Recognizing Miracles in Antiquity and Beyond

Recognizing Miracles in Antiquity and Beyond Edited by Maria Gerolemou

ISBN 978-3-11-053046-9 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-056355-9 e-ISBN (E-PUB) 978-3-11-056261-3 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018934497 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2018 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Satz: Dörlemann Satz GmbH & Co. KG, Lemförde Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents Maria Gerolemou Introduction: In search of the Miraculous  IX

I. Miracles Andrew Nichols Ctesias’ Indica and the Origins of Paradoxography  3 Clarisse Prêtre The Epidaurian Iamata: The first “Court of Miracles”?  17 George Kazantzidis Medicine and the paradox in the Hippocratic Corpus and Beyond  31 Lisa Irene Hau ‘One might rightly wonder’ – marvelling in Polybios Histories  63 Sophia Papaioannou Omens and Miracles: Interpreting Miraculous Narratives in Roman Historiography  85 András Kraft Miracles and Pseudo-Miracles in Byzantine Apocalypses  111

II. Workings of Miracles Maria Gerolemou Wonder-ful Memories in Herodotus’ Histories  133 Chrysanthi Demetriou Wonder(s) in Plautus  153 Margot Neger Telling Tales of Wonder: Mirabilia in the Letters of Pliny the Younger  179

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Charles Delattre Paradoxographic discourse on sources and fountains: deconstructing paradoxes  205 Karen ní Mheallaigh Lucian’s Alexander: technoprophecy, thaumatology and the poetics of wonder  225

III. Believing in Miracles Christine Hunzinger Perceiving Thauma in Archaic Greek Epic  259 Irene Pajón Leyra Turning Science into Miracle in the Voyage of Alexander the Great  275 Lydia Langerwerf ‘Many are the wonders in Greece’: Pausanias the wandering philosopher  305 Antonis Tsakmakis Miracles in Greek Biography  327 Regine May Apuleius on Raising the Dead Crossig the Boundaries of Life and Death while Convincing the Audience  353 Donald Lateiner Recognizing Miracles in ancient Greek Novels  381 List of Contributors  417 Index Nominum et Rerum  423

Acknowledgments This volume could not have been completed without a great deal of help. Foremost, I am thankful to Stavroula Constantinou, not only for co-organizing with me the conference on “Miracles and Wonders in Antiquity and Byzantium” in Cyprus, in October 2014, but also for all our valuable discussions on the overall conception of the topic and on the volume. I am also very much indebted to the participants of this volume for a great cooperation, their punctuality and above all the warmness with which they have embraced the whole project! My colleagues at the Department of Classics and Philosophy of the university of Cyprus, Demokritos Kaltsas and Spyridon Tzounakas were kind enough to read certain articles of the volume, and I am grateful for their suggestions. Special thanks for their valuable suggestions on the subject and their much appreciated assistance go to: Martin Hose and Rémi Brague who gave me the idea and opportunity to start thinking on miracles and wonders in antiquity during a seminar at the LMU back in the year of 2008, Susanne Gödde, Jan Bremmer, Julia Kindt who read and or discussed with me parts of the work, Kai Brodersen who commented on the project and supported my applications for funding and the anonymous readers of the Trends in Classics for their useful comments. To Karolina Lambrou and Nikoletta Georgiou I am grateful for all the editorial practicalities. Et ut semper Martino Schrage pro omnibus gratias ago singulares! Funding for this work was provided by the department of Byzantine and modern Greek studies of the university of Cyprus which generously sponsored the conference on wonders and by the university of Cyprus which support my research on miracles with a research fellowship. To the Fondation Hardt and the classics department of the university of Cincinnati I am grateful for granting me a research stay in 2013 and 2016 respectively; these grants have allowed me to continue my research on miracles in general and work on this volume in particular. Finally, many ideas on wonders and miracles were tested on my students who patiently participated in discussions, sometimes ‘violently’ dragged and without teaching consistency, from the marvels of India to the ones conducted on the Athenian drama stage. Maria Gerolemou

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-001

Nicosia, 2018

Maria Gerolemou

Introduction: In search of the Miraculous This volume is largely the product of a conference held at the University of Cyprus in October 2014. It hosts a selection of thirteen papers presented at the conference with four additional contributions commissioned for the volume. It seeks to explore the ways in which particular conceptions of wonders and miracles were registered in Antiquity and, in one case, Byzantium. It is however evidently impossible to discuss the meaning assigned to the term miracle and/or wonder throughout antiquity. As noted, the volume includes papers on non-Christian miracles and only on one Christian; for obvious reasons, the influence of the Christian models of miracles is however naturally led into the discussion. Importantly, this disparity serves the purpose of the volume to primarily describe the Greek and Roman evidence-based view on miracles through the lens of the pre-Christian tradition of wonders; hence, the volume does not define wonder and miracle as two separate concepts despite their obvious and widely accepted differences.1 Although in classical antiquity paradoxa of nature and divine miracles formed two distinctive categories, their separation was not absolute. By offering a parallel study of wonders and miracles as well as of hybrids of miracles, such as magic,2 and hybrids of wonders, such as physical deformities, the volume comes to the conclusion that as we hastily distinguish the miracle stories from nature’s wonders, we actually ignore their similarities. Seeing wonders through miracles and miracles as wonders allows one to outline the incomprehensible, beyond the environment of its production and reception, i.  e. merely as exception to the law of causality and, as we will see, a mental accomplishment against established socio-cultural norms. Along this line of thought, the term miracle in the title of the collection is used as a general heading,3 while miracles as well as wonders are defined as following: They are the outcome of the action of a miraculous person

1 On common motifs between ancient and New Testament miracles see Reitzenstein 1906; Fiebig 1911; Moule 1965; Weinreich 1969; Hahn 1976; Remus 1983; Kee 1983, 1986; Theissen 1983; Kollmann 1996; Plümacher 1998; Johnson 2006; Bremmer on Reitzenstein 2013. Christian miracles have been already meticulously analyzed by modern scholars; consider Kahl 1994; Kollmann 2011. Zimmermann et al. 2013; Zimmermann et al. 2017; Kollmann and Zimmermann 2014. 2 Remus 1983 illustrates how the term magic could be described as a negative miracle. Luck 1985, esp. ch. 2, p. 178, depicts miracles as instant magic. 3 For the lexical and semantic proximity of wonder, marvel and admiration see Remus 1982; Garland 2011, 75; Pajón Leyra 2011, ch. 2. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-002

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(hero or a deity), a thing or a natural occurrence that causes a sensual perceptible and consequently cognitive impression that disrupts the common and indisputable world order.4 ⁕ In recent years, scholars have extensively explored the function of the miraculous and wondrous in ancient narratives, mostly pondering upon the way in which ancient authors dealt with wondrous accounts, i.  e. the treatment of the descriptions of wondrous occurrences as true or fictional events or their narrative function.5 In this direction, questions were raised and variously answered in previous collections of articles on wonders and miracles such as: What value is generally placed upon miraculous accounts? What qualifies something as a wonder or when does it cast doubt on its validity? Moreover, they examine whether the miraculous has an aesthetic value, i.  e. if it does not only pursue a display of erudition or functions as a rhetorical instrument but also provides stylistic variety (poikilia) resulting in entertainment and pleasure.6 They also investigate it from the view point of its receivers; for instance, do miracles and wonders serve as key-features of popular literature or ‘consumption literature’; i.  e. do they address everyday people or an educated elite?7 This volume follows a different path. It focuses on three aspects of the topic that have not been fully examined yet: a) the ability of the wondrous/miraculous to set cognitive mechanisms in motion, expanding in this way our field of perception and broadening our cognitive abilities b) the power of the wondrous/miraculous to contribute to the construction of an authorial identity (that of kings, gods, or narrators)8 and c) the fact that miracles and wonders represent highly emotional events for their perceiver. To this extent, the volume approaches miracles and wonders as counter intuitive phenomena, beyond cognitive grasp, which challenge the authenticity of human experience and knowledge and expand the

