors in Eum. are addressed throughout, not as “Councillors” ( boul  is the normal term of address to the Areopagos in surviving orations), but as “jurymen” (dikastaÐ 483, 684, 743; cf. 81, and metaphorically at Ag. 1421, Cho. 120); but .. 684, 704 bouleut rion. 121. Above, p. 83; also n. 77. 122. Above, pp. 90–91. Apollo continues to take advantage of the language of xenia throughout Eum., addressing the Athenian jurors as cènoi in his final appeal (748), and even framing his paternity argument in terms of a xenia-relationship between father and mother (660–61): tÐktei d’ å qr¸iskwn, ™d'RM ‰per cènwi cènh êswsen êrnoj (cf. n. 94 above). Is the mother here a “stranger” or a “guestfriend” to the father? In either case, the child is their “token” (cf. Ag. 877–78), and marriage is relegated (or elevated?) to the level of a reciprocal (yet lop-sided) arrangement by which the woman can respond to the man’s gift (of seed) only by “preserving” it (êswsen, cf. Cho. 749–50, 762—but also Ag. 880–81 trèfei g€r aÎtän eÎmen˜j dorÔcenoj . . .).

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The specificity of this reference has puzzled commentators ancient and modern. Most have concluded that Aeschylus has dragged in “Skamandros” in order to allude patriotically to Athenian interest in Sigeion, a city in the Troad to which the Athenians laid claim and fought a number of campaigns against the Mytileneans, especially during the 460s.123 This may indeed be part of Aeschylus’ motive. But what is much more to the dramatic point, is the fact that, in echoing the language of Agamemnon 954–55, in which the victorious King Agamemnon refers to the captive Kassandra as pollÀn xrhmˆtwn âcaÐreton Šnqoj, stratoÜ d¸rhma . . . (“choice flower of many possessions, the army’s gift to me . . .”), Athena’s words make clear that she has been collecting in the Troad, on behalf of her city, the spoils of war owing to her, and to them, as doryxenoi of Agamemnon and “the Achaian leaders.” Such spoils are of course an integral part of the economy of war and imperialist acquisition in the Archaic and Classical Greek world: but it is significant here that the terms used (Eum. 402 âcaÐreton d¸rhma, “a choice gift,” from one set of leaders to another) are appropriate to aristocratic gift exchange, rather than, or in addition to, the purely quantitative distribution of a military budget (Eum. 400 xrhmˆtwn lˆxoj mèga, “the large distribution of goods”).124 The awarding of “choice gifts” acknowledges the military support provided by Zeus and Athena to the Atreidai (and it seems to make little difference whether we take 402 Q sewj tìkoij to mean “the Athenians” in general, or specifically “the sons of Theseus,” who are otherwise unmentioned in the play;125 for in either case Athena’s personal role is still much more prominent than theirs: 401 êneiman . . . âmoÐ = “they gave it . . . to me”). Although Athena does not yet know why she has been summoned, and is unaware of the identity of the suppliant crouched on stage, her opening speech has neatly reminded the audience (and, if he needed reminding, Orestes too) of the

123. See Sommerstein 1989 ad loc., with further references (especially Macleod 1982.125–27). Sommerstein emphasizes that the passage has “dramatic relevance” too: “chiefly, perhaps, that it sets the tone for Athena’s whole role in the play, throughout which she has constantly at heart the interests and glory of her people.” Conacher 1987.153, 155 recognizes the more particular point (Athena’s connection with Orestes’ family) without developing it. 124. Of course, the process of distribution should really have been completed several years ago, when Troy first fell, i.e., while Orestes was still a child; but the slight anachronism is effective in binding together Agamemnon’s past victory at Troy, now felt as quite recent, and Orestes’ present arrival in Athens. The obligations of xenia, after all, are inheritable and timeless. 125. The former seems more likely, especially if a reference to Athenian claims on Sigeion is intended: for the periphrasis, Sommerstein compares Eum. 13, 683, 1011, 1025–26, 1045; cf. too Kˆdmou polØtai, Kˆdmou pìlij, etc. for “Thebans, Thebes” in A. Th., and Soph. OC 1066 Qhseidn. (Theseus’ sons, Akamas and Demophon, do not appear in the Iliad, but are mentioned in the Cyclic Epics and in later tragedy.) In either case, the “trickle-down” effect to the community from the leaders’ successes is evident: whether it is Theseus’ sons, or just Athena herself, who receives the “gift,” it will be the Athenians of the future (i.e., of Aeschylus’ present) who are supposed to benefit, for there is no family of “Theseidai” in 5th C. Athens. (In real life, a commander-in-chief was normally responsible for acquiring war-booty and handing it over to the state, after taking care of expenses and the reasonable entitlements and expectations of his troops; see Pritchett 1971.53–92, esp. 85ff.)

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connections established earlier in the trilogy; and, in the scene that follows, Orestes is soon given the opportunity to explain who he is, as Athena asks directly: tÐ präj tˆd' eÊpeØn,  cèn', ân mèrei qèleij? lècaj dà x¸ran kaÈ gènoj kaÈ cumfor€j t€j s€j, êpeita tÀnd' ‚munaqoÜ yìgon.

Stranger, what answer do you wish to make in your turn? Tell me what are your country and your family and your fortunes, and then try to rebut this accusation. (Eum. 436–38) Accordingly, Orestes plays his trump card: . . . gènoj dà toÎmän ±j êxei peÔshi tˆxa; ÇArgeØìj eÊmi, patèra d' ÉstoreØj kalÀj, ÇAgamèmnon', ‚ndrÀn naubatÀn rmìstora, cÌn Ái sÌ TroÐan Špolin ÇIlÐou pìlin êqhkaj . . . . . . and what is my lineage you shall soon know. I am an Argive; and my father you know well, Agamemnon, who marshaled the men of the fleet, with whom you made Ilium’s city a city no more . . . (Eum. 454–58) sÌn Ái sÔ . . . (“with whom you yourself . . .”); it could not be more plainly stated: Athena and Orestes’ father were spear-friends. Orestes is in the right city for a sympathetic hearing. Even earlier, in his first mention of Athena, Orestes had taken care to assure everyone that, even “without the spear she will acquire in me myself and my people a trusty ally (pistän sÔmmaxon) for ever . . .” (289–91); and the promise is reiterated after the favorable verdict is returned, first at 671–73, where again we find t€ pistˆ, a key term in the language of hetaireia: (“their sworn covenant,” Sommerstein); and then more elaborately at 762–74, where we may note the repeated emphasis on “oaths of loyalty” (764 årkwmot saj, 768 årk¸mata) and on “spears” (766 dìru, 773 summˆxwi dorÈ, 777 dorìj). By contrast, when the Erinyes and Athena first come into contact, it seems that the new visitors to Athens have no such previous connection to invoke. Indeed, they have just represented themselves, accurately but undiplomatically, as being perennially estranged from all association with the Olympians: ZeÌj d' aÉmostagàj ‚ciìmison êqnoj tìde lèsxaj ‘j ‚phci¸sato.

Zeus has held our bloodstained, hateful race unworthy of his converse. (Eum. 365–66)

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This confession seems to confirm the validity of Apollo’s shrill denunciation of them earlier, as he expelled them from his shrine (Eum. 190–92), and suggests another dimension to their collision with the “new” gods: in addition to being female, ugly, and barbarous, the Erinyes are presented in this third play as socially disadvantaged, even de´classe´es: fatherless, and lacking connections in the dynastic network of divinities, they are unable to establish a reciprocal relationship with the patron goddess of Athens.126 Like Orestes, they are at first unrecognized by her

126. At the risk of pressing the evidence too far, and over-emphasizing one strand out of many that contribute to the failure of the Erinyes to win their case against Orestes, I point out a number of other indications that may imply a “lower-class” characterization for these terrifying hags, as compared with the glorious dynasts of Olympos: (i) The choral song in which they express themselves most characteristically and perform most vividly and distinctively as “themselves” is the famous “Binding Song” (Eum. 307–96, cf. 306 Õmnon . . . dèsmion). Here it is noticeable that they are given a metrical structure, and particular sequences of cola, that are distinctively different from any others in the trilogy (Scott 1984.118–23, though he gives a different explanation); in particular, the repeated successions of paeonics (resolved cretics, ˘ ˘ ˘ – ) in the incantatory ephymnia (328–33, 341–46, 372–76) seem to belong to a folksy family of meters usually confined to comedy (Wilamowitz 1921.330–33, Dale 1968.97–101. Moritz 1979 does not address this aspect of choral refrain). The combination of direct mimesis of magical practice—a practice normally represented in Greek literature as “lower-class” and/or foreign and/or feminine, however much it may in fact have been pursued surreptitiously by upper-class males (Faraone 1985, Winkler 1991.90)—with “popular” rhythms (and dance and gesture?), sets this chorus apart from all others in Greek tragedy (cf. too Ag. 990–91, 1186–87, and Fleming 1977.229–30, 233). (ii) Three times the Erinyes complain that the new gods “trample [them] down with [their] horses” (Eum. 150 nèoj dà graÐaj daÐmonaj kaqippˆsw, 731 kaqippˆzhi me presbÜtin nèoj, 779 palaioÌj nìmouj kaqippˆsasqe). This rare expression is usually glossed as just one more of the many words for “trampling” that run throughout the trilogy (e.g., Lebeck 1971.74–79); but it may derive extra force from the aristocratic associations of horse-riding, as of an infantry unit being “overrun” by cavalry (see LSJ s.v. kaqippˆzomai), or a crowd of pedestrians in the street being “trampled” under the hooves of upper-class riders (like the women of Theokritos Id. 15.51–53 dÐsta GorgoØ, tÐ gen¸meqa? toÈ polemistaÈ / Ñppoi tÀ basil¨oj. Šner fÐle, m  me pat shij; / ærqäj ‚nèsta å purrìj . . .). (The Erinyes themselves, although some scholars trace their origins to a kind of horse-divinity, in this trilogy are compared mostly to dogs.) (iii) At 721–28, in response to Apollo’s scornful assertion that they are “without honor” among all the gods (722 Štimoj), the Erinyes recall his (to them) scandalous behavior with regard to Admetos: “You persuaded the Moirai to make mortals deathless (724) [How?] . . .you befuddled the old goddesses with wine” (728 oÒnwi parhpˆthsaj / parhpˆfhsaj). Admetos’ hospitality was legendary, as was the strength of his xeniarelationship with Apollo (cf. 725 eÎergeteØn); here, their sympotic male bonding seems to be contrasted with the old women’s inability to hold their liquor—and it is no secret that the Moirai and the Erinyes share many attributes and characteristics. Cf. too Ag. 1186–92, discussed in n. 86 above. (I am grateful to Benjamin Hughes for bringing these passages to my attention in this context.) (iv) Klytaimestra, in her attempts to rouse the sleeping Erinyes to renewed pursuit of Orestes (Eum. 94–116), complains that she is “dishonored” (95 ‚phtimasmènh) and “shamefully vagabond” (98 aÊsxrÀj ‚lÀmai), because of their neglect of her offerings and reminders. There may be a contrast intended here with Apollo’s willing support of Orestes in his dishonored exile and wanderings: just as Klytaimestra showed herself unable to join effectively in the male xenia-network, so do the Erinyes, laboring in her service, appear ungracious and ill-connected (lacking in xˆrij). For all their old and hallowed stake in the administration of cosmic order, the Erinyes (like Messenian peasants in Sparta? or the innumerable colonized inhabitants of “new” Greek cities everywhere?) allow themselves too easily to be represented as outsiders, underdogs, utterly lacking in the dignity and style of Zeus’ royal Hellenic family. Even after the reconciliation at the end of Eum., their incorporation into Attic society will come only at the level of metics, not citizens (1011 metoÐkoij, 1018 metoikÐan, opp. 980 politn, 991 polÐtaij, 997 ‚stikäj

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(406–14); but in their case, she provides them with no helpful clues as to their possible connection with her: in fact she remarks that they strike her as sub-human in their appearance (410–12; contrast the matter-of-fact cènwi for Orestes, 409). In their response to her introductory question, “Who are you?” (408 tÐnej pot' âstè;), the Erinyes present their ancestry and prerogatives (gènoj and timaÐ, 418–19). But these, though acknowledged by Athena (418–24), strike no answering chord of common interest or friendship. Instead there follows a line-by-line exchange (428– 35), whose details are somewhat obscure, and whose crucial verse (435) is possibly corrupt, but whose outcome, though underplayed and unspectacular, is nonetheless sudden and fateful. Indeed, it could be said that the outcome of the whole trilogy is determined at the moment when the Erinyes, in deference to Athena’s pedigree, agree to entrust the arbitration of the present dispute to her: [Aq.] ª k‚p' âmoÈ trèpoit' “n aÊtÐaj tèloj? [Xo.] pÀj d' oÖ? sèbousaÐ g' ‚cÐan k‚p' ‚cÐwn.127

[Ath.] Would you commit to me the settlement of the charge? [Cho.] Surely, we reverence you as worthy and of worthy parentage. (Eum. 434–35) If this reading is correct, the outcast Erinyes appear to be acknowledging (rather clumsily?) the respectability of the Olympian family—in terms that unwisely echo their earlier remark about Zeus’ disrespect for them (366 ‚phci¸sato) and thus draw attention once again to their own de´classe´ status. The contrast with Orestes’ smooth interaction with Athena in the lines that follow could hardly be sharper. As the network checks in, and the wheels of interfamilial and international reciprocity are discreetly regreased, the Erinyes (we recognize or sense, consciously or subliminally) are out of the loop. The outcome of Orestes’ case, though the Furies do not realize it, is already being taken care of. Athena of course takes care to run the homicide trial honestly and fairly, like a proper basileÌj Šrxwn, presiding over the most august court in the land. As we have noted, the character and composition of this original jury of Areopagites remain somewhat nebulous (and for good reason: in real life, these ex-Archons would largely still be drawn from among the wealthiest Athenians, and the consequences of Ephialtes’ recent measures to reduce the Areopagos’ authority, which had resulted le¸j, 1013 polÐtaij, 1045 ‚stoØj)—though they do eventually show some signs of acquiring a more enlightened civic and “sympotic” ethos (980–86, esp. 984–86 xˆrmata d' ‚ntididoØen koinofileØ dianoÐai kaÈ stugeØn mii frenÐ, and 992 eÖfronej). 127. This reading (adopted by Page in his OCT) is Arnaldus’, based on the Medicean scholion ‚cÐwn oÞsan gonèwn. The MSS have sèbousaÐ g' ‚cÐan t' âp' ‚cÐwn, which makes no sense or syntax. West 1990 prefers Hermann’s seboÔshi g' Šci' ‚nt' âpacÐwn (“Yes, since you reverence proper treatment in return for proper treatment”), in which case trust in the expected reciprocity of Athena’s behavior (xˆrij) rather than pedigree is the decisive factor; cf. Eum. 984–87, 992–95, 1029–31, etc. Whatever the correct reading in this line, the seb- and ‚ci- roots establish clearly enough that the Chorus are acknowledging some kind of superior quality in Athena’s credentials (cf. 725 tän sèbonta, 366 ‚phci¸sato).

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in near-civil war, may still have been unclear).128 For the most part, these jurors are meant to be thought of as representing the Athenians at large, and the Athenian political process in general, rather than a particular (conservative) segment of it; but it is striking that a distinction is drawn at times between this dignified and trusty “Council” (bouleut rion, 570, 684, 704) and the noisy and potentially inconsistent “citizens” (693 politÀn, cf. 569 stratÀi, etc.) whom it represents or protects.129 When it comes time to vote, at least half of these human jurors vote for condemnation; but Athena’s explicit preference for “the male” (737), and for “the father” (738), proves decisive.130 Then, once the verdict has been reached, Orestes immediately hails Athena:  Pallˆj,  s¸sasa toÌj âmoÌj dìmouj, gaÐaj patr¸iaj âsterhmènon sÔ toi kat¸ikisˆj me . . .

O Pallas, you who have preserved my house, I was deprived of my native [father-] land, and it is you who have brought me home! (Eum. 754–56) He goes on to reassure the Athenians of the reciprocal benefits that will henceforth accrue from his city to theirs, thus deftly extending the private, familial connection to the civic realm, as democratic ideology requires. It is here that the references to oaths and spear-alliances pile up the thickest (762–64 stratÀi . . . årkwmot saj, 128. The property qualification for this office had probably been lowered by the time of the Oresteia, but only recently. For detailed discussion of the history of the Areopagos Council and Ephialtes’ Reforms, see Jones 1987, Wallace 1989, Sommerstein 1989, with further references. See too n. 61 above. 129. See above pp. 76–78, for discussion of the “popular” viewpoint as presented earlier in the trilogy. Taplin 1977.392–95, 410–121 argues that there is no such distinction in Eum.: stratìj, polØtai, ÇAttikäj le¸j, etc., all refer to the Areopagites themselves, as “the pick of the citizen body . . .the founding fathers . . . of Athenian justice . . . They stand for the city as a whole.” (p. 394); likewise Rose 1992.246–48. Certainly they “stand for” the city in several senses (as does Athena herself); but that is not quite the same as saying that “the judges are consistently represented as the whole people of Athens” (Rose 248). Athena speaks for the Athenians at large; the Areopagos Council votes for the Athenians at large: but neither is wholly typical or “representative” of the Athenians at large (even less, of the deˆmos), in the way that the Watchman and Herald (or even the Elders) were typical of the Argives. Rather, they are idealizations (cf. Rosenbloom 1993, 1995, and n. 60 above). Although it seems impossible to determine how many additional groups are eventually brought onstage for the trial and its aftermath (see Sommerstein 1989.275–78), it remains true, I think, that our view of the Areopagos Council switches back and forth, from its being “typical citizens” to its being “elite citizens chosen to supervise the rest” (as e.g. in their being addressed at 1011 as paØdej KranaoÜ). In the final song of farewell, the assembled Athenians are addressed as “locals, men of the region” (xwrØtai), an unusual locution whose significance is hard to gauge because the identity of the singers is uncertain (Areopagites? Erinyes-Eumenides? female attendants of Athena? See Sommerstein 1989 on 1021–47). Perhaps it is intended as a more inclusive term than polØtai (“citizens”), so that metics, divinities, attendants, etc., may all be addressed as a unified body. 130. For the multiple significance of the “paternal,” see nn. 100, 115 above.

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766 dìru, 768 årk¸mata, 773 summˆxwi dorÐ, 775 xaØre, 777 dorìj), as Orestes takes his leave to resume his royal duties in Argos. Thus the covenant (re)established between Orestes and Athena combines elements of inter-city alliance, inter-family networking, and hero-cult, in a manner guaranteed to appeal to every segment and level of Athenian society.131 Meanwhile it is left to Athena to negotiate a tactful new deal with the exasperated Furies, in an Athenian community whose balance of powers will float blissfully in an unspecified but mutually agreeable condition somewhere between “despotism” and “anarchy.”132 But there is still one essential strand in the network that we have not fully considered: the God-father himself, Zeus. We noted earlier that Zeus is presented in the first play, among his many other functions, as being a doryxenos to Agamemnon in his campaign against Troy. For the most part I have concentrated up to this point on the active roles played by Zeus’ children, Apollo, Hermes, and Athena, in protecting and rewarding Orestes, albeit with frequent reference to his and their “paternity.” But it is ultimately to be Zeus himself, the head of the divine family and subject of the most solemn and portentous choral utterances of the trilogy, who will guarantee the reciprocal relationship between Olympians, Atreids, and Athenians. As pateˆr, basileus, agoraios, kteˆsios-herkeios, teleios, tritos soˆteˆr, Zeus is affirmed over and over as guaranteeing the final resolution of trial and trilogy, and as providing a unifying locus of order and harmony (real or imaginary) to which

131. Although the dramatic focus is now on Athens, Orestes is obviously still to be understood as personally regaining the wealth and power whose loss he bemoaned earlier (Cho. 301–303), in addition to the political security and prestige that he and his city will share as future allies of Athens. In addition, we have been reminded of the special value of his bones and tomb. Despite Eum. 767–71, however, there is no explicit aetiology provided in the Oresteia for future cult of Orestes or his family—in contrast to, e.g., Eur. IT 947–60, where the Anthesteria are described. Bowie 1993 sees some indirect references to these rituals in the account of the Thyestes meal (Ag. 1577–1611), but they seem very faint (and Orestes and his family were, after all, normally regarded as thoroughly Peloponnesian, even Spartan). Rather, the indeterminacy of the location and status of Orestes’ tomb (in contrast to his father’s) allows for a cult that could be either familial and aristocratic, or civic, and thus maximizes its potential sphere of influence (see further Sommerstein 1989 on Eum. 767, Macleod 1982.126). For convenient accounts of the relations between (intermittently democratic) Argos and Athens during the 5th C., see Podlecki 1966.82–94, Sommerstein 1989.26–32. 132. The Erinyes and Athena both recommend the simultaneous avoidance of “despotism” and “anarchy” (517–38, 690–99). But, even though Athena compares the Athenians’ situation favorably with that of the Peloponnesians or Scythians (700–706), neither she nor anyone else provides explicit recommendation of isonomia or deˆmokratia. Rather, Athena concentrates on the august status of the Areopagos Council itself; it is they who will be heirs to the Erinyes’ supervisory powers, and “watchful guardian of the land” (706 froÔrhma, cf. 1010 polissoÜxoi), and they who are expected to exercise the degree of “terror” necessary for maintaining social control. Critics have argued over the “conservative” implications of this pro-Areopagos stance; see Livingstone 1925, Dover 1957.236, Dodds 1960, Podlecki 1966.126–29, Conacher 1987.199–204, Jones 1987.69–75. I agree with Sommerstein’s conclusions (on 693–95): “The poet has deliberately left his precise meaning obscure . . . thus enabling both reformers and anti-reformers to feel that he is somehow on their side . . . Eum. in general is not a partisan play in matters of internal Athenian politics: rather it emphasizes, especially towards the end, national unity and the avoidance of civil strife.”

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all can refer and be comforted.133 Some modern critics indeed (unlike Plato) have found in Aeschylus’ view of Zeus an enlightened religious and moral “faith” rare in the ancient world, which they see as the key to the interpretation of the trilogy. A number of passages in Eumenides have led the most recent commentator on the play to assert that Aeschylus is introducing to the Athenians “a startling new idea: that the gods are in some measure responsible to mortals. . . .” In particular, the unusual expressions of Zeus’ “concern” for mortals at Eumenides 760 (patrÀion aÊdesqeÐj mìron, “feeling shame at my father’s death”) and 1002 (‰zetai “ . . .stands in awe [sc. of the Athenians]”), have been taken to mean that henceforth “the gods will ‘pay due reverence’ to the rights and dignity of mortal humanity.” Aeschylus then, uniquely in the history of Greek culture, is depicting an evolving, mature divinity which has learned to “operat[e] a system of justice that satisfies the legitimate aspirations of all.”134 This is an inspiring vision, and I am reluctant to pour cold water on it: some of Aeschylus’ Athenian audience may indeed have responded thus. But there is another, quite different way in which these striking expressions of Zeus’ “reverence” and “awe” can be read, a way that seems to me more firmly anchored in the dramatic context of the trilogy, and in the particular linguistic and cultural aspects of these two phrases.  Pallˆj,  s¸sasa toÌj âmoÌj dìmouj, gaÐaj patr¸iaj âsterhmènon sÔ toi kat¸ikisˆj me. kaÐ tij ÃEll nwn âreØ “ArgeØoj n˜r aÞqij, ên te xr masin oÊkeØ patr¸ioij, Pallˆdoj kaÈ LocÐou ékati kaÈ toÜ pˆnta kraÐnontoj trÐtou Swt¨roj”; çj patrÀion aÊdesqeÈj mìron s¸izei me . . .

O Pallas, you who have preserved my house, I was deprived of my native land, and it is you who have brought me home! And the Greeks shall say, “The man is once more an Argive, and lives among the possessions of his father, by the grace of Pallas and of Loxias, and of him who determines all things, the third Preserver”; yes, it is he who had regard to the manner of my father’s death, and has preserved me . . . (Eum. 754–61) In this passage, Orestes formally acknowledges his gratitude to the three Olympians who have restored him to his patrimony (“house . . . land . . . possessions . . .”). 133. Fischer 1965, Goldhill 1984a and 1984b, Burian 1986 (and many others). For a less comforting account of Zeus in the Oresteia, see e.g. Cohen 1986. 134. The quotations are from Sommerstein 1989.25, 24; similarly Kitto 1956.78–86, Grossmann 1970.246–56, 272–80; and cf. Winnington-Ingram 1983.154–74.

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patrÀioj is the key term, thrice mentioned, and recalling the definitive opening words of the second play (Cho. 1 patrÀi' âpopteÔwn krˆth), as well as Athena’s decision (Eum. 738 toÜ patrìj). Through his acquittal, Orestes has recovered the wealth, local privileges, and Panhellenic status due to Agamemnon’s son as a leading member of the “international” Greek elite—thanks to the support of Zeus, Apollo, and Athena. And why (in Orestes’ view) has Zeus gone to such trouble to lend this support? What is Orestes’ final comment on his “salvation” (754, cf. 777)? The factor that he highlights, i.e., Zeus’ sense of “shame” (760 aÊdesqeÐj) at Agamemnon’s death, seems to have been aroused, not by abstract discomfort at the idea of unmerited human suffering in general, but specifically by Zeus’ own failure to protect a valued spear-friend, which amounts to a “fail[ure] in an obligation of honor towards him.”135 That is to say, Zeus naturally feels keenly that he owed restitution to the son of the guest-friend whom he failed: and aidoˆs is exactly the proper term for this feeling. Likewise, in 996–1002, Zeus’ “reverence” or “awe” for the Athenians should not be translated into an undifferentiated concern for the “rights and dignity of mortal humanity” in general, for it is directed quite specifically and exclusively towards the Athenians, by reason of their status as dependent philoi of Zeus’ daughter:

. . . xaÐret', ‚stikäj le¸j, Òktar ¡menoi Diäj parqènou fÐlaj fÐloi, swfronoÜntej ân xrìnwi; Pallˆdoj d' Ípä pteroØj întaj ‰zetai pat r. Hail, people of the city, whose seat is close to Zeus’ virgin daughter,136 dear to her who is dear to you, gaining wisdom as time passes. On you that sit beneath the wings of Pallas Her father looks with reverence.137 (Eum. 997–1002) In this image of mother bird and nestlings, the timid crowd of dependents represents a virtual duplicate (or ancestor) of Aeschylus’ Athenian audience, permanent 135. So, rightly, Sommerstein 1989.24. This is not to say that Zeus was not also impelled by the abstract principles of “paternity,” “marriage,” “kingship,” etc., or of “justice” itself; but none of these would normally provoke such feelings of “shame.” 136. I have modified Lloyd-Jones’ translation here: he separates Diäj and parqènou, “whose seat is near to Zeus, dear to the goddess who is dear to you”; see Sommerstein 1989 ad loc. 137. This again is my modification of Lloyd-Jones’ translation of ‰zetai (“looks with kindness”); both “reverence” and “kindness” are implied. For this linking of Pallas and Zeus in protection of the citizens of Athens, cf. the skolion PMG 884 Pall€j Tritogènei' Šnass' ÇAqˆna, / îrqou t nde pìlin te kaÈ polÐtaj / . . . sÔ te kaÈ pat r (aptly cited by Thomson 1966a ad loc., and Macleod 1982.130).

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suppliants eternally craving the military and political protection of Athena ParthenosPolias, the warrior goddess who presides over their Acropolis.138 Of course “Pallas’ father respects” his child’s fÐloi in such circumstances: any noble father should do the same. So the Athenian audience can take comfort in the thought of this special connection that they all share, through their patron goddess, with the king of the gods himself. They have witnessed the reassuring meshing together of (horizontal) personal ties among these international dynastic families, and the concomitant (vertical) trickle-down of benefits thereby accruing to the civic community. And, whether they feel themselves personally on a level with the Areopagite “children of Kranaos that hold the city,” as they escort the “metic” Erinyes to their new station (1010–11) and mediate the “good will” of the citizen body at large (1012–13 eÒh d' ‚gaqÀn ‚gaq˜ diˆnoia polÐtaij), or—more likely, for most of the audience—look up to them as intermediaries between the poorer citizens and the dynastic elite, they can bask contentedly in the assurance that their interests have been, and will be, served. With this network, and patrons such as these, the future of Athenian democracy looks rosy indeed. V: FESTIVAL, TRAGEDY, AND IDEOLOGY

At this point, I should like to step back a little, to consider the implications of this reading of the Oresteia for our understanding of Greek tragedy as a whole. At the risk of building too ambitious a construction upon the foundations of just one dramatic performance, I want to explore some of the ways in which the particular negotiations between elite and mass that we have observed in Aeschylus’ trilogy seem to be characteristic of the dynamics of Attic tragedy in general, both as literary text and as civic spectacle. In this final section, I shall for the most part be treating all of “Attic tragedy,” and every “City Dionysia,” synchronically, as if they remained more or less static throughout the fifth century. This is both unavoidable (since we have very little evidence as to what changes may have taken place in the conduct of the festival between 508 and 400 ),139 and on the whole, I think, justifiable, since, despite the differences observable between the plots, formal structures, and verbal and metrical techniques of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, we can still recognize an extraordinary continuity and consistency among all the extant plays. Yet I

138. Cf. the similar images of Ajax’s followers (Soph. Ajax 134–40, 164–71), quoted below, pp. 120– 21: there too, the Salaminian sailors look to their mighty chieftain for physical comfort and political support (a chieftain who in due course became a cult hero to the Athenians). For further discussion of “das athenische Herrscherideal,” with particular reference to Zeus and the Oresteia, cf. Grossmann 1970.272–80. 139. On the procedures of the festival, see Pickard-Cambridge 1988.57–125: a high proportion of the evidence comes from the 4th C. and later. For the physical changes in the Theater (which are likewise extremely hard to pin down to this or that date, even to a particular century), see e.g. Taplin 1977.434–59, with further references.

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have no wish to downplay the importance of the changes, some of them radical, that took place within the political institutions and procedures of the Athenian state between those dates, of the economic and demographic crises that were experienced, and of the devastating wars and revolutions that repeatedly, indeed almost continuously, tore at the social fabric of Athens. The attitudes and operations of 458  were not the same as those of 404, or even 421; and in the theater, Aristophanes’ Frogs provides testimony enough of the aesthetic—and political— chasm that was felt by many to yawn between the tragedies of Aeschylus and those of Euripides. So, in what follows, in my efforts to advance (yet another) general theory of Attic tragedy, I may well be guilty of lumping together too many disparate phenomena, and of illegitimately telescoping events and styles spanning a whole century into one imaginary “Athenian moment.” It should be understood, however, that my primary intention is to explain what the Oresteia, specifically, was doing in its immediate historical context (Athens in the 460s-450s), and I hope that this explanation can be considered on its own merits, regardless of whether it holds for the next generation or two of tragic performances as well. With these provisos in mind, let us begin with some large (and perhaps all-too familiar) questions. What did tragedy do for the Athenians? Why did they (and why do modern readers and theater-goers too) take such enormous pleasure in these violent and disquieting performances, and accord them so much prestige? Why were these performances taken so seriously, and why was it believed that they did so much good (or harm)? What did Athenians think they were doing when they went to the Theater? And what were they actually doing?140 There can obviously be no single “correct” answer to these questions. Tragoˆidia provided multiple pleasures and satisfied a variety of social and emotional needs, which may well not have been entirely self-consistent or coherent, and we should not try to tie them all up too tidily in a single theoretical package. Indeed, the responses of different segments of the original audience must often have differed from one another, sometimes radically, just as those of modern critics do.141 Nonetheless, it 140. Such questions, when asked of comedy, seem, at least superficially and from our modern perspective, much easier to answer: the elements of wish-fulfilment, humor, and ridicule of enemies (“laughter”) are intrinsically pleasurable; whereas the delight and satisfaction derived from contemplating or auditing gruesome crimes (“tears; pity and fear”) are less transparently obvious. 141. That is to say, if modern critics have drawn attention to different aspects of Aeschylus’ plays, and accordingly found different meanings in them, these differing readings, while they may to some degree reflect changing fashions and priorities among departments of Classics, literature, political science, history, dramatic art, etc., may nonetheless be based quite legitimately and responsibly on the texts of the plays themselves and on the available evidence for the conditions and expectations of tragic performance in 5th C. Athens. It would be easy to list a dozen or more “functions” consciously or unconsciously performed by our extant tragedies: e.g., portrayal of reality (“poetry is more philosophical than history”); instruction in moral or political behavior; religious education; individual or collective psychotherapy (e.g., “purging of emotions,” or affirmation of the group); scapegoating (the “ritual substitute”); technical artistic challenge; aesthetic satisfaction (poetry, rhythms, formal structures); civic pride and self-definition (Athenian male vs. the Other, etc.); testing limits and confronting dangers

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seems to me a safe working hypothesis that the annual performance of tragedies did “make sense” to the fifth century Athenians as a community in deeply significant ways: otherwise they would not have continued to invest such a huge amount of money, energy, and symbolic capital in this particular social practice: they would have adapted it until it did make sense (again), or found other practices to take its place.142 The claim that one essential function of Attic tragedy is (in some sense) to explore social conflict, transgression, and ambiguities, including those of Athenian civic identity itself, should by now provoke little disagreement. But the direction and tenor of that exploration are not easy to determine. At the beginning of this article, I summarized the widely held view that Athenian tragedy is an essentially “democratic” art form, representing and endorsing a specifically Athenian civic ideology; but it may be that an (understandable) critical preoccupation with development and progress, and a concomitant tendency to locate and define a coherent “democratic ideology” as the Athenian norm against which tragedy’s “transgressions” and conflicts are played out, have resulted at times in readings that are too one-dimensional, even skewed. It is not that there was no such democratic ideology, or that the plays do not reflect it and speak to it; but there were other, competing ideologies too, which need to be taken just as fully into account.143 I suggest, therefore, that one important function, not only of the Oresteia, but of Attic tragedy in general, was to negotiate between conflicting class interests and ideologies within the polis. Though every tragic text and performance is unique, and none tells exactly the same story as any other, yet they all participate in a similar dynamic in which the oppositions between leaders and led, upper classes and lower, and taboos; converting (chaotic) Dionysiac energy into (manageable) art; and so on. Most of these should be recognizable as shorthand versions of well-known “theories of tragedy”; several are explicitly or implicitly present in Aristotle’s sketches in the Poetics and Politics. The validity of any one of these “functions” need not compromise the validity of the others. 142. Some social practices and institutions do undeniably come into being that are manifestly incoherent, unproductive, and damaging to the participants, while others that were once useful or beneficial persist long after their use and benefit have ceased, to the point where they become deleterious or pointless. But I am content with the broadly “functionalist” view that these are exceptions, not the rule. For an instructive account of the changing character and multiple functions of two modern civic festivals (Mardi Gras in New Orleans and in Mobile) over a period of two centuries, see Kinser 1990. 143. In general, see the references in nn. 1 and 3 above. I should make clear that my debt to the critics there cited, and my admiration for their work, are great. My refocusing of the discussion should be seen not as a rejection of their views, but as an attempt to modify and supplement them. So, for example, Goldhill in the course of his fine analysis, remarks (1990.114), “The Great Dionysia is in the full sense of the expression a civic occasion. . . . This is fundamentally and essentially a festival of the democratic polis. . . . [And yet] both tragedy and comedy, in their transgressive force . . . time after time implicate the dominant ideology put forward in the preplay ceremonies in a far from straightforward manner; indeed the tragic texts seem to question, examine, and often subvert the language of the city’s order”; and he goes on to discuss (115) “the sense of tension between the texts of tragedy and the ideology of the city.” I think these formulations are exactly right; but I am concerned not to let “the democratic polis,” “the city’s order,” and “the ideology of the city” stand too pat.

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are problematized, but ultimately resolved or suppressed. 144 The resolution, or suppression, is usually managed in such a way that both classes can wind up feeling their own interests and ideology validated; but the actual or implied outcome of the whole process is a mutual assurance of the continuation in authority of a class of aristocratic leaders, vulnerable, occasionally flawed, but in the last resort infinitely precious and indispensable. With its skillful integration of “democratic” and “aristocratic” elements, and its almost subliminal suggestions of the enduring need for elite leadership and traditional dynastic ties, the Oresteia seems to provide an especially complete and convincing example of the production of “solidarity without consensus.” 145 Through the demonization (in the first play) of the Argive and Trojan royal families, and the salutary and prominent role given (in the third) to Athenian democratic institutions, together with the surreptitious fading from the scene, first of Elektra and Pylades in Choephoroi, and then of Apollo and Orestes himself in Eumenides, Aeschylus allows his mass audience to revel in the self-congratulatory glow of relief and satisfaction deriving from Athena’s inspiring words and the all-inclusive gesture of the final procession: gods, Areopagites, noblemen, common citizens, metics, women, children, attendants are all united and strengthened (992–95, 1015–16, 1025–31, etc.);146 internal divisions (familial, generational, divine, sexual) have been replaced by a collective rallying against the Outsider (851 âj ‚llìfulon . . . xqìna, 986 stugeØn mii frenÐ). There are no “bad aristocrats” left to worry about,147 and

144. For an acknowledgement of the dangers and limitations—but also a justification—of such crude class analysis, see my introductory section above, esp. nn. 8 and 9. Again I should make clear that, on one level, I have no quarrel with the notion that “ ‘nobles’ and ‘the best people’ [in tragedy] could easily be understood by a citizen audience in a democracy as types of themselves” (Easterling 1984.35), i.e., that the royal and “noble” characters on the stage must in some respects impress the mass of Athenians in the audience as being just like themselves and facing similar temptations and trials. (Thus “Xerxes becomes an example of humanity over-reaching itself, not just of an essentially Persian mode of behaviour,” Easterling 1984.38; and cf. Rosenbloom 1993.183ff. on myth as “displaced history.”) But, on another level, there is no getting away from the fact that the dramas invariably present “nobles” and “ordinary people” as being quite distinct, and never allow the lower-class characters to perform any significant (and effective) action, or enjoy any serious individual success or failure. (Thus the “non-Persian” aspects of Aeschylus’ Xerxes inevitably recall, not so much an ordinary democratic citizen, as an ambitious nobleman; see n. 80 above.) The text of Herodotos, with its numerous stories of good and bad citizens, and its memorable “little heroes” (side by side, and interacting with, the grandees Kroisos, Miltiades, Dareios, Xerxes, etc.), offers an illuminating contrast. 145. For further explanation of this concept, see n. 159 below. 146. It has long been recognized that this procession invokes elements of the Panathenaia, as a reinforcement of civic unity and pride; Headlam 1906, Sommerstein 1989 on Eum. 1028, 1031. 147. Apollo (who possesses some of the arrogant and flashy attributes of the wrong kind of aristocrat) evaporates before the end of Eum. (Taplin 1977.402–407); Klytaimestra’s ghost has lost all strength, and she and Aigisthos were conspicuously deficient in the masculine-generative/feminine-nurturing capacities needed to produce vengeful leonine offspring; as for Troy, the smoldering ashes have been converted into valuable acres of Athenian property (Eum. 397–402).