4 See Fisher 1998. 5 See Prier 1989; Schepens and Delcroix 1996; Stramaglia 1999; Bianchi and Thévenaz 2004; Thomas 2004; Labahn and Lietaert Peerbolte 2006; Nicklas and Spittler 2013. 6 See Hecataeus of Abdera FGrH 264 F25, 992–994 as cited by Popescu 2009, 34 and Dion. Hal. Ad. Pomp. 6 on Theopompus’ use of marvel aiming at providing both entertainment and usefulness (ὠφέλεια). 7 See Giannini 1963, 248 n. 3; Pecere and Stramaglia 1996. Cf. Schepens and Delcroix 1996, 403– 9; Pajón Leyra 2011, ch. 2. 8 Cf. Hardie 2009 for the marvelous in Augustan literature and most recently Drake 2017 regarding fourth ce. Christian miracles.



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frontiers of intellectual and aesthetic experience based on the notion of credibility, rather than on the negative analysis of the concept as an affirmation of epistemological certainties or as an element of fiction. Hence, this volume delineates the findings of a thorough study on the content of belief in miracles or, specifically, on the degree of belief in divine miracle in comparison to the credibility of wonder stories. In contrast to the philosophical paradoxon, which also arouses wonderment (θαυμαστὸν δ̓ ὅμως ἀεὶ τὸ παράδοξον, Ps. Longinus, On the sublime 35) and is defined as being against a widely accepted opinion (Cicero Paradoxa Stoicorum 1.4),9 however not against reason,10 the wondrous and the miraculous is at the same time irrational and impossible in terms of causal explanation (cf. Democritus DK 99a).11 Therefore, the receiver of the extraordinary spectacle must deftly guide the other’s impression in order to persuade him that the extraordinary represents an actual fact, or at least a possibility, and is therefore worthy to be mentioned and remembered. The issue of belief or credibility of a miraculous scenario relates to the mental skills of the miracle worker, who could be identified either as the one producing the miracle or the one representing the wonder or miracle story, and the cognitive abilities of the receiver of the incomprehensible event who should unfold or develop certain capacities for differentiating the intelligent, true wonder from credulous and deceptive  amazement. The outcome of a trustworthy miracle or wonder story is the commemoration either of the direct agent of the miracle or its author or designer and his work or of the place in which it occurs (geographical place, temple etc). That means, the concept of wonder is furthermore attached to the issue of memory and raises questions like what aspects of the miracle stories are apprehended as worthy of admiration and remembrance? In general, we try to connect something novel with something we already know. But what happens when the comprehensible relationship of cause and effect is without memory traces? It becomes necessary to organize human and literary experience according to other cognitive models. Thence, questions like whether the experience of a miracle or wonder as a counter intuitive phenomenon could be part of long-term memory, i.  e. if miracles could be transformed into solid knowledge and what mental functions are encompassed in this process, are also central in our discussion. In other words, is wonder just an ephemeral 9 On the paradoxon see Rescher 2001; Olin 2003. 10 Cf. the Stoic Cleanthes in Arr. Epict. diss. 4.1.173. See also Alexander of Aphrodisias’ commentary on Aristotle’s Topica a 505 as cited by Popescu 2009, 3  f. 11 According to Aristotle the alogon is also a source for the marvellous, though in Poetics 1460 a 11–18, the alogon is camouflaged as plausible; marvelous builds a bridge between the probable and the improbable.

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emotional response to a strange phenomenon or is it something that can bring permanent changes? Underlining the parameter of belief in the miraculous and wondrous does not limit its cognitive value. The volume approaches wonder as a doxastic and affective feeling. Wonder as a feeling reflects evaluative reactions and stimulating cognition. That is, as an emotion, it has a cognitive foundation, but it could also be explained as mere shock or awe, i.  e. as reaction which is not cognitive but simply affective; this distinct affective and cognitive value of the miraculous and the wondrous creates two easily distinguishable audiences as receivers. In general, due to the fact that wondering questions the authenticity of human experience and knowledge, by wondering one actually admits his ignorance. Essentially, this either causes a baffled stance towards the unknown followed by pleasure or displeasure, or it provokes curiosity which leads to investigation.12 To put it otherwise, while, as we have already mentioned, the miraculous expands the cognitive horizons of its receivers, it also conveys the bewilderment of its receivers who see miracles and curiosities either as entertainment or as horrifying incidents. For instance, in political or religious practices, wonder is often defined as a religious passion that confirms the supernatural, or as the outcome of a blind worship of the ruler.13 Xenophon in his work adopts the Herodotean notion of the wondrous that exalts human achievements and is best evidenced in the admirable monuments of Herodotean kings who are granted mnemosyne (see e.  g. Gyges 1.14). In Xenophon’s aristocratic milieu, however, the kings are those described as extraordinary (Cyr. 5.3.47, Ages. 5.4). For example, Cyrus is even worshiped by the crowd as a miracle (Cyr. 5.4.13, θαῦμα ἐμὲ νῦν θαυμάζεις). The depiction of the harismatic leader confirmed through miracles should eventually lead to a wondrous mneme, as an everlasting reminder of that ruler. Wonder as religious passion is exemplified by a passage from Iphigenia in Tauris; here the statue of the goddess Artemis gives a sign which is perceived as a miracle. More specifically, it allegedly moves from its place and automatically closes its eyes (1165–7).14 The audience is aware that this is an invention (exeurêma), a trick on behalf of Iphigenia, which aims at convincing the barbarous Thoas of her magnitude (1180, sophia) with the purpose of managing to escape along with her brother. Thoas, however, filled with awe for the miracle, is not in position to distinguish the mechanisms that determine or constitute the unexpected spectacle. It seems that a line is drawn here between the sophos, who

12 See Jacob 1983; 2000. 13 Vasalou 2012, 2. 14 See Steiner 2001, ch.2, esp. on IT. see pp. 110, 159.



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can detect the mechanisms of the manufacturing process of art or nature and, as such, can even construct divine miracles, and the perceiver of wonder, in this case the amathês, uneducated Thoas. Hepburn, in his work on wonders, claims that the sense of wonder is initially hostile to knowledge; it is replaced with understanding and, finally, disappears.15 However, the parallel rise of wonder literature and science in the Hellenistic era proves that knowledge could couple with wonder – i.  e. the demystification of the world, the revelation of the hidden didn’t liquidate the miraculous and the wondrous as Aristotle suggested in the Metaphysics (982b12; Rhetoric 1371a 31–4; 1371b 27–8). What actually changes in both post classical society in general and religion in particular is the need for drawing first to natural causes before concluding that something is miraculous or wondrous. ⁕⁕ With these considerations in mind, the volume is divided into three categories that address key ways in which the concept of miracles was treated in antiquity. The first category addresses the subject of miracle itself, revealing the unstable boundary between marvels and miracles which each time is influenced by the narrative framework of the stories. The first paper (Andrew Nichols) in this category handles miracles as paradoxa of nature and deals with Ctesias as a forerunner of the genre of paradoxography, contrarily to the assumption that Callimachus was the first to collect marvelous stories which draw on the compiler’s reading and not the traveler’s.16 The absence of a clear designation of wonder stories in previous reports on wonders, e.  g. in Herodotus, in contrast to Ctesias’ programmatic provision of them, suggests, according to Nichols, that Ctesias’ work, likewise to later paradoxography, is interested in providing an unmediated contemplation of the marvelous. Clarisse Prêtre claims that the narrative of the wonder in the Epidaurian iamata oscillates between medical details and cure methods and miraculous healing which satisfy the need to praise the customary miraculous activity of the god rather than to surprise and convince his believers about his supernatural powers. George Kazantzidis argues that the absence of bodily oddities as a source of wonder in early paradoxographic texts is related to the extended study of the body in Corpus Hippocraticum. In later paradoxographical texts teratology holds a prominent position. Here, wonders are in connection with the grotesque, like in Phlegon’s mirabilia, esp. his reports on bodily malformations. This hybrid-

15 But see Matravers 2012. 16 On the bookish style of paradoxography see Schepens and Delcroix 1996, 394–8.

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izing approach to the category of the normative body finds its best representation in the female body, which constitutes a locus of wonder already in the texts of the Hippocratics. Distasting strange natural phenomena and striking ethic customs, Polybius’ work directs towards uncovering the causes, thus delaminating puzzling feelings towards the world. However, he does not totally exclude from his work the wondrous. Rather, he forms a distinctive category of wonder by adjusting the past wonder to τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν, to his own time; thus, according to Lisa Irene Hau, Polybius saves the wonderful for human virtue, human achievement, the human mind, and his own work. Sophia Papaioannou discusses the miraculous in the Roman tradition of the Respublica as a trait of the ruler and compares it with the Augustan marvelous profile of the Roman emperor. In contrast to the latter’s miraculous activity, the leaders of the Respublica are merely distinguished through omens and prodigies. Notably, miracles conducted before a large audience constitute a much more effective tool of political propaganda. András Kraft investigates miracles as a narrative figure in byzantine apocalypses. Here miracles, although they follow the long tradition of the Roman use of miracles regarding rulers, don’t supplement the commemorative picture of historical leaders but of the anticipated figures of the future. Moreover, Byzantine apocalyptic prophecies construct the figure of the Savior-Emperor in resemblance to the miraculously rising and victorious Christ. The second section of the volume deals with the work of the miracle-worker and producer of wonders, whose authority is established either by practicing miracles17 or by tracing, collecting and representing them. Here, wonder-producing events are the result of the malevolent or benevolent activity of the miracle worker, designer of wonder or classifier of wonders who is sometimes identified as the author himself. In the latter case, wonder-stories highlight the ability possessed by the author, who, usually, is a traveller and becomes sophos through his journeys, as demonstrated in the difficult process of the ecloge, to select,18 contemplate and present his material. Maria Gerolemou investigates how Herodotus draws a line between the importance of experiencing wonderment at an event, object, people etc. that he considers as being truly apprehended, from a wonder that was cultivated by a misperceived experience and which has managed to become part of memory and therefore claims a place in historical record. The author himself is conveyed here, in an abstract way, as a doer of miracles, while his work as an object of visual display also becomes an object worthy of admiration and remembrance. Chrysanthi Demetriou, along the same line of

17 On the concept of the theios anẽr see e.  g. Anderson 1994; Bieler 1967; Fowden 1982. 18 See Elsner 2015.



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thought, focuses on the comedy of Plautus and especially on Amphitruo. Wonder here is the outcome of comic tickers, while the comic play itself imitates a marvelous action. This reminds us of Aristotle’s view on the wondrous effect of the peripeteia, where he defines anagnorisis through the ekplẽktikon (Poetics 1454a). According to Arist. Poetic’s 1454a 2–4, when the agent acts in ignorance and the ekplectic wonder is the outcome of plausible events (cf. Poetics 1455a 16–21) the recognition itself is strartling.19 Likewise, Plautus discusses how the proper balance between the marvelous, which is incorporated in the comic intrigue and whose success depends on the skills of the tricksters and mental capacities of the recipient, and the credible can be best achieved. The key seems to be in the external audience’s personal experience. The pleasant marvels of the Plautine comedy are validated by the audience’s prior knowledge and emotional sympathy or detachment from stage-action. Margot Neger investigates mirabilia in the letters of Pliny the Younger. Here, on the one hand, the classification of wonders by the author is what ascribes to the various categories of mirabilia their identity, while natural miracles help to characterize Pliny’s political, scientific and literary persona. In the same spirit, Charles Delattre studies sources and fountains and how the author – here Pausanias is taken as a test case – constructs what occurs to the reader as wondrous; he concludes that the perception of a phenomenon could be simultaneously treated both as a wonder and as something ordinary or as the result of authorative gestures and rhetorical devices. Karen ní Mheallaigh investigates the case of Alexander of Abonoteichus as a miracle-worker along with his tactics as an engineer of wonders in his critic by Lucian in the latter’s eponymous work. Furthermore, she parallelizes it with Lucian’s own “literary magic” or thaumatatologia which, like in the case of fraud miracles and mechanical miracles, the audience must be educated enough, i.  e. able to see behind the curtains of their production, in order to enjoy them without danger. The third part of the volume deals with the reception of wonder which reveals on the one side wonder as a hazardous event, when the audience is not in a position to acknowledge it as a mere novelty, but with horror and puzzlement, and as a cognitive achievement when the scientific approach to wonders prevails. In the first case, wonder is featured as an endpoint. In Literary Prometheus, for example, Lucian refers to Ptolemy Philadelphus who displays two novelties in the theatre, a black Bactrian camel and a two-colored man which however instead of amazing the public, they frighten it (4).20 In the second case, the miraculous reveals previously unknown information as something admirable. This is best emphasized by

19 Minsaas 2001. 20 Popescu 2009, 29.

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Aristotle, who in examining the motion of animals, uses the term thauma to indicate automatic motion and manifest the astonishment aroused by the mechanism of self-motion21 which could not be perceived at first glance (cf. MA 701b2  ff., Mu. 398b 13–31).22 Christine Hunzinger’s paper on miracles in the archaic thought discusses wonder as a subjective visual perception; according to her, miracle could mean both astonishment and rejection of an event; that is, miracles could both enlighten and deceive an audience. Likewise, in the 5th century BC, Gorgias describes tragedy as θαυμαστὸν  ἀκρόαμα καὶ θέαμα, “something wonderful to hear and see”, juxtaposing shortly thereafter tragedy with ἀπάτη, i.  e. delusion (B23 DK); in fact, a relation between ἀπάτη and θαῦμα as an aesthetic experience was already established by Hesiod with regard to the marvelous Pandora in his Theogony. Specifically, the Olympian gods marvel at Pandora, who was manufactured for deceiving humans (Th. 588).23 Irene Pajón Leyra studies two miracle-cases, reported by Arrian, regarding Alexander the Great that belong to the propagandistic machine of the Macedonian king. In the case of Alexander, a great deal of paradoxa is at work, in order for his τύχη or θεία πρόνοια and, effectively, his divine heritage and great destiny to be approved, setting him ruler of the world. The apotheosis of the ideal ruler as a result of the dissolved boundary between the human and the divine is realized through the recruiting of miraculous and at the same time scientific explicable events; the miracles-stories that enhance the life story of the Macedonian king, which are represented in interaction with science, meet, according to Pajón Leyra, the taste of the educated Greek Macedonian audience. Lydia Langerwerf concentrates on one particular receiver of miracles, Pausanias, who was traditionally given the title of a historian, traveller and pilgrim. Pausanias’ reports on miracles as the outcome of a pepaideumenos, educated man, actually don’t only expose his skepticism towards them; rather, they invite the audience to recognize their metaphorical truth which allows Pausanias’ personal engagement with religious θαύματα as well the inclusion in his history of the unexplained wondrous. The commemoration, promised through the narra-