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the “good aristocrats” are where they belong—presiding over Argos and Athens, for the good of all.148 If this reading of the Oresteia as affirming traditional elite values and practices is valid, and if (as I believe) this trilogy is in this regard more typical of fifth century tragedy than exceptional, then we must modify our account of tragedy, to make room for a strong elitist ingredient that seems to be essential to it. In short, Athenian tragedy should be counted among the key components of the hegemonic discourse: a discourse produced by the elite, but licensed and approved by the citizen masses, and contributing richly to their shared sense of value, interdependence, and entitlement/subjection.149 Whether we regard this process as one of “manipulation” from above, i.e., a kind of social control, in which the gullible masses are brainwashed into accepting and buying into the dominant ideology of the elite (to the extent of even giving prizes to the poets and producers who manipulate them), or (as I should prefer) as one of mutual mystification by elite and mass, in which the old stories are retold in terms that make the best available sense (given the traditions of mythical narrative and the public context of the Theater) to an author and audience both of whom continue to take for granted the inequalities and privileges to which they are accustomed, in either case both sets of participants are grateful for this opportunity to have familiar values reaffirmed and troubling contradictions smoothed away150 —and neither elite nor deˆmos probably realizes to what extent they are collaborating in the affirmation of social hierarchy and inequality.151 And 148. If it be objected that Athens is presented in Eum. as functioning effectively without aristocratic human leaders, the response must be that, as we saw above, Queen Athena, by her words and conduct on behalf of her Father, amply fulfils the requirements of a well-bred leader. The value of aristocratic breeding is thereby affirmed, while the awkwardness of vesting a particular Athenian individual or family (even of the distant past) with too great a share of symbolic capital is tactfully sidestepped. (The more usual Athenian solution to this recurrent problem was to employ Theseus, an inoffensive and all-purpose pater patriae; cf. Grossmann 1970.276–80, Easterling 1984.35–36, 39–41.) 149. I adopt here the terminology of Williams 1977 (which is in turn adapted from Gramsci 1971): “Hegemony is . . . not only the articulate upper level of ‘ideology,’ nor are its forms of control only those ordinarily seen as ‘manipulation’ or ‘indoctrination.’ It is a whole body of practices and expectations, over the whole of living: our senses and assignments of energy, our shaping perceptions of ourselves and our world. It is a lived system of meanings and values—constitutive and constituting—which as they are experienced as practices appear as reciprocally confirming. It thus constitutes a sense of reality for most people in a society, a sense of absolute because experienced reality beyond which it is very difficult for most members of the society to move, in most areas of their lives. It is, that is to say, in the strongest sense a ‘culture,’ but a culture which has also to be seen as the lived dominance and subordination of particular classes” (110). See further Rose 1992.29–30, and for a different, but complementary, formulation, Bourdieu 1990.122–34. 150. Here again, I do not wish to assert that Greek tragedies all deal only in the affirmation of shared values and smoothing of contradictions. The conflicts and catastrophes confronted in some of these plays are so disturbing as to render any dramatic “resolution” of them partial, at best; and it can be persuasively argued that such tragedies are intended to be, and were experienced as being, deeply problematic. My point is that even such radical questionings of conventional morality and social unity occur in a medium which inevitably dilutes and defuses them (to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the particular play) through the mechanisms I am exploring here. 151. Herein lies one important difference from the ancient concept of the poet as “teacher,” or the modern picture of a “conservative” or “radical” Aeschylus, advising his citizens on the merits

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one reason why this process has passed largely without modern critical comment may be that it corresponds so closely to the social practice of our own commercial movie-makers and TV producers in the “democratic” West.152 and demerits of Ephialtes’ reforms. I have reservations likewise about the assertion, “In Aischylos, liberation is the necessary and divinely sanctioned outcome of the action. To put the matter simply: the drive to dominate cannot overcome the yearning for freedom” (Rosenbloom 1995); for the “liberation” that is achieved in Aeschylus is predicated upon submission to a certain kind of benevolent but deeply traditional and unequal order. I am more comfortable with Rosenbloom’s subsequent formulation, “Domination either falls or is threatened with collapse, and must be reconstructed according to a more conservative principle: salvation (swthrÐa). . . . Aischylos envisions freedom as a function of purity in the eyes of the gods”; see my next note. 152. During the course of writing this article, I was taken by my children to see Walt Disney’s animated movie, The Lion King, which has been hailed by critics and audiences of all ages as Disney’s best yet. Its plot shares several basic elements with the Oresteia (though Hamlet is a more immediate source), and it exemplifies with particular clarity some of the contradictions that I am here addressing (granted that the medium and the social context are completely different). At the risk of alienating any of my readers who dislike far-fetched cross-cultural comparisons of this sort, I should like to sketch these in some detail, since I believe that the similarities are neither random nor insignificant. (I hope antipathetic readers will simply skip the rest of this footnote.) Though composed for a selfconsciously “freedom-loving” and “democratic” audience (primarily in the USA), during an era in which the principle of equality of race and gender is supposedly a high priority, The Lion King is stirring ecstatically enthusiastic (and tearful) responses with a plot whose (heavily formulaic) basic premises are almost identical to those of (e.g.) the feudal Robin Hood and The Sword in the Stone, or the primitivist Bambi: (i) the best individual fighters (lions/shaggy-haired White American males) do, and deserve to, dominate all others; (ii) these others are grateful for such benevolent domination, and couldn’t function without it; (iii) only males can plan or execute effective action (female lions may know how to hunt and fight, but lack the initiative and authority to take charge); (iv) sons can succeed only if they have a stern-but-loving biological father (on earth, and in the sky) whom they must constantly aspire to obey and occasionally to emulate (daughters are irrelevant; mothers are merely and vaguely supportive); (v) genetics determines all: lions (white Americans) innately love “freedom” to exactly the right degree; other species are either amiably and mutely servile (elephants, zebras, etc. = most other nations) or treacherously opportunistic and cruel (usurping uncle Scar = hyper-sophisticated British—formerly the role reserved for Germans and/or Japanese) or wittily but nihilistically parasitical (hyenas = Black American and other minorities); and so on. Clearly, the Disney Corp. did not “intend” to espouse a return to monarchy, nor (consciously) to promote sexist and racist stereotyping; and American audiences seem to think that they are being given an idealized story of world peace (after the hyenas are removed . . .) and love (wart-hogs, baboons, and lions cooperate to destroy the evil empire and live in harmony, eating . . .what?); but the “ideal” world that is being enjoyed, like that of Sylvester Stallone or John Wayne, is one in which the anointed (White male Americans in general, and certain “regal” Americans in particular) are entitled to cut loose a bit, have fun, grow up—and then settle down to a life of benevolently dominating the (nations/women/economies of the) rest of the world. This world-view is obviously highly undemocratic (resembling rather that of the Odyssey), and only in a very limited sense “freedom-loving” (the animals can only be “free” if the anointed one returns to “save” them; the prince is not “free” to be anything but the next king and savior): yet it is intensely “American” and appears to satisfy very basic (some would say, universal) desires for a paternal order, and a stable hierarchy of dominance and submission. Hence (together with sumptuous, if derivative, visuals and music: îyij and mèloj) the movie’s extraordinary national and international success. Only after the movie had been playing for several weeks to huge audiences across the USA, did the Disney Corp. acknowledge that the whole story was lifted from a successful Japanese comic book and animated TV series of the 1950s and 1960s, “The Jungle Emperor” by Osamu Tezuka. For our purposes, what is striking here is, first, that a story originally created within an avowedly hierarchical culture (Japan), committed to the traditional belief in a divinely-anointed Emperor, can work just as well, with minimal changes, for an avowedly democratic republic; and secondly, that alternations of the audience’s “subject position” can allow a

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According to “functionalist” sociological theory, cults, festivals, parades, contests, all provide opportunities for negotiations of varying degrees of complexity between different elements of society. In addition to commemorating an event, or telling a story, of traditional significance to the community and its leaders, such occasions, through their rules of conduct, dress, speech, and spatial organization, will mark off who belongs where, who is entitled to what, within that community, while at the same time excluding all those who do not belong to the community at all, thereby reinforcing the community’s sense of itself as a (privileged, fortunate) whole.153 Sometimes such ceremonies are consciously designed (or redesigned) and maintained by a ruling elite, or by one group within a community, in order to make a particular political “statement” or to reinforce a recognized hierarchy.154 But often, as years go by, the character and function of a ceremony may change, without any such conscious plan or intention, until it acquires quite new “meanings” for (some or all of) its participants. Sometimes the resulting multiplicities of “meanings” may become too dense for a straightforwardly functionalist account to be possible or adequate;155 but interpretation must still be attempted, for, as in the case of individual human behavior and speech, we are reluctant to believe that anyone, or any group of people, would persist in performing actions and making statements that made no sense at all. Athenian tragedies were performed at a state festival in honor of a “populist” god (Dionysos),156 and they were genuinely popular with all levels of society, during wide cross section even of a diverse population to share and aspire, on the one hand, to the experience of the anointed lion-cub himself, and, on the other, to feel the powerful reinforcement of traditional gender, racial, and class roles that render such aspirations merely fantastic. Whether we attribute this common appeal to Jungian archetypes, to Lacanian desires for a paternal symbolic order, to Proppian rules of narrative, or to the mutually felt impulse towards hierarchical relations on the part of both dominated and dominator, the analogy with the Athenians and their re-presentation of old/new tragic stories is quite striking. The Lion King may be a simple-minded example of Hollywood movie-making for children, the Oresteia a complex example of Attic stage drama for adults: but the continuities they reveal in the Western theatrical tradition seem to me illuminating, and not fortuitous. 153. Functionalism may be somewhat out of fashion in some quarters, at least in its na¨ıve forms. But a strong functionalist basis underlies even the most subtle and open-ended readings of (e.g.) Turner 1967, Geertz 1973; and I see no reason to abandon it. See too (on modern societies) Bourdieu 1990.96– 97, 1991.117–26, Kertzer 1988.35–56; also (on ancient) Rose 1992.27–33, Price 1984, Connor 1987, Goldhill 1990, Seaford 1994. Particular elements in a complex ritual, or festival, may perform different, even contradictory, functions, without undermining the overall effect of the whole occasion. Thus one element or moment may serve to divide in order to reintegrate, to question hierarchy in order to confirm it, to blur distinctions in order to reinscribe them the more sharply, etc. So the particular functions, or effects, of tragedy, comedy, and dithyramb (and of the various pre-performance rites) need not have all been the same, even though they were performed as parts of the same festival of Dionysos. Nonetheless, in the functionalist view, all these elements should be seen as part of one complete operation, and as combining in significant ways towards a common cumulative or generalized result. 154. Kertzer 1988.1–13, 102–24; cf. Connor 1987, Kinser 1990.275–305. 155. Geertz 1973.142–69, Bourdieu 1990.264–70, Turner 1967, all emphasizing the “multivocality” and useful ambiguity of ritual symbols; see further below, nn. 159, 161. 156. By “populist” I mean both that his cults (at least in Attika) were generally accessible to a very wide cross section of the community (in addition to the City and Rural Dionysia, this is true of the

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a period in which democracy was the official constitution and “democratic” ideology was not only emergent, but even vying to become dominant within the culture as a whole. To that extent at least, the appeal and implicit world-view of tragedy must have been “democratic,” or compatible with democratic ideals, for it is a priori unlikely that any ritual or symbolic expression that consistently challenged or undermined the dominant ideology of the existing authorities would be allowed to persist for long with their support.157 Nonetheless, as we have seen in our analysis of the Oresteia, democracy and democratic values tend to be distinctly muted, if not suppressed, in the tragic world-picture. What sense can we make of this paradox? Now there are obvious dangers in attempting to “interpret,” or embrace in a general theory, the sociological function of a phenomenon as complex and variable as Attic tragedy. Even if we agree (and many literary critics would prefer not to) that it is a “ritual,” possessed of all the symbolic power that ritual conveys,158 we must nonetheless confess that rituals may not always (ever?) have a single, univocal “meaning”: they may indeed derive much of their social value and effectiveness precisely from the ambiguities that they contain, and their resultant capacity for producing “solidarity without consensus.”159 In the case of Greek tragedy, we have

Anthesteria and the Eleusinian Mysteries), and that “Dionysian ecstasy . . . is a mass phenomenon . . .” (Burkert 1985.162); cf. Seaford 1994.235–80 and passim, Goldhill 1990.114, 126–29. 157. By “authorities” I mean the de facto dominant elements in a given society: not necessarily “the government” as such, but those who possess the power to determine what should be publicly celebrated and rewarded. While it is perfectly possible that a particular form of symbolic expression whose implications were intended, or perceived by some, as radical and anti-establishment, should nonetheless escape notice as such and win the establishment’s support (perhaps because of its technical proficiency, or superficial appeal, or through skilful use of ambiguities and concealed meanings), it would be hard to argue this for Greek tragedy (though occasional attempts have been made, e.g. by followers of the Leo Straussian school). The persistence of institutional support for performances at a major public festival must in itself amount to clear evidence of its perceived benefit to the community (or at least to groups within the community whose opinions are felt to matter). Many societies have banned drama of this or that type; most (including the Athenians during their heyday of 508–404) have imposed fairly strict rules as to what may or may not be shown or said (and, on occasion, the Athenians are said to have fined this or that playwright for improprieties). For a striking (alleged) example of change in dramatic subject matter imposed as part of a radical change of social policy and authority, we may consider Adrastos’ cultural revolution at Sikyon (Hdt. 5.66–68); see too Connor 1989. 158. For a good discussion of Greek tragedy as ritual, see Easterling 1989, with further references; also Seaford 1994. On the power of ritual, and the rituals of power, in the ancient world, see esp. Price 1984, Cannadine and Price 1987, Connor 1987. 159. This formulation is derived from Kertzer 1988.57–76, who modifies Emile Durkheim’s classic thesis (i.e., that ritual plays a key role in producing and maintaining social cohesion and solidarity: “It is by uttering the same cry, pronouncing the same word, or performing the same gesture in regard to some object that [individuals] become and feel themselves to be in unison”) by insisting on the positive (political) value of ambiguity, i.e., of symbolic acts and signs that allow members of a community who hold quite different, even opposing, views to participate in and respond to the ritual with apparent unanimity. In any community, several groups and individuals will hold views that diverge sharply from one another; and any symbol or ritual that univocally appeals to and validates any one group or type of individual will inevitably tend to alienate others. The successful discovery and manipulation of ambiguous symbols can therefore be seen as a key to political authority and power. Such discovery and manipulation are not always conscious, and do not always proceed from the top downwards: sometimes

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an annual set of performances that is “ritualized” in terms of time, place, and dramatic conventions, yet is markedly variable in its choice of specific characters, stories, gestures, and verbal text. So, whereas a Balinese cock-fight, or professional French wrestling-match, or Roman gladiatorial contest160 can be “interpreted” only as a semiotic system of actions and gestures, an Aeschylean tetralogy presents the problem that it is itself a verbal construct, and thus, on the face of it, “speaks” for itself. Nonetheless, provided we bear this extra dimension in mind, and take care to compare both levels of interpretation as we proceed (i.e., on the one hand, the interpretation of the annual ritual staged in the Theater of Dionysos, and on the other, the interpretation of each particular dramatic performance put on for that occasion), we should find ourselves in a stronger position, if anything, than those anthropologists who can only project their own verbal analyses onto the (often wordless and/or unreflective) symbolic constructs they are examining.161 a mutual process of invention/discovery occurs; and always some degree of collusion is required if true solidarity is to be achieved. See too Connor 1987, Bourdieu 1991.107–16, Williams 1977.108–14, Kinser 1990.80. 160. I mention these in particular because each has received illuminating and influential anthropological/sociological/semiotic analysis in recent years: Geertz 1973.412–53, Barthes 1972.15–25, Barton 1993. 161. However, anthropologists have the enormous advantage that they can ask the participants point-blank what they think a ritual means, and they can watch the ritual repeated over and over from various perspectives. About the City Dionysia, we have only a few written texts, and scattered snippets of related information. But we do the best we can. A useful analogy to Athenian tragedy at the City Dionysia (as art and as ritual) may be drawn with the annual Mardi Gras festivities in New Orleans. These, like Carnival elsewhere, celebrate the eve of the holiest period in the Christian calendar with elaborate parades of decidedly pagan title and theme (the Krewes of “Comus,” “Bacchus,” “Endymion,” etc.), wild costumes, heavy drinking, burlesque, music, dance, ritualized tossing of trinkets and small change (“throws”) from the floats to the bystanders, and in general a pointed alternation between carpe diem and memento mori. What does this festival “mean” to a Catholic resident, or to an atheist tourist, or to a local businessman, or to a visiting ethnomusicologist? To a member of the Krewe of Comus (traditionally restricted to the cream of the White New Orleans establishment), the festival provides the ultimate public demonstration of his elite status (a wealth- and birth-based status that persists, though less obtrusively, throughout the year); whereas to a member of one of the Black “Indian Tribes” (who may spend all year preparing his feathered costume and practising his chants, dances, and percussion parts), this one occasion grants a kind of temporary cultural preeminence, completely disproportionate to his economic or political power outside, since the visual and musical displays of these Tribes are among the highlights of the festival. On one view, the festival is a kind of Saturnalia, a merely temporary inversion of normal hierarchies and prohibitions, that serves (only? or primarily?) to reinforce the preexisting order (symbolized by the fasting of Lent that follows: Carni Vale); but from another angle, the economic power and freedom of artistic expression gained by otherwise disadvantaged and neglected groups in the city can be seen as substantially increasing their symbolic and material capital: the festival makes a difference, and affirms elements in the culture that tend otherwise to be undervalued. (The claim of the Wild Tchoupitoulas/Neville Brothers to be “Uptown Rulers” is scarcely an exaggeration; and it is Professor Longhair’s 1949 recording of “Mardi Gras in New Orleans” that has become the city’s anthem.) All concerned might agree, however, that the festival is “good for the city”; and all are doubtless proud that the city thereby earns itself money and an international reputation for good visual, gastronomic, and musical taste. But different elements within the city would point to different elements within the festival as the key to its success, or as the true kernel of its meaning. See further Kinser’s excellent account (1990). For useful analyses of festive “inversion” and “license” (derived in part from the theories of

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Tradition has it that tragic performances at the Dionysia were instituted under the Peisistratids, and then continued and expanded under the democracy.162 We know next to nothing about the form and character of tragoˆidiai during the years of the tyranny, and I do not intend to speculate here.163 But, as we have seen, Attic tragedy itself, like the Athenian political system as a whole, though subject to the review and approval of the masses, continues to be dominated by the elite. The products of a handful of wealthy choreˆgoi and poets, these plays present to the democratic state of Athens semi-fictionalized reworkings of the conflicts and dangers encountered by that time-honored super-human elite from the old (pre-democratic) days. Given that tragedy reached its acme under the new democratic system of which the Athenians were so proud, the persistence throughout the fifth and fourth centuries of these elite-oriented tragic plots is indeed quite remarkable. Conspicuously lacking is any story involving the replacement of ancestral aristocratic-monarchical rule with a democratic sharing or alternation of power.164 Of course, this reticence

M. Bakhtin and the fieldwork in SE Africa of M. Gluckman), see Babcock 1978, Turner 1967; and for application of these to the City Dionysia (esp. in relation to Old Comedy), Goldhill 1991.176–86 with further references. 162. The conventional view is that tragic and dithyrambic competitions were both introduced into the Great (or “City”) Dionysia ca. 535 , and that Thespis was among the first competitors there (Parian Marble, Suda s.v. Thespis); then satyr-plays were added ca. 505, comedies in 486 . Connor 1989 makes a strong case for redating the inauguration of the City Dionysia (in honor of Dionysos Eleuthereus) instead to ca. 505, i.e. to the period following Kleisthenes’ reforms, in celebration of the incorporation into Attika of the village of Eleutherai, but also in recognition of the new “freedom” (eleutheria) brought by democracy. But even on this scenario, the preAeschylean tragoˆidiai of Thespis, Phrynichos, Choirilos and others will have been performed in Attika (mostly in the Rural Dionysia?) for at least two or three decades under the tyrants, before being transferred (and elevated) to the new centralized festival in the City. Thus the art form itself would still predate democracy. (Of course, if the “tragic choruses” that performed for the hero-cult of Adrastos in 6th C. Sikyon (Hdt. 5.66–68) bore any formal similarity to Attic tragedy, all generalizations about the intrinsically “democratic” character of tragedy would have to be jettisoned.) 163. See (e.g.) the summary in Winnington-Ingram 1985.258–63, 759, and Lloyd-Jones 1966; also Rosenbloom 1993.159–83. 164. It is common enough for tyrants to be denounced or exposed in tragedy; but their replacements are invariably “good,” legitimate rulers. Never can a character even suggest that another system might be preferable, and that power could be shared among the members of the deˆmos. (See pp. 95–96 above, for the suppression of such notions in Aeschylus’ Persians and Oresteia. We may contrast Herodotos’ practice in presenting the Persian conspirators’ debate on the three constitutions.) Even those few stirring passages in extant tragedy that describe the virtues of popular participation in government are usually uttered by monarchs: thus Theseus in E. Supp., and Pelasgos in A. Supp., while contrasting their cities’ respect for popular opinion and law with Theban or Egyptian tyranny, continue to rule over their own devoted subjects. We may note, in contrast, the development of “bourgeois” plots in European tragedy after 1789 , from Bu¨chner and Diderot to O’Neill and Arthur Miller. Even in Shakespeare’s monarchist era, occasional “middle-class” tragedies are found (see Williams 1966). Although Rose 1992.194 compares Aeschylus’ trilogic representation of the transition from aristocratic to democratic rule in the Oresteia with Solon “cr[ying] out . . . for fundamental institutional change,” there is nothing in Aeschylus like Solon’s explicit contrasting of the interests of rich and poor, aristocrats and deˆmos. Occasionally in Euripides (e.g. Orestes), we do seem to be faced with some cloudier constitutional possibilities, or with a lower-class character whom we are invited to regard for a moment as being of equal value to the leaders. But these moments are brief and transitory.

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can be attributed merely to the avoidance of anachronism and to the intrinsically conservative requirements of genre (tragic plots “must” be drawn from traditional myth, and myths can only be modified within limits): but this only begs the question. Why were innovations allowed in certain directions (e.g., satyr-plays; a third speaking actor; trilogies vs. three separate stories; “historical,” or even invented, plots), but not in these?165 The Theater of Dionysos forms a kind of “neutral zone,” neither fully private nor fully public, and dominated by neither elite nor masses, a space within which rival elements may act out their conflicts, resentments, ambitions, and problems, in a manner sufficiently “disguised” to allow all concerned to disavow direct personal or familial responsibility. What happens in the theater is “play” 166 —which is not to say that it is not also (like many other kinds of play) itself one important aspect of “real life”: only that different rules are followed from those in force outside. The unspoken rules of the Dionysian contest require that for these few days gross liberties can be (must be) taken, unbearable and reckless truths must be uttered and confronted, normal boundaries must be transgressed, and the forbidden revealed and enacted—but all within the tightly circumscribed limits (which differ diametrically according to genre) of “tradition”: traditional language, meters, gestures, spatial forms, values, and stories. And tradition is always highly selective.167 In fifth century Athens, lavish private expenditure and consumption, and other kinds of ostentatiously “upper-class” behavior, were coming increasingly under suspicion and regulation. Private dwellings, votive dedications, clothing, funerals, etc., which in previous generations could be distinctively and proudly luxurious,

165. An anonymous referee suggests that “it may not be ‘the conservative requirements of the genre’ that meant there were no calls for a democratic state, but a desire to consider current political matters through the filter of mythological stories. . . . Mythology offered distance and greater scope for looking at contemporary problems without getting involved in obviously partisan prises de position?” I agree that these are important contributory factors; but they do not explain entirely, I think, why tragedy maintains such a rigid social hierarchy on stage, and concentrates so heavily on the successes and failures of the elite; see n. 144 above. 166. Curiously, Athenians do not employ the paiz-/paid- root for theatrical composition and performance; instead, we find didask-, tragwid-, ‚gwniz-, or xor-, and (especially) derivatives of mim- and dra-/poie-/pratt-. For a helpful discussion of dramatic “play” as a means of social negotiation in Shakespearean England, see Montrose 1980. 167. “A tradition [is] . . . an intentionally selective version of a shaping past and a pre-shaped present, which is then powerfully operative in the process of social and cultural definition and identification. . . . From a whole possible area of past and present, in a particular culture, certain meanings and practices are selected for emphasis and certain other meanings and practices are neglected or excluded. Yet, within a particular hegemony, and as one of its decisive processes, this selection is presented and usually successfully passed off as ‘the tradition,’ ‘the significant past.’ What has then to be said about any tradition is that it is in this sense an aspect of contemporary social and cultural organization, in the interest of the dominance of a specific class. It is a version of the past which is intended to connect with and ratify the present. What it offers in practice is a sense of predisposed continuity.” (Williams 1977.115–16). See too Bourdieu 1990.57–61, 117–26, 203–19 on “legitimate language” and “propriety” as important components in cultural domination.

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were by the mid-fifth century required to be just like everyone else’s.168 Opportunities for conspicuous private expenditure and consumption were few, and many of the public liturgies, though politically correct, lacked glamour.169 Horse-raising still carried a cachet for a few; and the flashiest hetaireiai doubtless kept their members in the news and the public eye through their entourages and antics. But one of the more appealing avenues for upper class ostentation seems to have been the (numerous) holiday festivals that gave them license to spend their money and show off their style, by dressing up (themselves, and their followers—in this case, choruses and actors), talking fancy (or dirty),170 singing and dancing (and even wailing in “feminine” and/or “oriental” abandon), parading around with large retinues, acting out on behalf of the polis the fantasies of the whole (male, citizen) community, and thereby commanding the gaze and applause of thousands of less accomplished onlookers.171 Some Athenian parades and festivals seem to have been more restrained than others; and in some the roles played by “ordinary” people (basket-carriers, elected deme-officials, etc.) were conspicuous and emphatic, in conscious affirmation of democratic principle. But the City Dionysia provided opportunities for both extremes, high and low.

168. Geddes 1987, Foley 1992, Morris 1992.103–55. While there is very little evidence of explicit legislation to restrict such private display (apart from the Solonian sumptuary laws of the previous century), it appears that the “requirement” to conform and to avoid private ostentation came to be very strongly felt between ca. 475 and 420 , after which private display begins to manifest itself again in certain areas. So during the period of the Oresteia, the only safe and proper avenues for the display of wealth were in the public, civic context: “Athenian rituals combined private restraint with state lavishness” (Morris 1992.123). These fluctuations as to what kinds of display were “permitted” in Athens were apparently the result both of democratic pressures (public opinion, law-suits, demagogic ideology, etc.) and of elite self-regulation; Morris suggests (1992.126, following Ober 1989) that “the real strength of Athenian democracy lay not in its institutional forms but in the ability of the mass of citizens to define the terms of social and political discourse” (though he also points out (1992.145ff.) that this tendency towards greater restraint in the early and mid-5th C. is observable all over the Greek Aegean, not just in democratic Athens). 169. On liturgies, and elite attitudes, see Ober 1989, Christ 1990. 170. It is an interesting question, which cannot be pursued here, whether the choreˆgoi and poets of Old Comedy were drawn from a different level within the elite than those of Tragedy. Certainly the tradition within which they operated (that derived from the “ugly” and scurrilous Hipponax and Archilochos, and representing the actions of “low-life” people: faÜloi) carried with it much less intrinsic prestige. On the other hand, the named objects of Comic invective (at least in Aristophanes) are for the most part parvenus, social climbers, marginal figures, not the extremely wealthy and noble (De Ste Croix 1972.355–75), though, e.g., Perikles did receive plenty of adverse treatment from Kratinos and others. 171. On this fascination with “playing the Other,” see Zeitlin 1990.63–96, Hall 1989.121–33; on tragic indulgence in the forbidden (“feminine, shameless”) pleasure of tears and wailing, Holst-Wahrhaft 1992.98–170, Foley 1992; on the opportunities for fancier clothing in drama and other festivities, Geddes 1987.313–15, 326–31. Another arena for such aristocratic display obviously was athletics: here the elite could show off, not their opulent clothing, crowns, and elaborate speech and music, but their naked bodies (human or equine), artfully and laboriously trained to out-perform all rivals, and thereby win for themselves—and for their city—the highest kudos (though too much success could bring with it democratic hostility, as it did to Alkibiades). See further (on nudity) Crowther 1982, Geddes 1987.308, 324–25, and (on the political uses of athletic achievement) Kurke 1991.

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The Theater, in particular, offers a safe space for extravagant posturing: that is what tragoˆidoi are supposed to do; and it is legitimate for the elite to behave in this fashion because it is not really they who are speaking and (mis)behaving—they are after all just impersonating (or paying others to impersonate) others long dead. Nonetheless, the issues (social, familial, political, religious) that their characters are playing out are agonizingly real and familiar, though they have been safely removed from the here-and-now through the masks, the mythical and temporally (or geographically) distant plots, and the other “traditional” conventions of the genre. As we saw earlier, Attic tragedy presents a remarkably large range of viewpoints and interests on the stage, especially by means of the relative prominence given to minor characters and to the chorus. The result is simultaneously to emphasize the impressive stature of the leading characters, up to whom all these others look, and around whose tribulations the whole plot revolves, and also to reassert the vulnerability of these leaders in comparison to the enduring security of the community to which they belong. The messengers, servants, choruses, etc., must always remain severely circumscribed in their status and capabilities, in comparison to the leading characters—indeed, they are often directly subordinated to and/or dependent upon these leaders, both politically and psychologically. But these “lower-class” characters (and even most of the less disaster-prone “upper-class” characters)172 will survive; and to that extent, these “ordinary folk” inevitably represent the social norm, the “happily ever after,” the continuing life-cycle of the seasons and of the community at large.173 The chorus in particular, though they may be foreign and/or female and/or servile (and thus by no means directly representative of the political community within which the fictional action is taking place, let alone of Athens itself), and though their point of view may typically be fearful, subservient, even dependent,174 are also (at least from the audience’s perspective, if not from their own) paradoxically exempt from any real danger of permanent damage. No tragic chorus, however dire their anxieties and grief, ever ends up suffering death, injury, or even the loss of close family members within

172. I am thinking here of such figures as Pylades in Aesch. Cho., Kreon in Soph. OT, Ismene in Soph. Ant., Odysseus in Ajax, etc. In a somewhat different category, perhaps, we should place the serene Theseus (passim) or Athena in Eum., who are never themselves felt to face real danger at all, but who manage to guarantee eventual safety for others. 173. Even in Shakespearean tragedy, performed in a society in which the monarchy and hereditary aristocracy were still very much in charge, there remains some open-endedness as to whether the audience identifies more with the level of the nobles or of the bourgeois. Certainly the cure for the rottenness of Denmark depends on the royal Hamlet (one of the models for The Lion King; above, n. 152), and possibly with the new King Fortinbras; but the enjoyment of such benefits as will implicitly follow seems to reside rather with Horatio, Marcellus, and their kind (since most of the nobles that we have met more than casually are by now dead); and it is with their viewpoint that the play begins and ends (cf. the Watchman of Ag., and the Propompoi of Eum.). 174. A.’s. Eumenides obviously comprises a striking exception to this rule; but even here the Erinyes are subordinated during the course of the play, and reduced to dependency on Athena; and it is significant that they cede their lyric role as “the chorus” in the final scene to the Athenian Propompoi.

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the course of the play.175 Theirs is usually the last word, the final sad or relieved comment on the extremes of suffering that have been reserved for, and concentrated in, their mighty leaders. Telam¸nie paØ, t¨j ‚mfirÔtou SalamØnoj êxwn bˆqron ‚gxÐalon, sà màn eÞ prˆssont' âpixaÐrw; sà d' ítan plhg˜ Diäj £ zamen˜j lìgoj âk DanaÀn kakìqrouj âpib¨i, mègan îknon êxw kaÈ pefìbhmai pthn¨j ±j îmma peleÐaj . . . . . .Ípä toioÔtwn ‚ndrÀn qorub¨i xšmeØj oÎdàn sqènomen präj taÜt' ‚palècasqai soÜ xwrÐj, Šnac. ‚ll' íte g€r d˜ tä sän îmm' ‚pèdran, patagoÜsin ‰te pthnÀn ‚gèlai; mègan aÊgupiän d' ÍpodeÐsantej tˆx' Šn, âcaÐfnhj eÊ sÌ faneÐhj, sig¨i pt ceian Šfwnoi. . . . ª poll€ brotoØj êstin ÊdoÜsin gnÀnai; prÈn ÊdeØn d' oÎdeÈj mˆntij tÀn mellìntwn í ti prˆcei.

Son of Telamon, lord of the firm floor of Salamis, where the sea chafes and swirls, Ajax, my lord, when you are fortunate, I too feel gladness. But when the fury of Zeus or the virulent slur of the Greeks’ slander strikes you, I shrink in fear, and my eye like a bird’s, like a dove’s, shows terror . . . They raise a great clamor; and against it we have no defence, my lord, but you. When once they are out of your sight, they screech like a gaggle of angry birds; but fear of the huge falcon, all of a sudden, I think, if you should only appear would make them cower and be still. . . . . . .What men have seen they know; 175. The Trojan captives of Eur. Tro. perhaps form an exception (though they are already enslaved before the play begins). In Aesch. Pers., the Elders may have lost loved ones at Salamis, but their chief concern is with the King. In Aesch. Supp., the half-dependent, half-assertive Chorus are (temporarily) safe at the end of the play (whatever their actions and fate in the rest of the trilogy). In the case of the satyr-chorus, of course, these tendencies that I have outlined for tragedy are grossly exaggerated: I hope to return to this topic on another occasion.

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but what shall come hereafter no man before the event can see, nor what end waits for him. (Soph. Ajax 134–40, 164–71; 1418–20; tr. J. Moore) In these passages, from their first and last utterances in the play, the Chorus of Salaminian sailors both encapsulate the characteristic “choral” feelings of dependency and inferiority in regard to a revered leader, mingled with an awareness of his fatal vulnerability—and then conclude with the bland and indirect acknowledgment of their own survival, a survival denied to the leader himself.176 In Agamemnon, for all their earlier questioning (behind his back) of their king’s earlier policies (especially 799–804 kˆrt' ‚pomoÔswj ªsqa gegrammènoj—i.e. a silent, non-verbal “portrait”), the Chorus, once face to face with their “good shepherd” again (795 ‚gaqäj probatogn¸mwn), are only a little less abject in their devotion: ‚ge d¨ basileÜ . . . pÀj se proseÐpw? pÀj se sebÐcw m q' Íperˆraj m q' Ípokˆmyaj kairän xˆritoj;

Come, king . . . how am I to address you? How am I to revere you, neither overshooting nor falling short of the right measure of my gratitude? (Ag. 782–87) And when they confront the loss of this “kindest of guardians” (1451–52 fÔlakoj eÎmenestˆtou), their helpless grief is piteous in the extreme (1489–90 = 1514–15 Ê° Ê° basileÜ basileÜ, pÀj se dakrÔsw? ktl.). Nonetheless, they survive, and look forward (hopefully? despairingly? but correctly, as the audience knows) to the future Return of the (“almighty”) King:177 . . .ÇOrèsthj ’rˆ pou blèpei fˆoj, ípwj katelq°n deÜro preumeneØ tÔxhi ‚mfoØn gènhtai toØnde pagkrat˜j foneÔj; Does Orestes somewhere see the light, 176. This is almost the only chorus in all of extant Greek tragedy that represents a group of free, young Attic males, like (the ideal, central contingent of) the audience itself. The passage I have quoted from the parodos shows striking similarities to Aesch. Eum. 996–1002 (discussed on p. 107 above). 177. The epithet pagkrat j is appropriate to Orestes both as future “victor” in the toughest of the combat sports, and as quasi-divine source of “power over all,” in both respects like Zeus himself (cf. Ag. 167–75, Eum. 776–77); see too Burian 1986.339–42. Here again, the similarities to Disney’s The Lion King are striking (n. 152 above). Of course, I have chosen here to cite some of the more extreme statements of lower-class “dependency” on their leaders, and to pass over the many proud statements of Greek “freedom” from arbitrary rule, and of even a king’s obligation to obey the popular will, in order to make my point. For a more balanced survey of how “kings” are portrayed in tragedy, see Easterling 1984, Podlecki 1986.

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that he may return here with favoring fortune and become the all-prevailing slayer of both these two? (Ag. 1646–48) Because the audience can count on the chorus’ survival (together with that of the minor characters who comprise the majority of the fictional population), it can count too on vicariously experiencing the renewed sense of collective strength and comfort that (to some degree, at least) mitigates the horror and sense of loss attending the downfall of the leading characters. Just as, in the “real world” of the Athenian democracy, it is members of the elite who stand individually to win the greatest rewards (prestige, commands, wealth, humiliation of their opponents) and to endure the greatest calamities (prosecution, their own humiliation, exile, even execution),178 while the majority of the citizens act anonymously and collectively as voters, jurymen, soldiers and sailors, councilmen, reviewers, for the most part personally exempt from the repercussions of their verdicts, similarly, the chorus and minor characters of tragedy, while they reiterate constantly their admiration and concern for their leaders, are in the last resort (miraculously, i.e., by convention) immune from the adverse “changes of fortune” that mark the best kinds of tragic action. Such is the implicit covenant entered upon by poet and audience as they enter the “safe space” of the Theater of Dionysos.179 The great man or woman of tragedy, “one of those in great reputation and prosperity,”180 makes mistakes, comes (or almost comes) to spectacular and paradigmatic ruin, is loudly and ostentatiously lamented—but is survived by a relieved (even strengthened?) community.181 Does this (typical) plot-line suggest the disposability and obsolescence of aristocratic leaders? Do the crimes committed, or almost committed, by these old ruling families—incest, revenge-murder, usurpation of rule, every kind of violence against fÐloi—reinforce democratic prejudices against 178. Hansen 1991.310, Sinclair 1988.136–61; see n. 13 above. 179. Phrynichos apparently violated this covenant by making the audience (as Athenians, allies of the Milesians in the Ionian Revolt) suffer unduly in reliving their own sufferings in his Capture of Miletos. I do not wish to minimize the powerful impact of the pathos contained within individual choral songs and speeches of minor characters: fear for their city’s capture, the miseries of slavery, the cruel lot of women, the loss of loved ones, etc. But rarely (within the play) are these imagined or real sufferings shown to affect these characters as directly and catastrophically as they do the leaders. (Of course, in real life, the likelihood of violent death, or loss of a family member, or enslavement, as a direct result of decisions made by the polis as a body, was probably greater for the lower classes than for the elite. The cavalry could escape quicker; and the wealthy could buy freedom.) 180. Aristotle Poet. 13.1453a10; he also describes the leading characters of tragedy as “noble and good” (spoudaØoi), and “better than us” (beltÐonej). 181. This sketch of the tragic process obviously incorporates elements from the pharmakos-model which has been popular in various forms with critics over the last century (from the “Cambridge Anthropologists,” to Northrop Frye, to Rene´ Girard, etc.). To oversimplify: Thebes is saved in S. OT, but only because the extraordinary individual, Oidipous, has been available to assist at the salvation (though it is his extraordinary family that incurred the crisis in the first place); in The Bacchae, the savior, Dionysos, is accepted into Thebes and Greece, but only because Pentheus and Kadmos have done and experienced what they have at his hands; and so on.

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wealthy, hybristic, tyrannical, uncontrollable aristocrats?182 And are we required to put in the place of these obsolete pre-political family-based values a new set of democratic, civic virtues? This is certainly how many of us have learned to read tragedy, and it is perhaps a way that some members of the original audience, at least by the later fifth century, were inclined to follow too. Yet, for every aristocratic monster (an Agamemnon, or Xerxes, or Kreon, or Pentheus) we can point to an aristocratic savior (an Orestes, or Pelasgos, or Antigone, or Theseus): often the two coexist in the same imposing person (Eteokles, Oidipous, Elektra). 183 And the prevailing thrust of tragic diction and stage action (though perhaps not of the lyric and dance) is towards an affirmation of the stature and value of these natural leaders, flawed and dangerous though they may be. Without such figures, there can be no tragedy—not just because there can be no grand mistakes, but because there can be no grand, “serious” action (spoudaÐa prcij) at all. If Greek tragedy is intended to instantiate Athenian civic ideology, then we must acknowledge (what is in any case likely enough) that even this most authentically democratic ideology (like many, less authentic, others) still comes with a strongly aristocratic spin. We may choose to regard the opulent, choregically financed, tragic performances as representing the elite’s way of dramatizing their own continuing role of leadership, risk, and self-sacrifice, while disguising it safely behind the masked and costumed royal figures of the heroic past. Or, from a different perspective, we may prefer to see the deˆmos as licensing their “bright potentates” (i.e., the wealthy and educated poets, producers, and musicians) to stage these stories of past-in-present, stories that constantly erupt with out-of-control tyrants and doomed dynastic families, who 182. The overwhelmingly evil and dangerous quality of “aristocrats” in Aeschylean tragedy is emphasized by Rose 1992.185–265, especially 188–94, 204–14; e.g., “In the context of the decisive changes wrought by democracy in the relations between aristocrats and the demos, the trilogy form implies a historical judgment—that the period during which the so-called heroes dominated societies was not a golden age meriting universal veneration but a bad time for the people at large, one that cried out—even as Solon cried out—for fundamental institutional change” (194); “The cumulative impact of all these images attached to the ruling figures [sc. in Ag. and Cho.] in conjunction with the behavior portrayed on the stage is once again to generalize the ruling-class type as a subhuman threat to the well-being of the polis and its demos” (214). I agree with this assessment of the negative images attached to Agamemnon, Klytaimestra and Aigisthos (and even, intermittently, to Orestes in Cho.), but I think Rose underestimates the power of the positive images that are also attached to Agamemnon and Orestes, and of the transformations that are worked in Cho. and Eum. through the inclusion of Pylades and Orestes’ other aristocratic connections. For a discussion of “ideal” leaders vs. evil (Persian or Spartan-style) despots, cf. Grossmann 1970.272–80, Ober 1989, and (for tragedy) Knox 1964, Easterling 1984. 183. And as we noted, even some of the monsters are lionized and sanctified by their own followers (i.e., the play’s internal audience) in ways that tend seductively to induce similar responses from the theater audience too: e.g., Agamemnon, Aias, . . .even Xerxes, Kreon? So too in New Orleans: “ ‘Duke’ and ‘commoner’ are symbiotic. The position above is exciting because the position below is too. . . . It is delicious to be totally dependent on aristocratic power, to feverishly and frankly worship the grandeur of somebody else’s accumulation. This perhaps infantile need is nevertheless also an overt recognition of the unequal distribution of power in American society, a recognition scarcely permitted in everyday life” (Kinser 1990.286, on the interactions of the “King” and “Dukes” of the Krewe of Rex with the crowds through which their parade passes; see n. 161 above).