21 Automatic motion is here charged with energeia deriving from self-realization (cf. GA 741b 7–15). On marvelous automata see Pugliara 2003. 22 On thauma in Aristotle, see Nightingale-Wilson 2004: 254, 261–65 and Carvalho 2015, with rich bibliography on the subject. 23 Pindar also argues that a wonder-story can be manipulated and result in a deceit in O. 1. 28  f. (ἦ θαύματα πολλά, καί πού τι καὶ βροτῶν/φάτις ὑπὲρ τὸν ἀλαθῆ λόγον/ δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις/ ἐξαπατῶντι μῦθοι). On the aesthetic value of wonderment, see Neer 2010, ch. 1; Hunzinger 2015. Cf. further Mirollo 1999.



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tive of the wondrous, aims in constructing the authority/identity of the author or king or god and eventually creates an almost ‘sacred’ topography. According to Antonis Tsakmakis’ contribution, this is a prominent figure among the biographies of poets and philosophers. Similarly to the rhetorical techniques of the Alexander stories attempting to contribute to the creation of a positive image of the king and at the same time to produce an entertaining effect, the biographers of philosophers and poets, while they reject wonder stories as merely oral, i.  e. unreliable stories not based on factual information, they connect the miraculous with ancestry and conception, initiation or vocation that constitute integral parts of a biography. Biographies seem to rely on the power of a wonder story to enlarge the experience of their audience, while at the same time they share the Herodotean anagkẽ of an absolute documentation of the unfamiliar but without caring to develop scientific interpretations of the categorically undefined. In Apuleius’ Metamorphoses the miraculous tales of necromancy, and apparent death, shifting between magic and medicine, do not enjoy, according to Regine May, only an entertaining character, but they wish to convince their audience of their religious, initiational character and benevolent ends. In general, writers in later times were skillful in adopting, manipulating, and re-presenting to their own advantage received literary forms that have been previously acknowledged as wonder tales, paradoxographical, medical and magical texts, aretalogies etc. Donald Lateiner’s paper continues along these lines. The Greek novels benefit from the public’s credence in miracles on the one hand and face them as fiction, on the other hand, when educated perceivers are involved. These, “thaumata in plasmata”, according to the author’s wording, the marvelous in fiction functions as an aesthetic category referring to sexual unions, life-ending (or chastity-ending) threats or the protective powers of gods towards the protagonists. Moreover, according to Lateiner, Greek novels see the marvelous as a vital means of producing the desired effect for its consumers and fulfilling, the text’s need for documentation by following the literary paradigms of paradoxography, the religious environment that earlier pagan and Christian tales found in aretalogies, epiphany-stories, hagiographies, folktales and religious propaganda stories. ⁕⁕⁕ In resume, the identification of miracles as wonders and wonders as miracles allows us to treat them as mental accomplishments against established socio-cultural features, as a failure of the human mind to adapt to new knowledge, as the impression of an educated or undereducated audience or as the product of awe, religious zeal or admiration. This fact releases and underlines the vast breadth of

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sources and methodological instruments which anticipate a larger scholarly discussion on wonders and miracles and which this volume hopes to have inspired to a lesser or greater extent.

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Kee, H. C. (1983), Miracle in the Early Christian World. A Study in Sociohistorical Method, New Haven-London. Kee, H. C. (1986), Medicine, Miracle and Magic in New Testament Times, Cambridge. Kollmann, B. (2011), Neutestamentliche Wundergeschichten. Biblisch-Theologische Zugänge und Impulse für die Praxis, Stuttgart. Kollmann, B. (ed. 1996), Jesus und die Christen als Wundertäter: Studien zu Magie, Medizin und Schamanismus in Antike und Christentum, Göttingen. Kollmann, B., Zimmermann, R. (eds. 2014), Hermeneutik der frühchristlichen Wunder­ erzählungen. Geschichtliche, literarische und rezeptionsorientierte Perspektiven, Tübingen. Labahn M. and Lietaert Peerbolte B. J. (eds. 2006), Wonders Never Cease. The Purpose of Narrating Miracle Stories in the New Testament and its Religious Environment, London, New York. Luck, G. (1985), Arcana Mundi: Magic and the Occult in the Greek and Roman Worlds: A Collection of Ancient Texts, Baltimore. Matravers, D. (2012), “Wonder and cognition”, in: S. Vasalou (ed.), Practices of Wonder: Cross Disciplinary Perspectives, Eugene, OR, 166–78. Minsaas, K. (2001), Poetic Marvels: Aristotelian Wonder in Renaissance Poetics and Poetry, in: Ǿ. Andersen, J. Haarberg (eds.), Making sense of Aristotle. Essays in Poetics, London, 145–171. Mirollo, V. (1999), “The Aesthetics of the Marvelous. The Wondrous Work of Art in a Wondrous World”, in: G. P. Platt (ed.), Wonders, Marvels, and Monsters in Early Modern Culture, Newark. Moule, C. F. D. (ed. 1965), Miracles: Cambridge Studies in Their Philosophy and History, London. Neer, R. T. (2015), The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture, Chicago/London. Nicklas T., Spittler J. E. (eds., 2013), Credible, Incredible, The Miraculous in the Ancient Mediterranean, Tübingen. Nightingale, A. W. (2004). Spectacles of truth in classical Greek philosophy: Theoria in its cultural context. Cambridge. Olin, D. (2003), Paradox (Central Problems of Philosophy), Montreal. Pajón Leyra, I. (2011), Entre ciencia y maravilla: el género literario de la paradoxografía griega, Zaragoza. Pecere, O, Stramaglia, A. (eds. 1996), La Letteratura di Consumo nel Mondo Greco-Latino. Atti del Convegno Internazionale: Cassino, 14–17 Settembre 1994, Cassino. Plümacher, E. (1998), “TEPATEIA. Fiktion und Wunder in der hellenistisch-römischen Geschichtsschreibung und in der Apostelgeschichte”, ZNW 89, 66–90. Popescu V. (2009), Lucian’s Paradoxa: Fiction, Aesthetics, and Identity (unpublished Phd Thesis, University of Cincinnati). Prier R. A. (1989), Thauma Idesthai. The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek, Tallahassee. Pugliara, M. (2003), Il mirabile e l’artificio: creature animate e semoventi nel mito e nella tecnica degli antichi, Roma. Raubitschek A. (1939), “ἔργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά”, REA: 219–222. Reitzenstein, R. (1906), Hellenistische Wunderzahlungen, Leipzig. Remus, H. (1982), “Does Terminology Distinguish Early Christian from Pagan Miracles?” JBL 101. 4, 531–551.

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Remus, H. (1983), Pagan-Christian Conflict over Miracle in the Second Century (Patristic Monograph Series 10), Cambridge, Massachusetts. Rescher, N. (2001), Paradoxes: Their Roots, Range and Resolution, Chicago and La Salle. Schepens G., Delcroix K. (1996), “Ancient Paradoxography: Origin, Evolution, Production and Reception,” in Pecere O., Stramaglia A. (eds.), La Letteratura di Consumo nel Mondo Greco-Latino. Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Cassino, 14–17 settembre 1994, Cassino (Università degli Studi di Cassino), 373–460. Steiner, D. T. (2001), Images in Mind: Statues in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature and Thought, Princeton. Stramaglia, A. (1999), Res inauditae, incredulae: storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco‐latino, Bari, Levante. Theissen, G. (1983), The Miracle Stories of the Early Christian Tradition (trans. Francis McDonagh), Philadelphia. Thomas, J. (2004), “”Mirabilia”: tropismes de l’imaginaire antique”, in: O. Bianchi, et al. (eds.), Conceptions et Representations de l’extraordinaire dans le monde antique, Bern/Frankfurt am Main, 1–13. Vasalou, S. (2012), “Introduction”, in: S. Vasalou (ed.), Practices of Wonder: Cross Disciplinary Perspectives, Eugene, OR, 1–13. Weinreich, O. (1909), Antike Heilungswunder: Untersuchungen zum Wunderglauben der Griechen und Römer (Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 8.1), Giessen. Wittkower, R. (1977), “Marvels of the East: A Study in the History of Monsters”, in: R. Wittkower, Allegory and the Migration of Symbols, London, 46–74. Zimmermann, R. et al. (eds., 2013), Kompendium der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen, Bd. 1: Die Wunder Jesu, Gütersloh. Zimmermann, R. et al. (eds., 2017), Kompendium der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen, Bd. 2: Die Wunder der Apostel, Gütersloh.

Andrew Nichols

Ctesias’ Indica and the Origins of Paradoxography Abstract: This paper examines the Indica of Ctesias and the role that this work has played in the development of paradoxography. From around the start of the 5th century, the Greeks began to notice and document marvels and curiosities within their own contemporary world. The writings of Herodotus and Hecataeus regularly contained descriptions of oddities in the natural world, but these were digressions that stood apart from the overall aim of the work. At the end of the 5th century, Ctesias fashioned an innovative composition that was unique for its focus on marvels. His style of description and the themes which he addressed would come to greatly influence later generations of paradoxographers and those interested in mirabilia. Expanding on the work of its predecessors, Ctesias’ Indica would serve as a bridge between the geographers, historians, and ethnographers of the 5th century and the collectors of wonders beginning in the 3rd century.

Introduction The Greeks have shown an interest in the unusual since the time of Homer. Whether it be the monstrous creatures and flora with amazing properties encountered in the Odyssey or the hybrid beasts seen on the vase paintings and sculptures of the early Archaic period, they were clearly fascinated with the unusual and bizarre at an early stage.1 However, what they considered truly wondrous (θαυμάσιον) seems to have been the work of the gods.2 It would not be until around the begin1 On thauma and Greek art of the Archaic and early Classical Periods, see Neer 2010, 57–69. 2 Cf. Hom. Il. 18.549 in reference to Achilles shield (ἣ δὲ μελαίνετ’ ὄπισθεν, ἀρηρομένῃ δὲ ἐῴκει, χρυσείη περ ἐοῦσα· τὸ δὴ περὶ θαῦμα τέτυκτο – “the field behind them was black, as if it had been ploughed, although it was in fact made of gold; this work indeed was a marvel”); in the Odyssey (3.371–373) we see humans marveling at the sight of Athena (ὣς ἄρα φωνήσασ’ ἀπέβη γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη φήνῃ εἰδομένη· θάμβος δ’ ἕλε πάντας Ἀχαιούς. θαύμαζεν δ’ ὁ γεραιός, ὅπως ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι – “Thus spoke gleaming-eyed Athena and, with the appearance of an osprey, departed; all who were watching were siezed with astonishment. The old man marvelled when he saw it with his eyes”); cf. Ps.-Hes. Sc. 140, 224, 318. Even where Polyphemus is refered to as a ‘monstruous wonder’ (Od. 9.190; θαῦμ’ ἐτέτυκτο πελώριον), the verb τεύχω still connects him to the divine by implying that he was created this way. For human actions that inspire awe, Homer uses the terms θάμβος (Il. 3.342; 23.815; although the passage from the Odyssey above shows that https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-003

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ning of the 5th C that the Greeks began to show a greater appreciation for the marvelous in their own contemporary world. Geographers and historians of distant lands, such as Hecataeus,3 Hellanicus,4 and Herodotus,5 recorded animals, peoples, and plant life with extraordinary properties from the areas around and beyond Greece.6 By the end of the 4th C, the amount of written material discussing the various regions of the world, including the curiosities it contained, was extensive. This, along with the establishment of libraries, especially the great library at Alexandria, led to the development of paradoxography, a genre that catalogued marvels culled from earlier sources. Nevertheless, this new field has its roots in the 5th C historiography and ethnography of Hecataeus, Herodotus, and Hellanicus. Although, in the same Ionian tradition, Ctesias’ Indica offered a novel type of composition, one that would expand upon what his predecessors had begun by almost exclusively focusing on marvels and thus played a key role in the creation of paradoxography.

Wonders of the contemporary world There can be no doubt that Ctesias was influenced by the ethnographic descriptions of his Ionian predecessors. While many of the extraordinary flora, fauna, and peoples in his description of India would reappear in later collections of mirabilia throughout Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and into the modern period (though usually by way of an intermediate source or sources),7 Ctesias’ impact on paradoxography was perhaps best felt in the themes he addressed rather than in the individual descriptions of his marvels. Callimachus is widely considered to be he used it for divinely inspired wonder as well) and τάφος (Od. 21.122–123; 24.441); Prier 1989, 91–97. 3 Although Hecataeus was famously critical of Greek myths and fables (FGrH 1 F1), he nevertheless included accounts of myths and wonders (F15, F17, F305); see Fornara 1983, 5–7; Vandiver 1991, 4–6; Munson 2001, 239–240. 4 Hellanicus included natural wonders in his writings on various areas of the world (ex. FGrH 4 F54, F174, F190, F191, F195). 5 The bibliography on Herodotus’ treatment of the unusual is extensive: see particularly Immerwahr 1960; Barth 1968; Hartog 1988, 230–237; Hunzinger 1995; Thomas 2000, 135–167; Munson 2001, 232–265; Priestley 2013, 55–108. 6 See Romm 1992. 7 The Indica helped to firmly establish India as a land of marvels, a view continued by Ctesias’ successors, even those who visited the area such as Megasthenes, until the Modern Era. The majority of Ctesias’ mirabilia reached the writers of the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Era through Pliny and Isidore of Seville; Nichols 2011, 29–34.