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risk all, and often lose all, while their anonymous community recovers and even prospers at the end, for the whole citizen body to watch and judge—and walk away unscathed, perhaps even morally strengthened and reassured. On either scenario, the mass of Athenians can simultaneously tut-tut to themselves gnomically about the dangers of aristocratic excess, and also, if they wish and need, reinforce their continuing and deep-seated faith in the cultural and political value of those great families.184 Each spring, within this safe theatrical space, the brilliant dynasts show themselves to be performing a supremely dangerous, delicate, and at times odious— but nonetheless vital and treasured—combination of roles for their less “fortunate” fellow-citizens.185 The calibration of these roles requires and deserves the finest of tuning from one performance to another, for the lifestyles of the rich and famous always command mixed awe and suspicion from the public at large. But in the Oresteia at least, the roles are perfectly calibrated, and are shown finally to justify themselves in the grandest, yet safest, manner possible. University of California, Berkeley

184. Or some audience members can tut-tut, while others share in the extravagant lamentation for the shattered hero—with both of them equally eager to confer first prize on this most excellent tragedy, so thoughtfully provided by the city—or by the famous choreˆgos x and poet y. Once again, “solidarity without consensus.” 185. The “fortunate” (eÎdaÐmonej, eÎtuxeØj) in everyday Athenian life are the rich and wellregarded (Ober 1989.13); in tragedy, these will become, par excellence, the “ruined” (kakodaÐmonej, dustuxeØj, dÔspotmoi, etc.).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Adcock, F. E., and D. J. Mosley. 1975. Diplomacy in Ancient Greece. London. Alexiou, M. 1973. The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition. Cambridge. Babcock, B., ed. 1978. The Reversible World. Ithaca. Barthes, R. 1972. Mythologies. Tr. A. Lavers. New York. Barton, C. 1993. The Sorrows of the Ancient Romans. Princeton. Belfiore, E. 1994. “Xenia in Sophocles Philoctetes.” CJ 89: 113–29. Bers, V. 1985. “Dicastic thorubos.” In P. A. Cartledge and F. D. Harvey, eds., Crux: Essays Presented to G. E. M. De Ste Croix, 1–15. Exeter. Bourdieu, P. 1990. The Logic of Practice. Tr. R. Nice. Oxford. Bourdieu, P. 1991. Language and Symbolic Power. Tr. G. Raymond and M. Adamson. Harvard. Bowie, A. M. 1993. “Religion and Politics in Aeschylus’ Oresteia.” CQ 43:10–31. Bowie, E. L. 1986. “Early Greek Elegy, Symposium, and Public Festival.” JHS 106: 13–35. Broadhead, H. D., ed. 1960. The Persae of Aeschylus. Cambridge. Brock, R. 1991. “The Emergence of Democratic Ideology.” Historia 40: 160–69. Bugh, G. R. 1988. The Horsemen of Athens. Princeton. Burgess, T. 1902. Epideictic Literature. Chicago. Burian, P. 1986. “Zeus Swt˜r TrÐtoj and Some Triads in Aeschylus’ Oresteia” AJP 107: 332–42. Burkert, W. 1985. Greek Religion. Tr. J. Raffan. Harvard. Calder, W. M. 1981. “The Anti-Periklean Intent of Aeschylus Eumenides.” In E. G. von Schmidt, ed., Aischylos und Pindar, 220–23. Berlin. Calhoun, G. M. 1913. Athenian Clubs in Politics and Litigation. Austin. Cannadine, D., and S. R. F. Price, eds. 1987. Rituals of Royalty. Cambridge. Christ, M. 1990. “Liturgy Avoidance and Antidosis in Classical Athens.” TAPA 120: 147–69. Clover, C. J. 1992. Men, Women, and Chainsaws. Princeton. Cohen, D. 1986. “The Theodicy of Aeschylus: Justice and Tyranny in the Oresteia.” G&R 33: 129–40. Cole, J. 1977. “The Oresteia and Cimon.” HSCP 81: 99–111. Conacher, D. J. 1974. “Interaction between Chorus and Actor in the Oresteia.” AJP 95: 323–43. . 1987. Aeschylus’ Oresteia: A Literary Commentary. Toronto. Connor, W. R. 1971. The New Politicians of Fifth-Century Athens. Princeton. . 1987. “Tribes, Festivals, and Processions: Civic Ceremonial and Political Manipulation in Ancient Greece.” JHS 107: 40–50. . 1989. “City Dionysia and Athenian Democracy.” C&M 40: 7–32. Crane, G. 1993. “The Politics of Consumption and Generosity in the Carpet Scene of the Agamemnon.” CP 88: 117–36. Dale, A. M. 1968. The Lyric Metres of Greek Drama. 2nd ed. Cambridge. Davies, J. K. 1971. Athenian Propertied Families, 600–300 B.C. Oxford. . 1984. Wealth and the Power of Wealth in Classical Athens. Salem, N. H. Davison, J. A. 1966. “Aeschylus and Athenian Politics, 472–456 ..” In E. Badian, ed., Ancient Society and Institutions: Studies Presented to V. Ehrenberg, 93–107. Oxford. De Jong, I. J. F. 1987. Narrators and Focalizers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad. Amsterdam. De Ste Croix, G. E. M. 1972. The Origins of the Peloponnesian War. Ithaca. . 1981. The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World. Ithaca.

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DAVID D. LEITAO

The Perils of Leukippos: Initiatory Transvestism and Male Gender Ideology in the Ekdusia at Phaistos

T

  examines an annual initiation ritual celebrated in Hellenistic Phaistos, at a festival known as the Ekdusia, in which young men were required to put on women’s clothes and swear an oath of citizenship before they could graduate from the youth corps (known as the agela) and enter the society of adult male citizens. The discussion which follows has two goals: (1) to explain the specific function and meaning of this ritual transvestism at the Ekdusia; and (2) to reevaluate, more broadly, our general approach to the study of adolescent transition rites and the symbolic language they employ. THE EKDUSIA AT PHAISTOS

Our only direct evidence for the Ekdusia comes from an etiological myth told by Nicander in the Metamorphoses, and preserved for us in a prose paraphrase by the second century  mythographer Antoninus Liberalis: Galˆteia ™ EÎrutÐou toÜ Spˆrtwnoj âg mato ân FaistÀú t¨j Kr thj Lˆmprwú tÀú PandÐonoj, ‚ndrÈ t€ màn eÊj gènoj eÞ êxonti, bÐou dà ândeeØ. oÝtoj, âpeid˜ âgkÔmwn ªn Galˆteia, hÖcato màn Šrrena genèsqai aÎtÀú paØda, prohgìreuse dà t¨ù gunaikÐ, â€n genn shù kìrhn, ‚fanÐsai. kaÈ oÝtoj màn ‚pi°n âpoÐmaine t€ prìbata, t¨ù dà GalateÐaø qugˆthr âgèneto. kaÈ katoikteÐrasa tä brèfoj kaÈ t˜n ârhmÐan toÜ oÒkou logisamènh, sullambanìntwn d' êti kaÈ tÀn I would like to thank Sarah Iles Johnston, Joseph D. Reed, and the two anonymous readers for Classical Antiquity for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. I am also grateful to audiences at the Ohio State University, San Francisco State University, and the 1992 CAMWS Meetings, who heard and commented on a prior version of the argument presented here. I, of course, am solely responsible for any infelicities of argument or style which remain.

© 1995        

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æneÐrwn kaÈ tÀn mˆntewn, oË prohgìreuon t˜n kìrhn ±j kìron âktrèfein, âyeÔsato tän Lˆmpron Šrren lègousa tekeØn kaÈ âcètrefen ±j paØda koÜron ænomˆsasa LeÔkippon. âpeÈ dà hÖceto ™ kìrh kaÈ âgèneto Šfatìn ti kˆlloj, deÐsasa tän Lˆmpron ™ Galˆteia, ±j oÎk ân¨n êti laqeØn, katèfugen eÊj tä t¨j LhtoÜj Éerän kaÈ pleØsta t˜n qeän Ékèteusen, eÒ pwj aÎt¨ù kìroj ™ paØj ‚ntÈ qugaträj dÔnaito genèsqai. . . . ™ dà Lht° sunexÀj æduromènhn kaÈ ÉketeÔousan ºúkteire t˜n Galˆteian kaÈ metèbale t˜n fÔsin t¨j paidäj eÊj kìron. taÔthj êti mèmnhntai t¨j metabol¨j FaÐstioi kaÈ qÔousi FutÐhù LhtoØ, ¡tij êfuse m dea t¨ù kìrhù, kaÈ t˜n áort˜n ÇEkdÔsia kaloÜsin, âpeÈ tän pèplon ™ paØj âcèdu.1

Galateia, the daughter of Eurytios son of Sparton, wed Lampros son of Pandion, a man of good birth but slender means, in the Cretan city of Phaistos. When Galateia became pregnant, Lampros prayed that a male child be born to him, and ordered his wife to expose the child if she gave birth to a girl. As it turns out, Lampros was away tending his sheep, when Galateia gave birth to a daughter. She pitied the baby, and counting on the fact that the house was deserted and inspired by dreams and seers which suggested that she raise the girl as a boy, she deceived Lampros, telling him that she had given birth to a male child, and she raised her child as a boy and named him Leukippos. When the girl began to mature, however, and acquired a certain remarkable beauty, Galateia feared that she would no longer be able to keep Lampros in the dark. So she fled to the temple of Leto and begged the goddess intensely that her girl become a boy. Leto felt pity for Galateia in her ceaseless weeping and supplication, and transformed the sex of the girl into a boy. The people of Phaistos still remember this transformation and worship Leto Phytia, who caused male genitals to sprout on the girl. And they call the festival in her honor the Ekdusia, because the girl stripped off her peplos. All that Nicander tells us is that the people of Phaistos celebrated a festival in honor of Leto called the Ekdusia, and that the myth of a certain Leukippos son of Lampros served as an aition for the rite. We have to turn to indirect evidence in order to reconstruct the rite and its historical context in greater detail. We may infer from linguistic evidence that the ceremony involved a change of clothes. The festival at Phaistos was called the Ekdusia, “Festival of Disrobing,” which derives from âkdÔw/âkdÔomai, “to disrobe.” And young men from four other Cretan cities—Malla, Lyttos, Dreros, and Axos—are referred to in inscriptions as âgduìmenoi, “disrobing,” when they take their oath of citizenship.2 It is likely, then, 1. Nic. Met. fr. 45 Schneider = Ant. Lib. Met. 17. 2. Malla and Lyttos: Inscr. Cret. I.xix.1.17–18 ([t€n ‚gè]/lan t€n tìka âsduomènan). Dreros: Inscr. Cret. I.ix.1.99–100 (toÌj tìka â/gduomènouj). Axos: Inscr. Cret. II.v.24.7–9 (‚l]l' âgdÔen

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that the Ekdusia was the occasion on which the youths of Phaistos took an oath of citizenship.3 We also have linguistic evidence which suggests that new clothes were put on in place of the old: at Lyttos, the young men swore the oath of citizenship at a festival called the Periblemaia or Periblemata, “Festival of Donning,” from peribˆllw, “to put on.”4 There is also good evidence to suggest that this ritual change of dress, at least in Phaistos, was gender-coded, meaning that the boy cast off feminine clothes and put on masculine clothes in their place.5 That the boy’s prior dress was feminine is suggested by the etiological myth of Leukippos son of Lampros. First of all, the myth focuses on a change in biological sex, which suggests that the ritual’s opposition between “old clothes” and “new clothes” was also coded by sex. A second clue in the myth that the clothes cast off were feminine is the reference to Leukippos’ peplos, which has no place in the myth: if the girl Leukippos were really being raised as a boy, then she would not have been wearing a feminine peplos.6 The only possible source for the peplos is the rite, which we know involved a change of clothes. Whatever the respective origins of the myth of Leukippos and the ritual of the Ekdusia, it is a fact that the myth and the ritual were closely associated by the second century , and it is likely that at some point during this association, the peplos was imported into the myth from the rite, most likely out of a need to clarify the etiological connection between Leukippos’ prior femininity and the Cretan youth’s feminine attire. . . . m˜ âgdÔse[i . . .). In two other cities—Lato and Olous—the young oath-takers are said to âkdrameØn (see infra). 3. The oath may well have included a pledge of friendship with the city of Axos. The young citizens-to-be in Axos, as in Phaistos, seem to have been referred to as âgduìmenoi: Inscr. Cret. II.v.24.7–9. The oath they swore at that time was very likely the 3rd century  oath of allegiance between Axos and Upper and Lower Gortyn (Lower Gortyn = the partially subject city of Phaistos, see infra, n. 25). For the editio princeps of this oath, see G. Manganaro, “Iscrizione opistographa di Axos con prescrizioni sacrali e con un trattato di symmachia,” Historia 15 (1966) 18–22. 4. Inscr. Cret. I.xix.1.17–22. On the name of the festival at Lyttos, see E. Schwyzer, “Zu griechischen Inschriften,” RhM 77 (1928) 248 n. 1; R. Willetts, Cretan Cults and Festivals (London and New York, 1962) 108, 294. 5. It is not universally accepted that the Ekdusia involved transvestism. Arguments in favor are offered by H. Jeanmaire, Couroi et Coure`tes: Essai sur l’e´ducation spartiate et sur les rites d’adolescence dans l’antiquite´ helle´nique (Lille, 1939) 442; M. Delcourt, Hermaphrodite: Myths and Rites of the Bisexual Figure in Classical Antiquity, trans. J. Nicholson (London, 1961) 4–5; and, more cautiously, K. Dowden, Death and the Maiden: Girls’ Initiation Rites in Greek Mythology (London and New York, 1989) 65. A. Brelich, Paides e Parthenoi (Rome, 1969) 202 suggests that transvestism played a role in the rite during an earlier period, but perhaps no longer did so in the Hellenistic period. For other interpretations of the evidence, see Willetts, Cretan Cults (supra, n. 4) 175–78, 306–307, and P. Vidal-Naquet, The Black Hunter: Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Greek World, trans. A. Szegedy-Maszak (Baltimore, 1986) 117. 6. RE 7 (1910) 519 s.v. Galateia (Weicker), and J. Fontenrose, Orion: The Myth of the Hunter and Huntress (Berkeley, 1981) 65 n. 9 see this inconsistency as proof that myth and ritual are not related. But see Delcourt (supra, n. 5) 5, and my argument infra.

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We cannot be very specific about the content of the Phaistian youth’s feminine costume, except that it likely included a feminine peplos. But male transvestism at Athens and Sparta may offer a fuller picture. At an Athenian festival known as the Oschophoria, a festival with strong initiatory overtones, the adolescent boys who led the festival procession not only wore feminine stolai, but most likely also sported feminine hairstyles and adornment and adopted feminine mannerisms.7 In Sparta, males on certain occasions donned women’s clothes and grotesque female masks, and then proceeded to perform a war dance,8 quite possibly after removal of this feminine attire. A number of scholars have suggested that this transvestite dance was performed by Helots at gatherings of citizen men, given that they are known to have adopted demeaning costumes on other occasions. 9 But Helots would never have been permitted to dance in full armor. In light of the strong association of Greek war dances with adolescent initiation,10 it seems more reasonable to suppose that this was a dance performed by youths in the agela system. Regardless of who the performers of this charade were, the costume featured in it nonetheless provides us some idea of what constituted male cross-dressing at Sparta. After the Phaistian youth cast off his feminine clothes, he put on some form of masculine dress in their stead. In some Cretan cities, this probably took the form of hoplite armor. At Dreros, the ekduomenoi, before they swore the oath, were called Šzwstoi or ‚gelˆoi panˆzwstoi.11 ^Azwstoj, according to Hesychius, means “not wearing armor,” and panˆzwstoj is a strengthened form of that word.12 The expression ‚gelˆoi panˆzwstoi, then, suggests that the youths were “unarmed” while they were still members of the agela, that is, before they graduated. Now there would be little point to characterizing the youths who had not yet graduated from the agela as “not wearing armor,” if they did not receive armor at graduation or soon thereafter. Indeed, at Lyttos, as we have seen, young men left the agela at a festival called the Periblemaia or Periblemata, whose name refers to the “donning of arms.” In another, unspecified, region of Crete, lovers bestowed armor on their beloveds at the conclusion of a hunting initiation rite.13 And the practice of conferring arms upon young men when they reached adult status is attested elsewhere in Greece as well. The Theban lover gave his beloved armor when the latter became a

7. Stolai: Procl. Chr. ap. Phot. Bibl. 239; Anec. Bekk. 318. Hairstyles, adornment, and mannerisms: these are listed by Demon FGrH 327 F 6 = Plu. Thes. 23.2–4 as elements of the feminine disguise adopted by two of Theseus’ companions in their Cretan adventure, an episode which served as the aition for the transvestism at the Oschophoria. 8. Hsch. s.vv. brualÐktai, brudalÐxa and brullixistaÐ. 9. See e.g., E. David, “Dress in Spartan Society,” AncW 19 (1989) 9. 10. See generally S. Lonsdale, Dance and Ritual Play in Greek Religion (Baltimore, 1993) 137–68. 11. Inscr. Cret. I.ix.1.11–12, 140–41. 12. Hsch. s.v. Šzwstoj. See Schwyzer (supra, n. 4) 246 and n. 1. 13. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 149 = Strab. 10.4.21.

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citizen.14 Finally, an Argive festival known as the Endymatia, “Festival of Donning,” from ândÔw, “to put on,” was most likely the occasion on which young men in Argos assumed warrior garb for the first time.15 In other Cretan cities, athletic nudity may have been the masculine costume assumed by the new graduates.16 Just as youths in other cities were said to âgdÔesqai, “to disrobe,” graduating youths in Lato and Olous were said to âkdrameØn, which means “strip and enter the stadium (dromos).”17 In at least some parts of Crete, the adult citizen was called a dromeus, “runner,” while the youth prior to initiation was called an apodromos.18 Aristophanes of Byzantium defines apodromos as one who “does not yet take part in the public dromoi,” which implies that the dromeus was one who had this privilege.19 ÇEkdrameØn, then, probably refers to a more specific form of disrobing: the boy divested in order to take part for the first time in the public dromoi, one of the most salient characteristics of Cretan citizenship.20 Not only was it the association of athletic nudity with adult men that made it an effective masculine “costume,” but of course the nude body advertised its own maleness. It is impossible to know which form of masculine “dress” was assumed in Phaistos, whether it was hoplite armor, as in Dreros, or athletic nudity, as was likely the case in Lato and Olous. Both refer to masculine roles which the agela graduate was about to assume. It is even conceivable that both forms of masculine dress were combined, as they were in other contexts: at the Panathenaia, for example, the dancer of the warlike pyrrhiche was nude except for a shield, spear, and helmet. 21 Indirect evidence also helps us to reconstruct the historical and social context of the ritual at Phaistos. The festival must have been in existence prior to the composition of Nicander’s Metamorphoses, but we have no secure date for this work. Even the floruit of Nicander himself is a matter of some controversy, although

14. Plu. Amat. 17 (762bc). Athenian erastai are often depicted on vases bestowing arms on their beloveds. See J. Bremmer, “Adolescents, Symposion, and Pederasty,” in O. Murray, ed., Sympotica (Oxford, 1990) 142. 15. Plu. De mus. 9 (1134c). 16. For nudity as a form of attire, see L. Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art,” AJA 93 (1989) 543–70. 17. Inscr. Cret. I.xvi.5.21. On the precise meaning of âkdrameØn, see Schwyzer (supra, n. 4) 243–44. 18. Apodromos: Inscr. Cret. IV.lxxii.7.35–40 (Gortyn). Dromeus: Inscr. Cret. I.viii.13.8 (Knossos); I.xvi.5.44 (Lato); I.xix.3 (Malla); IV.lxxii.7.40–43 (Gortyn). See generally R. Willetts, Aristocratic Society in Ancient Crete (London, 1955) 7–8, 11–14. 19. Ar. Byz. fr. 48 (W. Slater, ed., Aristophanis Byzantii Fragmenta [Berlin, 1986] 31–32). 20. Cf. Arist. Pol. 1264a21–23, who characterizes the adult Cretan citizen as one who had the right to bear hoplite arms and to participate in the gymnasia. 21. See Ar. Nub. 988–89; J.-C. Poursat, “Les repre´sentations de danse arme´e dans la ce´ramique attique,” BCH 92 (1968) 564, 566–83, 586–609. The nudity of the dancers on these vases is not merely a matter of artistic convention: see, e.g., G. Camporeale, “La danza armata in Etruria,” MEFRA 99 (1987) 29. On the relation between nudity and war, see J. Mouratidis, “The Origin of Nudity in Greek Athletics,” Journal of Sport History 12 (1985) 213–32.

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a tentative consensus has formed around the mid- to late-second century ,22 which may reasonably serve as a rough terminus ante quem for the existence of the Ekdusia. Of course, Nicander’s mention of the ritual is no guarantee that it was practiced in his own day: an account of the rite may have found its way long before into the body of Cretan ethnographic lore which had been circulating through the Greek world as far back as the fifth century. Indeed, it is likely that Nicander drew his information about the Ekdusia from a previous poet, or more probably, from one of the many historians who are known to have written Kretika.23 If this is true, then our terminus ante quem must be pushed back to the time of his source, or even his source’s source. This will not ultimately change our dating very much, though, because a Hellenistic date for the Ekdusia is corroborated by epigraphic evidence from other Cretan cities, which indicates that oath-swearing ceremonies for their ekduomenoi were in existence during the third and second centuries  (see above).24 This, of course, was a period of great political turmoil on Crete, which reached its zenith in the Lyttian War (221–219 ); Phaistos’ loss of political autonomy to Gortyn, which was complete by the middle of the second century, was one of the many political consequences of this period of strife.25 But we need not suppose, as van Effenterre has argued,26 that the oaths of citizenship taken by the ekduomenoi throughout Crete in the third and second centuries originated in this political context and are incomprehensible outside of it, though I do not deny that the oaths that do survive clearly refer to contemporary political conditions. It is quite likely, in fact, that the Ekdusia and similar rites were in existence long before the Hellenistic period: the mere fact that seven Cretan cities are known to have held rites of this sort strongly suggests a common origin, very possibly going back to the spread of Dorian institutions throughout Crete. 27

22. See e.g., A. Gow and A. Scholfield, Nicander: The Poems and Poetical Fragments (Cambridge, 1953) 3–8; and RE 17 (1936) s.v. Nikandros (Kro¨ll). 23. We know that Sosicrates, for example, whom Jacoby dates to the mid-second century , discussed another custom native to Phaistos (FGrH 461 F 1). A number of other historians are also known to have written about Crete. See e.g., FGrH 70 F 146–49, and FGrH 457–468. 24. Malla and Lyttos (Inscr. Cret. I.xix.1) (3rd cent.); Dreros (Inscr. Cret. I.ix.1) (3rd/2nd cent.); Lato and Olous (Inscr. Cret. I.xvi.5) (second half of 2nd cent.); Axos (Inscr. Cret. II.v.24) (3rd cent.). Regarding all these dates, I follow the commentary ad loc. of M. Guarducci, who dates the inscriptions according to the style of the letter-cutting. 25. A badly damaged inscription from Gortyn refers to Gortyn and Phaistos as the upper and lower portions (Šnw and kˆtw) of a single polity, administered by a single college of kosmoi: F. Blass, Die kretischen Inschriften (Go¨ttingen, 1905) no. 5019 = H. Collitz, et al., eds., Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-Inschriften (Go¨ttingen, 1884–1915), vol. III.2.3. This loss of political autonomy seems to be confirmed by the sudden disappearance, in the middle of the second century, of Phaistian coins: M. Guarducci, Inscriptiones Creticae, vol. I (Rome, 1935) 269; J. Sboronos, Numismatique de la Cre`te ancienne (Macon, 1890) 253ff. Strabo (10.4.14) suggests that the Gortynians actually razed the town, but continued habitation there seems to argue against complete destruction. ` propos du serment des Dre´riens,” BCH 61 (1937) 327–332. 26. H. van Effenterre, “A 27. See H. van Effenterre, “Il problema delle istituzioni doriche,” in D. Musti, ed., Le origini dei Greci, Dori e mondo egeo (Bari, 1985) 293–312.

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About the Ekdusia’s place in the Phaistian calendar we can make no certain pronouncements. In three cities—Lato, Olous, and Hierapytna—the agela graduates swore their oath at a festival called the Thiodaisia. In Lato, the Thiodaisia probably fell in the month of Thiodaisios, which was the last month of the year and most likely corresponds to September/October.28 We do not know in which month the Thiodaisia was celebrated in Olous, and we cannot assume that it occurred in Eleusinios, which was the final month of the Olountian year.29 Hierapytna, meanwhile, did have a month named Thiodaisios,30 but it may not have been the final month of the year. Finally, the oath-taking festivals in Malla (the Hyperboia) and Lyttos (the Periblemaia) are not datable at all. Willetts’ suggestion, based on the evidence for Lato, that all these festivals took place at year-end is possible, but cannot be proven.31 Finally, a word about the worship of Leto Phytia is in order. Some scholars, focusing on the etymology of the epithet Phytia, have argued that Leto functioned in Phaistos as a general fertility goddess who oversaw the growth of children (boys and girls) and vegetation.32 But Fritz Graf has demonstrated recently that this and related epithets refer to a god’s or goddess’ patronage of a city’s welfare generally. 33 The epithet Phytios is used also of Helios and Zeus,34 while its cognates Phytalios and Phytalmios are both found in connection with Zeus and Poseidon. 35 Indeed, Leto is elsewhere associated with citizenship in the broadest sense. One Attic deme deposited into the temple of Leto its annual register of ephebes who had become new citizens in that year.36 And on Chios, she seems to have presided over boys and girls in the process of becoming adult members of society.37 INTERPRETATIONS OF INITIATORY TRANSVESTISM

We may now turn to the main issue of this paper: the meaning of ritual transvestism in Phaistos. We find transvestism often in Greek myth and ritual. It figures as a motif in the myths of youthful heroes, such as Achilles, Heracles, 28. Lato: Inscr. Cret. I.xvi.5.23. Olous: Inscr. Cret. I.xvi.5.23, 42–43; there is a lacuna on the stone where the name of the festival at which the oath-taking took place appeared, but the same inscription, 20 lines later, indicates that there was a Thiodaisia at Olous and that it corresponded in function to the Thiodaisia at Lato. Hierapytna: Inscr. Cret. III.v.13, though it does not refer to the oath-takers as ekduomenoi. See M. Guarducci, “Note sul calendario cretese,” Epigraphica 7 (1945) 72–87; A. Samuel, Greek and Roman Chronology: Calendars and Years in Classical Antiquity (Munich, 1972) 134–36. 29. Inscr. Cret. I.xvi.4. 30. Inscr. Cret. III.iii.7. 31. Willetts, Cretan Cults (supra, n. 4) 107–108. 32. Idem, 175–76; U. Pestalozza, “LHTW FUTIA e le EKDUSIA,” Istituto Lombardo di Scienze e Lettere. Rendiconti 71 (1938) 222–24. Cf. Theocr. 18.50, where Leto is given the epithet kourotrìfoj. 33. F. Graf, Nordionische Kulte (Rome, 1985) 207. 34. Hsch. s.v. FÔtioj. 35. Graf (supra, n. 33) 207 nn. 2, 3; LSJ s.vv. Futˆlioj and Futˆlmioj. 36. IG II2 1237.123–25. 37. Inscr. Chios 41; Graf (supra, n. 33) 60–61, 105.

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Pentheus, and Theseus. And transvestism played a role in several different types of ritual: young men adopted women’s clothes as part of initiatory rites in Crete and Athens; adult men and women adopted the clothes of the opposite sex at a year-end festival in Argos; and Spartan brides donned masculine clothes and shoes on their wedding night (more below).38 Scholarly discussions of these and other instances of transvestism have been as diverse as the instances themselves, and indeed I doubt that a single theory is capable of explaining all occasions on which the Greeks adopted the clothing of the opposite sex. I do, however, believe that one can generalize about those occasions on which adolescent boys or young men adopted feminine attire in public ritual (which I will refer to hereafter as “initiatory transvestism”). Most recent discussions of initiatory transvestism fall into one of two categories: those interpretations which locate meaning in the structural features of the ritual act (the structuralist approach), and those interpretations which seek to identify the psychological motivations for adopting the clothing of the opposite sex (the psychological approach). The structuralists begin with Arnold van Gennep’s famous division of rites of passage into three phases: rites of separation, liminal or transitional rites, and rites of incorporation.39 Within this tripartite framework, they assign transvestism to the liminal phase of initiation, because they believe that transvestism effectively represents the adolescent as a subject who stands outside society and its social categories (e.g., the categories of “boy” and “man”).40 Pierre Vidal-Naquet argues that when a Greek boy wore feminine dress, he marked himself as feminine as opposed to masculine, and therefore as an inversion of his true sex. Further, he believes that the gender symbolism of this ritual action is purely abstract: it is the structural contrast between masculine/normal and feminine/inverse alone that matters.41 Claude Calame, on the other hand, adopts an interpretation of Greek initiatory transvestism which is more akin to the structuralist vision of Victor Turner.42 For Turner, the liminal period is a time in which the adolescent ceases to be socially differentiated, and the boy’s adoption of feminine dress expresses this lack of differentiation: he is neither masculine nor feminine, but androgynous. So while Vidal-Naquet sees the boy’s feminine dress as expressive of femininity, an inversion of the boy’s true masculinity, Turner

38. Achilles: Apollod. 3.13.8. Heracles: Plu. Quaest. Graec. 58 (304cd); Plu. An seni 4 (785e). Pentheus: Eur. Bacch. 849ff., 917ff. Theseus: Paus. 1.19.1. Crete: see supra, nn. 1, 2, 4. Athens: see supra, n. 7, and infra, nn. 88–92. Argos: Plu. De mul. vir. 4 (245ef). Sparta: Plu. Lyc. 15. 39. A. van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. M. Vizedom and G. Caffee (Chicago, 1960) 10–11. 40. But see W. Halliday, “A Note on Herodotos VI.83 and the Hybristika,” ABSA 16 (1909–1910) 216, who assigns transvestism to the separation phase. 41. Vidal-Naquet (supra, n. 5) 114–16. Cf. Brelich (supra, n. 5) 31. 42. C. Calame, Les choeurs des jeunes filles en Gre`ce archa¨ıque (Rome, 1977), vol. I, 36–37, 259–60. Cf. also Dowden, Death and the Maiden (supra, n. 5) 65, who cites with approval Eliade’s notion of “androgynisation passage`re.”

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and Calame see transvestism as expressive of androgyny, an absence of sexual differentiation.43 It is worth mentioning here an important variation of the structural theory which was inspired, to a great extent, by Michel Foucault’s History of Sexuality. Proponents of this version of the structural theory, such as David Cohen and Kenneth Dowden, assume a Foucauldian sexual universe divided into “penetrators” and “penetrateds,” categories which are, in turn, gendered as masculine and feminine. Within this taxonomy, they categorize boys as feminine “penetrateds,” inasmuch as boys were the sexual inferiors of older males. This leads them to conclude that the feminine clothes that boys put on in initiatory rites, such as the Oschophoria (Cohen) and Ekdusia (Dowden), must be understood as a representation of the feminine sexual role they perform.44 The psychological approach, in contrast, understands the adolescent boy’s adoption of feminine clothes as an attempt to incorporate some aspect of the “feminine” within himself. Scholars formulate this interpretation in a number of different ways, depending on their view of the young man’s motivation. Marie Delcourt observes that ritual transvestism in Greece—whether it occur as part of initiation, marriage, or year-end ritual—is frequently linked with sexual union, which leads her to suppose that transvestism had something to do with the power one gained (especially fertility power) by appropriating some aspect of the opposite sex. “Symbolic androgyny,” she concludes, “must have had a positive and beneficent value, each sex receiving something of the power of the other.”45 The genesis of this desire to appropriate the power of the opposite sex, especially on the part of males, is explored in greater depth by the psychologist Bruno Bettelheim, whose argument makes considerable use of ancient Greek ritual and myth, though never explicitly in connection with transvestism. Bettelheim observes that disturbed boys, when they reach adolescence, often experiment with cross-sex behavior, such as autoplastic genital operations (e.g., incision of the penis to simulate menstruation), crossdressing, etc. He interprets this behavior as a response to two powerful feelings: (1) the boy’s curiosity about what it is like to be a woman and his envy of women’s power (particularly their procreative power); and (2) his desire to propitiate the mother (or mother substitute) whom he experiences as threatening (i.e., by crossdressing or mutilating his body, he preemptively “castrates” himself). Bettelheim then suggests that cross-sex fantasies, while they are exaggerated in the case of disturbed adolescents, are actually experienced in some form by all adolescent boys, although it is not socially acceptable for these boys to act them out except 43. V. Turner, “Betwixt and Between: the Liminal Period in Rites de Passage,” in idem, The Forest of Symbols (Ithaca, 1967) 95–98. Turner’s theory is elaborated further in “Liminality and Communitas,” in idem, The Ritual Process (Ithaca, 1969) 94–130. 44. D. Cohen, Law, Sexuality, and Society: The Enforcement of Morals in Classical Athens (Cambridge, 1991) 172, 192–93, and 171–202 generally; K. Dowden, The Uses of Greek Mythology (London and New York, 1992) 118. 45. Delcourt (supra, n. 5) 4–5, 16.

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in certain ritual contexts. Initiatory transvestism, he argues, like subincision and male “menstruation,” provide precisely this sort of ritual outlet for normal boys in traditional societies.46 So while Delcourt suggests that the ritual cross-dresser is motivated primarily by a desire to acquire the power of the opposite sex, Bettelheim believes that the cross-dresser, particularly the male cross-dresser, is motivated by both envy of the opposite sex and fear of it. Other scholars interested in psychological explanations of initiatory transvestism understand these contradictory feelings and strategies for managing them in the more specific context of individuation, an extended process beginning roughly in the second year of life which sees the boy attempt to reconcile his desire to separate from his mother with his desire to possess her and her powers. Philip Slater, in his study of the Greek family, begins with the premise that the Greek mother deals with her own frustrated aspirations by imposing psychological demands on her son, and not permitting clear boundaries to form between them. When the boy reaches adolescence, then, he must somehow escape from his mother’s psychological influence. “Transvestism,” according to Slater, “is one way of attempting to achieve freedom from feminine domination. The men try to show that they can be women as well—wear their clothes, acquire their organs, give birth—and hence do not need them any longer.”47 In other words, transvestism is part of the adolescent boy’s psychological strategy for weaning himself away from his powerful mother. Nancy Felson-Rubin has recently improved upon Slater’s formulation: she interprets the struggle to separate from the maternal orbit as arising exclusively out of the boy’s own psychological needs, and dispenses entirely with Slater’s “angry mother,” who actively attempts to obstruct her son’s development. She argues that just as the infant, during the individuation process proper, “repeatedly returns to [his] mother for reassurance, between ventures outward,” so too the adolescent frequently regresses, despite a larger trend toward separating from his mother’s influence. For FelsonRubin, then, initiatory transvestism becomes “a regressive enfolding of the self in the clothing of the mother.”48 Both the structuralist and psychological approaches illuminate important aspects of the meaning of initiatory transvestism, but both interpretations also have serious shortcomings, which limit, to some extent, their explanatory value. The major weakness of the structuralist theory is that it deals with abstract symbols completely divorced from their social context. First of all, the structuralists exhibit little interest in the overall transition from boy to man, and, instead, focus on a single moment in this transition—the threshold between adolescence and manhood. They then proceed to privilege minor differences between “adolescent” and “man” at this brief 46. B. Bettelheim, Symbolic Wounds: Puberty Rites and the Envious Male (Glencoe, IL, 1954) 27–31, 39–42, 66, 211–14, 265 and passim. 47. P. Slater, The Glory of Hera: Greek Mythology and the Greek Family (Boston, 1968) 287–91, 299, 301, 306. 48. N. Felson-Rubin, Regarding Penelope (Princeton, 1994) 167–68, nn. 16, 22. Psychoanalysis considers such “regression” to be a normal part of development.

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moment, at the expense of the similarities and the overall trend toward assimilation, which is teleologically far more significant.49 Proponents of this theory collapse van Gennep’s dynamic three-phase progression from “boy” to “liminal adolescent” to “man” into a static dialectical opposition between “central” and “liminal” (VidalNaquet) or between “differentiated” and “undifferentiated” (Turner). In other words, the structuralist theory fails to see the forest for the trees. I do not wish to deny the role of inversion in symbolic representations of cultural values. Indeed, inversion is particularly effective at articulating differences between stable categories, such as “Greek” and “barbarian,” where crossover is rare, if not impossible. Homer’s Cyclops, for example, may be represented as a complete inversion of the Greek Odysseus, because one of the Cyclops’ primary functions in myth is to serve as a permanent barbarian “other.” But for a transient category such as “adolescent,” whose membership is constantly in flux, the concept of inversion seems less useful. The adolescent is surely more similar to the adult man he is in the process of becoming than he is a logical inversion of him. Second, the structuralists, and Vidal-Naquet and Turner in particular, attempt to analyze gendered clothing as though it bore no relation to the gender structure of the society in which it is worn. They insist that the gender content of the clothing is irrelevant, and that the meaning of its use is determined exclusively by the structural contrast between masculine and feminine, or between differentiated and undifferentiated. Vidal-Naquet, for example, says of the transvestism at the Athenian Oschophoria: “it can be demonstrated that it is not the kind of disguise that is important, rather the contrast that it underscores (italics original).”50 We are to presume, I suppose, that any other contrast (e.g., nude vs. clothed, walking on hands vs. walking on feet) could have produced the same effect. The problem with this position is, once again, not with the idea that structure may convey meaning, but with its reductionist claim that structure is the only bearer of meaning in the rite. There is no reason to exclude the content of the contrasted symbols, particularly in the case of transvestism. Certainly the Phaistians participating in or observing the ritual change of clothes at the Ekdusia would have responded to the gender associations of the clothes exchanged in the rite, as well as to the abstract contrast between “before” and “after.” Cohen and Dowden, to their credit, do attempt to situate initiatory transvestism in its social context by linking the boy’s adoption of feminine dress with the supposedly feminine sexual role he plays. They are on the right track, but, as I shall argue below, their fundamental assumption that the adolescent eromenos was thought to play a feminine sexual role is highly problematic.

49. A similar criticism has been voiced by T. Turner, “Transformation, Hierarchy and Transcendence: a Reformulation of Van Gennep’s Model of the Structure of Rites de Passage,” in S. Moore and B. Myerhoff, eds., Secular Ritual (Assen, 1977) 53–70, esp. 70 n. 6; and M. Bloch, Prey into Hunter: The Politics of Religious Experience (Cambridge, 1992) 6. 50. Vidal-Naquet (supra, n. 5) 116. For Turner, “Betwixt and Between” (supra, n. 43) 93–99, too, such symbols are purely structural.

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The major weakness of the psychological theory of initiatory transvestism, on the other hand, is that it focuses almost exclusively on the psyche of the adolescent boy and his mother, even though the rites are designed and overseen by adult male initiators. It is more logical to understand the transvestism of the Ekdusia in terms of the adult man’s subjectivity. One implication of this shift of perspective is that the man’s account of what goes on between mother and son cannot be thought to refer to some objective reality, the status which Slater, for example, grants it, but must be understood as part of the man’s subjective fantasy world. For example, if an adult initiator were to say that he has prescribed transvestism as a way for the boy to win his struggle to separate from his mother, we should understand that the adult initiator prescribes transvestism because he imagines that the boy and his mother are engaged in a struggle over the boy’s masculinity. In other words, we are dealing with the adult man’s psychological motivations, not those of boys and their mothers. There is even more reason to insist on this distinction in the case of the Greek rites: while there may be data for the psychological motivations of boys and women in our own society, we have very little evidence for what Greek women thought and none for what Greek boys thought. Almost all our evidence from ancient Greece reflects the beliefs, values, and fantasies of adult men.51 I propose to argue that the Cretan youth’s adoption of feminine dress marked his boyhood association with the feminine realm, whereas his removal of it signified his final separation from that realm and his readiness to participate in masculine institutions and to discharge masculine roles within the city. I will present the argument in two parts. First, I will argue that one of the consequences of gender polarity within Cretan society was that the social development of boys was conceived of as a gradual progression from the feminine pole to the masculine pole. Second, I will suggest that the boy’s spatial association with the feminine pole led adult men to view the boy as actually feminine himself, and to believe that if he was not removed from this feminine environment at the proper time, his masculine development would be imperiled. The Cretan youth’s adoption and later removal of feminine dress, therefore, would naturally have made a powerful statement in 51. The fact that individual boys have been observed, e.g., by Bettelheim (supra, n. 46) 39–42, spontaneously adopting feminine clothes tells us little about the motivation of boys in ritual, in which all boys adopt feminine clothes at the same time because it is required by tradition. For a discussion of the distinction between public and private symbols, see E. Leach, “Magical Hair,” Journal of the Royal Anthropologic Institute 88 (1958) 147–64. If there is to be a relationship between boyhood fantasies and the ritual adoption of feminine dress, then we would have to say that the adult man continues to work out his own ambivalent feelings toward his mother (the contradictory desires for separation and reincorporation) through the rites which he imposes on the adolescent boy. On the echoes of individuational concerns in adulthood, see e.g., D. Gilmore, “Mother-Son Intimacy and the Dual View of Women in Andalusia,” Ethos 14 (1986) 227–51. There is a good deal of evidence to suggest that residual conflict from childhood plays a role in determining the way adult men conceive of initiation. See e.g., T. Reik, “The Puberty Rites of Savages: Some Parallels between the Mental Life of Savages and Neurotics,” in idem, Ritual: Psychoanalytic Studies, trans. D. Bryan (Westport, CT, 1975) 91–160; R. Graber, “A Psychocultural Theory of Male Genital Mutilation,” Journal of Psychoanalytic Anthropology 4 (1981) 413–34, esp. 420–21.

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their eyes. The argument I offer avoids the pitfalls of the two previous approaches: it gives proper emphasis to the gender content of the ritual change of clothes and to the larger ritual context, and it accounts for the complex motivations of the adult male initiators who maintained the rite year after year. GENDER POLARITY AND THE GENDER-CODING OF ADOLESCENCE

To the extent that the ritual change of clothes at the Ekdusia was coded in gender terms (feminine clothes vs. masculine clothes), it may seem obvious to look to the gender segregation that permeated every level of Cretan society for a social context within which to understand the gender opposition of the ritual. But I wish to make the stronger claim that male initiatory rites in general, even those which do not explicitly define the ritual subject in terms of gender categories, are prompted by an underlying condition of gender polarity within the society at large and typically serve as one of the most important occasions for adult men to articulate what it means to be a man in that society. Recent work within the field of anthropology bears out this conception of the nature of male initiation.52 A 1980 cross-cultural survey of 182 societies, conducted by Alice Schlegel and Herbert Barry, found that male initiation rites were most common in societies of intermediate complexity, in which “gender is an important, or even the only, means (other than age) by which the social group is subdivided and labor and other social functions are assigned.”53 Indeed, the authors of this study judged the correlation between the existence of male initiation rites in a particular society and sharp gender polarity within that society to be statistically significant. Their study confirmed the results of a similar 1958 survey of 56 societies, which concluded that male initiation rituals were most widespread in societies in which boys enjoyed a relatively lengthy period of intimacy with their mothers and had relatively little contact with their fathers—societies, in other words, in which men and women were separated to a considerable degree.54 The reason for this association between male initiation rites and gender segregation is fairly obvious. Because these societies are organized largely along gender lines, “initiation ceremonies [are],” in the words of Schlegel and Barry, “primarily the means by which the young person [is] inducted into his or her same-sex group rather than into the community as a whole.” Initiation is a “celebration of gender 52. For a discussion of this trend in anthropology with generous bibliography, see A. Schlegel and H. Barry, “The Evolutionary Significance of Adolescent Initiation Ceremonies,” American Ethnologist 7 (1980) 696–715. 53. Idem, 699–700. The study showed that female initiation rites were more common in simpler societies, particularly in hunting and gathering societies: idem, 710–11. 54. J. Whiting, R. Kluckhohn, and A. Anthony, “The Function of Male Initiation Ceremonies at Puberty,” in E. Maccoby et al., eds., Readings in Social Anthropology (New York, 1958) 359–70. This study defined mother-son intimacy/father-son estrangement by the presence of one or both of the following practices: (1) the sleeping together of mother and infant son with exclusion of the father for at least one year; and (2) a post-partum sex taboo lasting at least one year (so father is prohibited from reestablishing his role as sole intimate companion of the mother): idem, 364.

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status.” Not surprisingly, this process is more involved for boys: because they spend their early years living with the women of the community, initiation must attempt to “extrud[e] boys from the household and prepar[e] them for male peer-group activities.”55 Gender was not the only means by which Greek society was differentiated, and in some cities may not even have been the most important. Greek society was in many ways more complex than the societies we have been discussing: in addition to gender and age distinctions, factors such as kinship, socioeconomic status, and membership in voluntary associations contributed to a highly differentiated social structure. Nevertheless, gender segregation in some form was a feature of social life throughout Greece,56 and it seems to have been particularly acute in Dorian Sparta and in the Dorian cities of Crete. In Crete, our primary area of interest, gender segregation took two basic forms. First, citizen men spent a good deal of time in separate “men’s clubs,” known as andreia.57 Each andreion served as the headquarters of a male association called a hetaireia, which functioned in the classical and early Hellenistic periods as a quasiofficial division of the state.58 It was in the andreion that members of the hetaireia debated political questions, gathered for meals, and probably also slept. 59 In other words, the Cretan man practically lived at his andreion. This is probably the situation Aristotle was thinking of when he wrote that the Cretan lawgiver “encourages the separation (diˆzeucij) of men from women, lest they have too many children, and [encourages] the companionship of men with one another.” 60 It is doubtful that birth control was ever the policy of the Dorian aristocracy in Crete,61 but in order for Aristotle to come to this conclusion, the gender separation must have appeared severe even by Athenian standards. As time went on, however, the importance of the andreion began to diminish somewhat: it ceased to be the site of official political debate, and ceased to serve as the sleeping quarters for all its members.62 By the late Hellenistic period, its function seems to have become limited to meals, fellowship, 55. Schlegel and Barry (supra, n. 52) 704, 707, 710. 56. See especially D. Cohen, “Seclusion, Separation, and the Status of Women in Classical Athens,” G&R 36 (1989) 3–15; idem, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 41–54. 57. See generally M. Lavrencic, “ANDREION,” Tyche 3 (1988) 147–61. 58. Dosiadas FGrH 458 F 2 = Ath. 143b (3rd cent. ): di ùrhntai d' oÉ polØtai pˆntej kaq¯ átairÐaj, kaloÜsi dà taÔtaj ‚ndreØa (“Citizens are all divided into hetairiai, and they call them andreia”). Cf. idem, ‚pä dà toÜ deÐpnou prÀton màn eʸqasi bouleÔesqai perÈ tÀn koinÀn (“After dinner, they generally first discussed public affairs”). 59. Lavrencic (supra, n. 57) 149. 60. Arist. Pol. 1272a23–26. 61. S. Spyridakis, “Aristotle on Cretan POLUTEKNIA,” Historia 28 (1979) 380–84 points out that the population of Crete either remained constant or increased during the Hellenistic period, and that the outnumbered Dorian aristocracy would, in any event, have desired to reproduce as much as possible in order to maintain their political strength. But I would note that even if the reason Aristotle gives for the segregation of men and women is incorrect, this does not invalidate his statement that men and women were in fact segregated. 62. It did continue to house out-of-town guests, Dosiadas FGrH 458 F 2.

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and education.63 Even with its role diminished, though, the andreion continued to play an important role in the maintenance of masculine ideology.64 Indeed, even when the andreion no longer served as the sleeping quarters for the entire membership, it seems to have remained the sleeping quarters of the younger initiated men. Ephorus tells us that young bridegrooms did not immediately commence living with their brides, but lived separately for some time until the young wife became competent to manage a household. 65 The young man during this time most likely lived in the sleeping quarters of his andreion.66 Plutarch tells us that at Sparta, newly married men lived in the barracks (pheiditia) with their male peers, and had to sneak out at night in order to visit and have intercourse with their wives. Plutarch adds that the young man sometimes even fathered children on his wife before he laid eyes on her (or them) in the light of day.67 In Sparta, husbands probably continued to live in the barracks from their early 20s until the age of 30 or so,68 so it is likely that the Cretan man was separated from his wife for several years as well. A second form of gender segregation was the conceptual division of space within the oikos. To the extent that the Cretan head of household was away from home, either at his andreion or about the town, the oikos was, by default, a feminine sphere of influence. Indeed, in the Laws, Plato expresses worry that Cretan women had free run of the oikos, because they lacked the structured system of messes that the men had.69 This is not to say that men had no place in the home. Cretan houses, as houses elsewhere in Greece, were divided conceptually into women’s quarters and men’s quarters. The men’s quarters generally included the sleeping quarters for male members of the household (including slaves) and the andron, which was a room where the man of the house could entertain his male friends. The women’s quarters, conceptually speaking, encompassed everything else. Now I do not mean to suggest that the man of the house was barred from the women’s quarters, though

63. M. Guarducci, “Note di antichita` Cretesi,” Historia 9 (1935) 441–42; H. van Effentere, La Cre`te et la monde grecque (Paris, 1948) 87–89. 64. See e.g., Dosiadas FGrH 458 F 2, who explains that the choice cuts were given “to men who had distinguished themselves in war or counsel. After dinner . . . they recall exploits in war, praise those men who showed themselves to be brave, and exhort the young to manly virtue (‚ndragaqÐa).” 65. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 149 = Strab. 10.4.20. This arrangement would be understandable, if Cretan girls could marry at the age of 12, as the Gortyn Code suggests.
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I doubt he maintained a significant and regular presence there. But the women’s quarters were off limits to male society more generally.70 Not surprisingly, the socialization of Cretan boys reflected this basic separation of women and men.71 Younger boys in Crete, like boys elsewhere, slept and ate with the women and children in the feminine areas of the home.72 But in later childhood and early adolescence, the boy began to leave the confines of the home and to become involved in masculine activities and institutions, a process which was institutionalized in the form of a three-stage general education program which lasted many years. In the first stage, boys began to frequent the andreia of their fathers. The boys were supervised by a paidonomos who taught them grammar and music, and led them in mock battles among themselves and against the boys from other andreia. Within the andreion, they were clearly second-class participants. They were expected to serve the men,73 and were otherwise required to sit on the floor near the respective chairs of their fathers, a clearly subordinate position. As for meals, boys were given half the amount of meat that the adult men were given, 74 and none of the side dishes. And all the boys had to share a single krater of wine. We have no information about the age at which a Cretan boy entered this first stage of initiation, but at Sparta, boys entered the first stage at age seven.75 In the second stage, the boys were organized into special cohorts called agelai, or “herds.” By the time of Ephorus, the agelai were formed by individual prominent boys, and they were led by the fathers of the boys who organized them. This leader took the boys in his agela out to hunt and to run foot races, and coached them in ritual battles with other agelai. These ritual battles were quite a bit more serious than those in the first stage, and sometimes resulted in serious injuries. The boys also ate together, at public expense, and slept in the same quarters.76 According to Hesychius, a boy entered this second stage of initiation at the age of 18, but it is likely that at an earlier time, the age of entry was younger.77 At Sparta, which

70. The best recent discussion of domestic space is M. Jameson, “Private Space and the Greek City,” in O. Murray, ed., The Greek City from Homer to the Hellenistic Period (Oxford, 1992) 171–95. 71. On the socialization of Greek boys generally as a function of gender segregation, see now Felson-Rubin (supra, n. 48) 70–91. 72. Dem. 47.55–56 (Athens); Plu. Pel. 9.5 (Thebes); Lucian Gall. 11. See also M. Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore, 1990) 37–38. Pl. Lach. 178a–180c presents a deviation from the norm and acknowledges it as such; see G. Devereux, “Greek Pseudo-Homosexuality and the ‘Greek Miracle,’ ” SO 42 (1967) 78. 73. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 149 = Strab. 10.4.20; Pyrgion FGrH 467 F 1 = Ath. 143e; Dosiadas FGrH 458 F 2 = Ath. 143cd. They were treated similarly at Sparta: Plu. Lyc. 17.4–5. 74. Cf. the situation at Sparta: Xen. Rep. Lac. 2.5–6. 75. Plu. Lyc. 16.7. 76. Heraclid. Pont. FHG II.211. 77. Hsch. s.v. ‚pˆgeloj. Hesychius may have confused the Cretan agela with the Athenian ephebeia (which began at age 18), as his gloss ‚gèlaj. toÌj âf bouj may suggest. See M. Guarducci, Inscriptiones Creticae, vol. II (Rome, 1939) 165 n. 4; Willetts, Aristocratic Society (supra, n. 18) 13 n. 4. It is also possible that Hesychius reflects the Cretan agela as it was at a later time. As societies become more urbanized, they frequently push forward the final initiation of boys into men. At Athens,

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was in many ways more conservative in the maintenance of Dorian traditions,78 a boy entered the second stage of initiation at age 12 or 14.79 The third and final stage began at the age of 20 or so,80 upon graduation from the agela. The graduating youths swore an oath of citizenship in which they promised to uphold the laws of the city and its treaties. 81 They also, upon graduation, or very soon thereafter, were required to marry, along with other members of their graduating class. As I have already mentioned, this third stage was a period spent living with other young men in the barracks apart from their wives and possibly young children, and it may have lasted several years. 82 These three stages brought the Cretan boy increasingly out of the domestic space of the home and into contact with other males. The first stage identified him formally with his father and brought him to the adult male world of the andreion. The second and third stages involved him in the activities of a same-sex peer group. In spatial terms, this educational program took the form of a broad shift from oikos to andreion, from feminine spaces to masculine spaces. LEUKIPPOS AND THE TRANSITION FROM FEMININE TO MASCULINE

The ritual change of clothes performed at the Ekdusia mirrored this general shift in spatial orientation from feminine to masculine: the youth’s assumption of feminine clothes symbolized his prior association with the feminine domain, while his removal of them signified a final break with this feminine realm and a readiness to be counted among men.83 The myth of Leukippos son of Lampros, which served as an aition for the rite, reflects this structural opposition of the sexes. We notice, for example, that Leukippos’ mother Galateia and father Lampros were separated to a great extent. Lampros was absent when his wife gave birth; he was absent when for example, the initiation of boys into their phratries at the age of 16 was later supplemented by the polis-wide institution of the ephebeia, which began at the age of 18. 78. Willetts, Aristocratic Society (supra, n. 18) 15; M. Nilsson “Die Grundlagen des spartanischen Lebens,” Klio 12 (1908) 314. 79. Twelve: Plu. Lyc. 16.6. Fourteen: Talezaar (supra, n. 68) 130–31, 134–35, who cites two glosses, one each from the MSS of Herodotus and Strabo, which seem to derive from Aristophanes of Byzantium. 80. M. Guarducci, Inscriptiones Creticae, vol. IV (Rome, 1950) 150; Willetts, Aristocratic Society (supra, n. 18) 12. Spartan youths also left the second stage at the age of 20: Plu. Lyc. 17.2; Talezaar (supra, n. 68) 131, 137. 81. See supra, n. 2. 82. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 149 = Strab. 10.4.20; Heraclid. Pont. FHG II.211; Jeanmaire (supra, n. 5) 423; Willetts, Aristocratic Society (supra, n. 18) 18–19. The period between marriage and marital cohabitation is often considered part of initiation proper in traditional societies. Among the Sambia of New Guinea, for example, the final stage of initiation ends when the man’s wife gives birth to their first child. This final stage usually ends, as at Sparta, at about the age of 30. G. Herdt, The Guardians of the Flutes: Idioms of Masculinity (New York, 1981) 55. 83. A similar view of male initiatory transvestism is adopted in part already by J. Harrison, Themis: A Study of the Social Origin of Greek Religion (Cambridge, 1912) 507; Jeanmaire (supra, n. 5) 34–38, 353–55; and Dowden, Death and the Maiden (supra, n. 5) 65.

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his “son” reached puberty and was transformed into a true male; and we are entitled to wonder how well he knew Leukippos at all before puberty, considering that he did not notice that his “son” was a biological female. Leukippos’ change in sex may be interpreted as a transition between these separate feminine and masculine domains. Indeed, the myth suggests that boys at Phaistos were associated with the feminine realm for their entire childhood, not just at the moment of transition. The myth of Leukippos thus casts doubt on the structuralist hypothesis that the assumption of feminine dress at the Ekdusia constituted a “temporary inversion.” Just as Leukippos was female in sex for his entire life prior to puberty, the Phaistian youth was associated with the feminine realm for his entire life before initiation. We find a similar pattern in the myths of two other Leukippoi, whose profound structural similarity both to each other and to the myth of the first Leukippos points to an almost certain genetic relationship among them.84 The first of these is the myth of Leukippos son of Oinomaos. According to Pausanias, who claims to give the local version of the Arcadians and Eleans, this Leukippos fell in love with the maiden Daphne, who, being committed to her virginity, shunned the company of men. So in order to woo her, Leukippos put on women’s clothes and joined Daphne’s band of virgin huntresses. For a time, Leukippos’ plan succeeded and Daphne became quite fond of him. But one day Daphne conceived a desire to bathe and she and the other maidens stripped and jumped into the water. When they noticed Leukippos’ reluctance to undress and join them, they stripped him and, discovering that he was a male, killed him with their hunting spears.85 The story of this Leukippos is structurally very similar to the myth of the earlier Leukippos and to the ritual change of clothes at Phaistos. What we have been referring to as the boy’s childhood feminine milieu is represented in this myth by Daphne’s exclusively feminine band. And Leukippos, like the youth at Phaistos, signified his membership in this feminine group by wearing feminine clothes. Furthermore, this Leukippos, like the first one and like the youth at Phaistos, made a departure from his feminine milieu: transvestism was followed by a masculine show of nudity, as it very likely was in the disrobing rites in Lato and Olous. But the departure of this Leukippos did not take the form of a triumphant debut, as in the case of the other Leukippos or of the ekduomenoi in the various cities of Crete, 84. See RE 12 (1925) s.v. Leukippos (Kro¨ll). Dowden, idem, 62–67 discusses the myths of nine Leukippoi, which he argues all derive from a common Aeolic royal succession myth. Six, and possibly seven, of these Leukippoi are sons of a king. Three Leukippoi found colonies at the behest of a king, which Dowden ingeniously interprets as an initiatory metaphor for the boy’s establishing his own oikos. And three Leukippoi adopt feminine dress or are female by birth. On the close relation between adolescent initiation and royal succession myths, see J. Bremmer, “Oedipus and the Greek Oedipus Complex,” in idem, ed., Interpretations of Greek Mythology (London and Sydney, 1987) 42, 47, and 53, with bibliography. 85. Paus. 8.20.2–4. Pausanias attributes this version to the Arcadians and Eleans. But he notes that some poets have added an additional element to the story: Apollo was also in love with Daphne, and in a jealous rage, inspired Daphne to bathe so that Leukippos would be discovered and killed. This is the version told by Parth. Amat. Narr. 15 and made canonical by Ovid Met. 1.462–567.

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but rather took the form of a violent expulsion ending in death. His was a failed initiation. The other Leukippos haled from Lycia and was the son of Xanthios. His complete story was told by the Hellenistic poet Hermesianax, whose version is preserved in a prose paraphrase by Parthenius.86 An angry Aphrodite caused this Leukippos to fall in love with his sister. He tried to resist his feelings, but being unable to do so, he went to his mother and sought her assistance in satisfying his desire. She agreed and helped to unite him with his sister. For some time, Leukippos and his sister carried on a secret affair, but one day someone betrayed their secret to the girl’s fiance´. The fiance´, in turn, informed the father that the girl had been seduced, but he omitted to mention that the seducer was Leukippos. So father and fiance´ proceeded to the girl’s chamber, hoping to catch the seducer red-handed. The girl heard them approaching and, in a panic, rushed out of the room to escape; but her father, thinking that she was the seducer, struck her with a dagger and killed her. Leukippos, meanwhile, hearing her screams from inside the bedchamber, rushed out and killed his lover’s attacker, before realizing that it was his own father. As a result of his crime, Leukippos was exiled, and following a series of travels which took him to Phaistos, among other places, he joined a band of Thessalians to found the city of Magnesia on the Maeander in Caria.87 This third Leukippos myth also fits into our structural pattern, even if the details are quite a bit different. In each of the other myths and in the rite at Phaistos, the boy was depicted as emerging from some feminine environment. In this myth, the prior feminine environment is expressed in terms of Leukippos’ close relationships with his sister and mother, the former being his lover, the latter his confidante and facilitator of the incestuous relationship. And it is notable that the intrigue took place in the thalamos, part of the intimate inner area, most likely a feminine area, of the house. My argument that the Ekdusia dramatized the Phaistian boy’s transition from the feminine to the masculine domain derives support from the one other Greek initiatory ritual involving transvestism, the Oschophoria at Athens. And in that rite, the separation of boys from the maternal sphere is explicit. The Oschophoria featured a procession from the city of Athens to the Attic frontier, led by two boys dressed in women’s clothes called oschophoroi (“vine-carriers”) and by certain women called deipnophoroi (“meal-carriers”).88 The Athenians themselves explained this ritual, at

86. Hermesianax fr. 5 Powell = Parth. Amat. Narr. 5. 87. According to a local historian from Magnesia on the Maeander, Leukippos joined the Thessalians in southern Crete, somewhere between Phaistos and Gortyn, FGrH 482 F 3. We should recall that by the second century , Phaistos and Gortyn functioned as a single polity. See supra, n. 25. On colonization as an initiatory motif, see supra, n. 84. 88. The procession began at a temple of Dionysus in Athens and ended at a temple of Athena Skiras. There were temples of Athena Skiras in both Phaleron and Skiron, either of which could have been the destination of the procession. For a recent discussion with full bibliography, see E. Kadletz, “The Race and Procession of the Athenian Oscophoroi,” GRBS 21 (1980) 363–71.

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least as far back as the end of the fourth century ,89 by reference to an episode from the Cretan adventures of Theseus. The story tells of how Theseus, before he set off to Crete with Athens’ annual tribute of seven youths and seven maidens, replaced two of the maidens with beardless youths dressed in women’s clothes. The “twice seven” then headed toward the harbor to board the boat which was to convey them to Crete, all the while accompanied by their mothers, who brought them food and told them stories to cheer them. These mythical mothers, in the etiological reading of the myth, correspond to the rite’s deipnophoroi, and the two youths whom Theseus disguised as maidens correspond to the rite’s two oschophoroi.90 Henri Jeanmaire demonstrated long ago that the Cretan cycle of the Theseus myth exhibited the three basic phases (separation, transition, incorporation) found in initiation rites, and showed that the Oschophoria corresponded to the first, or separation, phase.91 I would go one step further than Jeanmaire: not only does the Oschophoria separate the boy from his prior status and from the civic space of Athens, but it also separates him from the maternal realm. The oschophoroi leave behind once for all the maternal deipnophoroi who follow them to the water’s edge. Their feminine dress suggests their kinship with this maternal world, even as they are about to depart from it. When they make their return (real or metaphorical) from the limen, they will be “dressed” as men.92 MEN’S ANXIETY, BOYS’ INITIATION

I have argued that the gendered nature of the clothes cast off and put on at the Ekdusia must be understood in the context of gender separation within Cretan society and the boy’s transit between the world of women and the world of men, and not solely as an abstract structural marker which distinguishes citizen men from all others. It now remains to consider the subjectivity of the adult male initiators who oversaw the ritual change of clothes at Phaistos. Earlier, I objected to the emphasis which adherents of the psychological theory of initiatory transvestism placed on the psychological dynamic between mothers and sons. However important we may think 89. Our earliest source for this etiology is Demon FGrH 327 F 6 = Plu. Thes. 23.2–4, whom Jacoby ad loc. dates to approximately 300 . 90. Although the myth involves both boys and girls, the ritual clearly focuses on the boys, and most likely did so long before it came into association with the myth. 91. Jeanmaire (supra, n. 5) 227–383. 92. Indeed, the Oschophoria is continued mythically in the story of Solon’s capture of Salamis from the Megarians. According to Plutarch (Sol. 8.4–6), Solon dressed several beardless young men in women’s clothes, gave them daggers to conceal underneath, and stationed them on the shore at Salamis. He then sent a messenger to the Megarians, who posed as a deserter and informed them that a large group of Athenian women were gathered at Salamis for the Thesmophoria. When the Megarians attacked, the youths burst forth with their weapons and killed the Megarians to a man. That is, boys who wore feminine clothes during the separation phase, cast them off in the limen. We do not know whether this story was associated with any ritual, but it is interesting that the Salaminian Thesmophoria, which we know was held on the tenth of Pyanepsion, came only days after the Oschophoria, which was held on the seventh of Pyanepsion.

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the mother-son relationship is in the adolescent boy’s psychosexual development generally, we cannot ascribe any agency to either mother or son in creating and maintaining rites of initiation. But the men of Phaistos do, as a group, play an active role in maintaining the ritual: inasmuch as the citizenship status into which the Phaistian youths were being initiated was the privilege of adult free males, the annual oath-swearing rite functioned as a hurdle kept in place by citizen men for the young who wished to enter their ranks. It may be objected that the element of transvestism was traditional and that we cannot, therefore, ascribe to them an active employment of gender symbolism, even if we can claim active maintenance of the rite as a whole. I would reply that every celebration of a ritual constitutes a ratification, on some level, of its contents, which in this case would include requiring the youths to wear women’s clothes. The fact that administration of the oath of citizenship continued to be accompanied, year after year, by cross-dressing suggests that this element continued to be meaningful in some way. Moreover, the fact that the men of Phaistos retold the myth of Leukippos son of Lampros year after year in connection with the Ekdusia suggests that this myth is a legitimate clue to the meaning of the rite for as long as the two were associated. It is always possible that a symbol will be retained, but have its meaning altered to suit a changed social context. But I doubt that the meaning of transvestism at the Ekdusia changed significantly over time, given that the fundamental polarity of women and men endured in one form or another throughout the period in question. So how did the men of Phaistos understand the Ekdusia, the myths of Leukippos, and the boy’s overall transition from the feminine realm to the masculine realm? This question cannot be answered in the way that classicists traditionally proceed to reconstruct the motivations of ritual actors, for we know almost nothing about how Greek men understood the numerous rituals associated with the promotion of boys to manhood. Such evidence is, however, available from many modern societies which initiate boys into manhood. I therefore propose to offer a comparative model which will, I hope, provide some insight into the relation between gender segregation within a society and the way that adult men understand the psychosexual development of boys and fashion initiation rites in accordance therewith. The model derives not from modern Mediterranean cultures, where classicists generally turn for comparative material,but derives largely from African, Austronesian, and aboriginal New World cultures.93 The reason is that modern Mediterranean societies are largely lacking in

93. Comparative evidence from Circum-Mediterranean cultures has generally been thought to have the greatest predictive value for ancient Greece and Rome. See e.g., J. Winkler, The Constraints of Desire: The Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece (New York, 1989) 9– 10; and Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 38–41, an exemplary discussion of the comparative method. Modern Mediterranean parallels for adolescent initiation rites, however, are rare indeed, and this has led most scholars who write about these rites to look beyond the Mediterranean for comparative data. See especially the discussion in Calame (supra, n. 42) 34–40 of “la me´thode comparative.” Cf. also Jeanmaire (supra, n. 5) 147–225, who makes a good deal of use of African material; and Brelich (supra, n. 5) 13–112, who draws equally on Austronesia, Africa, and the

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rituals and institutions which are clearly initiatory in character, and any they do have lack the distinctive elements of ancient Greek rites, such as ritualized pederasty. Fortunately, we need not rely exclusively on comparative evidence. What is most striking about the modern societies which do have male initiation rites (and must therefore be the central feature of our model) is that men’s attitude toward the masculine development of boys is largely a function of their attitude toward women. And since we do have a good deal of evidence for men’s view of women in ancient Greece, we may to some extent work backwards, using our model as a guide, to speculate about the way that Greek men understood male adolescence and the rituals associated with it. We may then return to the story of Leukippos, which preserves this masculine view in its fullest form, though it is expressed in the slippery symbolic language of myth. I suggested earlier that there was a statistical correlation between gender segregation and male initiation rites, and that these rites are frequently structured in terms of this opposition between feminine spaces and masculine spaces. We may now add a corollary to this rule: gender segregation not only determines the spatial structure of the boy’s transition to manhood, but also tends to produce elaborate and institutionalized masculine and feminine gender ideologies, by which men and women construct their separate worlds, including their understanding of the adolescent transition. Gender antagonism, in the formulation of the anthropologist Robert Murphy, is a function of social structure.94 One of the most common and most robust elements of masculine gender ideology in societies of this sort is the idea that women constitute a threat to the maintenance of masculinity. This idea, which probably lurks just beneath the surface at all times, receives its fullest expression on occasions which involve some contact between the otherwise segregated sexes, such as sexual intercourse and other activities associated with marriage. So we often hear men, in gender-segregated societies, express concern that intercourse with a woman is polluting or debilitating, a threat to the male body. Women may also be thought to threaten a man’s masculine reputation, especially by engaging in adulterous liaisons which render him a cuckold.95 Both of these perceptions of women—as threat to the male body and as threat to the masculine reputation—have been well documented for Greek society.96 In order to manage these perceived threats, men have developed a number of different strategies. They may protect their bodies by living separately from women or by observing various rituals which govern those New World. 94. R. Murphy, “Social Structure and Sex Antagonism,” Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 15 (1959) 89–98. 95. See e.g., S. Brandes, “Like Wounded Stags: Male Sexual Ideology in an Andalusian Town,” in S. Ortner and H. Whitehead, eds., Sexual Meanings: The Cultural Construction of Gender and Sexuality (Cambridge, 1981) 216–39. 96. See e.g., A. Giacomelli (= Carson), “Aphrodite and After,” Phoenix 34 (1980) 1–19; A. Carson, “Putting Her in Her Place: Women, Dirt and Desire,” in D. Halperin et al., eds., Before Sexuality (Princeton, 1990) 135–64; Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 54–69, 87–89, 98–170; N. Rabinowitz, Anxiety Veiled: Euripides and the Traffic in Women (Ithaca, 1993) 8–9, 19–20, 126, 155.

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occasions which require interaction with them. For example, they may observe rigid sexual taboos (especially while their wives are menstruating), or perform rituals designed to rid themselves of feminine pollution, such as regular induced bleedings (“male menstruation”).97 To protect their masculine reputations, on the other hand, men employ various legal and rhetorical devices for keeping their women in check.98 Concerns about masculinity are also associated, in societies of this sort, with the process of adolescence. This should not be surprising since adolescence, the occasion on which boys make a transition from feminine spaces to masculine spaces, also entails contact between the sexes. We recall the observation of Schlegel and Barry that initiation rites are most common in societies of intermediate complexity in which gender, after age, is the most important basis of social differentiation, and their conclusion that rituals of this sort were primarily “celebrations of gender status.” Indeed, they constituted one of the most important occasions for articulating an adult male view of the world and of the female “other.” In this context, men understood the endangered masculinity to be the boy’s nascent masculinity, and the threat to come from the boy’s childhood feminine milieu, particularly his mother. Men in these societies are often heard to claim that the son’s close bond with his mother and/or other women will impede his development of a masculine gender identity, if not his biological development as a male. Among the Sambia of New Guinea, for example, men believe that the boy is polluted by his mother’s milk, and that he will not reach biological maturation as long as he lives with her.99 And among the Mehinaku of the Amazon valley, men believe that a boy, in the three or so years after puberty, must be completely segregated from women, because contact with women (especially sexual contact) will stunt his growth.100 In this connection, one thinks of Greek myths in which young men—Anchises, Adonis, Phaethon, Tithonos—lose or risk losing their vital substance as a result of sexual contact with a goddess. One thinks also of Hesiod’s Silver Age boy who “was nurtured by his mother’s side for one hundred years, a childish fool in his own home; but when he matured and reached the measure of youth, he lived only a short time.”101 Adult men in societies of this sort typically manage their anxiety about boys’ intimate association with women by requiring boys to undergo a combination of defeminization and masculinization rituals. The former aim to assist the boy in making the difficult break with his boyhood feminine milieu. In some gender-

97. See esp. T. Gregor, Anxious Pleasures: The Sexual Lives of an Amazonian People (Chicago, 1985) 139–51; Herdt, Guardians (supra, n. 82) 244–48; and R. Lidz and T. Lidz, “Male Menstruation: a Ritual Alternative to the Oedipal Transition,” International Journal of Psychoanalysis 58 (1977) 17–31. 98. Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 133–70. 99. Herdt, Guardians (supra, n. 82) 206–16. The Wobego hold similar beliefs about the pollution that comes from breast-feeding, Lidz and Lidz (supra, n. 97) 22. 100. Gregor (supra, n. 97) 44–45, 177–83. 101. Young men and goddesses: Giacomelli (supra, n. 96); cf. Rabinowitz (supra, n. 96) 126, 155. Silver Age boy: Hes. Op. 130–33.

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segregated societies, the men’s camp sponsors rituals which forcibly remove the boy from the women’s spaces of the home and village and relocate him to masculine areas, generally a men’s house.102 This seems to be the function of the well-known pederastic rite described by Ephorus in which Cretan boys were abducted by young men, most likely from the boys’ own home, and then taken to the andreion of their abductors (a shift from feminine domestic space to masculine space).103 We have evidence for the practice of pederasty in Phaistos itself in the second half of the eighth century ,104 and it may well have been ritualized in the way that Ephorus describes four centuries later. Ritual separation is not the only means of defeminizing boys. In some societies, for example, the men sponsor rites which involve the boy in violence directed at women. Among the Afikpu of Nigeria, the boy, at the conclusion of his initiation, breaks a calabash dish which is thought to be shaped like a womb, apparently a rejection of the mother who bore him.105 Merina boys from Madagascar, at the end of their circumcision rite, commit violence against plants and women.106 In still other cultures, the boy may be required, through ritual, to rid his body of feminine pollution. For example, among the Sambia of New Guinea, the boy must shed blood in order to rid himself of the contaminants he acquired from his mother through breast-feeding; he does this by thrusting a cane up his nose to induce a nosebleed.107 Masculinization rites, in contrast, seek to make the boy affirmatively masculine. Many of these rites aim to transform the boy’s body into a man’s body. Genital mutilation, for example, gives boys a penis which resembles the penis of adult males. Some cultures sponsor rituals in which older males transmit male substance to boys, in the belief that boys will not reach physical maturation without it. The most common vehicle of masculine substance is semen, which, in Melanesia, is generally transmitted either in the form of oral or anal intercourse.108 Among certain Plains Indian tribes, in contrast, the boy acquired semen through the mediation of an older man’s wife: the older man would ejaculate semen into his wife, then the boy would absorb the semen by having intercourse with her in turn.109 Nor was semen the only vehicle for the transmission of masculine substance: for one tribe in New Guinea, the vehicle is urine, while in a number of head-hunting societies, enemy

102. E.g., S. Ottenberg, “Oedipus, Gender, and Social Solidarity: a Case Study of Male Childhood and Initiation,” Ethos 16 (1988) 329–30. 103. Ephorus 70 FGrH 149 = Strab. 10.4.21. 104. V. Catalano, “La piu` antica epigrafe scherzosa ellenica graffita su pithos a Phaistos,” GIF 23 (1971) 308–24. 105. Ottenberg (supra, n. 102) 334. 106. Bloch (supra, n. 49) 86–87. 107. Herdt, Guardians (supra, n. 82) 223–27, 243–46. 108. See generally G. Herdt, ed., Ritualized Homosexuality in Melanesia (Berkeley, 1984). 109. W. LaBarre, Muelos: A Stone Age Superstition about Sexuality (New York, 1984) 59.

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head-substance (brain tissue, marrow, etc.) is thought to contain the vital power of manhood.110 Ritualized forms of pederasty in Crete (including Phaistos) and Sparta probably also aimed to masculinize the boy, and not feminize him as David Cohen has argued. Cohen is interested primarily in Athens, but it is worth examining his argument nonetheless, because he discusses general issues of interpretation and because I have doubts about the validity of his claims about the Athenian evidence itself. His argument, in a nutshell, is that insofar as sexual relations are isomorphic with political relations, the adolescent paidika must perforce have played a subordinate, feminine role.111 Now I do not wish to argue that the adolescent paidika was never thought to play a feminine sexual role, but only to suggest that his feminization (if indeed he was feminized) was less important, at least in Cretan and Spartan society, than the masculinization which pederasty officially aimed to effect. I see two major flaws in Cohen’s argument about Athenian pederasty. First, of the six passages from classical Athenian authors he adduces in support of his argument, only one comes even close to the mark, and that is Plato’s argument in the Laws against sex between males of any sort, including young men. 112 Of the remaining five passages, two impute femininity to adult pathici; one characterizes as feminine a man accused of being a prostitute in his youth; one refers to the shame of sexual submission generally, but does not associate it with femininity or with boys; and one—the only passage cited by Cohen which deals exclusively with adolescent paidika—explicitly asserts that the sexual relationship between boy and man is not at all like the relationship between woman and man.113 A fortiori, some Athenian texts state affirmatively that pederasty makes youths masculine. Most famous perhaps is Aristophanes’ suggestion in the Symposium that boys who originated from an original double male “are the most manly. Some say that they are shameless, but they are wrong. They are inspired not by shamelessness, but by manliness and virility, leading them to seek relationships with their own kind.”114 This passage may well betray some anxiety on the part of Greek men that boys might identify permanently with the

110. Urine: E. Bethe, “Die dorische Knabenliebe, ihre Ethic, ihre Idee,” RhM 62 (1907) 463–64. Head-substance: LaBarre, idem, 31. 111. Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 183–95. Cf. Dowden, Uses of Greek Mythology (supra, n. 44) 118. See also the recent review article of A. Richlin, “Zeus and Metis: Foucault, Feminism, Classics,” Helios 18 (1991) 169 and 160–80 passim, who suggests that the “isomorphism” hypothesis of Foucault and his followers within the field of Classics is itself a form of masculine gender ideology. 112. Pl. Leg. 836c; cf. 841d. 113. Adult pathici: Xen. Mem. 2.1.30; Hyperides fr. 215 Jensen; cf. also Pl. Grg. 494e and Dem. 22.58, cited by Cohen as evidence for the general proposition that “the Athenian male who adopts the passive, submissive role, the role of the woman, is likewise dishonored.” Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 186. Male prostitute: Aeschin. 1.111, 185. Shamefulness of submission: Arist. Rhet. 1384a. Boy and woman distinguished: Xen. Symp. 8.2.1. 114. Pl. Symp. 192a. Notice that Aristophanes does not say that some men think that such boys are effeminate, but that they are shameless. The virility of the homosexual relationship is a theme which runs throughout the Symposium.

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passive sexual role,115 but it also demonstrates how important the masculinizing goal of pederasty was within aristocratic male ideology. My second criticism is that Cohen’s model is based not on modern cultures which themselves practice ritual pederasty, but on modern Mediterranean cultures, where institutionalized pederasty is conspicuously absent. Given that passive homosexuality is practiced in the honorand-shame culture of the Mediterranean only by marginalized adult men, it is not surprising that this role be considered feminine, even if a youth were to play this role. In societies which practice ritual pederasty, on the other hand, the passive sexual role is thought to help the boy acquire what he needs to be a man, and I suspect that this was true also of Crete and Sparta, where pederasty was ritualized, if not in Athens as well.116 In any event, the femininity of boys in Crete was not, if the myths of Leukippos provide any clue, associated with passive homosexuality, but rather with heterosexual relations with family members or other forbidden females (see below). The existence of initiation rites in many parts of the world which aim to defeminize and masculinize young boys is perhaps not controversial. But I believe that many ethnographers working in these societies, particularly those of the psychoanalytic school of anthropology, misinterpret this evidence: they too often take their male informants at face value when the latter insist that initiation is in fact necessary to counteract the close mother-son bond, that boys will not identify with the masculine gender role without initiation. Adherents of the psychoanalytic theory used to think that initiation helped to resolve the Oedipus Complex. Freud himself argued that circumcision, a substitute for castration, was a means by which the father imposed his authority on the libidinous activity of his son. 117 And this line of thought has been extended to suggest that any form of initiatory hazing (not just circumcision) could reinforce the father’s authority in a resolution of the Oedipus Complex.118 Later theorists, however, began to argue that initiation was less concerned with resolving the Oedipus Complex than with resolving conflicts arising out of the earlier process of individuation. Robert Stoller and Gilbert Herdt, for example, wrote in 1982 that “the more mutually pleasurable is a mother-infant son symbiosis, the greater likelihood a boy will become feminine; and that the effect will persist if the boy’s father does not qualitatively and quantitatively interrupt the 115. See especially M. Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, trans. R. Hurley (New York, 1985) 187–225. 116. Cohen, Law, Sexuality (supra, n. 44) 181 n. 24 and 187 n. 52, does at times refer to ethnographic data from societies where ritual pederasty does occur in order to support his view of the feminization of the paidika. But the evidence which he cites in favor of feminization, e.g., Herdt, Ritualized Homosexuality (supra, n. 108) 118, 220, to my mind demonstrates quite the opposite. For a fuller discussion of the masculinizing function of Greek pederasty, see B. Sergent, Homosexuality in Greek Myth (London, 1987) 40–54. 117. E.g., S. Freud, “New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis,” in Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 22 (London, 1964) 86–87; and idem, “From the History of an Infantile Neurosis,” in Standard Edition, vol. 17 (London, 1955) 86–88. Cf. Bettelheim (supra, n. 46) 46–51. 118. J. Whiting et al. (supra, n. 54) 361, 370.

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merging.”119 Initiation rites, for Stoller and Herdt, represent one means of paternal intervention. The psychoanalytic theory confuses fact and fantasy. Developmental psychologists have demonstrated that a boy begins to develop an affirmative masculine gender identity during the individuation process, which is in full swing by the end of the second year of life,120 and that his mother plays a supportive role in this process.121 She begins to coddle him less than she would a girl of the same age, and encourages him to be different, pushing him into the world of objects and requiring him to depend more on his own resources for gratification.122 Cross-cultural studies of child development have confirmed this pattern in societies all over the world, and some go so far as to suggest that this dynamic is on some level universal.123 Later in childhood, the boy’s identification with the masculine gender role is furthered by his increasing interaction with other males, and his father is his most important masculine role model at this stage, even in societies where the father does not live at home.124 Indeed, the more absent the father is, the more masculine a boy frequently turns out to be, often to be point of being hyper-masculine or masculine in an anti-social way.125 Male peers are also important: participation in same-sex peer groups constitutes an intermediate step between the boy’s separation from the domestic sphere and his full acceptance by adult men. If the boy’s masculinity is not in fact imperiled by intimate association with his mother, then we must conclude that the notion that boys will not become masculine without ritual intervention is a male fantasy, a construct that sustains gender separation (“we must be separate because women represent a threat to us”) and justifies initiating boys into the men’s group (“we must have initiations in order to rescue boys from their dangerous childhood environment”). The flaw of the psychoanalytic approach to initiation is its failure to be critical of its informants, and to distinguish between normative gender development and the development process as it is constructed within masculine gender ideology. Instead, the psychoanalytic theory essentially reproduces this ideology under the guise of modern empirical science.126

119. R. Stoller and G. Herdt, “The Development of Masculinity: a Cross-Cultural Contribution,” Journal of the Psychoanalytic Association 30 (1982) 29. Similar views may be found in Ottenberg (supra, n. 102), and Gregor (supra, n. 97). 120. A. Schlegel and H. Barry, Adolescence: An Anthropological Inquiry (New York, 1991) 187. 121. Idem, 190; N. Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender (Berkeley, 1978) 93, 109. 122. Schlegel and Barry, Adolescence (supra, n. 120) 190. 123. Idem, 187–93. 124. Cf. idem, 45. 125. See e.g., M. Gilmore and D. Gilmore, “Machismo: A Psychodynamic Approach (Spain),” Journal of Psychoanalytic Anthropology 2 (1979) 281–300; Schlegel and Barry, Adolescence (supra, n. 120) 155. 126. For this criticism of psychoanalytic theory on gender difference, see P. DuBois, Sowing the Body: Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women (Chicago, 1988) 8–9.