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the first paradoxographer and the founder of the genre, as he essentially established the form that others would follow.8 The pseudo-Aristotelian On Marvelous Things Heard, often assumed to be contemporary with, or slightly later than Callimachus, played a similar role in developing the appearance and content that later authors adopted.9 And yet, many of the topics or literary motifs that would come to pervade paradoxography can be traced back to Ctesias at the beginning of the 4th C and even earlier. While most of these topoi indeed predate Ctesias, his Indica was the first to emphasize them in a manner that would come to dominate the field. Like most of the marvel writers of the Hellenistic period and beyond, Ctesias was recounting wonders and curiosities existent in his own day rather than those belonging to the past. Beginning in the early 5th century, this new focus on the wonders of the contemporary world coincides with the development of historiography and geography, all of which resulted from travellers such as Hecataeus and Herodotus writing down the tales they encountered, taking particular note of what they deemed unusual or different from what they were accustomed to. These early accounts no doubt piqued the curiosity of later travellers, such as Ctesias, and led them to question whether what their predecessors had said was true or not. For the poets of earlier periods, discussions of the wondrous were usually set in a bygone age, forming the backdrop to the adventures of heroes and gods. Often, the only connection these early marvels had to the contemporary world was aetiological.10 The Ionians, on the other hand, began recounting unusual facets of the world, the sort of which Greeks had hitherto associated with the heroic tales of the distant past, and now placed them in their own times. No longer did such wonders solely belong to the removed and surreal realm of a Jason or Odysseus, but now were part of the readers’ own world and could theoretically be encountered by any ordinary person of the day. Applying the rationalism of the Ionian Enlightenment, marvels were now not the works of the gods, but rather the products of a natural world hitherto unexplored. Ctesias continued and expanded upon this tradition as his entire work, as far as we can tell from the

8 Ziegler 1949, col. 1140–1141; Giannini 1963, 248–249 and 1964, 99; Fraser 1972, 770. 9 Fraser 1972, 771–774; however, as Vanotti 2007, 46–53 notes, the dating of the work is far from certain; it may have come from the pen of several authors beginning in the 3rd century with some later additions in the Imperial Age, particularly that of Hadrian; see also Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 427. 10 Archilochus (Fr. 122 West) was the first to use the term θαυμάσιος in reference to a contemporary phenomenon, the solar eclipse of 648 BC. However, like his predecessors, he employs the term in relation to a divinely created wonder rather than one occuring naturally.

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fragments, was bereft of discussions of the divine and, in dealing only with contemporary India, was completely lacking in any historical events or personages. There are many other themes featured so prominently in the Indica that would come to be characteristic of paradoxography. Ctesias’ practice of focusing on one particular region, although certainly not an innovation of his,11 would be adopted by several paradoxographers, such as Philon, who wrote on Scythia; Myrsilos, the author of a Lesbiaca which contained numerous wonders, also credited with writing an Historika Paradoxa;12 and Nymphodorus13 and Polemon, who both wrote on the wonders of Sicily (see below). Similarly, water marvels, which were a favorite topic for paradoxographers, featured most prominently in Ctesias’ India.14 Like later writers of mirabilia, the Cnidian writes of three types of bodies of water: lakes, rivers, and springs. He begins with a description of the Indus River, a marvel itself on account of its size. Of the Indus’ width, Ctesias says it is between 40 and 200 stades, or 7–35 km (F45 § 1). While these measurements are clearly an exaggeration, the Indus was nevertheless far larger than any river in the Greek part of the world. According to Ctesias, it was also unusual in that it was barren, except for a large worm with one tooth on each jaw that, when killed and hung from a tree, oozed a combustible oil (§ 3; § 46). Thus, otherwise devoid of aquatic life, the Indus was fantastic not just for what it had, but also for what it lacked. The Greeks were regularly amazed by the absence of expected elements. For example, Herodotus (4.30) expresses awe (θωμάζω) that no mules can be conceived in Elis, and elsewhere Ctesias says there are no thunderstorms (F45 § 18) or swine (F45 § 27) in India.15 11 Perhaps the earliest such work would be the Arimaspea by Aristeas of Proconnesus. The Arimaspea, a poem in three books detailing the Arimaspi and their environs north of the Black Sea (Suda s.  v. Ἀριστέας), served as a source for Hecataeus (FGrH 1 F193), Hellanicus (FGrH 4 F187), Damastes (FGrH 5 F1), and Herodotus (4.13–15). Unfortunately, little is known of this composition, of which the largest fragment consists of merely six lines (Longinus On the Sublime 10.4); see Bowra 1956. In Antiquity the authorship was in question (Dion. Hal. de Thuc. 23), as Aristeas continued to be a figure enshrouded in folklore (Strab. 13.1.16; 14.1.18). 12 Athen. XIII, 610a; Giannini 1964, 116–117 contends that this may merely be a generic title given to the Lesbiaka because of its focus on wonders; or, as Laqueur 1933, col. 1149–1150 believes, it could be a title later given to excerpts drawn from the Lesbiaka, and thus it is not a separate work. 13 Nymphodorus’ On the Wonders of Sicily may in fact have been a collection of materials taken from his opus magnum, the Periplous, and formed into a separate treatise to appeal to the current predilection for reading about the fantastic; Giannini 1964, 119–129. 14 Though not to the extent of Ctesias, Herodotus too showed a keen interest in water marvels, particularly on the unique attributes of the Nile (Angelucci 2014, 10). 15 The absence of features would also be a prominent source of wonder among later marvel collectors. Antigonus (§ 15) claims there are only two ravens living in Thessaly; the Paradoxographus Vaticanus (§ 13) mentions both a marsh and a lake that have no birds; etc.

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In addition to the Indus, Ctesias writes of a river of honey that flowed from a rock (§ 29), the added element of honey being a recurring theme in Greek mirabilia.16 For instance, Antigonus describes a method for cultivating bees by burying an ox so that only its horns remain above ground. When the ox’s horns are later sawn off, bees that have been formed by the decomposing carcass beneath the soil are released.17 Ps.-Aristotle dedicates seven (§ 16–22) sections of his On Marvelous Things Heard to honey and bees, including honey with medicinal properties and honey taken from trees. In the same vein, Ctesias also describes a lake and spring that both produce oil (F45 § 25;18 F76). Naturally, such oil, like most of the things produced at the edges of the earth, is superior to that which is procured by more commonplace means. As was standard for such natural wonders, these are placed in a idealistic setting, one in which the earth freely produces commodities otherwise sought after with exertion. Springs and fountains were Ctesias’ favorite type of water marvel, providing the model for the widespread motif of the miraculous spring, a hallmark of paradoxography. No less than ten appear in the surviving fragments of his work. Ctesias tells of springs that produce liquid gold and iron with extraordinary properties that can affect the weather (F45 § 9), one from which a truth serum is derived (F45 § 31), and another called Ballade, that expels whatever is thrown into it (F45 § 49). Both springs are also recounted by Callimachus (apud Antigon. Hist. mir. 50), and the Ballade appears in the Paradoxographus Florentinus (§ 3) as well. The expulsion of objects is a feature that later would extend to other bodies of water in Sicily, as shown by Philostephanus. Philostephanus also described a spring called Sila, first mentioned by Hellanicus (FGrH 4 F190) and later by Ctesias (F47a-b), that did the exact opposite, a spring in which nothing, no matter how light, could float.19

16 Herodotus (1.198) tells of how the Babylonians embalmed their dead in honey. Although there are several incidents of Greeks doing this in order to transport a body a great distance (Xen. Hel. 5.3.19; Diod. 15.93.6), the earliest we hear of it occurring in the Greek world is the early 4th cent. Thus, what was something to marvel at for Herodotus in the 5th cent., seems to have become fairly common for Greeks a generation later. He also speaks of people (δημιοεργοί) who produce honey (4.194; 7.31). 17 Antigon. Hist. mir.19; this was a popular and oft repeated tale among the Greeks (Plin. H.N. 11.70; Ael. N.A. 2.57; Ov. Met. 15.364–366; Ver. Geo. 4.284–314). 18 This account is repeated by Callimachus (apud Antigon. Hist. mir. 150). 19 Antigonus (Hist. mir. 146 = F47a) follows Ctesias in describing this spring. Pliny (N.H. 31.21 = F47b) also following Ctesias, calls the spring Side, but this is most certainly a mistake on his part (or perhaps he had a copy of Ctesias with a scribal error; see Nichols 2011, 153–154). Obviously a source of fascination for the Greeks, the spring is also mentioned by Megasthenes (FGrH 715