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THE PERILS OF LEUKIPPOS

But we must return to the main subject of this paper and consider the operation of male gender ideology in the Ekdusia and its associated myths. Of what we know about the rite itself, we can only observe that the rite, by having the youth dress in feminine clothes, assimilates him to the feminine gender, even though, as we have seen, he begins to identify with the masculine role at the age of two, long before he begins to venture outside of the feminine spaces of the city and home. And one suspects that the youth in the rite cast off his feminine peplos in a way to suggest rejection of the feminine sphere it represented, just as the Merina boy engaged in a ritual attack on women and the Afikpu boy smashed a calabash dish shaped like a womb and associated with his mother. The operation of masculine gender ideology is even clearer in the three myths of Leukippos. In the first myth, the story of the sex change of Leukippos son of Lampros, the ideological content is deeply embedded in the structure of the myth and therefore requires some excavation. To the extent that the myth enjoyed an existence apart from the Ekdusia, with which it was associated in Phaistos, it is reasonable to interpret it literally as a myth about infant exposure and sex change. But when it served as an aition for the ritual change of clothes practiced at the Ekdusia, it took on a different and metaphorical meaning: the female Leukippos stood for the Phaistian boy prior to initiation, and the male Leukippos represented the boy after his promotion to adulthood. It is in this specific ritual meaning of the myth that we can detect the masculine gender ideology at work. First of all, the myth represents the uninitiated boy as a biological female. And indeed, the Greeks frequently compared boys’ bodies to female bodies. Aristotle, for example, states that a “boy is similar to a woman in his bodily constitution (morphe).”127 In fact, the boy does not have a feminine body, unless the feminine body is defined, as it sometimes is by Aristotle, as any body which is not a mature male body. But there is little point to such a contrived definition of femaleness, and it seems likely that all these assimilations of boy’s body to female body depend on the assumption that to live with females (as the boy does) results in having a body like females.128 This brings us to a second observation about our myth: the mother, Galateia, is portrayed as interested in keeping the boy in this feminine state, contrary to the reproductive aspirations of her husband. On a literal reading of the myth, she is 127. GA 728a18–22. Cf. also Arist. GA 765b36–766a17, 782a10–11, 787b6–19; HA 518a29–31; [Prob.] 876b39–877a3, 894b37; Hipp. Aph. 6.28–30. See also S. Said, “Fe´minin, femme et femelle dans les grand traite´s biologiques d’Aristote,” in E. Le´vy, ed., La femme dans les socie´te´s antiques: Actes des colloques de Strasbourg 1980, 1981 (Strasbourg, 1983) 101–102. 128. Aristotle makes this point explicit in his discussion of certain types of animals. He implies that the physical resemblance of male turtle doves and wood pigeons to females of their species is a result of the fact that the males participate in domestic chores, such as sitting on eggs, which are, in most species of birds, discharged by females alone (HA 613a15–17). Likewise, when domestic hens discharge male roles (e.g., because their mate has died), they grow the beginnings of a crest, the defining biological feature of the rooster (HA 631b5–17).

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guilty only of disobedience and duplicity: her husband ordered her to raise the baby only if it was male, but when a girl was born, she decided to raise it nonetheless and deceive him regarding its true sex. But in its etiological mode, where the female Leukippos stands for the uninitiated Phaistian boy, the myth represents a struggle between husband and wife over whether the child they wished to have would be masculine or feminine. The husband and father, Lampros, ordered her to raise only a male “Leukippos,” but she kept the female “Leukippos.” And given that the feminine boys who took part in the ritual at Phaistos never failed to be declared masculine men at the end of the rite, we may also understand Galateia’s decision to keep the female “Leukippos” as an attempt to keep “Leukippos” female. On this reading of the myth, the mother is represented as bent on frustrating the desire of her husband to father masculine children and on threatening the masculine development of her son. It is true that it is she who ultimately initiated Leukippos’ transformation into a male, but she did so because she feared her husband (deÐsasa tän Lˆmpron, writes Antoninus), who would insist that Leukippos be a male. Although she succeeded, through stealth and deception, in raising a female “Leukippos” for a time, she had to accede finally to her husband’s masculine plan. The change of sex which ensued brings us to a third and final point: the transformation that Leto brought about is described in terms of male biological superiority. Antoninus, following Nicander, states that Leto “caused genitals to sprout on the maiden (êfusen m dea t¨ù kìrhù).” The mythographer here speaks about adding male organs, but does not say anything about removing the female organs which were there before. It expresses the transition from female body to male body as a transition from lack to plenitude, or from privation to presence. This formulation also turns up rather frequently in Greek literature, most notably Aristotle’s characterization of the female as a “male which does not produce seed (Šgonon Šrren).” The male is a female with something extra.129 The myth of Leukippos and Daphne is also heavily imbued with masculine gender ideology. First of all, it exaggerates the boy’s intimate bond with the feminine realm by making this bond explicitly sexual. While the onset of puberty was the occasion for the transition from feminine to masculine in the myth of Leukippos son of Lampros, in the story of Leukippos and Daphne, the onset of puberty is expressed in terms of an awakening of sexual desire, something which generally accompanies puberty. And Leukippos’ desire for Daphne, the leader of an exclusively feminine band, may be understood as a metaphor for the onset of sexuality in the adolescent boy while he was still living in the women’s quarters. It is a situation that had to be remedied by removing the boy from this feminine environment and relocating him to the masculine spaces of the city and home. There is a second aspect of this story which bears the marks of masculine gender ideology and that is the notion 129. Arist. GA 728a18. For further discussion of this conception of the female body, see T. Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA, 1990) 25–62; and P. DuBois (supra, n. 126) 183.

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that Leukippos’ bond with the feminine domain resulted in a violation of his bodily integrity. When the maidens realized that Leukippos was different from them, they killed him in an attempt to deny this difference. We might even say, in essentially Aristotelian terms, that the maidens attempted to bring Leukippos into their own castrated condition, to make him an Šgonon Šrren like themselves. The third myth, the story of Leukippos son of Xanthios, reflects the masculine ideology at its most robust. First of all, whereas the boy’s intimate bond with the women’s quarters was expressed in the second myth in sexual terms, in this myth it is represented in the more monstrous form of incest, that is, sexual desire directed toward female members of the family. Incest, in other words, becomes a means for men to express the anxiety they experience regarding the maturing boy’s closeness to his mother and his cohabitation with her and the other females of the household. I do not wish to suggest that all Greek incest myths must be understood in this way, or that this is the only interpretation of the incestuous theme in the myth under question. It is worth noting, however, that Jan Bremmer has recently attempted to explain the Oedipus myth (the mother of all incest myths) along similar lines, arguing that the myth reflects a peculiar social configuration of the classical period in which women were increasingly isolated and the period of mother-son cohabitation was unusually extended.130 But Bremmer and I differ on two points. First, Bremmer believes that mother-son intimacy did not become a feature of Greek society until the beginning of the fifth century, whereas I believe the evidence demonstrates that gender segregation and mother-son cohabitation were the rule, to a greater or lesser extent, in all periods of Greek history.131 Second, Bremmer seems to think that this social configuration led to actual incestuous feelings in Greek mothers and sons. I, on the other hand, believe that incest was a fantasy inhabiting the minds of adult men: we have no evidence suggesting that any mother and son actually consummated such a relationship, only the wild ravings of a mythical—and largely male—imagination. Despite our differences, though, both Bremmer and I are striving to account for the peculiar Greek fascination with incest myths in terms of the unique social context of Greek adolescence, rather than in terms of universal psychological drives (oedipal drives). A second aspect of this myth of Leukippos which bears the imprint of masculine ideology is the intervention of the father. The myth has a quasi-oedipal structure: brother and sister were lovers, and the father attempted to separate them. Literally speaking, the father was not conscious that his daughter’s lover was his son Leukippos, but the fact remains that the seducer that he attempted to capture and kill was his son. Likewise, Leukippos committed violence against the man who attempted to come between him and his incestuous object, and although he was 130. Bremmer, “Oedipus” (supra, n. 84) 41–55, 53–55. On the initiatory aspects of the myth of Oedipus, see idem, 42, 47, and passim. 131. See my discussion of Crete and Sparta supra. For the society reflected in the Homeric poems, see Felson-Rubin (supra, n. 48) 67–91.

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not aware that the man he was killing was his father, the fact is that Leukippos did kill his father in a confrontation over his incestuous aspirations. Once again, this quasi-oedipal conflict was perhaps a mythical way of expressing the perceived need for the father, or some father surrogate, to remove the boy from his childhood feminine surroundings, in order to break the boy’s intimate bond with his mother and other female relations. The boy’s transition from the feminine to the masculine required paternal intervention, as this myth of failed intervention demonstrates. CONCLUSION

The interpretation I have proposed for the ritual transvestism at the Ekdusia remedies the shortcomings of the two predominant theories of initiatory transvestism. The problem with the structuralist argument, we recall, was that it emphasized the abstract contrast between “feminine” and “masculine,” and ignored the social context in which this symbolism was deployed, specifically the concrete associations attached to the wearing of feminine and masculine clothes. My own interpretation, which understands the Ekdusia’s ritual change of clothes as a dramatization of the adolescent’s gradual spatial transition from the feminine domain to the masculine domain, is firmly rooted in the gender structure of Cretan society, and therefore avoids the major pitfall of the structuralist approach. The weakness of the psychological interpretation, on the other hand, was its emphasis on the psychosexual dynamic between mothers and sons, even though the rites had their origin in the imagination of adult men and were performed under their authority. I have attempted to describe the motivation of these ritual sponsors, whose concern about the deleterious effects the boy’s childhood feminine milieu might have had on his masculine development led them to prescribe rites which would rescue the boy from this dangerous environment and initiate him into the world of men. That many Greek men felt some anxiety about the mother-son bond seems plausible enough, and the evidence for it has been discussed by a number of scholars.132 But whether this anxiety influenced the nature and extent of initiatory rituals which Greek men required boys to undergo is another matter altogether, one for which there is virtually no direct evidence. Ethnographers working in modern traditional societies typically spend a number of years gaining the trust of their native informants before these informants share their most intimate ideas about sex and gender, and their subjective experience of ritual. Because we do not have access to this sort of information for the Greeks, I have had to rely on two types of indirect evidence: comparative and mythical. The mythical evidence may ultimately be the more persuasive: three Leukippoi provide us with three views of the Greek boy’s transition from the feminine to the masculine, and of the ideological background to it. The myth of the first Leukippos was associated explicitly with the Ekdusia at Phaistos, but the myths of the second

132. See supra, nn. 96, 101, and Slater (supra, n. 47) passim.

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and third were also, at the level of deep structure, meditations on what it meant to become a man in Crete, and wherever else the myths traveled. EPILOGUE: LEUKIPPOS AND A MARRIAGE RITE AT PHAISTOS

The Ekdusia was not the only ritual at Phaistos associated with the figure of Leukippos, son of Lampros. Nicander states, at the end of his account of the myth of Leukippos, that “it is customary at Phaistos to recline beside the statue of Leukippos before marrying.”133 Nicander does not, so far as we can tell from the paraphrase of Antoninus, specify whether it was the bride, groom, or both who performed this ritual. Some have suggested that this was a fertility rite for brides alone,134 and indeed there are some parallels for this. But it is also possible to understand the rite as related to the young man’s transition to married life.135 First of all, to the extent that Leukippos was the model for the young man’s graduation from the agela, it is not unreasonable to see him as also a model for the young man’s marriage, which Ephorus tells us took place en masse upon graduation.136 Secondly, in Ovid’s version of the Leukippos story, the theme of impending marriage plays a large role. The names of Ovid’s characters are different, but his version is otherwise very similar to Nicander’s, including being set in Phaistos. The only major difference is that in Ovid the mother sought the intervention of the goddess not because puberty had begun to reveal the girl’s true femininity, but because the father had arranged a marriage between his “son” and a young woman named Ianthe, and the mother feared that her deception would be exposed when the young lovers consummated their marriage. The goddess therefore changed the sex of the girl, so that male and female could be joined in matrimony. Although it is certainly possible that Ovid added the theme of marriage to the version of the myth he inherited, I suspect that Ovid found the marriage motif in a non-Nicandrian version of the myth to which he had access.137 Indeed, Nicander’s reference to the marriage rite at the end of his account suggests that he too may have known about the marriage theme. 133. Nic. Met. fr. 45 Schneider = Ant. Lib. Met. 17: nìmimon d' âstÈn ân toØj gˆmoij prìteron paraklÐnasqai par€ tä Šgalma toÜ LeukÐppou. 134. E.g., M. Papathomopoulos, Les Me´tamorphoses, Bude´ edition with commentary (Paris, 1968) 110, who suggests a magical rite of defloration or a sacred marriage between bride and statue. Cf. also F. Celoria, The Metamorphoses of Antoninus Liberalis: A Translation with a Commentary (London, 1992) 155, who adds to these suggestions the possibility that this rite involved physical contact with an ithyphallic statue of Leukippos. Cf. Callim. Aet. fr. 75.1–3 Pf.; Poll. 3.39–40; RE 16 (1933) s.v. Mutunus Tutunus (Vahlert); Delcourt (supra, n. 5) 4. 135. For evidence of prenuptial reclining rites for grooms, see Poll. 3.39–40. 136. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 149 = Strab. 10.4.20. 137. See S. Eitrem, “De Ovidio Nicandri imitatori,” Philologus 59 (1900) 59–60; D. Nikitas, “Zur Leukipposgeschichte,” Hellenica 33 (1981) 14, 24. The different character names may also point in this direction. If Ovid did invent the wedding motif, he may have done so as a way of linking Nicander’s Leukippos story with Nicander’s reference to the (possibly unrelated) marriage custom at Phaistos. See Nikitas, idem, 25–27, who suggests a different motivation for Ovidian invention here.

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If the marriage motif was part of a version of the Leukippos myth circulating in Phaistos, then what did it mean for the young men there to lie beside the statue of Leukippos before marriage? In the myth, at least as Ovid tells it, the change of sex was designed to enable the wedding to go forward. Two maidens could not marry one another; one maiden had to be transformed into a male.138 The ritual at Phaistos may allude to a similar process. Boys, before they graduated from the agela, were feminine in gender even if they were biologically male. And a marriage between a feminine boy and a feminine girl would have been as irregular as the marriage that almost took place in Ovid’s version between two biological females. The institution of marriage was based on difference, on a union of opposites. So the feminine boy, in order to make a successful transition to married life, had to become differentiated from the feminine figures (particularly the biological females) with whom he used to associate. It was logical that Leukippos, who had undergone a change in biological sex, should be his mythical model. Marriage was often dramatized in the Greek world as the occasion for gender differentiation in one of the participants. In Cos, for example, the groom wore women’s clothes when he received his wife.139 In other areas, it was the bride who wore clothes of the opposite sex on her wedding night. In Sparta, she wore masculine shoes and clothes, while in Argos, she donned a false beard.140 Now we may be certain that the Coan groom did not continue to wear feminine clothes after the wedding. He naturally resumed wearing masculine clothes, and thereby identified with the masculine gender role that he would discharge in the marriage. So the rite is really about a change of clothes, and the effect of this change is to represent marriage as the moment of gender differentiation. The marriage began with both parties dressed in feminine clothes and ended with the bride wearing feminine clothes and the groom masculine clothes. Bridal transvestism worked in a similar way. It is noteworthy that in none of these rites did both bride and groom adopt the dress of the opposite sex. The reason for this, of course, is that differentiation can be expressed only if one of them changes while the other remains the same. The function of nuptial gender differentiation, however, was not the same for brides and grooms. When the bridegroom donned the clothing of the opposite sex, it was to dramatize before the community his final transition from the world of women to the world of men. Brides, however, did not undergo a comparable transformation of gender at puberty, and therefore a different interpretation must be sought. I 138. Ovid Met. 9.731–35, 762–63. Gender differentiation is common in tribal myths of “first marriage.” Among the Sambia of New Guinea, the first humans were two androgynous males; one had to evolve into a full man, the other into a woman before they could reproduce: Herdt, Guardians (supra, n. 82) 255–94. In the story of Adam and Eve, the first two human forms are a man and a man’s rib, the latter of which must differentiate into a woman: Genesis 2.22–25. Plato, in the Timaeus, mythologizes the origin of sexual differentiation in a similar way: the first humans are all males, but those males who are more effeminate by nature become, in their second incarnation, biological females and the sexual partners of the true males: Tim. 90e–91a. 139. Plu. Quaest. Graec. 58 (304cd). Cf. Delcourt (supra, n. 5) 2. 140. Plu. Lyc. 15, De mul. vir. 4 (245ef).

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will restrict myself here to repeating a promising explanation offered by Georges Devereux. One of the functions that the transvestism of Spartan brides performed, according to Devereux, was to ease the anxiety of Spartan bridegrooms who would, because of rigid gender segregation, have had little if any sexual contact with females before marriage. The bride’s masculine attire would serve as a transitional object for the young Spartan male in his transition from homosocial and homosexual relationships to heterosexual ones,141 a phenomenon attested in other cultures as well.142 To this interpretation, let me merely add that this transitional technique may have aimed to ease the anxiety of adult men as much as it did the young bridegrooms. In any event, the emphasis in Devereux’s interpretation on the psychology of the Spartan bridegroom has the added bonus of explaining why female adolescent transvestism is a private affair, in contrast to male adolescent transvestism, which is frequently a matter of public display: female transvestism aimed to ease the anxiety of the individual bridegroom, whereas male transvestism communicated to the community at large a change in social status. Ohio State University 141. Devereux (supra, n. 72) 84, who is cited with approbation by Cartledge (supra, n. 69) 101. Initiatory homosexuality at Sparta is suggested by Plu. Lyc. 17.1. See also Cartledge, idem, 92 n. 48. 142. See e.g., Devereux (supra, n. 72) 84 n. 6, and G. Herdt, “Fetish and Fantasy in Sambia Initiation,” in idem, ed., Rituals of Manhood: Male Initiation in Papua New Guinea (Berkeley, 1982) 48–98, who notes that the Sambia employ flutes as transitional objects in the earlier transition from maternal intimacy (flute = mother’s breast) to ritual fellatio (flute = penis of older youth).

ROSS SCAIFE

The Kypria and its Early Reception

T

 H , despite their eventual literary renown, were less frequently represented in seventh- and sixth-century Attic art than scenes from the epic cycle and other post-Homeric poetry. In fact it has been argued “that a general interest in the Iliad set in comparatively late in Athens and was at first of a partial nature, and that a really intimate knowledge of the whole of the great epic in the Athenian community only dates from the last decades of the sixth century,” perhaps because of the promotional activities of Hipparchos, son of the tyrant Peisistratos.1 Other scholars have sought to explain the apparent neglect of Homer more from an art historical perspective, with the proposal that shortcomings in This article presents a revised and updated version of an argument developed in my dissertation, The Kypria and its Early Reception, University of Texas at Austin, 1990. There I explored the possible iconographical influences of the Kypria as well as other issues pertaining to the poem in considerably more detail. I wish to acknowledge the assistance of my advisor, Professor Cynthia Shelmerdine, and the other members of my committee. One of them, the late Professor Charles Edwards of the UT Department of Art History, offered especially helpful guidance and encouragement. I also wish to thank the University of Kentucky for providing me with a Summer Faculty Research Fellowship in 1992 as well as the funds that allowed me to present a short version of my thesis at the Third International Conference of Word and Image Studies in Ottawa in August 1993. Professor Steven Lowenstam helped me in securing photographs. Finally, for their criticism of previous versions, I thank the editors, D. J. Mastronarde and Sarah Morris, and two anonymous readers, as well as Professor Diane Arnson Svarlien and my wife, Cathy Scaife. Errors that remain are entirely my own. Please direct any comments to [email protected]. 1. K. Friis Johansen, The Iliad in Early Greek Art (Copenhagen, 1967) esp. 223–30. This work was a substantial revision of his Iliaden i tidlig graesk Kunst (Copenhagen, 1934). For an endorsement and extension of Friis Johansen’s thesis, see W. Burkert, “The Making of Homer in the Sixth Century : Rhapsodes vs. Stesichoros,” in Papers on the Amasis Painter and His World (Malibu, 1987) 43–62. For important modifications of Friis Johansen’s conclusions, see H. A. Shapiro, Art and Cult Under the Tyrants in Athens (Mainz am Rhein, 1989) 43–47. On Homer in Peisistratid Athens see also R. Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary Volume IV (Cambridge, 1992) 29–32; and G. Nagy, “Homeric Questions,” TAPA 122 (1992) 17–60, esp. 39–52.

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early Greek iconographical conventions thwarted any strong artistic response to the literary subtlety of the Iliad and Odyssey.2 Questions about the relationship between Greek poetry and art continue to attract scholarly attention.3 What follows is an attempt to appreciate the initial reception of one seventh-century epic, the Kypria, through a reconsideration both of its literary characteristics and of a small selection of the iconography which it helped to inspire.4 I will develop two arguments: first, the poem was in many respects more engaging than critics since Aristotle have generally acknowledged, and second, its emphasis on mythic aetiology and causality proved especially amenable to the various narrative experiments, especially the allusive strategy now known as synopticism, that were attempted by some Archaic painters. I

First we may outline the broad structure and contents of this lost poem. We know that the Kypria treated the preliminaries to the Trojan War in several distinct episodes, some more elaborate than others. Eventually the poem was divided into eleven books, perhaps as late as Alexandrian times. No papyrus fragments have ever been identified, and the brief sketch I present here depends mainly on the summary produced by a grammarian named Proklos, itself only partially preserved in the Bibliotheke of the ninth-century Byzantine scholar Photios.5 Contradictions with other evidence indicate that the surviving summary cannot stand in every detail. 6 Photios’ report of Proklos’ estimate of the literary qualities of the cyclic epics helps 2. R. Kannicht, “Poetry and Art: Homer and the Monuments Afresh,” ClAnt 1 (1982) 70–86. Kannicht hints at the thesis of the present paper when he notes (84) that “From the Cypria we find [illustrated] several aetiologically relevant events.” 3. Cf. the suggestive comments of Karl Schefold, Museum Helveticum 44 (1987) 265–66: “Je mehr man die eigene Sprache der Kunst zu vernehmen lernt, desto fruchtbarer wird die Geschichte der mythologischen Vorstellungen fu¨r die Wandlung von Stil und Gehalt der ganzen klassischen Kultur. Fu¨r die vergleichende Stilgeschichte von Dichtung und Bildkunst ist ja noch fast alles zu tun.” 4. For the date of the Kypria, see R. Janko, Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymns: Diachronic Development in Epic Diction (Cambridge, 1982) 200, 228–31. Acceptance of a roughly mid-seventhcentury date for the crystallization of the poem does not rule out the possibility that much of its material was traditional. M. Davies, “The Date of the Epic Cycle,” Glotta 67 (1989) 89–100 attempts to date the Cycle to the sixth century by comparison with the Catalogue of Women, which he believes belongs to the sixth century as well. 5. R. Janko in ZPE 49 (1982) 25–29 proposed P. Oxy. 2513 as a fragment from the Kypria, but M. W. Haslam subsequently disproved the idea with the publication of a joining and “unmistakably Argonautic” fragment, P. Oxy. 3698, in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri vol. 53 (London, 1986) 10–15. I thank an anonymous reader of this article for these references. The Codex Venetus of the Iliad and other manuscripts also include fragments of the Chrestomatheia. N. G. Wilson, Scholars of Byzantium (Baltimore, 1983) 93–111, explains the nature of Photios’ Bibliotheke. The identity and date of this Proklos are still not entirely certain. He was either a relatively obscure grammarian, the Eutychios Proklos of Sicca who instructed the emperor Marcus Antoninus in the second century, or else he was the better-known Neoplatonist scholar of the fifth century. The former seems the more likely to have had first-hand experience of the epic cycle. 6. Herodotos (2.116.3), for example, notes that in the Kypria Alexander sailed with Helen from Sparta and reached Troy on the third day; but according to Proklos, the pair had to confront a storm

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to explain the current state of the evidence: lègei dà ±j toÜ âpikoÜ kÔklou t€ poi mata dias¸zetai kaÈ spoudˆzetai toØj polloØj oÎx oÕtw di€ t˜n ‚ret˜n ±j di€ t˜n ‚kolouqÐan tÀn ân aÎtÀú pragmˆtwn.7 In keeping with this critical disaffection, Proklos summarized major portions of the Kypria in the most abbreviated manner imaginable, e.g., “Then Achilles restrains the Achaians, who are eager to return home. Next he drives off the cattle of Aineias, and he sacks Lyrnessos and Pedasos and some nearby villages, and he kills Troilos.” What must obviously have once been quite lengthy episodes have been abridged eight centuries later into a few barely descriptive words. Fortunately, other literary sources for the contents of the Kypria exist, including scholia to Homer, Hesiod, and the Attic tragedians; scattered notices in eclectic authors such as Athenaios and Pausanias; and the occasional inference based on comparisons with Pindar, Attic tragedy, and the Library of Apollodoros.8 Evaluation of these varied sources suggests the following outline (parenthetical references are to actual fragments or other supplementary evidence in Bernabe´ and Davies): Episode 1 (B1; D1): Zeus and Themis deliberate over how best to rid the earth of its burdensome human population; they decide to initiate the Trojan War as their means for accomplishing this Diäj boul .9 Episode 2 (B2–5, 35; D2–5): Peleus captures Thetis, and the gods then attend their wedding ceremony on Mount Pelion. Eris, goddess of discord, causes a dispute among Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. At the command of Zeus, Hermes leads the three goddesses to judgment before Paris on Mount Ida. Encouraged by the promise of gaining Helen as his wife, Paris decides in favor of Aphrodite. Episode 3 (B9, 10, 12–14, 37; D7, 8, 10–12): Paris, following Aphrodite’s instructions, assembles his fleet and sails to Sparta, where he is first entertained which drove them to Sidon before they got home. Cf. G. Huxley, “A Problem in the Kypria,” GRBS 8 (1967) 25–27. 7. “He says that the poems of the epic cycle are preserved and studied by many people not so much for their excellence as for the sequence of events the cycle contains.” 8. The surviving materials of the epic cycle have long been available in T. W. Allen’s OCT, Homeri Opera Vol. 5 (Oxford, 1912); E. Bethe, Homer: Dichtung und Sage II (Leipzig, 1922); and G. Kinkel, Epicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Leipzig, 1877). Recently two other sources have superseded this trio: A. Bernabe´, Poetae Epici Graeci: Testimonia et Fragmenta. Pars I (Leipzig, 1987); and M. Davies, Epicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Go¨ttingen, 1988). Davies limits his collection to the more certain fragments, while Bernabe´ also includes relevant scholia, fragmenta dubia, and passages from Apollodoros. Since both Bernabe´ and Davies need to be consulted, in this article I have included fragment numbers from them both (B, D). Other essential references include A. Severyns, Le cycle e´pique dans l’e´cole d’Aristarque (Lie`ge, 1928), F. Jouan, Euripide et les chants Cypriens (Paris, 1966), and W. Kullmann, Die Quellen der Ilias (Hermes Einzelschr. 14: Wiesbaden, 1960); cf. also A. Severyns, Texte et Apparat: Histoire critique d’une tradition imprime´e (Brussels, 1962). 9. On the motif of the overpopulated earth (for which a relatively lengthy fragment from the poem survives), see W. Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution (Cambridge, MA, 1992) 100–106, with earlier bibliography 206–207. Cf. also R. Scodel, “The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction,” HSCP 86 (1982) 33–50.

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by the Dioskouroi, and then by Menelaos and Helen. Paris and Helen sail off to Troy circuitously, via Phoenicia and Cyprus. In Troy they are married. Episode 4 (B8, 11, 15; D6, 9, 13, 14): Back in the Peloponnesos, the Dioskouroi first abduct the Leukippides, and then steal the cattle of the Apharetidai, with whom they engage in battle. The Dioskouroi win for themselves an alternating immortality. Episode 5 (B17, 19, 21; D15, 16): After Menelaos learns from Iris of Helen’s departure, he visits Agamemnon and Nestor to plan for an expedition against Troy. In a paradigm-rich digression, the effusive Nestor relates tales of love-madness to Menelaos. Then the gathering of leaders from all over Greece occurs. During this muster, first Odysseus and then Achilles must be unmasked, the former feigning insanity at home on Ithaka, the latter disguised as a princess in the court of Lykomedes on Skyros.10 Episode 6 (B20, 22–24; D17): The Teuthranian Expedition. A. First Departure: the Achaian force assembles in Aulis, makes sacrifices, witnesses a portent and sails off. B. The Achaians sail to Teuthrania and attack the Mysians in the mistaken belief that they have reached Troy. After Telephos is wounded, the fleet departs and is then scattered by a storm. C. The Achaians are blown back to Greece, and Achilles heals Telephos in Argos. D. Second Departure: the fleet regroups at Aulis, and after the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, sails again for Troy. Episode 7 (B25): At a feast given by Agamemnon on Tenedos, Philoktetes gets bitten by a snake and must be left on the island of Lemnos.11 Achilles quarrels with Agamemnon after receiving a late invitation to the feast. Episode 8 (B26; D18): In the fighting which occurs when the Greeks first land at Troy, Hektor kills Protesilaos, and then Achilles kills Kyknos. After an embassy to demand the return of Helen fails, the Achaians fight a great battle at the wall of the city, and also attack towns nearby. Episode 9 (B27, 28, 34, 41; D21, 22, 27): Achilles first satisfies his desire to meet Helen, with the aid of Thetis and Aphrodite; in consequence of the meeting, he restrains the Achaians when they want to go home. He then begins his “Great Foray,” in the course of which he A. steals the cattle of Aineias from Mount Ida; B. sacks Lyrnessos (from which Achilles gets Briseis), Pedasos and other towns such as Cilician Thebe (from which Agamemnon takes Chryseis); C. kills Troilos in a sanctuary of Apollo after ambushing him at a fountain; 10. M. van der Valk, Researches on the Text and Scholia of the Iliad I (Leiden, 1963) 369– 72 presents arguments to support inclusion of the unmasking of Achilles in the Kypria despite the exclusion of the episode by Proklos. 11. Cf. A. Schnebele, Die epische Quellen des Sophokleischen Philoktet (Karlsruhe, 1988).

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D. and captures Lykaon, whom Patroklos enslaves on Lemnos. Episode 10 (B29, 30; D19, 20): Menelaos and Odysseus drown Palamedes while he is fishing, evidently in revenge for the latter’s role in the drafting of Odysseus for the war (above, Episode 5). The Greeks receive provisions from the daughters of Anios. Episode 11: The tide turns. A. Zeus decides to help the Trojans by withdrawing Achilles from the Greek alliance. B. And the poem concludes with a catalogue of the Trojan allies. II

Cogent literary criticism of the cyclic poems begins with a passage in Aristotle’s Poetics (1459a19-b8) containing a famous encomium of Homer. Since Aristotle’s comments have directly engendered or informed most later appraisals of the Kypria, they require quotation at some length: It is clear that epic plots should be made dramatic, as in tragedies, dealing with a single action which is whole and complete and has beginning, middle, and end, so that like a single complete creature it may produce the appropriate pleasure. It is also clear that the plot-structure should not resemble a history, in which of necessity a report is presented not of a single action but of a single period, including everything that happened during that time to individuals or groups—of which events each has only chance relationships to the others. For just as the sea battle at Salamis and the battle against the Carthaginians in Sicily took place about the same time of year but in no way pointed to the same goal, so also in successive periods spread over time it often happens that one event follows another without any single result coming from them. . . . That is why, in addition to what has been said about him previously, one can hardly avoid feeling that Homer showed godlike genius in . . . the fact that although the Trojan War had a beginning and an end, he did not undertake to compose it as a whole either. For the plot would have been bound to turn out too long and not easy to compass in a single glance, or, if it held to some measurable length, to become entangled with the diversity of its events. Instead, he has singled out one part of the whole and used many of the others as episodes: the Catalogue of Ships, for example, and other episodes with which he separates the parts of his composition. The other poets compose their work around a single person or around a single period, that is, a single action with many parts (perÈ éna poioÜsi kaÈ perÈ éna xrìnon kaÈ mÐan prcin polumer¨): so, for example, the author of the Kypria or the Little Iliad. Hence from the Iliad and Odyssey one tragedy each can be made, or two and no more, but many from the Kypria and from the Little Iliad. (trans. G. F. Else)

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Aristotle’s first criterion for a complete epic demands that the poem possess a beginning, a middle and an end, so that it manifests an organic unity. The notion of unity receives frequent emphasis in the Poetics, as the sine qua non of an admirable poetic creation.12 The remainder of the passage amounts to a long elaboration of a second criterion, namely that the epic poet ought to emphasize a single action rather than a single period. To do otherwise risks excessive length and/or excessive complexity, in short a plot which is not eÎsÔnoptoj, readily comprehended. Accordingly Homer merits praise for concentrating on just one part (ƒen mèroj) of the Trojan War, namely the wrath of Achilles. Here again the notion of unity is really the key. Aristotle concludes this modest prescription with a terse and enigmatic citation of the Kypria and Little Iliad as contrasting examples of epic inferiority. In fact, certain difficulties arise when we try to match the known details of the Kypria to Aristotle’s formulation. Monro’s application of Aristotelian poetics, for example, seems arbitrary for the most part and illustrates some of the difficulties: The hero is evidently Paris; the main action is the carrying away of Helen. The “one time” is more difficult to understand, in a poem which begins with the marriage of Peleus and Thetis and comes down to a late period in the Trojan War. Probably it means no more than that the action was continuous in respect of time.13 But Monro might as easily have considered Achilles the “hero” (which is not even a term Aristotle uses in this connection, as he is merely considering agents), since the poem treated the marriage of his parents, his upbringing, his recruitment into the war, and many of his initial conquests. The identification of Helen’s departure as the “main action” (again, Monro’s phrase does not exactly match Aristotle’s Greek) of this profuse poem is almost as arbitrary and problematic as labeling Achilles the “hero” of the Kypria. On the other hand, Monro’s interpretation of the phrase “one time” as meaning “continuous in respect of time” does ring true: the well-attested and frequent use in the Kypria of such basic literary techniques as flashbacks, digressions, foreshadowings, and predictions certainly created a more

12. There is an extensive bibliography on the Aristotelian notion of unity and on Aristotle’s view of epic poetry. Cf. J. C. Hogan, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Homer in the Poetics,” CP 68 (1973) 95–108, esp. 98; T. G. Rosenmeyer, “Design and Execution in Aristotle, Poetics ch. XXV,” California Studies in Classical Antiquity 6 (1973) 231–52; D. C. Young, “Pindar, Aristotle, and Homer: A Study in Ancient Criticism,” ClAnt 2 (1983) 156–70, esp. 166, notes 34–35; S. Halliwell, Aristotle’s Poetics (London, 1986) 82–108; M. Heath, Unity in Greek Poetics (Oxford, 1989) 38–55; N. J. Richardson, “Aristotle’s Reading of Homer and its Background,” in R. Lamberton and J. J. Keaney, eds., Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes (Princeton, 1992) 30–40; R. Bittner, “One Action,” in A. O. Rorty, ed., Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics (Princeton, 1992) 97–110; and N. J. Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary Volume VI (Cambridge, 1993) 25–35. For recent comments on the responses of Callimachus and Apollonius to Aristotelian theorizing about epic poetry, see the appendix to R. Hunter, The Argonautica of Apollonius (Cambridge, 1993) 192–95. 13. D. B. Monro, Homer’s Odyssey: Books XIII-XXIV (Oxford, 1901) 349.

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engaging poem, but did not materially affect the general continuity of time from the earliest event to the latest in the main series of actions narrated.14 In spite of the difficulties evident in using this passage of the Poetics as a definitive guide to the Kypria, all subsequent criticisms of the poem have merely affirmed the two principles which Aristotle propounds. Allen, for example, observed how, after starting with the purpose of Zeus, the poem worked its way through nine years of war and broke off abruptly, after its narrative reached the point where the Iliad’s action begins. Thus, he noted, “The Kypria, to use Aristotle’s language, has a beginning but no end,” and he wondered, “Why did [the poet] content himself with the enumeration of pointless events?”15 Chamoux based his censure more on Aristotle’s second point: “Dans cette suite de re´cits chronologiquement enchaˆıne´s, embrassant les e´ve´nements d’une dizaine d’anne´es (sans compter les nombreuses digressions), rien qui rappelle l’unite´ d’inte´reˆt ni l’ordonnance subtilement me´nage´e des poe`mes home´riques, si propre a` donner une couleur dramatique a` l’histoire.”16 Huxley, still entirely within the Aristotelian frame of reference, paid the Kypria only a dubious compliment when he observed that “the poem compensated for its lack of structural unity by offering much variety and great excitement, occasionally even melodrama.”17 And finally Lloyd-Jones, for his part, believed that the poem merely consisted of a “succinct, matter-of-fact narrative with few poetical refinements. . . . Were I allowed to choose two or three lost Greek masterpieces for resurrection, the Kypria would not be one of them; little as we know of it, I think we know enough to be certain that it was not among the greatest works. Like the other poems of the epic cycle, it was important mainly for its value to later poets as a source for plot material.”18 Thus modern critics, virtually without exception, have believed that the poem had a linear narrative which simply pressed through a long succession of events, and that such an episodic amalgam lacked any unity of interest. III

The strong reproaches laid at the door of the Kypria by Aristotle and the critics who have followed him cannot merely be dismissed out of hand. The poem, with its somewhat abrupt ending, long time span, shifting locales, and multitude of prominent characters probably did compare poorly with the Iliad when considered only from the perspective of strict Aristotelian unity. Nevertheless, grounds for an apology exist; the critics have gone too far. The essential point deserving emphasis here is this: Aristotle’s literary aesthetic was a classical one developed mainly in the late fifth century and therefore not interchangeable with the archaic aesthetic 14. For clarification of this point I am grateful to D. J. Mastronarde. 15. T. W. Allen, Homer: The Origins and Transmission (Oxford, 1924) 72. 16. F. Chamoux, “La poe´sie e´pique apre`s Home`re,” Cahiers des e´tudes anciennes 2 (1973) 5–29, esp. 8–9. 17. G. L. Huxley, Greek Epic Poetry from Eumelos to Panyassis (Cambridge, Mass., 1969) 141. 18. H. Lloyd-Jones, “Stasinus and the Cypria,” Stasinos 4 (1973) 115–22.

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or aesthetics.19 Thus it is plausible to suppose that an anachronistic application of the Aristotelian predilection for organic unity will inevitably lead to misunderstandings and unwarranted depreciation. In what follows, I will argue that a kind of structural unity can in fact be demonstrated for the Kypria, albeit in largely non-Aristotelian terms. There are a number of specific points to be made. First, against the charge that the episodic structure of the Kypria was merely tiresome, it must be noted that not even Aristotle denounced episodes as such: they are fully intrinsic to all epic poetry, including Homer’s, as a source of variety (Poetics 1455b16–23).20 The real issue is how coherently and interestingly a poet connects his chosen material; how well, that is, he avoids a merely confusing complexity. Several unifying characteristics of the poem remain apparent. Above all, the major episodes evince quite lucid transitions from one to the next. There is a self-evident coherence to the subjects of the poem taken as a whole.21 The plan of Zeus moves inexorably to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, the judgment of Paris, the abduction of Helen, and so on to the eventual outbreak of hostilities. Causal connections among all of these incidents thoroughly explain the origins of the Trojan War.22 It has been said that although the Kypria started off well enough, it lacked a true conclusion.23 But if we assume that the poet wanted to create an introduction to the Iliad and the rest of the Trojan cycle by explaining the reason for the Greek 19. On archaic literary structure cf. H. Fra¨nkel, Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy, trans. M. Hadas and J. Willis (Oxford, 1975) 6–25; H. Fra¨nkel, “Ein Stileigenheit der fru¨hgriechischen Literatur, I–II,” Go¨tt. Nachr. 1924, 63–127 = Fra¨nkel, Wege und Formen fru¨hgriechischen Denkens (Munich, 1960) 40–96; B. A. van Groningen, La composition litte´raire archa¨ıque grecque: Proce´de´s et re´alisations. [Verhandelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afd. Letterkunde, n. R., Deel 65, no. 2 (Amsterdam, 1958)] 7–108. For the problems foisted upon Pindaric criticism through fallacious or misapplied theories of poetic unity, see D. C. Young, “Pindaric Criticism,” in W. M. Calder III & J. Stern, Pindaros und Bakchylides [Wege der Forschung 134] (Darmstadt, 1970) 1–95 [a revised reprint of the version available in Minnesota Review 4 (1964) 584–641]. For help with these references I thank D. J. Mastronarde. 20. Cf. M. Heath (supra, n. 12), 54: “Digressions can be seen as helping a poem with a praxis of the optimally unified kind achieve the length (and grandeur) proper to epic; therefore digression is not, in Aristotle’s view, incompatible with unity.” Cf. also R. Friederich, “Epeisodion in Drama and Epic: A Neglected and Misunderstood Term of Aristotle’s Poetics,” Hermes 111 (1983) 34–52; and K. Nickau, “Epeisodion und Episode,” Museum Helveticum 23 (1966) 155–71. 21. Cf. van Groningen (supra, n. 19) 98: “meˆme dans ce cas [i.e., even when an archaic Greek poem lacks organic unity in the strict Aristotelian sense], l’emploi de proce´de´s compositionnels ade´quats forme une unite´ factice: il y a au moins apparence et, chez un auteur habile, forte illusion d’unite´.” 22. Cf. van Groningen (supra, n. 19) 18: “La succession chronologique . . . se double aise´ment d’une relation de cause a` effet. Cette relation devient le principal e´le´ment associatif et unificateur dans la de´monstration strictement logique.” 23. On abrupt endings in pre-classical poetry see van Groningen (supra, n. 19) 70–77: “on cesse quand on a traite´ le dernier morceau de la se´rie, quand on n’a plus rien de nouveau a` dire . . . la fin abrupte est tre`s usuelle.” The Iliad, of course, is exceptional, and thus I agree with the comments of C. Macleod, Homer: Iliad Book XXIV (Cambridge, 1982) 27–28: “One could imagine an epic like the Iliad which ended with the sack of Troy or the death of Achilles. . . . But instead of more death and war we are given two burials. . . . If the Iliad had moved in a straight line from Hector’s death to Achilles’, it would have stopped; as it is, it is completed.”

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expedition to Troy and its first undertakings, then on the evidence of Proklos he surely succeeded. The Great Foray of Achilles in Episode 9 motivates the arrival of the Trojan allies, on whose significance Homer comments (Iliad 2.123–33). The Diäj boul  with regard to the withdrawal of Achilles enlarged upon at the end of the Kypria (see above, Episode 11) corresponds to the divine plan announced at the beginning of the Iliad: new pressures on the Greeks arise as the Trojans are reinforced at just that moment when the best of the Achaians withdraws. When the poem is considered from the admittedly limited perspective of its position and role within an extended epic cycle about the Trojan War, the Kypria may have had an ending as satisfying as that of the Iliad: both poems effectively set the stage for the next poem in the series. The general linearity of the Kypria was often punctuated by the introduction of details outside of the chronological sequence. At many points the poet of the Kypria had a chance to weave in background material, as for example on the genealogy of Helen and the Dioskouroi, including Zeus’ pursuit of Nemesis (B1, 9, 10; D1, 6–8); on the abduction of Helen by Theseus (B13; D12); on Chiron’s education of Achilles on the slopes of Mount Pelion (B35, 36); and on the transvestism of the youthful Achilles in the court of King Lykomedes on Skyros (B19).24 Predictions from the poet or from the mouths of prophetic figures concerning future events central to other poems in the Trojan cycle may also have diverted the poem’s narrative stream at certain points. For example, according to Proklos, the departure of Paris from home at the bidding of Aphrodite was accompanied by predictions from Helenos and Kassandra, who surely foretold the dire consequences of bringing Helen to Troy. Just as the poet of the Iliad sometimes refers to events outside of that poem, above all the death of Achilles, so the poet of the Kypria often looked ahead to the fall of Troy. At several points, references to the future may be reasonably conjectured. For example, the description of the wedding of Peleus and Thetis would have allowed the poet to include a prediction about the birth and career of Achilles, and also about his use of the divinely-wrought weapons which the gods brought to Peleus as gifts. Neoptolemos and Philoktetes were both destined to play indispensable parts in the Achaian victory over the Trojans. Therefore when the princess Deidameia conceived Neoptolemos (B19, 21; D16), and when Philoktetes was abandoned by the Greeks on Lemnos (Proklos), their future roles may have been remarked upon or at least suggested. The services rendered by Antenor to the Greek embassy seeking Helen’s return earned him favor; therefore the episode may have allowed a reference to his 24. Cf. van Groningen (supra, n. 19) 98–99: “L’auteur n’est pas seulement un e´crivain soucieux de bien composer. Il est avant tout un homme qui s’inte´resse a` sa matie`re. Les auteurs grecs archa¨ıques sont meˆme des hommes qui s’inte´ressent passionne´ment a` leur matie`re et celle-ci les emporte souvent dans une direction impre´vue ou paradoxale. Elle les se´duit aux digressions, a` un e´loignement de plus en plus prononce´ de la direction primaire, a` une ordre arbitraire, inspire´ par des associations momentane´es; elle se preˆte volontiers a` des extensions succesives et ne se complait gue`re a` des limites trop de´finies. La litte´rature grecque pre´classique nous fait assister tre`s souvent a` cette lutte entre un matie`re tentaculaire et des proce´de´s limitateurs. Et c’est un de ses charmes.”

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ultimate escape from the sack of Troy. Finally, when Achilles killed Troilos in a sanctuary (B41), he drew down the lethal anger of Apollo; the hero’s eventual death at the hands of Paris and Apollo was perhaps foretold then, as the watchful presence of Thetis and Apollo in the iconography of this ambush may suggest. In short, none of the digressive material known to have been included in the Kypria appears to have been irrelevant to the story, and so it seems most unlikely that the poem resembled the sort of annalistic pastiche which Aristotle condemns at Poetics 1459a. Another principal source of thematic unity lies in the fact that the Kypria presented audiences with a detailed case-study in the nature and power of Aphrodite. The intervention of this goddess in divine and human affairs is likely to have formed a recurrent, unifying theme in the poem. It is thus altogether appropriate that one of the longest extant fragments describes her dressing, probably just prior to her epiphany before Paris on Mount Ida (B4; D4). Aphrodite directly motivated Paris above all, but also Zeus, Peleus, Menelaos, Helen, and Achilles to behave as they did; and she more obliquely but no less decisively affected all the other characters as well, once the repercussions of her erotic influences emerged. The primary lessons about Aphrodite’s power were even supplemented through paradigmatic digressions, a much-discussed source of narrative elaboration in epic poetry.25 Proklos lists four paradigms cited by Nestor in his conversation with Menelaos, at least three of them evidently linked by the theme of love-madness, and similarly instructive digressions are likely to have occurred elsewhere in the poem.26 In short, Aphrodite may well have played as essential a role in the Kypria as Athena does in the Odyssey.27 The importance of this goddess as agent of the plot has therefore led some scholars to conclude that the traditional title of the poem alludes to the primary role played by Cyprian Aphrodite, rather than to the possible geographic origin of the work.28 Comparison with the Odyssey suggests a final line of defense: the Return of Odysseus more closely resembles the tale of How the Greeks Got to Troy than it resembles the Wrath of Achilles. Whatever their other differences in quality, the Odyssey and the Kypria at least shared a compositional technique in which shifting locales highlight the actions, experiences, and concerns of different characters. Van der Valk once argued that the poet of the Kypria, having realized that Homer had exhausted the theme of the battles about Troy, therefore chose to emphasize the adventures which befell the Greeks before their arrival there. Such a thematic shift

25. Cf. M. M. Willcock, “Mythological Paradeigma in the Iliad,” CQ n.s. 14 (1964) 141–54. 26. On the erotic parekbaseis of Nestor, cf. Heath (supra, n. 12) 114. 27. Monro (supra, n. 13) 349. 28. Cf. Kannicht (supra, n. 2) 79. Further speculation concerning the title as well as some of the traditions about Stasinos may be found in Janko (supra, n. 4) 176–80, n. 163. Janko emphasizes the total absence in the surviving fragments of any linguistic elements which would suggest Cypriot origins, but both G. Nagy, Pindar’s Homer (Baltimore, 1990) 77 and W. Burkert (supra, n. 9) 103 argue in favor of Cypriot associations; cf. testimonia 1–11 in Bernabe´, 1–14 in Davies (supra, n. 8).

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mandated a structural divergence from the Iliad as well. Hence the Kypria’s poet appears to have been more literarily astute and original than the other cyclici, many of whom simply replicated the martial poetry of the Iliad.29 To conclude this assessment of the literary qualities of the Kypria, it is apparent that Aristotle’s view of the superiority of Homer consolidated a general opinion current from the fifth century onwards, so that the poem—along with the other cyclic epics—fell from grace after the classical period, and eventually disappeared. In consequence, as one critic has recently noted, “however important the Epic Cycle was, the fragmentary nature of the poems belonging to this group allows no more than the most rudimentary literary interpretation.”30 Even so, there is no reason to suppose that the initial audience of the poem, eager to hear details about the Trojan War, would have approached the work from the same withering critical stance as Aristotle and his epigonoi.31 We know enough to say that the poem was immensely informative about the mythological tradition, and that it fused the various elements of that tradition with a causality which would have satisfied members of the earliest Greek audiences in the days long before Aristotle—whose sensibilities had been sharpened by the achievements of the Attic dramatists—was induced to make his disparaging comparisons with annalistic historiography. The qualities of the poem not only made the Kypria useful to later dramatists and mythographers, but also extremely popular with more nearly contemporary painters. The specific ways in which these visual artists drew inspiration from the Kypria forms the subject of the second part of this study. IV

Given that almost every event in the Kypria was causally bound to the events which preceded and followed it, the images for which the Kypria served as a 29. M. van der Valk (supra, n. 10) II 252 n. 751. It may also be worth noting that the positions of the three major catalogues in the Kypria suggest a well-conceived poetic architecture. Near the beginning there was a list of the divine guests at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, near the middle the poet recorded the places visited by Menelaos on his tour of Greece to muster forces for the expedition, and a roster of Trojan allies appeared at the very end of the poem. These three catalogues surely provided a welcome respite from the “suite de re´cits chronologiquement enchaˆıne´s,” and they also reinforced the audience’s awareness of the cosmic importance of the events being described, by emphasizing the power of those events to compel the participation of the greatest heroes and even to attract the attention of the gods. 30. S. Lowenstam, “The Uses of Vase-Depictions in Homeric Studies,” TAPA 122 (1992) 165–98. 31. Kannicht’s article (supra, n. 2), despite its methodological sophistication as an example of Rezeptionsforschung, misses the mark by starting from the premise that Homer achieved instantaneous literary supremacy. Burkert 1987 (supra, n. 1) more persuasively argues that considerable time passed before Homer’s poetry became “the model and common reference point for the Greek mind” (43), to the exclusion of other roughly contemporary epics. Cf. Nagy (supra, n. 1) 39–52, who believes in a gradual development of the Homeric epics from an eighth-century formative stage to a definitive stage “in line with what appears to be the achievement of a near-textual status of the Homeric poems in the context of performance by rhapsodes at the Panathenaia. The date for this achievement at the definitive stage is around 550 ..” (52).

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principal source often manifest an unmistakable allusiveness and explanatory power. A culturally literate audience of viewers could be expected to appreciate the profound consequences of such pivotal moments as the rape of Thetis, her marriage to Peleus, the presentation of their son Achilles to Chiron, or, above all, the Judgment of Paris, or the killing of Troilos.32 By way of contrast, consider the famous Proto-Attic representation of Odysseus’ Escape from the Cave: the picture on the Ram Jug evokes admiration for the shrewdness and courage of the hero, and horror at the cruelty of his opponent, but because it illustrates a poem less concerned than the Kypria with causality, it does not especially induce viewers to think about what comes next in the Odyssey.33 We may begin to study the sort of art which the Kypria influenced by examining in a little greater detail some representations of Peleus and Thetis. The poem told of Thetis’ avoidance of the attentions of Zeus out of loyalty to Hera, who raised her; an oath by the god to marry her to a mortal; her miraculous yet futile struggle to avoid this me´salliance as well; and then a stately ceremony, to which all the Olympians brought impressive gifts. Out of all this material, the early archaic artists chose to illustrate only two segments, the struggle between Peleus and Thetis, and then the wedding ceremony itself. First we examine the iconography of the struggle.34 The two earliest examples both belong to the end of the seventh century or the very beginning of the sixth. On a large “Melian” amphora found at Neapolis (Thrace) and now in the museum at Kavalla, a bearded and clothed Peleus moving from the left grabs Thetis with both hands; she tries to run away with three of her sisters, but looks back anxiously

32. S. Lowenstam (supra, n. 30) has reached very similar conclusions about the Sosias Painter’s well-known cup depicting Achilles tending the wounded Patroklos (Berlin F2278; ARFH 1, fig. 50.1), a scene which might, as Lowenstam and others have noted, derive from an episode in the Kypria: “Patroklos’ wound will heal; Achilleus will have saved his friend. But this moment of success provides a sharp contrast with a time shortly afterwards when Achilleus will not be able to save his friend and will sacrifice his own life as a result. The power of this painting, then, results from the juxtaposition between the present moment with its happy conclusion and the dark time to come. Instead of depicting the death of Patroklos or Achilleus’ response upon learning it, the painter has subtly and effectively selected a scene that tells a wider story” (185, italics added). For further discussion of narrative techniques in Greek art, see the bibliography collected in H. A. Shapiro, Myth Into Art: Poet and Painter in Classical Greece (London, 1994) 184. 33. None of this is meant to suggest that the image of Odysseus’ escape is without interest; see the discussion in Shapiro (supra, n. 32) 49–55. 34. For this summary I rely primarily on X. Krieger, Der Kampf zwischen Peleus und Thetis in der griechischen Vasenmalerei: Eine typologische Untersuchung (Diss. Mu¨nster, 1973), who collects and minutely divides an enormous number of vases dating from the sixth to the fourth centuries. There is also a brief summary of the iconography in M. Pipili, Laconian Iconography of the Sixth Century B.C. (Oxford, 1987) 26–27. Krieger deals perfunctorily with the literary evidence, content in her brief comments to follow A. Lesky, “Peleus und Thetis im fru¨hen Epos,” StItal 27/8 (1956) 216–26 = Gesammelte Schriften (1966) 401–409. Thus she understates the role of Zeus in setting up Thetis’ marriage, and she doubts that the Kypria included the struggle. For further discussion see G. Ahlberg-Cornell, Myth and Epos in Early Greek Art: Representation and Interpretation, SIMA 100 (1992) 49.

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at Peleus.35 A strip from the leg of a bronze tripod now in New York similarly shows Peleus beginning to seize Thetis as she calls out and gestures to her sisters. 36 Neither of these depictions includes any reference to the metamorphoses by which Thetis sought to free herself. This simple scheme of ambush and flight continues on a number of other vases dated to the early sixth century, including a Corinthian krater in the Louvre (fig. 1) and five vases by Attic artists under Corinthian influence, the C-Painter (with three Siana cups),37 Lydos,38 and Kleitias.39 The Kleitias fragment names two Nereids Altheia and Kymatothea, a fact which could indicate literary influence. Two of these vases, the Louvre krater and one Siana cup by the C-Painter, localize the rape of Thetis in a sanctuary by including an altar, at which the Nereids had been sacrificing.40 The Chest of Kypselos, created in the same early period, introduced the next stage in the contest.41 Pausanias (V.18.5) merely tells us that on the Chest Peleus has taken hold of Thetis and that a snake darts out from her left hand toward him. Yet even so brief a description suffices to draw the metamorphosis back at least a century before the first extant literary appearance in Pindar’s Nemean 4. The erotic struggle combined with metamorphosis then becomes the primary form taken by this theme in Attic black-figure painting.42 Thetis transforms herself into fire and various beasts: lions, panthers, serpents, sea-monsters. Occasionally the beasts appear with her as helpers, but usually her body has in part assumed the form of the beasts. There is no conflict between the two basic schemes outlined here, and there is nothing which could not have been inspired by the Kypria. The ambush and flight from an interrupted sacrifice apparently occurred at a slightly earlier stage in the

35. Kavalla Mus. 1086. Cf. K. Fittschen, Untersuchungen zum Beginn der Sagendarstellungen bei den Griechen (Berlin, 1969) 169; Friis Johansen (supra, n. 1) 34 n. 50. 36. New York, Met. Mus. 58.11.6/59.11.1. Cf. Fittschen (supra, n. 35) 169; Friis Johansen (supra, n. 1) 34 n. 50. Pipili (supra, n. 34) 92 n. 252 and many other scholars suspect that this piece is a fake. 37. Corinthian krater: Louvre E 639, cf. Krieger (supra, n. 34) 14–15 and 174 cat. 172; Siana cups by the C-Painter: Munich 8954, Leningrad B 351, Taranto IG 4442. 38. Lydos: ABV 111 #46; F. Brommer, Vasenlisten zur griechischen Heldensage3 (Marburg, 1971) 242; Krieger (supra, n. 34) 17–18. 39. Kleitias: Athens Acr. 594. Cf. J. D. Beazley, The Development of Attic Black Figure Vase Painting2 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1986) 25 and pl. 29.5; Krieger (supra, n. 34) 16–17; H. von Steuben, Fru¨he Sagendarstellungen in Korinth und Athen (Berlin, 1968) 54. 40. Cf. Krieger (supra, n. 34) 77–78; Schefold pl. 70 b, c (Corinthian krater); ABV 53.48 (Siana Cup by C Painter). According to J. Barringer, “Thetis, Nereids, and Dionysos,” AJA 95 (1991) 318, “The myth of the abduction should . . . be read as taking place in a sanctuary of Artemis, while Nereids, including Thetis, dance in celebration of some festival.” I have not yet seen Barringer’s Divine Escorts: Nereids in Archaic and Classical Greek Art (Ann Arbor, 1994). 41. J. B. Carter, “The Chests of Periander,” AJA 93 (1989) 355–78, esp. 373–74 contends that the Corinthian tyrant Periander, son of Kypselos, dedicated the Chest in the Olympian Heraion during the first quarter of the sixth century, but there are also advocates of a later date. 42. Cf. Krieger (supra, n. 34) 65: “Die in der Literatur erwa¨hnten Metamorphosen der Thetis werden auf den meisten Bildern des Umklammerungstypus dargestellt.”

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episode than the wrestle between Peleus and Thetis, who then began to use her powers of metamorphosis.43 There are two well-known early Attic black-figure artists whose closely related (and signed) representations of the wedding of Peleus and Thetis must next be considered: Sophilos and Kleitias.44 Sophilos painted this theme twice: on a fragmentary dinos in Athens and again on the Erskine dinos in London, large ceramic wine-mixing bowls without any handles to interrupt the procession moving around the vase.45 Kleitias used the wedding procession as the most prominent of many figured friezes on one of the earliest Attic volute kraters, the François Vase in Florence. Widely accepted arguments for dating based on shapes, letter-forms, and iconography indicate that Sophilos produced his works around 580–575, a decade or so before Kleitias created the François Vase.46 All three vessels are signed, which at this date distinguishes them as a source of special pride for their makers. Comparison of the three works suggests common inspiration.47 Andrew Stewart has argued that the slight discrepancies in iconography, such as changes in positions of major figures and increasing variability in the grouping of gods toward the rear of the procession, indicate an oral source, i.e., a poetic performance, and not some visual source such as a monumental painting. The artists remembered this performance “with varying degrees of precision and adapted with varying degrees of freedom in each case.”48 Arguments over the literary pedigree of this scene have become involved; without reviewing the problem in detail, I will only note the difficulty 43. For an interpretation of the iconography of the Peleus and Thetis scenes, cf. C. SourvinouInwood, “A Series of Erotic Pursuits: Images and Meanings,” JHS 107 (1987) 131–53. SourvinouInwood sees the wrestling match as an effective paradigm for Athenian social relations, in which Thetis represents the “girl as wild thing to be captured and tamed through marriage” and Peleus stands for the ephebe and hunter. 44. The most recent study of the wedding of Peleus and Thetis is by M. W. Haslam, “Kleitias, Stesichoros, and the Jar of Dionysos,” TAPA 121 (1991) 35–45. There are also important comments on the vase in H. A. Shapiro, “Old and New Heroes: Narrative, Composition, and Subject in Attic Black Figure,” ClAnt 9 (1990) 114–48. Cf. T. Carpenter, Dionysian Imagery in Greek Art (Oxford, 1986) chap. 1, “The Wedding of Peleus and Thetis” for earlier bibliography. Carpenter offers a conservative response to a provocative article by A. Stewart, “Stesichoros and the François Vase,” in W. Moon, ed., Early Greek Art and Iconography (Madison, 1983) 53–74. 45. The best available photographs of the Erskine dinos are in D. Williams, “Sophilos in the British Museum,” Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum (Occasional Papers on Antiquities 1, 1983) 9–34. Cf. also G. Bakir, Sophilos: Ein Beitrag zu seinem Stil (Mainz am Rhein, 1981) 5–11, 64–65, plates 1–5. 46. For detailed discussion of dating, see Carpenter (supra, n. 44) 2–3; cf. Stewart (supra, n. 44) 62: “The spirit of competition between younger aspirant and old master seems very much alive here. After all, the three vases could be as little as five years apart in date of manufacture, maybe even less.” Bakir’s comments (supra, n. 45) 59 are also of interest: “Zwischen diesen Malern besteht nur eine Verbindung, na¨mlich die, daß sie beide die Hochzeit von Peleus und Thetis dargestellt haben. Das erlaubt jedoch keinesfalls zu sagen, daß beide aus derselben Werkstatt stammten und das Thema voneinander gelernt ha¨tten.” 47. Both Stewart and Carpenter (supra, n. 44) include comparative tables for all three works showing a strong correlation. 48. Stewart (supra, n. 44) 63, with n. 30.

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in attributing to Stesichoros an otherwise unattested Epithalamion for Peleus and Thetis merely on the basis of the notoriously altered name of one Muse on the François Vase (“Stesichore” in place of “Terpsichore”). Therefore I follow Thomas Carpenter in supposing that “both artists relied upon the Kypria for an outline of the procession, and . . . for some of the imagery.”49 Two features are especially relevant to this discussion: the vase carried by Dionysus in the center of the divine procession, and the branch carried by the centaur Chiron to Peleus. Both elements point ahead to the destiny of Achilles: the ash branch will become his spear, symbol of what Stewart aptly calls his “homicidal atavism,” and the golden amphora will ultimately serve as the receptacle for the ashes of Patroklos, and his own. This iconographical strategy of hinting at the future by means of symbolic objects reflects, I would argue, the impact of the lost poetic account.50 The Judgment of Paris, surely the single most famous episode to have been recounted in the Kypria, must have occurred early in the poem, soon after the wedding of Peleus and Thetis.51 This beauty contest among the goddesses contributed through its vast consequences to the realization of the Diäj boul ; thus it suited the poem’s generally aetiological and deterministic character.52 “So the genesis of the Trojan War is duly fitted into the cosmic scheme; the simple folktale motifs which color the Judgment story have been transposed into the mode of world history.” 53 The essentials of the episode are clear from the agreement of Proklos and the iconographic tradition: Hermes led a promenade of the bickering goddesses to Paris, who was then alone as a shepherd on Mount Ida. The Kypria may next have related the alarm of Paris before the divine epiphany, as manifested by his attempt at flight. Ultimately the prince did reveal his fateful judgment, encouraged to do so, according to Proklos, by Aphrodite’s promise of a marriage to Helen. Although there are several variations in the ways in which archaic artists chose to illustrate the Judgment,54 analysis of the compositional variants sheds relatively 49. Carpenter (supra, n. 44) 8. The same scholar claims without argument that the iconographic similarities also shared a common visual source—an unnecessary assertion. 50. On the use of such significant objects by Homer, see J. Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford, 1980), chap. 1. 51. The antiquity and provenience of the entire episode have long occasioned discussion. Already of Alexander, on the grounds that, had Homer known Aristarchus obelized Iliad 24.29–30, on the of the Judgment, he would have made more of it. K. Reinhardt, on the other hand, in Das Parisurteil (Frankfurt, 1938), argued that these verses are genuine, that the Iliad does presuppose knowledge of the Judgment, and that the savage anger of Athena and Hera toward the Trojans represents a version of the story appropriate to epic. Reinhardt indeed anticipated the criticisms of the cyclic epics which Griffin (infra, n. 52) would make much later, by suggesting that the tale of the Judgment was essentially at odds with the tone of Homeric epic. Such an episode, Reinhardt believed, found its natural place in the less heroic atmosphere of the cycle; hence not Homer but the author of the Kypria gave it a complete narration. 52. On the determinism of the poems in the epic cycle, see J. Griffin, “The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer,” JHS 97 (1977) 39–53. 53. T. C. W. Stinton, Euripides and the Judgment of Paris (London, 1965) 7. 54. Cf. Steuben (supra, n. 39) 56–58; Shapiro 1990 (supra, n. 44) 132–33; Ahlberg-Cornell (supra, n. 34) 50–51.

Šth

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little light on the poem’s narrative of the episode. The role of Paris is the most important guide to discriminating among these compositions. In the earliest and non-Attic examples, the three goddesses led by Hermes move left to a waiting Paris. Attic examples begin in the second quarter of the sixth century, but with the procession moving to the right. A second, specifically Attic composition begins in the second quarter of the sixth century; here the goddesses are led to the right by Hermes but Paris attempts to flee, as on a column krater by Lydos (fig. 2).55 It is tempting to suppose, with Stinton, that the Kypria intimated this fright of Paris. Yet a third type involves a parade of goddesses moving right, led by Hermes, but without Paris at all—again specifically Attic, again beginning midway through the sixth century. Two seventh-century artistic representations significantly predate all other examples, the Protocorinthian Chigi vase and a Spartan ivory comb.56 In fact, these two objects constitute the earliest art influenced by the Kypria and accordingly play a role in the effort to determine a terminus ante quem for the poem. The Chigi vase, now in the Villa Giulia, dates to about 640–630.57 The piece owes its fame primarily to the high quality of its polychrome miniaturism, and to its meticulous depiction of a hoplite battle, but it also includes perhaps the earliest Judgment scene. Tucked out of the way beneath the handle are (from right to left) Aphrodite, Athena and Hera. Damage to the vase has destroyed the figures of all three goddesses, and Hera has very nearly lost her head as well. Their heads, at least, reveal no iconographic differentiation. Next comes Hermes, leading the way, now visible only at the upper tip of his kerykeion. On the far left stands a well-preserved, youthful Paris wearing a chiton, confronting the oncoming procession which moves from right to left. Thus composed, Paris and Aphrodite frame the scene; Hermes mediates between human and divine. On the Chigi olpe inscriptions mark only this small and otherwise unobtrusive mythic scene. A couple of explanations suggest themselves: this painter was one of the very first to illustrate the Judgment and therefore felt the need to clarify his theme; or perhaps he simply took delight in the display of his knowledge. Archaic artists almost never chose to illustrate an actual Judgment, i.e., a stationary scene in which Paris clearly pronounces his decision. The earliest and almost unique example occurs on an ivory comb from the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia at Sparta around 620.58 Paris, this time bearded and hence older, sits on a throne with the divinities before him. A cuckoo distinguishes Hera, and a goose marks Aphrodite; Athena, on this early representation, lacks her usual helmet. 55. Column krater by Lydos: London, BM 1948.10–15.1, ABV 108.8, LIMC s.v. Hermes #455b, Beazley, Development 35.3. 56. Fittschen (supra, n. 35) 169–70. 57. LIMC I s.v. Alexandros 499 #5. 58. The comb has been dated closer to the mid seventh century, and thus contemporary with the Chigi olpe, but recent writers prefer a later date. For bibliography see LIMC I s.v. Alexandros 499 #6, 522; ibid. s.v. Aphrodite 135 #1417; Pipili (supra, n. 34) 120.

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Through gestures Paris indicates his preference for Aphrodite, who, here as on the Chigi olpe, brings up the rear in the procession. Yet not until the fifth and fourth centuries did such a direct view of the Judgment really take hold. Thus the preponderance of archaic examples makes it plain that the earlier artists preferred to stress the sequence of events leading to Paris’ fateful action. This emphasis recurs in several of the most commonly illustrated episodes from the Kypria, and it stems directly from the tendency of the poem to bind together the events leading to the Trojan War, the death of Achilles, and beyond. Thus when archaic artists transferred this poetic tradition to another medium, they sought to bring out the poem’s deterministic tenor by depicting, at various points, characters on the threshold of disaster. Homer offers few details on the events of Achilles’ childhood; some of what he does insinuate differs from the Hesiodic tradition and the cyclic poets. Homer’s Thetis evidently stayed with Peleus at least long enough to raise Achilles in Phthia (Iliad 18.54–60).59 But the wounded Eurypylos in Book 11 of the Iliad remembers that Patroklos learned the art of healing from Achilles, whom the centaur Chiron had taught (11.827–31). Homer does not say when Achilles spent his time with Chiron, nor for how long. Another tradition emerges from a fragment of the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, Pindar, Apollonios Rhodios, and from scholia to Homer. According to the Catalogue (Merkelbach-West 204.87–89), XeÐrwn d' ân PhlÐwú Íl enti PhleÐdhn âkìmize pìdaj taxÔn, êcoxon ‚ndrÀn paØd' êt' âìnt'.60

Scholia indicate that oÉ ne¸teroi (a standard locution for the cyclic poets in this context) followed this version, and they further explain that the centaur’s help was required after Thetis had abandoned the house of Peleus. As a scholiast to Pindar’s Nem. 3.76 succinctly puts it, par€ màn ÃOm rwú mìnon paideÔetai didaskìmenoj t˜n Êatrik n, par€ dà toØj newtèroij kaÈ trèfetai par€ XeÐrwni.61 No extant fragments of the Kypria describe these events, and Proklos, evidently eager to describe the Judgment in (relative) detail, skips past them entirely. Nevertheless it seems reasonable to conclude that the Kypria was indeed the first poem to present the full story of Chiron’s duties as both surrogate parent and teacher. The hasty return of Thetis to the sea follows perfectly from the marriage forced upon her by 59. Cf. M. W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary Vol. V (Cambridge, 1991) ad loc.: “In the Iliad it often appears that Thetis continued to live with Peleus after Akhilleus’ birth, e.g. at 1.396–7, 16.222–3, 16.574, 18.332, and 19.422, but it is not necessary to assume that Homer did not know the tale that she deserted him.” 60. “On wooded Mount Pelion Chiron took care of the swift-footed son of Peleus, already eminent among men, even though he was still a boy.” 61. “In Homer [Achilles] is only taught the art of medicine [by the centaur], whereas in the cyclic poets Chiron also raises him.”

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Zeus and from her attempts to evade Peleus through metamorphosis, both of which are likely to have been included in the Kypria’s narrative; and her absence then motivates the decision of Peleus to enlist the aid of Chiron in rearing Achilles. On the other hand, Homer’s substitution of Phoinix for a semi-human centaur as the teacher of Achilles (9.485–95) perfectly accords with his usual exclusion of exotic and fantastic elements.62 Finally, the brief passage in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women really amounts to no more than an allusion pointing to a well-known story, i.e., one treated more fully elsewhere. The earliest representations occur on two broken Proto-Attic vases. The first example, an ovoid krater attributed to the Polyphemos Painter (670–640), now consists of a few fragments from the necropolis on Aigina. The vessel portrayed a centaur carrying a branch from which a deer hangs down. The presence of this attribute induces Morris to identify the beast as Chiron in particular, but neither Achilles nor his father definitely appeared on this vase.63 The second example, a fragmentary neck amphora again from the Aiginetan necropolis, is more helpful (figs. 3–4).64 Here the Ram Jug Painter (660–640) represents the moment of the encounter: Chiron on one side of the vase receives the young Achilles from Peleus, on the other side. The centaur again holds a branch, but this time his prey consists of three small animals: a lion, a boar, and perhaps a wolf. From these iconographic details, Beazley65 postulated an origin in the Kypria for information on the ferocious young Achilles’ diet found in the Achilleis of Statius: Dicor et in teneris et adhuc reptantibus annis, Thessalus ut rigido senior me monte recepit, non ullos ex more cibos hausisse nec almis uberibus satiasse famem, sed spissa leonum viscera semianimisque lupae traxisse medullas. (2.96–100)

62. Cf. Griffin (supra, n. 52) 41. B. K. Braswell, “Mythological Innovation in the Iliad,” CQ n.s. 21 (1971) 22–23 suspects “that the character of Phoinix was either invented or adapted by the poet to give the embassy greater weight,” thus generating an inconsistency in the matter of Achilles’ education. So too B. Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary Vol. III (Cambridge, 1993) 310 ad 11.831–32 calls Phoinix’ story at 9.485–95 “almost certainly an ad hoc invention.” Kullmann (supra, n. 8) 371 makes a contrary argument: “[D]a die Kyprien Phoinix ebenfalls kennen (sie erza¨hlen die Namengebung des Neoptolemos durch Phoinix), werden auch sie ihn in seiner einzig markanten Rolle kennen, der Erzieherrolle.” 63. S. Morris, The Black and White Style (New Haven, 1984) 39–40, n. 10. For the usual attributes of Chiron see B. Schiffler, Die Typologie des Kentauren in der antiken Kunst vom 10. bis zum Ende des 4. Jhs. v. Chr. (Frankfurt, 1976) 35–36; also M. Gisler-Huwiler in LIMC s.v. Cheiron 247. 64. Berlin, Staatl. Mus. Inv. 31573 A9; cf. Ahlberg-Cornell (supra, n. 34) 51–52; Shapiro 1990 (supra, n. 44) 131; Morris (supra, n. 63) 55–56, n. 74. As part of her broader argument that many vases traditionally called “Proto-Attic” were actually produced by Aiginetan workshops, Morris notes the appropriateness of this Aiakid theme to Aigina. 65. Beazley, Development (supra, n. 39) 10.

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Again, while this material appears quite foreign to the epic tone of Homer,66 it suits the less austere atmosphere of the cyclic epics admirably. A now-fragmentary Corinthian plate dated to the first quarter of the sixth century probably also alludes to Chiron’s reception of Peleus and Achilles.67 Chiron stands on the left with an outstretched hand to signify his greeting, as on many other examples. His wife Chariklo stands behind him, partially concealed by his body. Inscriptions positively identify both Chariklo and Chiron, but Peleus and his son are missing because of breakage. Nonetheless, the pairing of the centaur with his wife combined with the symbolic gesture permit reasonable confidence that this vase once depicted the arrival of Peleus with Achilles. Chiron next receives the young Achilles on two Siana Cups by the Heidelberg Painter, dated to around 560.68 On a fragment of a cup now in Palermo, which Beazley considered the slightly earlier of the two, Hermes has led Peleus, cradling a very young Achilles, to Chiron. The centaur raises his hand in greeting. On the left behind Chiron and Hermes stands a woman, who may easily be identified as Chariklo, as on the Corinthian plate. A small part of a sixth figure frames the scene on the extreme right, behind Peleus. This time the branch which Chiron bears lacks any dangling animals. Hermes’ presence in this scene exactly parallels his role during the Judgment of Paris, where he serves to facilitate the meeting. The firmness of the iconographic tradition makes his literary presence in the Kypria’s narration of the Judgment virtually certain; in this case the visual tradition is less plain, but other (later) representations including the god do exist.69 The Heidelberg Painter’s second and better preserved treatment of this theme, on a cup in Wu¨rzburg (fig. 5), differs significantly from the first. Here Hermes is absent, but three women on the left support Chiron, and one more woman stands behind Peleus, to the right. Chiron carries a branch adorned with prey, as on the Proto-Attic neck amphora. In his identification of the women to the left, Beazley cited Pindar (Nem. 3.43, Pyth. 4.102–103) on the help Chiron received from his mother Philyra, wife Chariklo, and his daughters in raising Achilles and also Jason.70 The female figure behind Peleus presents more of an enigma. Her position suggests that she is Thetis, but if this is the case the Heidelberg Painter seems, understandably enough, to have become confused by the two traditions concerning the stability of Peleus’ marriage (discussed above). That is, the participation of Thetis here confounds the 66. And, evidently, to that of Pindar: see D. S. Robertson, “The Food of Achilles,” CR 54 (1940) 177–80 on Nem. 3. 67. Cf. LIMC s.v. Cheiron 241 #56; the accompanying volume of illustrations includes a poor photograph of this plate. 68. Wu¨rzburg 452, ABV 63.6; Palermo inv. 1856, ABV 65.45. Both illustrated in Beazley, Development (supra, n. 39) pl. 43.2–3; the latter also illustrated in LIMC s.v. Cheiron 241 #45. 69. E.g., ABV 271,68 (Antimenes Painter); 476,1 (Edinburgh Painter); ARV 2 283.4 (Painter of Munich 2774); 460 (Makron). On the two red-figure vases, Hermes rather than Peleus carries the child to the centaur. This suggests to Kossatz-Deissmann, LIMC s.v. Achilleus 47, “daß der Aufenthalt des A. bei Chiron nach olympischen Beschluß erfolgte.” 70. Beazley, Development (supra, n. 39) 47. Cf. Apollonios Rhodios 4.813.

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motivation Peleus had for entrusting his son to the wise centaur. Hence, as Beazley saw, “strictly, Thetis should not be present in this version of the legend.”71 In order to preserve faith in the Heidelberg Painter’s mythological acumen, one might try to understand this scene as a representation of the schooling (without rearing) alluded to in Iliad 11. Such scenes became popular in Attic painting at the close of the sixth century.72 Still, the immaturity of this Achilles seems to preclude a close illustration of the Iliad: he is still too young for the study of medicine. 73 The final example of this scene’s occurrence sometime during the second half of the sixth century which deserves mention here was on the throne of Hyakinthian Apollo at Amyklai, created by an Ionian sculptor named Bathykles.74 Pausanias introduces this famous monument with the rueful reflection that “to describe accurately the individual carvings would merely bore my readers” (3.18.10). This thought renders his descriptions of the various compositional elements extremely concise, as for example paradÐdwsi dà kaÈ PhleÌj ÇAxillèa trafhsìmenon par€ XeÐrwni, çj kaÈ didˆcai lègetai (3.18.12). Yet even this brief description shows Pausanias to have understood that Chiron both reared and taught Achilles, i.e., he knew that Achilles was with the centaur as a very young child, and then also at an age appropriate to education. We may also gather from Pausanias’ rapid summary that the throne’s decoration included several themes from the Kypria: in addition to Chiron greeting Peleus and Achilles, Bathykles rendered the Judgment of Paris (3.18.12) and two subjects of special interest in the Peloponnese, the Rape of the Leukippides (3.18.11) and the Rape of Helen perpetrated by Theseus and Peirithous (3.18.15).75 Clearly there is a difference between including objects freighted with significance in a painting meant to illustrate a scene from a poem, on the one hand, and including in a painting objects or people who “shouldn’t” be there. Some of the most intriguing Sagenbilder in Archaic Greek art employ just such an experimental synopticism in order to represent the ultimate significance of events and relationships more forcefully. In this category, we may consider depictions of the family of Achilles and the wedding of Helen and Paris. Once again, these cases suggest more identification by the painters with the aetiological preoccupations of poets than a simpler strategy of mere illustration would require. The inscriptions on a plate by Lydos dated to around 550 suggest a radical approach to epic themes: the four inscribed figures, from the left, include old Peleus,

71. Beazley, Development (supra, n. 39) 47 n. 7. 72. Cf. Kossatz-Deissmann, LIMC s.v. Achilleus 45ff., for many similar scenes. 73. On a cup painted by Oltos (ARV 2 61.76) 525–500, Thetis alone brings an adolescent Achilles to Chiron: Homeric. 74. Pipili (supra, n. 34) 81–82 includes analysis and some earlier bibliography. A survey of proposed reconstructions is available in R. Martin, “Bathycle`s de Magne´sie et le troˆne d’Apollon a` Amyklae,” RA 1976, 205–18. 75. Pipili (supra, n. 34) 82 notes that “as on Laconian vases, the scenes from the Trojan cycle were [comparatively] few.”