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Following the precedent set by Callimachus, water marvels and miraculous bodies of water continued to be a favored topic of paradoxographers. Callimachus exhibited a keen fascination with water, as can be ascertained by the first part of Antigonus’ Mirabilia,20 a treatise largely based on Callimachus,21 in which the first half is devoted to rivers, lakes, and springs with fantastic qualities. Other works of Callimachus, which we know by title alone, further attest to this: On the Rivers of Europe, and On the Rivers of the Inhabited World (Sud. s.  v. Καλλίμαχος). Although these could merely be titles of sections of his Collection Of Wonders rather than individual compositions, Callimachus’ interest is clear. Later authors would follow suit with a few writing entire essays on bodies of water. Polemon is said to have written On the Wondrous Rivers of Sicily;22 Philostephanus, the pupil of Callimachus, continued in the footsteps of his teacher and authored On Fantastic Rivers; and the Paradoxographus Florentinus, which is wholly devoted to miraculous lakes, rivers, and springs. Similarly, Sotion, to whom the text preserved in the Florentinus manuscript was once attributed,23 wrote a treatise on marvelous rivers, springs, and lakes, of which only the title survives. Others devoted large sections of their work to similarly wondrous waters. Isigonus, for instance, dedicated a significant portion of his paradoxa to water marvels, which also form the second, and second largest, part of the anonymous treatise Paradoxographus Vaticanus. Another prominent feature of paradoxography that Ctesias more thoroughly developed was a focus on stones, minerals, and gems that contained extraordinary powers. Like the paradoxographers, to add a touch of credibility, Ctesias often provided specific names for such stones. For example, in addition to more

F10b), Democritus and Aristotle (apud Strabo 15.1.38), and Diodorus (2.37 who may be following Megasthenes). 20 Ziegler 1949, col. 1140–1141; Musso 1986, 9, followed by Dorandi 1999, XIV-XVII, asserts that the Mirabilia is actually a Byzantine compilation falsely attributed to Antigonus; on this issue, see also Ziegler 1949, col. 1145–1149. 21 Ant. mir. § 129–173; the title of Callimachus’ oeuvre is unknown – see Ziegler 1949, col. 1140– 1141; Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 383. 22 Two separate titles alluding to wonders have been attributed to Polemon: On the Wonders of Sicily (Athen. VII 307b = FGH F82) and On the Wondrous Rivers of Sicily (Macrob. Sat. V 19 = FGH F83). Each may have been a part of a larger work divided according to geography (Giannini 1964, 120–121), however the matter is far from clear (the question is neatly analyzed by Angelucci 2014, 14–17). 23 The attribution was first made by Stephanus, based on a title of something written by Sotion, Marvelous Things in Rivers, Springs, and Lakes, mentioned by Photius (Bibl. cod. 189, 144b); see Ziegler 1949, col. 1161–1162; Giannini 1964, 135–136.

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conventional gems like sardonyx and onyx,24 he speaks of a gemstone called pantarbe that held magnetic properties to which other gems are attracted (F45 § 6).25 He also tells of one called antipathes that cures leprosy.26 Less miraculous metals such as gold, silver, iron, and lead also appear several times in the fragments, usually in relation to a marvel, or have some fantastic property themselves (e.  g., F45 §  35, §  49). Paradoxographers likewise displayed a penchant for unusual gems, stones, and metals, often employing language similar to that of Ctesias. For instance, Antigonus (Hist. mir. 151) describes a stone that kindles when doused with water, another that exhales fire when the suns rays fall upon it, and yet another that retains its combustible properties after prolonged use (Hist. mir. 168). Ps.-Aristotle (M.A.33b; 41) speaks of two stones called marieus and spinos that, like the one described by Antigonus, both ignite after coming into contact with water. He also describes another called machaira that induces madness (M.A. 173). Ctesias’ India, moreover, abounds in fantastic plants, animals, and races of men. Some plants and trees produce the best perfumes (F45 § 47) and sweetest wines (F45 § 48), while others are of extraordinary size, like the Indian reed (F45 § 14; F45c),27 which is said to be as tall as the mast of a merchantman and to have a circumference so big that two men could hardly embrace it. In keeping with Greek topoi, the yield of many of these floral and faunal wonders is exceptional, and of far better quality, or potency, than those available in the more densely inhabited regions of the world. The medicinal benefits of several of these plants (and when processed, some animals as well) form another recurring theme in both the Indica and later marvel collections. However, each had a different motive for including such information: as the product of a book culture, marvel writers were simply relating what they read, often in scientific treatises,28 and meant to impress their audience with the medical wonders of far off or hard to reach places (as we now have, for example, articles and news stories on the medicinal benefits of plants found deep in the rain forests). Ctesias, on the other hand, was a traveller and a doctor serving at the court of the Persian king. As a physician, and especially one with such powerful and sometimes vindictive clientele, he had a professional and

24 F45 § 11, § 33; the language of Photius makes it seem likely that Ctesias had fuller discussions on these stones than what appears in Photius’ epitome. As they were both commonplace in Photius’ time, he likely passed over them quickly in favor of items of a more marvelous nature. 25 Cf. Philostr. 3.46. 26 F 73; on the questions surrounding authenticity of the fragment, see Nichols 2011, 36. 27 Cf. Megasth. FGrH 715 F27b. 28 Scheppens/Delcroix 1996, 382–389.

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personal interest in learning everything he could about remedies for all sorts of ailments.29

Narrating Wonders While the Ionian historians and ethnographers of the 5th C were fascinated with marvels, the overriding aim of these works was not simply to document the unusual, but to investigate the lands and cultures of the known world, taking note of many of the curiosities that existed. These narratives, although peppered with marvels and wonders, held their focus elsewhere – namely geography, historical events, and ethnography of more familiar regions closer to Greece. Ctesias’ Indica, on the other hand, not only recounted marvels, but seemed to focus on them almost exclusively. Herodotus’ aim, as he states in his prologue, was to investigate the origins of the conflict between the Greeks and Persians, and his ethnographic accounts were merely digressions from the main topic. The Indica, on the other hand, completely lacks any historical narrative – there are no episodes, events, or specific individuals mentioned – a common feature of paradoxography. In other words, his entire work is largely comprised of the type of brief ethnographic descriptions that make up Herodotus’ digressions. One of Ctesias’ main goals was to amaze his audience (the same purpose of paradoxography), as can be seen from his closing remarks, in which he claims to have omitted many items even more wondrous (θαυμασιώτερα), indicating that much of what he includes is θαυμάσιον: ταῦτα γράφων καὶ μυθολογῶν Κτησίας λέγει τἀληθέστατα γράφειν, ἐπάγων ὡς τὰ μὲν αὐτὸς ἰδὼν γράφειν, τὰ δὲ παρ’αὐτῶν μαθὼν τῶν ἰδόντων· πολλὰ δὲ τούτων καὶ ἄλλα θαυμασιώτερα παραλιπεῖν διὰ τὸ μὴ δόξαι τοῖς μὴ τεθεαμένοις ἄπιστα συγγράφειν. These are the stories Ctesias writes and asserts that they are completely truthful; adding that he personally saw some of the things he wrote about while others he heard from first-hand witnesses. He says that he omitted many other more incredible tales in order to not seem untrustworthy to those who have not seen them personally. (F45 § 51)