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merely watching; naked Achilles, strapping a greave to his left shin; facing him his mother Thetis, still holding his spear and shield; and to the right of Thetis a young man called NEONTOLEMOS [sic], who is the son of Achilles and Deidameia.76 As far as we know, these characters never appeared together this way in the epics: if the plate depicts Achilles’ departure from his homeland, why is his son, who wasn’t born until later, here? If the scene is meant to be the rearming of Achilles after the loss of his original armor with Patroklos (as described by the Iliad), then both the father and the son of the hero are entirely out of place. Johansen sought to explain away the figure of Neoptolemos: “That the presence of Neoptolemos is a proleptic sin against the legendary tradition, presumably did not worry the artist.”77 But how exactly is this Neoptolemos proleptic? Such an approach misconstrues Lydos, who wished to imply no single location and no single moment by the male characters he incorporated in his painting. This well-composed treatment of Peleus, Achilles, Thetis, and Neoptolemos puts forward a comprehensive view of the epic tradition very much in what I have argued was the spirit of the Kypria. Just as Peleus directs attention back to Achilles’ paternity and origins in Phthia, so Neoptolemos points to the hero’s continuance of the line, through the siring of his son on Skyros. The arms being given to Achilles, no matter which set they are, primarily allude to his own participation and eventual death in the fighting before Troy. Thetis surely evokes the famous Iliadic arming tableau, but also, as a divinity, contrasts with Achilles’ mortal father. Extension of the heroic line into three generations, from Peleus through Achilles to Neoptolemos, receives primary emphasis here.78 In short, on this plate Lydos exercised considerable freedom in painting what Aristotle might well consider a “eusynoptic” family portrait, not an evocation of specific events.79

76. Athens, NM 507; ABV 112.56; Friis Johansen (supra, n. 1) fig. 35; M. H. Tiberios, Lydos (Athens, 1976) pl. 41; LIMC I s.v. Achilleus 197, pl. 76; K. Schefold, Gods and Heroes in Late Archaic Art (Engl. trans. by A. Griffiths, Cambridge, 1992) 214–19, fig. 267. 77. Friis Johansen (supra, n. 1) 113. 78. Cf. François Lissarague, “The World of the Warrior,” in C. Be´rard et al., A City of Images (Princeton, 1989) 39–52 (in reference to other images of warriors): “the image constitutes a discourse on the place of the warrior in society, with respect to the family and the gods.” 79. The genealogical emphasis I suggest for the plate by Lydos recurs on a cup by the Painter of the Oxford Brygos, ARV 399, now lost. A. A. Barrett and M. Vickers, “The Oxford Brygos Cup Reconsidered,” JHS 98 (1978) 15–24 comment that, “We may speculate that the figures on Side B are meant to represent members of a single, unspecified family: on the left, the grandfather is seated, too old to fight but sadly aware of the dangers that the future holds in store. On the right, the father donning his greaves, assisted by a woman who is perhaps his wife. The two younger men may be thought of as the elder sons of the family. On Side A, the mother, if that is who she is, is shown at prayer. . . . The scene in the tondo may also have a certain significance, showing the non-belligerent generations: the very old, in the person of the grandfather, and the very young in that of the child.” Barrett and Vickers, in turn, compare an amphora in Orvieto on which an old man comforts a young boy while two warriors prepare for battle. After reaching my own conclusions regarding the plate by Lydos, I read the useful recent article by S. Lowenstam, “The Arming of Achilleus on Early Greek Vases,” ClAnt 12 (1993) 199– 218. It should be clear that for the most part I agree with Lowenstam’s argument that “There is no situation in any tradition when this father, son, and grandson [Peleus, Achilles, Neoptolemos]

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The wedding of Helen and Paris appears on a Corinthian column krater from the Middle Corinthian period by the Detroit Painter (figs. 6–7).80 Here the figures, working from left to right, begin with two standing couples, Daiphon facing an unnamed woman, and Hektor facing an unnamed woman; then a chariot containing Alexander and Helen, who holds forth her bridal veil apocalyptically; next an unnamed bearded male and a woman named Automedousa; the horses Polypentha and Xanthos (and two more unnamed); a bearded male, whose fragmentary inscription may read Hippomedon, facing a woman; and at the far end a hoplite carrying a shield decorated with a gorgoneion. This hoplite, named Hippolytos, approaches the wedding party from the right. The profusion of inscribed names in this picture strongly suggests that here the Detroit Painter adhered to some literary inspiration; and, though a few of the characters remain problematic,81 the Kypria is the most likely source. If that is right, evidently the painter meant to express in visual terms an important feature of the poetic narrative he had heard. The poem’s description of the wedding doubtless included forebodings of the misery which the union of Paris and Helen would soon inflict upon the Trojans. I therefore propose that the painter has boldly juxtaposed a Greek hoplite with this Trojan wedding scene as a symbol of the menace to the couple’s future. In this way a drastic conflation of events has been achieved; again, just as on the plate by Lydos, the myth becomes eÎsÔnoptoj, readily understood.82 The inclination of archaic painters to employ such extreme techniques has led to doubts that specific literary exempla much influenced these artists, who must have

stood together. The painter is trying to reproduce the type of scene that unites Laertes, Odysseus, and Telemachos in the Odyssey (24.513–15). . . . Lydos is merely giving heroic coloring to a typical scene.” 80. New York Met. Mus. 27.116; LIMC s.v. Helen #190, Alexandros #67, Hektor 10; L. B. GhaliKahil, Les enle`vements et le retour d’He´le`ne dans les textes et les documents figure´s (Paris, 1955) 117; J. L. Benson, “The Three Maidens Group,” AJA 73 (1969) 121 D6, pl. 40 fig. 24; illustration in D. Amyx, Corinthian Vase Painting of the Archaic Period (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1988) pl. 79. 81. The name of Daiphon, for example, has no other attestation, although a figure called D]aiphonos appears to have been killed by Neoptolemos in the tondo of the Onesimos cup in the Getty Museum (see D. Williams, “Onesimos and the Getty Iliupersis,” in Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum 5 [1991] 50–51, fig. 8e. For this reference I thank Sarah Morris.). Automedousa probably refers to a daughter of Priam elsewhere called Medousa (Stesichoros PMG frag. 204 and Paus. 10.26.9). Hippolytos gives the greatest pause: Ghali-Kahil (supra, n. 80) 118 considered him “peut-eˆtre le pe`re de Deiphobe,” but Deiphobos was a son of Priam and Hekabe to whom the Trojans awarded Helen after the death of Alexander, and whom Menelaos killed during the city’s sack. In fact, a Trojan Hippolytos is absent from the Iliad as we have it, although a warrior by that name appears next to Thanatos in Euphronios’ famous representation of Hypnos and Thanatos rescuing the body of Sarpedon from the battlefield (NY 1972.11.10). 82. For discussion and earlier bibliography on the synoptic method in early Greek painting, see A. Stewart, “Narrative, Genre, and Realism in the Work of the Amasis Painter,” in Papers on the Amasis Painter and His World (Malibu, 1987) 29–42. There is also a brief summary of the narrative techniques available to painters in Shapiro (supra, n. 44) 7–10, and some discussion in Lowenstam (supra, n. 30) 173–74.

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relied instead upon “oral ‘household’ mythology” as a source of themes.83 Yet such a view mistakes the real process. In fact, the synoptic technique naturally translates into a purely visual medium the temporal extension available to the poet (i.e., the poet’s freedom to tell a long story to an audience capable of recalling the beginning at the end.) So this Corinthian painter attempted, perhaps a bit crudely, but in a decidedly literary spirit, to portray both causes and consequences in a single visual narrative about Helen; he did so by simple juxtaposition. According to Proklos’ summary of the Kypria, after some initial skirmishes around Troy, the Greeks sent an embassy to the Trojans demanding the return of Helen.84 Other sources for this episode include several allusions in the Iliad and its scholia, a Late Corinthian column krater now in the Vatican, and parts of a dithyramb by Bacchylides. In the Teikhoskopia of the Iliad (3.205–208), after Helen points out Odysseus for the Trojan elders, Priam’s advisor Antenor remembers the embassy of Odysseus and Menelaos, for whom he had once served as host.85 His reminiscences lead Antenor into his famous comparison of the two Greeks’ rhetorical styles, which he had the opportunity to judge when they addressed the Trojan assembly.86 A scholium to Iliad 3.205–206 adds that it was Antenor who intervened on behalf of Odysseus and Menelaos when certain Trojans threatened them. Clearly this forms the background to Iliad 11.122–48, where Agamemnon demonstrates no mercy for two sons of the Trojan Antimakhos, who, Homer tells us, had taken bribes from Paris to oppose the restoration of Helen (11.122–27). In denying the pleas of Peisandros

83. So E. M. Himmelrijk, Gnomon 42 (1970) 166–71, in reviewing N. Himmelmann-Wildschu¨tz, Erza¨hlung und Figur in der archaischen Kunst (Wiesbaden, 1967), argues that, “The method used by the pot-painters, which I have indicated as a ‘synoptic’ approach, is so different from the descriptive story-telling in epos, that direct influence of the epos in general (and of the epos known to us in particular) must usually have been restricted to details.” 84. Bethe (supra, n. 8) 196, 238, 257, 316–318; Kullmann (supra, n. 8) 275–78; L. Se´chan, E´tudes sur la trage´die grecque dans ses rapports avec la ce´ramique (Paris, 1926, repr. 1967) 181–84; ,” Proc. Brit. Acad. 43 Ghali-Kahil (supra, n. 80) 141–42; J. D. Beazley, “ (1957) 233–44, pl. 11–16; C. Picard, “La revendication d’He´le`ne,” RA 1 (1959) 213–18, figs. 2–5; N. Alfieri, “Un cratere a volute del ‘Pittore di Chicago,’ ” Arte antica e moderna 17 (1962) 28–40; Cl. Be´rard, “Architecture et politique: Re´ception d’une ambassade en Gre`ce archa¨ıque,” E´tudes de lettres Serie III, tome 10 (1977) 1–25; M. I. Davies, “The Reclamation of Helen,” AK 20 (1977) 73–85, pl. 17. Color illustration of the Astarita krater in D. Redig de Campos, ed., Art Treasures of the Vatican (Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1975) ill. 338. For the significance of this myth as part of Polygnotos’ Iliupersis in the leskhe of the Knidians at Delphi, see D. Castriota, Myth, Ethos, and Actuality: Official Art in Fifth-Century Athens (Madison, 1992) 86–88, 115–16. 85. Antenor appears with Priam in the Troilos frieze of the François Vase as well as on several other early vases. Cf. Beazley 1957 (supra, n. 84) 243–44. 86. Beazley 1957 (supra, n. 84) 240 cites Bethe (supra, n. 8) 207–41 as the source for his understanding of this passage’s relation to the broader epic tradition: “it is plain that [Homer] is not inventing the visit as a setting for his description of the two heroes, but alluding to a story told in full elsewhere. . . . The account to which the two passages in the Iliad refer is not that in the Cypria, but an earlier one, upon which the poet of the Cypria also must have drawn.” For a similar perspective, cf. G. S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary Vol. I (Cambridge, 1985) ad loc.

ELENHS APAITHSIS

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and Hippolokhos, Agamemnon remembers how their father had even demanded death for the Greek ambassadors (11.138–42, Fagles translation): Cunning Antimachus! So you’re that man’s sons? Once in the Trojan council he ordered Menelaus, there on an embassy joined by King Odysseus, murdered right on the spot—no safe-conduct back to the land of Argos. You’re his sons? Now pay for your father’s outrage, blood for blood! A final piece of evidence in the Iliad for the events of the Greek embassy follows the duel between Aias and Hektor, when Antenor urges the return of Helen as a necessary preliminary to any improvement in the Trojans’ situation (7.348–53). Hear me, Trojans, Dardans, all our loyal allies, I must speak out what the heart inside me urges. On with it—give Argive Helen and all her treasures back to Atreus’ sons to take away at last. We broke our sworn truce. We fight as outlaws. True, and what profit for us in the long run? Nothing—unless we do exactly as I say. As Davies has noticed, the author of the Kypria could easily have “borrowed or adapted” these lines as the opening of Antenor’s speech to the Trojan assembly on behalf of the Greeks.87 There is other evidence as well for Antenor’s xenia with Odysseus and Menelaos: according to Pausanias 10.26.8, Odysseus once rescued a son of Antenor, named Helikaon; and Apollodoros (Epit. 5.21) informs us that Odysseus and Menelaos together saved another son, Glaukos. Moreover, Polygnotos’ Iliupersis in the leskhe of the Knidians at Delphi depicted Antenor and his family preparing to depart the ruined city, allowed to go free in return for their earlier services.88 Beazley dated a Late Corinthian column krater in the Vatican known after its previous owner as the Astarita krater (fig. 8) to around 560 .. Accordingly it offers virtually direct evidence for the earliest epic traditions, without other known literary intermediaries. The numerous inscriptions obviously are central to the interpretation, and indeed may allude to a poetic performance. Menelaos, Odysseus and Talthybios sit on masonry steps at the left, facing a line of Trojans approaching from the right. Theano, wife of Antenor and priestess of Athena, heads the group, followed by her servants Da and Malo, and her old nurse. The women are followed by several horsemen, named Harmatidas, Glaukos, Eurymakhos, Ilioneus, Po[li]tas, 87. Davies (supra, n. 84) 75. 88. The rescue of Antenor and Theano by Odysseus appears on the cup by Onesimos in the Getty (see Williams, supra n. 81, 54–56, fig. 8i.) This departure may also have figured in Sophokles’ lost Antenoridai; cf. Se´chan (supra, n. 84) 181–82, n. 6. A red-figured vase attributed to the Kleophrades Painter (ARV 186.48) may show a related scene.

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Polyph[as] or Polyph[amos]. Glaukos and Eurymakhos are known sons of Antenor, while Politas in the Iliad is a son of Priam, and Ilioneus is the son of Phorbas. Beazley’s reconstruction in his initial publication of the vase of the events which led up to the scene depicted amounts to a reconstruction of the Kypria: As to the situation on the Astarita vase, there is no means of proving that it is not the painter’s own invention, but it is extremely improbable that he did not take it from a poetical source, whether the Cypria, as is likely enough, or another poem [for which no evidence exists]. What the picture tells us is that the two Greek heroes arrived at the city and announced themselves; word was given that they were to be admitted at the gate, but must wait inside the wall; Theano set out to meet them; accompanied by her maids, and escorted by an armed and mounted bodyguard, consisting of, or at least including, her sons.89 In his challenge to Beazley’s explanation, Davies doubts that the distaff and spindle in the hands of Theano are intended merely, as Beazley put it, to “transport one to the simplicity of early times, when the mistresses and daughters, even in the great houses, wove and spun.” Instead he suggests deliberate allusion to Iliad 6.297– 311, where Theano receives a robe donated to Athena by Hekabe and lays it on the statue’s knees; thus the painting’s spatial setting must be the sanctuary of Athena, goddess of spinning and weaving. “In fact there appear to be no difficulties and many advantages in assuming that the Greek envoys are shown seated as suppliants upon a monumental stepped altar before the temple of Athena on the citadel of Troy.”90 According to Davies’ alternative, and in some respects more convincing interpretation of the mythic events: the embassy entered Troy invisibly with the help of a divine protector, Athena, in the manner of Priam and Odysseus elsewhere; Theano dealt with the Greeks first because she first discovered them at her altar; the procession of Trojan horsemen happened to arrive at the sanctuary simultaneously; 91 Theano entrusted the Greeks to her husband Antenor, knowing his conciliatory attitude toward them; he informed Priam, and an assembly eventually occurred. Any interpretation of the Astarita krater must explain the major role assumed by Theano in the reception of the Greek embassy. In this connection both Beazley and Davies discuss the fragmentary beginning to Bacchylides’ dithyramb called ÇAnthnorÐdai £ ÃElènhj ‚paÐthsij, which portrays Theano as the priestess of Athena who confronted the Greeks and offered them sanctuary. The second half of 89. Beazley 1957 (supra, n. 84) 242. 90. Davies (supra, n. 84) also proposes that since such altars were not typical on the mainland when this krater was painted, but were Ionian, the painter may have been influenced in his choice of theme by the Athenian painter Sophilos, who had links to Corinthian painting, liked parade scenes, and sometimes painted architecture. 91. It may be preferable to suppose that Theano was called to her sanctuary by other Trojans who had discovered the Greeks there, and she then came, as Beazley suggested, with the protective cavalcade.

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this poem, better preserved, concerns Antenor, Priam, Menelaos, and the assembly, as recalled in Iliad 3. Although we cannot know how much Bacchylides added to the tradition as he found it, Davies suggests the following relationship among the sources: (1) While Theano figures elsewhere in the Iliad, Homer does not mention her in connection with the embassy, because there was no need, given the brevity of the reminiscence. (2) Her major role on the Astarita krater and in Bacchylides derives from the narrative contained in the Kypria, which elaborated on the Iliad’s scant evidence and then influenced all later allusions.92 Thus a comparison of the Iliadic references with the Astarita krater and with the work of Bacchylides is likely to elucidate the personae and structure of an otherwise obscure episode in the Kypria. Moreover, reconstruction of the embassy nicely demonstrates how informative the poem would have been to early audiences eager for details about the Greeks’ adventures before Troy. For the episode of Troilos’ death, the iconographic tradition is also particularly rich and informative.93 Achilles waited in ambush outside the walls of Troy until Troilos, with his horses, accompanied his sister Polyxena to a fountain. When Troilos fled to a sanctuary of Apollo nearby, Achilles caught up with him there and decapitated him upon an altar. Achilles then fought with the Trojan warriors over the corpse, perhaps eventually making good his escape by flinging the severed head at his opponents. There is ample literary evidence to the effect that Troilos had to die as one of three fated preconditions for the fall of Troy; this notion of inescapable preconditions suits the deterministic tenor of the Kypria.94 The earliest pictorial evidence for the precondition occurs on a black-figure amphora painted by Lydos around 550 which displays the pursuit of Troilos on one side, and the death of Priam as well as the confrontation between Menelaos and Helen on the other (figs. 9–10).95 In this case the painter underscored a causal connection between two chronologically very distant events by means of juxtaposition. Indeed, if viewers were meant to associate the boy’s death with Troy’s fall in this way, that would help to explain the tremendous popularity of the Troilos series in archaic art.

92. The Imagines of Lucian compares Theano’s compassion with that of Arete and Nausikaa; this may have been a key aspect of her character from early—non-Iliadic—epic tradition. 93. Cf. Steuben (supra, n. 39) 58: “Es gibt wohl ha¨ufiger dargestellte Themen als dieses, aber keins von derselben Vielfalt.” For useful discussions of the episode, see Schefold (supra, n. 76) 225–31; Ahlberg-Cornell (supra, n. 34) 53–56; M. Robertson, “Troilos and Polyxene: Notes on a Changing Legend,” in J.-P. Descœudres, ed., Eumousia: Ceramic and Iconographic Studies in Honour of Alexander Cambitoglou (Sydney, 1990) 63–70. 94. M. Robertson, “Ibycus: Polycrates, Troilus, Polyxena,” BICS 20 (1973) 11–14, argued that the theme of Troilos’ death as a requirement for Greek success in the war occurred at least as early as a poem by Ibykos which presented Troilos as foil to Polykrates of Samos: “you live and Samos flourishes; Troy was less lucky—when Troilos died the city fell.” Robertson has further established that the drei Vorbedingungen for Troy’s defeat were prominent motifs in the fifth-century “Iliupersis” painted by Polygnotos in the leskhe of the Knidians at Delphi. 95. Berlin F 1685, ABV 109.24; bibliography in LIMC s.v. Achilleus 81, #290; cf. C. Zindel, Drei vorhomerische Sagenversionen in der griechischen Kunst (Diss. Basel, 1974) 57.

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If Troilos had to die for the Greeks to win their goal, Achilles’ motivation would need little further comment. But the persistent if sporadic appearance of an erotic motif complicates the tradition. Literary evidence for this motif only comes later, in Phrynichos, Sophokles, Lykophron, and eventually Servius.96 Iconographic evidence of varying quality, however, does exist much earlier, on a bronze shieldband relief from Olympia as well as Attic and Lakonian pottery.97 On the bronze, dated to 590–580, Achilles is on the verge of killing Troilos with a sword. The Trojan youth stands atop an altar; a fighting cock, normally understood as a lover’s gift, has been placed between his legs. The vulnerability of the nude Troilos is also striking, heightened as it is by the fact that Achilles’ sword points directly at the boy’s genitals. Attic examples are less certain, but still intriguing. Zindel has argued for the identification of a Siana Cup in Cleveland, which is dated to 570–560, as an Achilles and Troilos scene.98 Here an armed man pursues a naked youth, who holds a crown in his hand. The crown might be another love-gift from Achilles, who angrily pursues one who has spurned him. Like the causal motif whereby Achilles needed to kill Troilos for the victory of his side, the erotic motif coincides perfectly with the tenor of the Kypria. The potential affinity of these two themes, which are certainly not mutually exclusive, can be easily imagined as a variation on the account extant in the commentary of Servius: Achilles’ intent to bring about the boy’s death and so fulfill the demands of prophecy leads him to observe and then become infatuated with Troilos. One compares the earlier luring of Iphigeneia to a bogus wedding with Achilles, or a fortiori the apparently early legend which told how Achilles felt a devastating passion for Penthesilea just at the moment when he delivered the coup de graˆce. A further complication arises in the person of Polyxena, who appears regularly in the images depicting Troilos. Polyxena’s trip to the fountain must be more than a mere device to motivate the presence of her brother outside the walls. At a minimum, the boy’s complete helplessness as Achilles’ victim arouses greater pathos when he is paired with a noncombatant girl fetching water. Yet evaluation of the iconographic series has led some scholars to propose further that Polyxena and Troilos may function as doublets: both suffered as the objects of Achilles’ confused appetites, lustful and violent by turns. Surely it was in just this connection that the Kypria

96. Lykophron, Alexandra 307–13; Servius ad Aen. 1.474: “Troili amore Achillem ductum palumbes ei quibus delectabatur obiecisse; quas cum vellet tenere, captus ab Achille in eius amplexibus periit.” 97. Cf. E. Kunze, Olympische Berichte II (1950); illustrated at LIMC 90 #377; Zindel 75; and most recently B. d’Agostino, “Achille et Troilos: Images, Textes, et Assonances,” in Poikilia: E´tudes offerts a` Jean-Pierre Vernant (Paris, 1987) 145–54 (who also investigates the theme in Etruscan art). The latter argues for a “version occidentale” (Stesichorean?) characterized by even more eros and pathos than the conventional tale. D’Agostino bases this claim on his observation that in Attic iconography concerned with Troilos, “une absence totale de pathos est de rigeur, rompue seulement, parfois, par l’attitude inquie`te du corbeau d’Apollon.” 98. LIMC 90, #381.

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alluded to the eventual killing of Polyxena during the sack of Troy, an incident related in greater detail by a later poem in the epic cycle, the Iliupersis.99 Finally, the theme of sacrifice raises questions about the role of the gods in the Troilos episode. According to Apollodoros (B41), the murder transpired in a sanctuary of Apollo Thymbraios; this late detail receives much earlier iconographical confirmation from the regular presence of an altar. Apollo’s anger against Achilles originates here, and will ultimately result in the hero’s death before Troy. Thetis, with her divine knowledge about the future, appears in some painted versions (including on the François Vase) to express her anxiety over her son’s hazardous undertakings.100 The great popularity of the grim subject of Troilos in representational art, then, must spring from its fundamental significance both for Troy, which can begin to fall once the boy dies, and for Achilles, who at this moment arouses the fatal hostility of Apollo. Divine retribution will meet his impiety. * * * Judgments about the relative importance of the Kypria in the Greek epic tradition ought to be based not only on the scavenging of the poem as a source of plots for fifth-century tragedies and on the negative verdict implied by its eventual failure to win entry into the literary canon, but also on the particular responses to its material by those Archaic artists best able to appreciate it. Recently, H. A. Shapiro has made the comment that “If we believed that vase-painters drew their main inspiration from poems they heard performed in public, we would have to assume that Arktinos of Miletus, who wrote the Aithiopis, and Stasinos (author of the Kypria) were far more beloved than Homer. . . . Artists, like audiences, were attracted to [their poems] mainly because they were such good stories.”101 In this paper I hope to have delineated some of the ways in which the Kypria was indeed a good story. Interest in the poem has always derived mainly from its explanatory power as an especially rich mine of mythological information, but I also hope to have shown that literary qualities were not entirely absent. University of Kentucky 99. B34; D27: “the poet of the Kypria says [Polyxena] died of her wounds at the hands of Odysseus and Diomedes in the sack of the city.” For full discussion of how Polyxena and Troilos may have figured in various archaic and classical poems, see Robertson 1990 (supra, n. 93). 100. Cf. E. Simon, Die griechischen Vasen2 (Munich, 1976) 75. Other vases which include Thetis in this context are cited by A. Kossatz-Diessmann in LIMC s.v. Achilleus 81 nos. 289–90, 292. On the analogous significance of Apollo on several other vases as a spectator at the final combat of Achilles and Hektor, see Lowenstam (supra, n. 30) 183. 101. Shapiro 1989 (supra, n. 1) 46.

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Figure 1: Corinthian krater (Louvre E 639). Photo courtesy of the Louvre Museum.

Figure 2: Column krater by Lydos (London, BM 1948.10–15.1). Photo courtesy of the British Museum.

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Figures 3–4: Neck Amphora by the Ram Jug Painter (Berlin, Staatl. Mus. Inv. 31573 A9). Photos courtesy of Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbestitz.

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Figure 5: Siana Cup by the Heidelberg Painter (Wu¨rzburg 452, ABV 63.6). Photo courtesy of Martin von Wagner Museum, Universita¨t Wu¨rzburg. Photo by K. Oehrlein.

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Figures 6–7: Corinthian column krater by the Detroit Painter (New York Met. Mus. 27.116). Photos courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum.

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Figure 8: Astarita krater (Vatican 565). Photo courtesy of the Vatican Museums.

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Figures 9–10: Amphora by Lydos. (Berlin F 1685). Photos courtesy of Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz.

DEBORAH T. STEINER

Stoning and Sight: A Structural Equivalence in Greek Mythology

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, following Xanthos the Lydian, describes the gods’ response to the first murder performed by one of their number: “When Hermes had killed Argos, the guardian of Io, at Zeus’ behest, he was brought to trial. He was arraigned by Hera and the other gods, because he was the first god ever to be stained with death. Now when the gods were holding this trial, they were afraid of Zeus, for Hermes had acted on his orders. They wanted both to remove this stain from their presence, and to acquit the god of murder: agitated as they were, they threw their voting pebbles at Hermes, so that a pile of stones grew at his feet.”1 Both ancient and modern readers treat the incident as aetiological in design: it can elucidate the term Hermaios lophos, a cairn of stones dedicated to Hermes,2 or might supply a fanciful origin for the practice of voting with pebbles at trials.3 But the story told by Xanthos has an internal logic of its own. Stones occupy a prominent place in both the murder and its aftermath, figuring not only in the heap that forms at Hermes’ feet and builds a monument that lastingly records the event,4 but also furnishing the gods with an instrument for a symbolic reenactment of the original crime and a literal repayment in kind; myth tells how Hermes first killed Argos by throwing a stone at him.5 Thanks are owed to Andrew Feldherr and Leslie Kurke, who kindly read and commented on an earlier version of this paper. I am also grateful to Richard Seaford and to my other anonymous reader at ClAnt for their helpful suggestions and advice. 1. FGH 765 F 29; 140 F 19; Eust. 1809.38–43. The sources note that passers-by are required to throw an additional stone on the pile. 2. Schol. ad Od. 16.471. 3. W. Burkert, Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth (Berkeley, 1983) 165 n. 16. 4. For another commemorative use of a stone, see Hes. Theog. 497–500. 5. Apollod. 2.6–7; A. B. Cook, Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion (Cambridge, 1914–1940) III 632–41.

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Discussions of the stone missile in the encounter between god and beast routinely link the detail with ancient religious practices, but this ritual approach has done little to clarify Hermes’ choice of instrument.6 So rather than seeking an explanation in recondite festival lore, I propose that we focus instead on the nature of the god’s opponent, and on the faculty that first recommended him to Hera as Io’s watchman: Argos is the creature whom ancient authors style Panoptes, and whose body vase painters regularly portray dotted about with multiple eyes. 7 With this in mind, I aim to show that Hermes’ weapon is no chance narrative detail, but a motif determined by the visual powers of his adversary and by the prime capacity of stones to counter and annul the ability to see. In making my case, I will be looking to other Greek myths which similarly juxtapose stoning with sight, and using these to argue two principal points: first, that mythical narrative presents a structural equivalence between blinding and lapidation; and second, that the reasons behind this equivalence rest on the particular attributes which ancient thought assigned to stones.8 My investigation has one broader goal in mind: I wish to move beyond the historical or ritual perspectives applied to stoning,9 and to suggest that the penalty also claims a place in what has been called the “grammar” of myth.10

6. Burkert (supra, n. 3) 165–66 sees a sacrificial dimension to both the initial and subsequent stoning, arguing that the episode involves a “typical comedy of innocence including a trial, sentencing, and apparent stoning.” He links the myth to the Bouphonia rite at Argos, and speculates that the stone used by Hermes reflects the sacrificial axe, which was once made of stone. K. Dowden, Death and the Maiden: Girls’ Initiation Rites in Greek Mythology (London and New York, 1989) 138–40, gives several examples of the prominence of sacred stones in Greek ritual, and in rites connected with Hermes, but does not assign a specific meaning to the weapon here. 7. Eur. Phoen. 1115–18, with the remark by the scholiast describing Argos as ‰paj æfqalmìj; vase representations include a stamnos in Vienna (Kh M 3729, ARV2 288,1) and a Louvre pelike (G 229). Equally indicative of Argos’ keen-sightedness are depictions showing the watchman with two heads facing in opposite directions, thereby doubling his field of vision (London B 146; ABV 148, 2; ARV2 1054, 48). 8. In arguing that blinding and stoning can substitute for one another in myth, I do not wish to suggest that there are not many other motifs that similarly exist as equivalents to blinding (madness would be an obvious example). What I do want to elucidate are the relations between these two particular themes. 9. For a historical focus, see V. J. Rosivach, “Execution by Stoning in Athens,” ClAnt 6 (1987) 232–49; for a ritual focus, Burkert (supra, n. 3). The standard modern treatment remains that by R. Hirzel, “Die Strafe der Steinigung,” Abhandlungen der Philologisch-Historischen Klasse der Ko¨niglich Sa¨chsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften 27 (1909) 223–66 (reprint Darmstadt, 1967). See too A. S. Pease, “Notes on Stoning among the Greeks and Romans,” TAPA 38 (1907) 5–18, and the articles on “Steinigung” by K. Latte in Pauly-Wissowa, and on “Lapidatio” by G. Glotz in Daremberg-Saglio. The most suggestive recent treatment, attempting to place stoning in its political and socio-cultural context, is that by M. Gras, “Cite´ grecque et lapidation,” in Du chaˆtiment dans la cite´: Supplices corporels et peine de mort dans le monde antique: Collection de l’E´cole Française de Rome (Rome, 1984) 75–89. 10. My approach necessarily requires sources that cover a broad chronological spread, and I will not be addressing the question of how perceptions of stoning, and its representation in myth, might have changed over time; on the advantages and disadvantages of this “synchronic” methodology, see the judicious remarks of R. G. A. Buxton, “Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth,” JHS 100 (1980) 26.

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I

If my proposal concerning the links between stoning and blinding is correct, then the logic behind Hermes’ attack stands revealed: how better to disarm the monster who symbolizes “the visual faculty itself”11 than to rob him of his eyes? A quick review of sources that long predate Apollodorus and his presentation of Hermes’ attack reveals that ancient authors commonly introduce the two punishments side by side. In Aeschylus’ Eumenides, Apollo lists stoning together with the gouging out of eyes in his compilation of brutal and barbaric modes of retribution appropriate to the Furies and to creatures of their kind (186–90). Other fifth-century dramas suggest deeper similarities, portraying the acts as substitutes for one another, or repayments in kind. In Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus, the hero declares that when he first discovered his past, he would have wished to be stoned, but there was no one to do the deed (434–36). The blind exile who speaks the words stands as a sharp reminder of the self-mutilation that supplied an alternate, or second-best device designed to achieve the same end: the removal of the criminal from the realm of light and life.12 When Euripides’ Hecuba exacts her vengeance upon the faithless Polymestor, she uses the same blinding device that Oedipus had seized upon. Snatching the pins from their garments, the Queen’s servants attack their victim’s eyes, and turn them to a bloody gore (Hec.1169–71).13 Once again a stoning appears by way of counterpart to, or repayment for, the earlier assault: according to several subsequent treatments of the myth, Hecuba is later stoned to death, sometimes by the irate Thracian followers of Polymestor, sometimes by the Greeks.14 Euripides’ own account of the fate that will claim the Queen may already intimate the lapidation described in later sources: Polymestor, gifted like so many other blind men with clairvoyant powers, predicts that one day Hecuba will turn into a dog, run up the mast of the ship and—although the text is uncertain here—drown after a leap into the sea (1259–65).15 When dogs appear in the ancient sources, a stoning often follows closely on behind: a hail of 11. F. Zeitlin, “The Artful Eye: Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theatre,” in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne, eds., Art and Text in Ancient Greece (Cambridge, 1994) 181. 12. I will return to the equation between seeing and living in the third part of the paper. 13. Following the lead of Gras (supra, n. 9) 77, we might understand this assault itself as a form of stoning: “il y a des lapidations qui n’utilisent pas la pierre et qui n’en sont pas moins significatives; les agrafes des manteaux, les bracelets . . . sont autant d’instruments occasionales pour des lapidations authentiques.” Indeed, brooch pins are not only used as blinding weapons, as Herodotus’ description of the Athenian women who surround and attack the sole survivor of the city’s debacle at Aegina using their pins exemplifies (5.87.2). 14. By the Thracians: Lycoph. Alex. 333; Ovid Met. 13.565ff.; Myth. Vat. 2.209; by the Greeks: Lycoph. Alex. 1176ff.; Myth. Vat. 3.9.8. For other sources, see P. M. C. Forbes Irving, Metamorphosis in Greek Myths (Oxford, 1992) 208. 15. The detail of the leap into the sea, in association with the stoning, is a suggestive one. Oedipus not only seeks to be stoned, and subsequently blinds himself, but also asks that he be thrown into the sea (Soph. OT 1411–12). Strabo, in reference to a fragment of Menander, describes an ancient custom connected with a shrine of Apollo situated on Cape Leukas: here each year a criminal was cast down from a white rock into the sea in order to avert evil (10.2.9). This scapegoat ritual exactly suits the

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stones repels watchdogs poised to attack,16 and simile and metaphor readily liken the human victims of lapidation to their canine counterparts; as an incident cited by Philostratus illustrates, stoning may also uncover the fiendish dog that lurks beneath a borrowed human form.17 But we cannot assume that the metamorphosis described in Euripides’ Hecuba either predates or determines the later stoning motif; in the rationalizing accounts of Lycophron, the Suda, of Dictys and Tzetzes, the Queen is stoned like a dog, and the change into animal form merely stands as a fantastical embellishment on the original, more prosaic punishment.18 A final twist on Hecuba’s fate adds a novel dimension to the blinding / stoning match, and introduces a third penalty which will form a necessary part of my argument. Not content with turning the Queen into a dog, Quintus of Smyrna tacks on a further metamorphosis when the dog itself is changed to stone (14.347f.; cf. Ovid Met. 13.540–41). The close identification between petrifaction and stoning in other sources suggests that Quintus’ embroideries have their origins in older patterns of thought and language. The expressions used by archaic and classical texts portray lapidation as a covering which, exactly like petrifaction, encases the victim in stone. In Iliad 3.56–57, Hector threatens Paris with the “stone tunic” he might have assumed had the Trojans not been such cowards. The image most obviously recalls the familiar “cloak of earth” worn by the dead man in his grave, 19 but here death by public stoning is what the poet means. 20 As Hector’s warning to his type of penalty that Oedipus seeks and that Hecuba’s crime might demand. For the association between stoning and scapegoat rituals, see n. 61. 16. Od. 14.29–36. The close connection between dogs and stoning may also point to the widelyattested belief that plague gods or demons frequently assumed canine shape. As I will be arguing in the second part of this paper, lapidation was a particularly effective way of repelling a source of pollution or disease, and therefore stoning a dog would drive away the infectious presence. C. Faraone (Talismans and Trojan Horses: Guardian Statues in Ancient Greek Myth and Ritual [New York and Oxford, 1992] 45) plausibly suggests that Hecuba’s metamorphosis in Euripides may draw on the affinity between the Queen and the nearly synonymous Hekate who, in canine shape, was associated with epidemic disease. 17. VA 4.10; I return to this incident later in this paper. R. G. A. Buxton, Persuasion in Greek Tragedy: a Study of “Peitho” (Cambridge, 1982) 183 observes another relationship between the blinding and the metamorphosis: in becoming four-legged, Hecuba will match Polymestor who is represented “on all fours” (1057) after the assault. Many commentators also suggest that the transformation actualizes the inherent shamelessness and cruelty of Hecuba’s nature. For more on dogs and stoning see Gras (supra, n. 9) 76 n. 8 and C. Mainoldi, “Cani mitici e rituali tra il regno dei morti e il mondo dei viventi, “ QUCC n.s. 8 (1981) 38. 18. Schol. Lycoph. Alex. 315; Suda s.v. kynossema; Dictys 5.16; Tzetzes Chil. 3.245ff. 19. E.g., Alc. fr. 129.17; Aesch. Ag. 872. For further references, see E. Fraenkel, Aeschylus: Agamemnon (Oxford, 1950) ad 872. 20. Already in antiquity this was read as a reference to stoning (cf. Lucian Pisc. 5), and G. S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary 1–4 (Cambridge, 1984) ad loc. supports the interpretation. For other examples of death by stoning compared to clothing, see Aristoph. Acharn. 319–20; Lycoph. Alex. 333. The verb used by Aristophanes to describe Dicaeopolis’ transformation into red rags—katacaÐnein—is a doubly evocative one. It both signals the total destruction of the body which capital punishments like stoning require (see n. 63), and links Dicaeopolis’ fate with that which hangs over Creusa in Euripides’ Ion, who may also be “worn to shreds” when she is cast from a rock (1266–68). Commentators observe that the heroine is alternately threatened with public stoning (1222–25; cf. 1112, 1237) and with precipitation

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brother darkly hints, stoning also results in an anomalous burial where the stony shower raises a distorted analogue to the conventional grave. The self-generated stone monuments that lapidation and petrifaction leave behind supply a second link between the two penalties. Hermes’ lophos memorializes the symbolic killing of the god,21 and the so-called Kunossema, which rounds out many accounts of Hecuba’s fate and lent its name to several headlands in the Greek world,22 gives material evidence of the stoning (or petrifaction) suffered by the Queen. So too myths of petrifaction find confirmation in some curiously-shaped rock which legend names the victim’s tomb. Most renowned is the rock of Niobe on Mount Sipylos, styled by Sophocles’ Electra a “rocky tumbos” (El. 150–52),23 but the petrified Cadmus, Harmonia and Lichas also fashion the grave monuments that remind future witnesses of their owners’ sudden end.24 Sophocles’ depiction of the punishments that threaten Antigone and Electra yields fresh instances of the cohesion among lapidation, petrifaction and the tomb of stone, and presents this rocky burial in a manner that will point us back to the blinding motif with which I began. Commentators regularly remark on Creon’s apparent change of heart when he commutes Antigone’s sentence from death by public stoning—the penalty named in the original decree (Ant. 36)—to live internment in a cavernous, rocky and stone-paved enclosure (773–75; cf. 1204). 25 Antigone later equates her approaching incarceration with the fate that claimed Niobe (824–31); the stony covering that subdued this most famed victim of petrifaction prefigures the tumbos of rock where the maiden must also end her life.26 Electra, likewise contemplating confinement in an enclosed vault within the earth (379–82),27 again (1266–68), but attempts to reconcile the two versions fail to acknowledge the various close thematic links between the penalties (see n. 52). 21. Note that passers-by add an additional stone to the cairn. A very different attitude informs the similar gesture performed by Aegisthus who stones the grave of the dead Agamemnon (Eur. El. 327–28). 22. E.g., Eur. Hec. 1271–73; Thuc. 8.104.5; Ovid Met. 13.406–407; Plin. HN 4.49. C. Collard, Euripides: Hecuba (Warminster, 1991) suggests ad 1273 that Hecuba’s sema must be an imaginative one because the victim of drowning would necessarily lack a grave; alternately Euripides is aware of a different version of his heroine’s end, and has conflated the two stories. 23. Cf. Il. 24.614–17; Paus. 1.21.3; Apollod. 3.5.6. 24. Aeschylus mentions Lichas’ tomb (fr. 25e12), and Strabo (9.4.4) refers to three islands off the Euboean coast called the Lichades; Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 294 questions the common notion that the islands and rock-tomb gave rise to the myth of petrifaction told by Ovid (Met. 9.211ff.). For Cadmus and Harmonia, see Forbes Irving, 310–12. 25. As commentators suggest, one reason behind the change may be Creon’s fear that the community at large will not participate in the stoning; for stoning as a means of collectivizing the guilt for an attack, see the second part of this paper. 26. For the explicit equation between the place of imprisonment and a grave, see 891, 1069. There are, of course, many additional links between Antigone and Niobe; most obvious is the motif of eternal mourning for the dead, but I would add the theme of the unburied corpse which also appears in Homer’s account of Niobe’s trials (Il. 24.610–11). 27. Here I follow the reading proposed by R. Seaford, “The Imprisonment of Women in Greek Tragedy,” JHS 110 (1990) 79; he suggests replacing the transmitted âktìj with ântìj, so that Electra is to be placed in a vault “inside this earth.”

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turns to the exemplum of Niobe by way of consolation (150–52). If the chief point of her comparison is the eternal mourning that she shares with the grief-struck mother, Sophocles does not fail to include the additional parallel: Electra’s song describes the heroine encased in the same tomb of stone (tˆfwú petraÐwú) that now awaits her.28 But one aspect of the several stories fails to cohere; while Niobe’s rock offers an enduring and visible monument, the caves and vaults that will receive the unruly heroines serve as places of concealment, designed to remove the irritant from public view. This is an issue I will be returning to later on, but for the moment I want only to observe the change rung by Sophocles on the traditional version of Niobe’s end. In Antigone’s appeal to her mythical paradigm, the emphasis falls not on the Queen’s well-known metamorphosis into stone, but on the mountain that envelopes and imprisons the still living form.29 Antigone’s revisionary reading of Niobe’s fate would hardly give a fifth-century audience much pause; several myths presented on the Attic stage similarly connected or conflated live burial (often in a mountainous heap of rock or stone) with petrifaction, and even added in a lapidation for good measure. In the tale of Tennes, presented by Kritias or perhaps Euripides, the hero is falsely accused of attempting to seduce his step-mother. When Tennes’ father discovers the spurious nature of the charge, he buries his wife alive and stones her accomplice.30 A lost play by Pratinas, the Dymainai or Karyatids, portrays Dionysus’ amorous pursuit of Karya, and her sisters’ attempts to thwart the god’s designs by imprisoning the girl he seeks; exact retribution comes when Dionysus drives the sisters to the mountainside and there turns them into stones.31 28. Note how in the same portion of her song, Electra cites the example of Procne transformed into a nightingale which sings an eternal mourning song for the dead Itys. The juxtaposition of the rock with the nightingale appears frequently in fifth century drama (particularly in Euripides’ Ion 1482; note too Iunx who becomes either a stone or a magic bird, and Aedon whose transformation into a bird parallels the petrifaction of her sister-in-law Niobe); both symbolize in complementary and inverse fashion the eternity of grief, one forever speaking, the other silent, one quintessentially mobile, the other still. For some brief, but suggestive remarks on the issue, see Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 144. Euripides’ Orestes later focuses on Electra’s projected punishment for her part in her mother’s murder; both she and her brother will suffer death by public stoning, and the dramatist interweaves this penalty with the motifs of petrifaction and rocks that run through the play. As Vincent Rosivach (supra, n. 9) 245 n. 35 observes, the stoning “fits into a broad pattern of images involving rocks and stones that runs from Tantalus and his rock at the start of the play to Orestes’ question near the end whether the Phrygian fears being turned to rock as if he had seen the Gorgon.” 29. As pointed out by Seaford (supra, n. 27) 87. 30. For further discussion, see Seaford (supra, n. 27) 82. 31. Serv. ad Verg. Ecl. 8.29 and Seaford (supra, n. 27) 85. Beyond the theatre of Dionysus, the myth of Tantalus also joins episodes of petrifaction with imprisonment within a rocky mass, dividing up the penalties between the two perpetrators of a fraud. According to Antoninus Liberalis (36), when Pandareos asked Tantalus to return the dog he had stolen from Zeus’ Cretan shrine, and entrusted to his friend for safekeeping, Tantalus denied all knowledge of the beast. Zeus instantly petrified the original thief, while striking Tantalus with a thunderbolt and placing Mount Sipylos on his head by way of punishment for his perjury. Additional examples include the fate of the Phaeacians in the Odyssey. Here Poseidon punishes the community by turning the swift ship to stone and threatening to bury the city beneath a mountain (Od. 13.155f.).

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It is this theme of live imprisonment that dominates the fourth stasimon of Sophocles’ Antigone, each exemplum of the song illuminating one facet of the heroine’s fast-approaching confinement in her dark and rocky chamber, and each responding to Antigone’s earlier evocation of Niobe. But the mythical paradigms carry with them a second motif. The chorus sings not only of Kleopatra, the first wife of Phineus, who suffers imprisonment,32 but of Eidothea, Phineus’ second wife, who puts out her stepsons’ eyes when they spurn her sexual advances (966ff.). Although the song chooses to present the mad Lykourgos confined by Dionysus “in rocky bonds” (957), the audience could doubtless recall the familiar Homeric account of how Zeus blinded the king for his impious behavior towards the god (Il. 6.139).33 Nor are these interactions between imprisonment and blinding confined to Sophocles. Richard Seaford’s rich treatment of the issue includes among many other mythical instances the examples of Melanippe, blinded and imprisoned in a tomb by her father as a result of her liaison with Poseidon, and an anonymous Attic youth, falsely accused of seeking the favors of his father’s concubine, and likewise blinded and imprisoned.34 If blinding so frequently attracts tales of live burial, then its kinship with petrifaction is no less pronounced,35 and this final pairing completes the complex I have traced. The same characters who lose their sight also find themselves turned to stone by way of additional or alternate affliction. When Daphnis rejects the love of Nomia and foolishly pursues another woman in her place, the spurned nymph takes vengeance on her faithless lover by both blinding him and turning him to stone. 36 Teiresias also falls victim to the double penalty when he happens to catch Athena at her bath. Most versions of the tale describe his instant loss of sight, but Callimachus’ portrayal of the moment when the mortal glimpses the goddess suggests petrifaction in its place (Hymn 5.83–84): ástˆkh d' Šfqoggoj, âkìllasan g€r ‚nØai g¸nata kaÈ fwn€n êsxen ‚mhxanÐa.

32. Apollod. 3.15.3; Diod. Sic. 4.43; Hyg. Fab. 19 with Seaford (supra, n. 27) 86. As Seaford notes, the earliest source we have for Kleopatra’s imprisonment is Diodorus Siculus (4.44.3), but it seems likely that Sophocles knew this element in the myth when he included the figure among the mythical paradigms in Antigone 944–87. 33. Cf. Ovid Fast. 3.722; schol. Lucan 1.575 with Seaford (supra, n. 27) 85. Note the suggestion by M. West, “Tragica VI,” BICS 30 (1983) 64, that Aeschylus’ Edonoi may have ended with the departure of the king for his rocky prison. Here we might add the motif of importunate speech which characterizes other victims of imprisonment and petrifaction, and which I will be addressing later; in Sophocles’ account, Lykourgos speaks of the god with an abusive tongue (Ant. 960–63). 34. Seaford (supra, n. 27) 84 for sources. 35. Buxton (supra, n. 10) 34 and Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 146, 289 both acknowledge the relationship in passing, but neither discusses it more fully. 36. See Ovid Met. 4.276–78; Serv. ad Verg. Ecl. 8.68 and Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 288–89. There is a third significant variant on the story: according to a scholion to Theocritus (ad 8.92), the blind Daphnis later falls down a cliff.

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Unable to speak, Teiresias suffers the proverbial muteness of the stone which so commonly seals in silence those guilty of indiscreet boasting or lying chatter. 37 The voyeur stands fixed to the ground, struck with the immobility that repeatedly characterizes stones in myth, metaphor and simile. 38 Like the Phaeacian ship that Poseidon petrifies by rooting it to the earth (ârrÐzwsen, Od. 13.163), Teiresias cannot move his limbs. Propertius’ own version of the encounter between mortal and goddess develops the Callimachean suggestion: now Teiresias catches sight of Pallas at the very moment “when she had put aside the Gorgon” (4.9.57–58), inviting us to assume that the petrifying shield device works in tandem with the goddess’ blinding powers.39 Two final “intrusion” myths support the parallelism between the different fates: when Kalydon spots Artemis at her bath he too is instantly turned to stone, while blindness claims Apollo’s son Eurymanthos for his glimpse of Aphrodite also bathing after her union with Adonis.40 II

If the mythical corpus establishes the affinities between stoning, petrifaction, imprisonment and blinding, then my analysis still needs to elucidate and explain the attraction between the different elements. One approach would be to look to the incidents that precipitate these acts of retribution, and to note the common nature of the crimes. As previous discussions have documented, blinding repeatedly answers sexual transgressions, and, more narrowly, incestuous relationships. 41 Stoning and petrifaction no less frequently punish individuals—particularly men—who seek to gratify their excessive and/or unnatural lust. Ajax barely escapes lapidation after his attempted rape of Cassandra huddling at the altar, and the outraged community of Temesa stones the Heros to death for his violation of a virgin.42 Pausanias contributes the further example of the Arcadian king Aristocrates, stoned after raping the priestess of Artemis Hymnia in her temple (8.5.12). Petrifaction punishes Pyrrhos 37. For the silent stone, see Theog. 567; Pl. Symp. 198; AP 7.380. For petrifaction as a result of false boasting or excessive speech, Niobe and Battos, with additional examples cited in Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 145. According to Cicero (Tusc. 3.63) and Philemon (fr. 101), Niobe’s supposed petrifaction is a symbolic representation of her eternal silence brought about by mourning. 38. Hence the petrifaction of such supernaturally swift objects as the Phaeacian ship, or the Teumessian fox and dog of Cephalus cited by Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 146. Note too Il. 17.434ff. 39. As remarked by Buxton (supra, n. 10) 31 n. 43. 40. Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 289 and Ptol. Heph. in Phot. Bibl. cod. 190 pp. 146–47. For the literalization of these images of petrifaction, see Apuleius’ description of a statue representing a stone Actaeon being transformed into a hart even as he spies on the goddess Artemis (Met. 2.4). 41. See G. Devereux, “The Self-Blinding of Oidipous in Sophokles: Oidipous Tyrannos,” JHS 93 (1973) 36–49, Buxton (supra, n. 10), Seaford (supra, n. 27). Significantly, the earliest record of Greek judicial blinding was by Zaleukos of Locri in the seventh century to punish adultery (Val. Max. 6.5.7). 42. For Ajax, see Proclus’ statement in his resume of the Iliou Persis (EGF 1.49 Kinkel) and Paus. 10.31.2; Alcaeus (S262 Page) constructs his song on the analogy between the crimes of Pittacus, whom the poet recommends as a candidate for stoning, and those of Ajax, which suggests that the author knew of the punishment that threatened the hero of myth. For the Heros, Paus. 6.6.7.

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and Kelmis’ assault of Rhea, and the sexual aggression displayed by Polydectes and Phineus towards Perseus’ mother and bride makes them fitting victims of the Gorgon’s stony gaze.43 The women subjected to these violent and transgressive passions suffer parallel transformations and penalties. In one fifth-century version of the myth of Niobe, the heroine attracts her father’s incestuous advances, 44 while Antiope faces imprisonment after having sexual relations with her father’s brother, Lykos.45 The same models that explain why blindness strikes protagonists in crimes of unnatural passion may similarly expose the impetus behind episodes of stoning and petrifaction. Georges Devereux has argued that “Greek data confirm the clinical finding that the eyes tend to symbolize male organs and blinding castration.”46 Psychoanalysis would have no difficulty in accounting for petrifaction as an alternate fate; it was Freud who first equated the Medusa myth and the Gorgon’s petrifying gaze with male fears of castration,47 and the sexual implications of the metamorphosis may already be implicit in Propertius’ wish that his rival turn to stone in the middle of his love-making (2.9.47f.).48 Moving beyond the exclusively sexual focus of Devereux, R. G. A. Buxton suggests that loss of sight more generally punishes acts of transgression which violate the proper boundaries between human and divine powers.49 Blindness afflicts those whose vision extends beyond the realm normally revealed to mortals, whether their “insight” exists in the form of poetic, prophetic or sexual knowledge, or whether it involves face-to-face meetings with divine beings who prefer to conceal themselves from men’s sight. A list of victims of stoning and petrifaction features many characters whose experience exhibits precisely this transgressive quality: Kalydon, Teiresias and Battos 50 all turn to stone after too close 43. See Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 143–44 for discussion and additional examples. Perhaps the same “logic” of sexual excess informs the petrifaction of the Propoitides, the women of Cyprus whom Aphrodite first punishes by making them prostitutes, and subsequently turns to stone (Ovid Met. 10.238–39). 44. FGH 765 F20; noted in Seaford (supra, n. 27) 87. 45. Hyg. Fab. 7; Propert. 3.15.12, 17. As Seaford (supra, n. 27) 83 points out, an uncle-niece relationship was not considered incestuous; however, it is an endogamous one, and this “excessive bond between a girl and her natal family” figures prominently in many of the tales involving petrifaction, stoning and imprisonment. Perhaps also relevant is the example of Creusa who, raped by the god Apollo (in a distinctly rocky place), is condemned to death by public stoning (Eur. Ion 1222–25; cf. 1112, 1237). However, the penalty more directly stems from her plot to murder Ion. 46. Devereux (supra, n. 41) 49. 47. S. Freud, Collected Papers, vol. 5, ed. J. Strachey (New York, 1959) 105. According to Freud’s interpretation, the fear inspired by Medusa’s head is “a terror of castration.” It grips the viewer who becomes “stiff with terror” and “turns to stone.” However, since becoming stiff means an erection, the beholder is simultaneously reassured that castration has not taken place. 48. The stone more generally symbolizes insensibility, the inability to experience either the delights or griefs of life; cf. Theog. 568–69; Pl. Gorg. 494a; Arist. EE 1221a22. Seaford (supra, n. 27) 83–84 modifies Devereux’s account by pointing to the “well-known function of the eyes as a channel of erotic passion,” and suggesting that blinding both removes the conduit for illicit desire and gives vivid expression to the darkness that Greek myth so closely associates with incest. 49. Buxton (supra, n. 10). 50. For Battos, Ovid Met. 2.676ff.; Ant. Lib. 23. I will return to this incident shortly.

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encounters with the divine, and Iodama, the priestess of Itonian Athena, is petrified when Athena appears dressed in her tunic bearing the Gorgon’s head;51 the same end awaits the sisters of Karya who, according to some versions of the myth, enjoyed extraordinary powers of perception and prophecy before their sudden transformation into silent stones.52 Buxton’s comprehensive category of seeing what ought not to be seen would also broadly account for one further set of crimes which call down blinding, stoning or petrifaction on their perpetrators’ heads. Vincent Rosivach’s study of lapidation in classical Athens offers an extensive compilation of individuals stoned, or threatened with stoning, for acts of treachery and betrayal or prodosia:53 the fictional Palamedes, Achilles, Dicaeopolis and Teucer rub shoulders with those two fifth-century Athenians, Lycides and the cousin of Alcibiades, who were publicly stoned for betraying their city.54 Petrifaction also awaits those who commit more private acts of faithlessness directed at individuals or the gods: no sooner does the mythical Battos violate his pact with the thieving Hermes than he turns to stone, and Hecuba pays the same price for her treachery in luring Polymestor to her tent with lying promises of rich rewards.55 Polymestor’s own punishment illustrates the matching role that blinding plays among this set of penalties; through his murder of Polydoros, he has most obviously betrayed the trust placed in him by Priam and Hecuba. Teiresias and Phineus, both struck blind for revealing secrets entrusted to them by the gods,56 belong in the same category of faith-breaking sinners, and Herodotus contributes the story of Evenius, condemned by the people of Apollonia to lose his eyes for a two-fold treachery: he both betrayed his sacred trust by allowing 51. Paus. 9.34.2. Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 291 suggests that Iodama becomes a cult statue, and links the story with the narratives of Aspalis and Britomartis where “a miraculous escape or disappearance is followed by the appearance of a cult statue.” Interestingly, both Aspalis and Britomartis undergo this variant form of petrifaction after a narrow escape from an attempted rape. 52. For Karya, see Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 264–65. The fate of the daughters of Cecrops involves several striking parallels: according to some versions of the myth, the sisters are made to hurl themselves off the Acropolis as punishment for having opened the casket of Erichthonius, thereby seeing what ought to remain hidden (Apollod. 3.14.5; Eratosth. Catast. 13; Ovid Met. 2.711ff.). Their death which, according to Eur. Ion 274, “bloodied the High Rocks” neatly anticipates the penalty that Creusa is condemned to suffer in the same play, prompting the suggestion by N. Loraux, The Children of Athena (Princeton, 1993) 226 n. 194 that the association between Creusa and the Cecropidae can resolve the problem of the ambiguity in the text concerning Creusa’s mode of punishment, death by stoning or by hurling from the rocks. 53. Rosivach (supra, n. 9) esp. 242–44. Hirzel (supra, n. 9) 246 also observes the connection. 54. Indeed, Rosivach would argue that the fictional representations are to some extent modelled on the real event. 55. According to Ovid, Hermes tries to seduce one of the three Cecropidae, Herse, and turns her envious sister Aglauros into stone when she attempts to block his way; the envy is in turn the punishment sent by Athena for opening the forbidden casket (Met. 2.708ff.). Thus the petrifaction indirectly stems from Aglauros’ betrayal of the goddess’ command. Hermes’ pursuit of Herse also recalls the tale of Karya and her sisters whose attempt to thwart Apollo’s seduction likewise resulted in their metamorphosis into stone. 56. These are the versions of the blindings given in Apollod. 3.6.7 and A.R. 2.178ff. For the particular associations between blindness and prophets, see Buxton (supra, n. 10) 27–30.

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some wolves to ravage the flocks of Helios placed in his safekeeping, and failed to reveal the disaster to his fellow citizens (9.93).57 But the aftermath of my opening story of Hermes’ attack on Argos suggests that we explore a different facet common to the several crimes and their punishments. The symbolic lapidation of the god by his fellow divinities has a clearly stated end: its purpose is to remove the stain—what Anticlides variously calls a miasma and agos—which clings to the killer and which risks infecting those who have contact with anyone guilty of homicide. This threat (or reality) of wholesale pollution also motivates many other efforts to stone, blind or incarcerate an individual, suggesting that these penalties supply an effective block to the contamination believed to adhere to those guilty of certain “miasmic” crimes. As so many of the tales already treated reveal, it is characters implicated in the defilement generated by acts of murder, sacrilege, and sexual transgression (Hecuba, Polymestor, Lykourgos, Melanippe, Teiresias and Antiope to name but some) who suffer lapidation, blinding and imprisonment.58 Oedipus, self-convicted of the doubly polluting deeds of incest and parricide, offers a comprehensive example of how the different punishments all seek to cleanse the community by sealing off the contagious person: the king anticipates the city’s desire to remove him from human company, calling for lapidation, expulsion, or precipitation into the sea, and putting out his own eyes.59 The plague that ravages Thebes vividly signals how the failure to contain the source of miasma then implicates and infects the community at large. So Alcaeus cautions his fellow citizens with the example of Locrian Ajax who escaped the lapidation that the poet now recommends for the oath-trampling, faith-violating Pittacus (S262 Page); because the Achaeans did not punish the hero’s sacrilegious rape of Cassandra at the statue of Athena, all shared in the defilement, and endured the storm and shipwreck that the irate goddess dispatched against their fleet. In the case of Aristophanes’ Dicaeopolis, treachery seems to carry the same contaminating power: only public stoning can punish and expel an individual whom his accusers address as miaros and miasma (Acharn. 182, 282, 285), and who consequently endangers the well-being of Athens at large.60 57. Perhaps also relevant is the case of a Thracian king who blinds his sons when they break faith with their father’s prohibition against serving in Xerxes’ army, and march with the Persian against the Greeks (8.116.2). Collard (supra, n. 22) ad Eur. Hec. 1035 offers additional material. He notes the equation between blinding and faithlessness, and cites the example of Nebuchadnezzar who blinds the rebellious Zedekiah after forcing him to watch his two sons being killed (2 Kings 25.6–7). R. Meridor, “The Function of Polymestor’s Crime in the Hecuba of Euripides,” Eranos 81 (1983) 18ff. intriguingly proposes that Euripides’ account may be shaped by Herodotus’ tale of Artayctes (7.33, 9.116–20), who was forced to witness the stoning of his sons while being crucified. For another instance of stoning and impalement, see Eur. frg. 878 N2 . 58. For discussion of the polluting nature of incest, see R. Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Ancient Greek Religion (Oxford, 1990) 97–98; for homicide, 104–43. 59. For many other examples of blinding as a result of incest, or of sacrilege, see the material included in Devereux (supra, n. 41) and Buxton (supra, n. 10). 60. I would suggest that Antigone’s own polluted state prompts Creon’s plan to have her stoned or imprisoned. Although not guilty of any defiling crime, Antigone has nonetheless become polluted by

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If we look more closely at how the sources depict the precise nature and purpose of stoning, live imprisonment and blinding, we can see how each act responds similarly to this fear of a polluting and infectious presence. Lapidation not only collectivizes responsibility for the attack, but supplies so choice a means of repelling a suspected or proven miasma because it allows the assailants to preserve their physical distance from the source of the disease.61 The cordon sanitaire drawn about the criminal extends to the corpse even after the victim’s death. Several authors record the practice of flinging the unburied body over the borders of the land,62 and reveal a common preoccupation with the total engulfment of the corpse beneath the heap of stones which might prevent the pollution from spreading further.63 Incarceration likewise quarantines the offender while permitting those responsible for the punishment to avoid direct contact with the prisoner, and so to escape the agos of their victim’s death. This is Creon’s stated aim with regard to Antigone’s live imprisonment (Soph. Ant. 775); if he cannot portion out the guilt of her death through public stoning, then he can at least technically keep his own hands clean. Blinding tends towards an analogous end, simultaneously striking at the organ where the source of pollution resides, and aiming to destroy one of the chief channels through which contagion may travel. The glaring, fiery eyes which Hecuba displays when she becomes a dog (Eur. Hec. 1265) closely resemble the fire-filled eyes of the plague-carrying demon who haunts Ephesus in Philostratus’ tale and survives a stoning to escape in the form of a gigantic hound (VA 4.10); in both instances virtue of her too close contact with her brother’s corpse, itself a powerful source of miasma (see Parker, supra, n. 58, 44–48 for the polluting character of the unburied body). It is this spreading infection that Sophocles so vividly figures in the noxious smell, the choking dust and the “divine nosos” that fills the plain as she approaches the dead Polyneices (Ant. 415–21). 61. For stoning used to remove pollution, Philostr. VA 4.10, Plut. Mor. 297c, and the lapidation of Hecuba/Hekate as plague-carrier (supra, n. 16). As many discussions of lapidation point out, there are evident connections between it and scapegoat rituals; for a recent treatment of the issue, see Gras (supra, n. 9) 78–81 and, more dismissively, Rosivach (supra, n. 9) 248. It is one of the paradoxes of stoning that it also repeatedly precipitates pollution, carrying blight and plague in its wake (e.g., Hdt. 1.167; Paus. 8.23.6–7, 2.3.6–7; the blinding of Evenius has the same unfortunate result) and sometimes a second stoning is required in order to purify the community (for this practice of “fighting fire with fire” or banning like with like, see Faraone, supra, n. 16). So Hermes attacks Argos with a stone, and both he and the community of gods are purified through his own symbolic lapidation. The so-called Lithobolia, celebrated at Troezen in honor of Damia and Auxesia, may have been a purificatory festival that involved a ritual reenactment of the initial stoning that killed the maidens; see Hirzel (supra, n. 9) 255. 62. Pl. Leg. 873b; Paus. 4.22.7. 63. This preoccupation is revealed in the frequent mention of the kolonos that hides the individual from view (e.g., Philostr. VA 4.10; schol. ad Eur. Hec. 1261) as observed by Hirzel (supra, n. 9) 233 and Gras (supra, n. 9) 87. The failure to bury the body of the victim of the attack sometimes produces pollution in its turn and demands fresh expiatory measures; see Hdt. 1.167 and Paus. 8.23.6. L. Gernet, The Anthropology of Ancient Greece (Baltimore, 1981), 265–66 pertinently comments on the common character of two forms of capital punishment—stoning and hurling from a rock—which, he suggests, are both designed to rid the executors of a pollution. “By expelling the corpse beyond the city’s borders and by destroying it completely (through exposure to the elements of wind, water and fire), one strives to bring about its annihilation.” See too Hirzel (supra, n. 9) 242–45.

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the “evil eye” provides proof of the disease or pollution that the creatures carry. 64 If the Thebans are reluctant to grant Oedipus the expulsion and/or lapidation that he seeks, then the king’s self-mutilation has already erected an effective barrier between them and the source of defilement. Blinding stands as the most extreme measure among the variety of expedients that individuals might adopt to escape the infection that spreads through visual exchange. Averting one’s eyes, or covering the gaze of the pollutant can work as well. Leaving the dying Hippolytus, Artemis remarks “Farewell. Sacred law does not permit me to look upon the dead or defile my eyes with the exhalations of the dead” (Eur. Hipp. 1437–38). A recognition of his polluted state prompts Heracles to cover his head after murdering his children so as not to encounter the eyes of gods or men (Eur. HF 1159; cf. 1231), and the hero repeatedly expresses fears lest his “child-killing pollution” be seen by, and consequently stain, Theseus (1155, 1199–1201).65 As these examples illustrate, pollution is transmitted not only when the victim sees, but more critically when others see him, when the glances emitted by perceiver and perceived meet and mingle with one another.66 This is the point at which blinding, stoning, petrifaction and imprisonment all intersect: each penalty aims not only to punish the criminal, but to remove him from the sphere where other men can be sullied by visual or tactile encounters with the polluting presence. Deprived of sight, hidden beneath a cairn of stone, shut up inside a cavernous place or petrified within a rocky mass, the victim finds all avenues of intercourse with his former community hermetically sealed. Viewed from this perspective, the apparent disjuncture between the hidden spaces that conceal noxious individuals and the prominent sites that stand witness to lapidation or petrifaction disappears: if one device obliterates all traces of the contaminant, the other supplies a lasting reminder of how thoroughly that obliteration has been achieved.67 In one instance, blinding is the stratagem that initiates both ends. Oedipus, whose self-mutilation proved a “public display (âpÐdeicij) to all

64. According to Philostratus, no sooner do the townsmen begin to hurl stones at the seemingly pathetic beggar in their midst then he, “who had his eyes closed up to that point, suddenly cast glances at them, and they saw that his eyes were filled with fire.” For discussion of how Hecuba here doubles for an epichoric, disease-bearing Hekate, see Faraone (supra, n. 16) 45 and Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 208. For the “evil eye” in early Greek literature, see A. Moreau, “L’oeil male´fique dans l’œuvre d’Eschyle,” REA 78–79 (1976–1977) 50–64. I will be returning to the maleficent gaze, and its relationship to stoning, in my discussion of the Gorgon at this paper’s end. 65. Cf. Soph. OT 1436–37 where Oedipus asks Creon that he be taken to a place where “I may be seen and addressed by nobody.” Also frequently present in the heroes’ request for isolation is their crippling sense of shame or aidos which, as many ancient sources attest, is transmitted through the eyes of the beholder. 66. Greek theories of optics lie well beyond the scope of this paper; however, the Greek notion that vision was reciprocal, the product of the meeting between the light emitted both from the eye and from the source of the light, naturally informs conceptions of how pollution can spread through the eyes. 67. Indeed, it is remarkable how frequently a monument, and most particularly a statue, simultaneously commemorates a stoning and appeases the victim of the attack. The connections between stoning and statues are ones I hope to explore in a second study.

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of Greece” (Eur. Phoen. 870–71) has been thrust “behind barred doors, so that his fortune should be unremembered” (64–65). III

If the miasma that clings to certain crimes explains some of the interactions between the different penalties, then it does not exhaust the affinities between blinding and lapidation. Instead I want to ask whether we can isolate some deeper kinship between the two motifs which, to borrow the language of structural linguistics, might elucidate the paradigmatic relations that exist between them and explain their readiness to supplement or substitute for one another in mythical narrative. I believe that one answer lies in the properties Greek sources repeatedly assign to stones, and in the broader patterns of association surrounding these attributes. According to the common formulations in myth, metaphor and simile, stones are unseeing, mute, immobile and dry.68 These same qualities, as the analysis of J.-P. Vernant convincingly demonstrates, distinguish the dead from the living, and the kingdom of Hades from the world above ground.69 Thus the stone may characterize or represent the deceased because, like its referent, it stands in opposition to the sphere of light and life, while the sema, fixed, silent and immobile, symbolizes the condition of the inhabitant in the realm below. If death or exclusion from the domain of the living involves “the disappearance of a living man from the world of light and his entrance into the world of night,”70 then blinding, stoning, imprisonment and petrifaction all satisfy the prescribed conditions; each consigns the individual to an existence where normal motion, sight71 and life-giving moisture are denied or constrained. To apply 68. For absence of sight, see Aesch. Ag. 416 (with D. Steiner [forthcoming], “Eyeless in Argos: A reading of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 413–16,” JHS 115 [1995]); for silence, Theog. 567–68; AP 7.380; Pl. Symp. 198; Ovid Met. 2.696; immobility Od. 13.168; Il. 17.434; dryness, Aristoph. Frogs 194; note too the practice of anointing stones, perhaps a way of restoring life to them by infusing them with moisture, with discussion in R. B. Onians, The Origins of European Thought (Cambridge, 1988) 280–81, and W. Burkert, Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical (Oxford, 1985) 72. Given the habitual dryness of the object, the conceit of the “weeping stone” linked with Niobe is a powerful expression of the enormity of her grief. For additional material and analysis, see Forbes Irving (supra, n. 14) 145–46, J.-P. Vernant, Myth and Thought among the Greeks (London, 1983) 311–13, F. Frontisi-Ducroux, De´dale: Mythologie de l’artisan en Gre`ce ancienne (Paris, 1975) 109–11. 69. Vernant (supra, n. 68) 311–13, and Figures, idoles, masques (Paris, 1990) 29–30. For death and dryness, see too the rich collection of material in Onians (supra, n. 68) 254–56, and E. Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1978) 57–58, 74. Death also causes blindness by covering the eyes (e.g., Il. 5.659; 13.580; cf. Od. 23.17) and prevents mobility by binding its victim (e.g., Soph. Aj. 675f.; Pl. Tim. 71e); the term ‚mfikalÔptein so often used of death in Homer (e.g., Od. 18.210–12; Il. 5.68; similarly sleep, Od. 23.16–17) describes its covering, entrapping action. For additional discussion, see Onians, 422–25, 427–30. 70. Vernant (supra, n. 68) 312. Building on Vernant’s argument, Frontisi-Ducroux (supra, n. 68) 110 comments: “Mourir, c’est disparaˆıtre du monde du visible, mais c’est aussi eˆtre fige´, transforme´ en pierre.” 71. We might note the Greek equation between breathing and the eyes discussed in Onians (supra, n. 68) 73. Also relevant is the suggestion of Theophrastus in his presentation of Democritus’ theory of vision that moist eyes see better than dry ones (68A 135 DK).

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any one of these several penalties is to banish the victim from the world of men and to invest him with the attributes which exactly replicate those of the souls in Hades’ gloomy kingdom below ground. The powers of the god of the Underworld illustrate an additional property common to individuals who suffer these different transformations, and one which goes still more directly to the issue of blinding. Hades not only deprives his prey of sight, clouding and veiling their eyes at the moment of death, setting them in his realm of darkness underground, but he possesses the cap or skin-bonnet (aÊgeÐh kunèh, Od. 24.231) that makes its wearer invisible. Greek thought repeatedly signals the reciprocity between the ability to see and to be seen, and attributes both qualities to living beings in contradistinction to the dead.72 The same “logic” equates blindness with invisibility, and the term tuphlos describes both those who are blind and those whom others cannot see. Hades himself supplies the paradigmatic instance of the coincidence of the unsighted and unseen: the god whose name ancient commentators gloss as the invisible one (‚-id j)73 also assumes the property of blindness that he shares with his near-synonymous fellow divinity, Plutus.74 And just as blind wealth robs his devotees of their powers of sight (Antiph. 259), so too Hades renders his victims unseeing and unseen. The penalties I have discussed all tend towards this double end: they not only place the guilty in a world of darkness, but additionally seek to remove the polluted object from the sight of his fellow men, making him at once blind and invisible. Oedipus’ behavior at the close of Sophocles’ tragedy is a case in point: the hero dashes out the eyes that have seen what ought not to have been seen (OT 1273–74),75 and asks that he be both expelled from the boundaries of the land (1340, 1436) and hidden from the sight of men (1411).76 Euripides’ own treatment of the episode and its aftermath draws out the implications of the king’s symbolic death through blindness and incarceration. Not content with Oedipus’ “bloody destruction of his gaze” (Phoen. 870), his sons imprison him within the dark recesses of the house; when he finally emerges from his isolation of many years, the king describes his return as that of a revenant from the realm of the

72. For the equivalence of living and seeing, see Aesch. Ag. 677, Pers. 299; Soph. Trach. 828; Eur. Hel. 341; when the individual is no longer seen by the eye of the sun, he is no longer living (Soph. Trach. 96–102); see too Vermeule (supra, n. 69) 25. 73. E.g., Pl. Crat. 404b; also H. Lloyd-Jones, “A Problem in the Tebtunis Inachus-Fragment,” CR n.s. 15 (1965) 242. See too Frontisi-Ducroux (supra, n. 68) 110, and Onians (supra, n. 68) 425. The term ‚ðd j can also, on rare occasions, have the meaning “blind” (IG 4.951.125). 74. For identifications between the two, see Soph. fr. 273; cf. Pl. Crat. 403a where Socrates connects Hades, Plutus and Pluto, and mentions the view that Hades’ name means invisibility. For Plutus as blind, see Timocr. 8; Theoc. 10.19, and Aristophanes’ Ploutos where the entire comedy turns about the restoration of the god’s sight. 75. The king’s formulation here is a striking one: he blinds himself, he declares, so that his eyes may not have to see him; thus the stress again falls on the property of being seen, rather than seeing. 76. The dwelling place Oedipus names as his future abode may have a particular significance: he wishes to return to Mount Cithaeron where he was first exposed and there inhabit what, according to Toup’s proposed emendation of the text, he calls a living grave (1453; reading zÀnti for zÀnte).

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dead, an “unseen (‚fanèj) eidolon” whom Antigone’s appeal has “brought into the light” (1539–45).77 Lest my argument seem fanciful, I want to end by reviewing three episodes in the mythical corpus which all include the interplay between blindness, invisibility and death, and which use stones, stoning and petrifaction as a means of figuring the equivalences between the several conditions. A notorious crux in Book 2 of the Iliad supplies the earliest example, and offers a second response to a question already posed: how do we reconcile the highly visible monuments which stoning and petrifaction so frequently leave behind with my suggestion that the purpose of the penalties is to remove the victim from view? When the Greeks gather in council outside the walls of Troy, Odysseus reminds them of the portent sent by Zeus many years before as the army prepared to depart from Aulis: ênq' âfˆnh mèga s¨ma; drˆkwn âpÈ nÀta dafoinìj, smerdalèoj, tìn û' aÎtäj ÇOlÔmpioj ©ke fìwsde . . . . . . . . . . aÎt€r âpeÈ kat€ tèkna fˆge strouqoØo kaÈ aÎt n, tän màn ‚Ðzhlon q¨ken qeìj, íj per êfhne; lan gˆr min êqhke Krìnou pˆðj ‚gkulom tew. (308–309, 317–19)

The manuscripts offer two possible readings for the term I print here as aizelon. According to one account—supported by Aristarchus who then athetized 319— Zeus makes the snake invisible; according to another, the petrified beast becomes “very conspicuous,” arizelon. G. S. Kirk’s commentary on the lines supplies two persuasive reasons for adopting the first interpretation: it both allows for the marked contrast between the initial appearance of the snake revealed by Zeus (íj per êfhne) and its subsequent disappearance, and removes from the text the unlikely picture of the petrified beast suspended somewhere in the tree.78 Vernant adds a third reason for accepting aizelon: “The associations of the snake, a chthonian animal, with the world of the dead and especially with the psuche are well known. By turning it to stone, Zeus, who had summoned it for a moment into the light of day, restored it to the realm of the invisible.”79 As Vernant’s remark suggests, Homer’s audience would not have shared Aristarchus’ discomfort with the pairing of petrifaction and invisibility: instead the two conditions can coexist as alternate representations of the same experience. But I would propose that the poet has inserted an additional transformation here. Odysseus begins by evoking the sema or portent dispatched by Zeus, and 77. For discussion of this “necromancy,” and treatment of the term eidolon, see Zeitlin (supra, n. 11) 188–90. For line 1543, I preserve the reading of the codices rather than that of the most recent OCT where Diggle prints aÊqerofaèj. 78. Kirk (supra, n. 20) ad loc. 79. Vernant (supra, n. 68) 319 n. 33. For additional material on the representation of the psyche in the form of a snake, see Onians (supra, n. 68) 206–208.

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closes by portraying its mutation into a sema of a second kind; just as a tomb signals the passage of a man from the realm of the visible to the world of death, so too the petrified creature has assumed the novel character of the sema of stone.80 The appearance of the grave necessarily depends on the concealment and invisibility of the snake, as the mnemonic stone takes the place of the once living, moving beast. Perhaps the word-play that has troubled commentators was already present in the poet’s mind: while petrifaction hides the snake from view, the sema does remain “very conspicuous,” an enduring reminder of Zeus’ powers, and of the warning issued by the sign. These motifs of sight, invisibility and petrifaction reappear in the adventures of Perseus where they punctuate the larger narrative surrounding the central encounter with Medusa.81 Although our earliest references to the Gorgon’s petrifying powers belong to fifth century sources, representations on vases dating from still earlier depict the hero with his eyes averted, a stratagem adopted to avoid the “stony death” that emanates from the monster’s maleficent gaze.82 But the categories of blindness and sight, and the exchange between the two, already occupy a critical place in the preparatory exploits that anticipate the confrontation between the hero and the beast. An ancient commentator quotes Pherecydes for Perseus’ transactions with the Graiai, aged and debilitated monsters who possess only one tooth and one eye between them.83 The hero snatches the eye as it passes from one sister to the next, effectively blinding them by his theft. In order to reclaim their property, the creatures must reveal the location of the Nymphs who will give Perseus the tools necessary to overcome the Gorgon. Among their gifts is the helmet of Hades, the cap “containing the shadows of night” (Hes. Scut. 227; cf. Aesch. fr. 459), which guarantees that its hidden bearer can catch his victim unawares. Perseus’ mastery of the realms of the seeing and unseen pays rich dividends when he encounters his chief antagonist. By assuming Hades’ helmet, and turning his head so as to escape the monster’s gaze, the assailant makes himself both invisible and unsighted. Because blindness supplies an analogue to petrifaction, Medusa finds her customary weapon powerless: she is unable to petrify what can neither see nor be seen, nor inflict stony death on one who has already assumed the blindness and invisibility of the dead. 84 80. The same play on the sema as both portent and grave can be found in Il. 23.324f., and Od. 11.126f. 81. J.-P. Vernant, Mortals and Immortals (Princeton, 1991) 135, 145–46 analyzes the myth and comments on the centrality of “the eyes, the gaze, the reciprocity of seeing and being seen.” My account of the story borrows from his suggestive interpretation. 82. Pind. P. 10.48; Pherecydes FGH 3 F 11; Louvre CA 795; BM B471. 83. FGH 3 F 11. 84. It is tempting to see a continuation of these motifs in later episodes in the myth. Perseus’ next great feat is the release of Andromeda, who is chained to a rock and about to be devoured by a sea monster; a black figure amphora from the second quarter of the sixth century (Berlin 1652) shows Perseus repelling the monster by hurling stones (and not buns, as one French archaeologist suggested!) at him; for this see J. M. Woodward, Perseus: A Study in Greek Art and Legend (Cambridge, 1937) pl. 9a.

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Perseus’ defeat of the Gorgon finally points the way back to the story I used at the start of my discussion. A passing comment in Vernant observes a common thread connecting the exploits of Perseus with Hermes’ mission against Argos: “the single eye of the Graiai corresponds in symmetrical and inverse form to the hundred eyes of Argos, whom only Hermes, the good voyeur (Euskopos), can take by surprise and kill.”85 We can refigure the argument to suggest that the two myths combine their shared motifs in different fashion, variously apportioning the ability to blind, stone or petrify to their several protagonists. Both stories feature the destructive “hypergaze” that the attackers must overcome, and both propose devices which successfully counteract and disarm the threat. In the tale of Perseus, the hero anticipates and prevents his transformation into an unseeing stone by making himself both blind and invisible; in the case of Hermes, the blinding properties implicit in the stony missile allow the god to rob the watchman of his chief defense against the enemy, and to repel another set of “evil eyes.” But Hermes’ involvement with blindness, sight and stones extends well beyond his single engagement with Io’s guardian. In the account of the god’s birth and early exploits first supplied by the Homeric Hymn, an old man working in his vineyard spots the infant as he makes off with Apollo’s stolen cattle. Fearing discovery, Hermes urges the intruder on the scene not to reveal the meeting, to make invisible what was seen, and silent what was said: kaÐ te Êd°n m˜ Êd°n eÚnai kaÈ kwfäj ‚koÔsaj, kaÈ sign, íte m  ti katablˆpthù tä sän aÎtoÜ.

(92–93) But when Apollo appears in quest of the herd, the vine-digger disregards the warning and promptly supplies the god with details of his autopsy. Later accounts of the story realize the implications of Hermes’ original threat. Antoninus Liberalis (23) describes how the god returns in disguise to test the loyalty of the aptly named Battos and punishes his betrayal by turning him into stone. Ovid already previews the metamorphosis when his Battos promises Hermes “that the stone will speak before I do” (Met. 2.296). The old man’s crimes exactly match those committed by other victims of petrifaction. He stands convicted of ill-timed speech, treachery and exceeding the limits of mortal vision: by intruding on the actions of the gods, he has seen what he ought not to have seen.86 If Battos’ petrifaction is a late ornamentation, perhaps derived from Hellenistic sources, then the episode keeps step with the distinctive powers of Hermes attested in much earlier authors. According to representations common to the Odyssey, the Homeric Hymn and fifth-century drama, the god operates within the twin spheres of 85. Vernant (supra, n. 81) 145. 86. As L. Kahn comments in Herme`s passe ou les ambigu¨ıte´s de la communication (Paris, 1978) 47, Battos’ fate exactly responds to Hermes’ injunction in the much earlier hymn “car la pierre ni ne voit, ni n’entend, ni ne parle.”

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revelation and obfuscation, illumination and blinding or hiding from view.87 The chorus of Aeschylus’ Choephoroe succinctly captures his two-fold capacities as it invokes the god’s aid in Orestes’ matricidal venture: poll€ d' ‚lˆ' êfane xr izwn, Šskopon d' êpoj lègwn nuktäj proÎmmˆtwn skìton fèrei, kaq' ™mèran d' oÎdàn âmfanèsteroj.

(815–18) The deliberately riddling lines include one particularly problematic phrase: the term alaos, Hermann’s emendation of the nonsensical alla of the manuscripts, normally means “blind” rather than “invisible” and prompts commentators to question the coherence of the remark.88 But as the previous examples have shown, our distinction between blindness and invisibility would not trouble a Greek audience: in bringing what is blind to the light, Hermes restores it to the realm of the visible.89 In line 817 the singers present the antithesis to these revelatory powers: by night Hermes robs men of sight, and by day he becomes invisible.90 Set against the backdrop of the god’s effortless manipulation of these several categories, his killing of Argos with the missile of stone appears much more than a weak narrative motif; instead the weapon symbolizes the very powers which Hermes deploys, the ability alternately to make seen and unseen, blind and sighted, and proves the efficacy of the divine arsenal against the foremost of antagonists, the creature of one hundred eyes. Columbia University 87. See D. Steiner, The Tyrant’s Writ: Myths and Images of Writing in Ancient Greece (Princeton, 1994) 47–48, and Kahn (supra, n. 86). 88. See the discussion in A. F. Garvie, Aeschylus: Choephori (Oxford, 1986) ad loc. Following Garvie, I adopt the original manuscript reading for 816. 89. Cf. the example of Oedipus in Euripides’ Phoenissae cited earlier. 90. The translation supplied by H. Lloyd-Jones, Aeschylus: Oresteia (London, 1982) exactly captures the nuance (reading faneØ in place of êfane): “and much that lies in darkness he shall illumine.” It comes as no surprise to discover in the following dyad a reference to a second individual whom Hermes also helped: Orestes should keep the heart of Perseus within him, destroying his enemies just as the earlier hero dispatched the Gorgon (831–36). Once again, it is Euripides who develops the analogy suggested by the Aeschylean chorus. In his Electra, Clytemnestra explicitly assumes the character of Medusa as her son veils his eyes in order to deliver the killing blow (1221). The equation looks back to an earlier episode when a messenger appeared to tell Electra of the death of the other protagonist in Agamemnon’s murder, and to herald Orestes’ arrival “bearing no Gorgon’s head, but Aegisthus whom you hate” (856–57). The removal of this other source of a petrifying gaze permits Electra to escape the condition of blindness/darkness to which she has been condemned: “Now,” she remarks, “I may open my eyes freely” (868). For fuller discussion of Euripides’ treatment of the Gorgon theme, see M. J. O’Brien, “Orestes and the Gorgon: Euripides’ Electra,” AJPh 85 (1964) 13–39.