29 Cf. Nichols 2011, 20–21.

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One characteristic feature of the paradoxographic genre is insistence on veracity. The authors of mirabilia not only wanted to inform their audience of the oddities of the world, but they wanted their readers to believe in them as well. This is a point where Ctesias, as far as we can tell, stands out from his predecessors, especially Herodotus, who, when relating tales steeped in folklore and the unusual, often expressed skepticism at what he was told.30 He thus attempted to protect himself from liability of falsehood or gullibility. Ctesias, on the other hand, in his Indica, goes out of his way to remind the reader that what he says is trustworthy and not fabricated. According to Photius, he concludes the work with an emphatic promise that he only writes what is completely truthful (λέγει τἀληθέστατα γράφειν) and that he omitted what he thought would not be believed. Beginning with Callimachus, it became a trend in paradoxography to assert authenticity and validity. Even so, paradoxographers differed in their methods of establishing credibility. Rather than relying on empirical evidence, for which many of the collectors of mirabilia were not in a position to attain, they emphasized the authority of their sources, citing them by name at a far higher rate than authors in other fields. Callimachus repeatedly called attention to his sources, citing no less than twelve by name.31 Of course, he was referring his readers to what he read at Alexandria rather than what he heard or saw first hand. This is also why paradoxographers tended to cite men of science such as Aristotle, Theopompus, and Eudoxus, rather than logographers and historians of the Ionian tradition such as Hecataeus, Herodotus, and Ctesias, whose reputations did not carry the same prestige as the more “academic” writers. In some cases, they even referred to inscriptions (Philon at Delphi32 and Nymphodorus at Syracuse33) to emphasize their reliability.34 One way to highlight authority was to be as geographically specific as possible. It added to the realism of a wonder, if one could say exactly where it could be 30 E.  g. 2.73, 4.42, 4.104, et al.; Herodotus (3.123; 7.152) claims it is his duty to record all that he has heard as he heard it, whether he believes it or not. 31 Callimachus (apud Antig. Hist. mir. 129–173) cites authors such as Ctesias (145,150, 165,166), Theophrastus (130, 158), Aristotle (144, 169), and others (passim). In a passage worded very similarly to Ctesias’ famous closing statements, Callimachus insists that he “sings of nothing unattested” (Pfeiffer F612). Although mostly pertaining to his poetry, this assertion holds equal weight for the methodology he adopted in compiling his collection of marvels; see Schepens/ Delcroix 1996, 383–384. 32 Giannini 1966, F1. 33 Giannini 1966, F2. 34 For a full discussion of paradoxographers and their sources, see Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 382–386.

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found.35 Paradoxographers often named specific regions, cities, and even villages in order to give a precise home to the oddities they described, as if to afford their audience an opportunity to visit the marvels themselves. Again this is a method employed by Ctesias. Although he never mentions any cities or villages in his Indica (he does not seem to be aware of the names of any), nevertheless he strives for geographical accuracy. He often locates more than one marvel in the same locale, even when he treats them in different sections of his work, by cross-referencing them. For example, he mentions the amber bearing trees (F45 § 36) and then returns to this area several sections later (§ 39) when mentioning an insect that lives in those trees. This is all a part of a discussion on the region where the Cynocepehali (Dog-Heads) live in the mountains around the source of the Indus (F45 § 37–43). In fact, the lands surrounding the source of the Indus form a specific geographical location that houses numerous wonders in the Indica. This attempt at geographical specificity is even better illustrated in Ctesias’ discussion of the Indian reed, which occurs fairly early in his account (F45 § 14). He vaguely says that the giant reed grows in the mountains through which the Indus flows. He then returns to this location at the end of the Indica (F45 § 50) to describe a fantastic tribe whose women only give birth once, and show other interesting traits, such as white hair that turns black as they grow old (an example of ‘inversion of normalcy’ paradoxon), eight fingers on each hand, and ears big enough to cover their elbows and their backs at the same time. The people of this tribe make no use of the Indian reed, which is only mentioned as a geographical reference point. So then, in light of all these shared motifs with the field of paradoxography, should we conclude that Ctesias  – and not Callimachus, as currently agreed  – was the founder of the genre? While this may seem tempting on account of the many common traits that the Indica’s fragments share with paradoxographical writing, the differences are in fact significant enough to preclude such a proposition. Ctesias was certainly grouped with later marvel writers, as can be seen from the much discussed passage of Aulus Gellius (N.A. 9.4), who found Ctesias’ books alongside other writers of mirabilia – both paradoxographers and those who just incorporated marvels into their narratives.36 To be sure, the fragment cited by our main source for Ctesias’ Indica, the 9th C Byzantine Patriarch Photius, certainly reads similar to many of the later paradoxographical collections. It essentially

35 Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 392–394; Herodotus uses similar methods when describing some of the unusual tribes at the edges of the world. For example, in his account of the region Scythia he offers specific directional routes along with distances measured in days journey (4.16–23). 36 For an excellent discussion on this passage, see Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 411–425.

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appears as a catalogue of marvels in short, simple, indicative sentences with no narrative thread. However, this arrangement is more likely to be a result of the Patriarch’s (and his fellow readers’) own method of compilation (ἐκλογή),37 itself no doubt influenced by the epitomizers of Hellenistic and later times, especially those active in the field of paradoxography. Even in its drastically abbreviated form, Photius’ epitome offers much lengthier accounts of certain wonders – such as the unicorn (F34 § 45), the manticore (F45 § 15) and the Cynocephali – than what one sees in paradoxographical writings. Moreover, the fragments preserved by other ancient writers, such as Pliny and Aelian, show that Ctesias described his subjects in greater and lengthier detail than often appears in the epitome of Photius.38 While Ctesias shared with the paradoxographers a need to emphasize his credibility, his approaches were in fact more wide-ranging than theirs. We can glean from Photius that his work also dealt with more ordinary elements, such as Indian customs and medicine, which implied little if any fantastic material and so were passed over by later excerptors, including Photius himself.39 This should come as no surprise since, although best known as an author and historian, Ctesias was in his profession a doctor. As a native of Cnidus who served as court physician to Artaxerxes II and the royal family in Persia, Ctesias was in an unusual position for a Greek to encounter peoples from the far eastern edge of the known world. While we can be fairly certain that he never visited India,40 he had access to a continuous supply of travel accounts from merchants and visitors to the court. He was also able to view many artifacts brought to the court by these visitors, which were often accompanied by fantastic tales about their properties or origins in order to enhance their value and impress the Great King. The resulting text, based both on personal observations and travellers’ tales, offered a collection of marvels and curiosities that corroborated pre-existing Greek views of the eschatiai, the outer edges of the known world. In this respect, Ctesias’ methodology falls more into the realm of Greek scientific writing, which placed a premium on autopsy,41 than into the field of literary compilation, where paradoxography often belongs.42 Such a product differs greatly from the armchair investigative

37 Bigwood 1989. 38 See for example FGrH 688 F45g, F51a, et al. 39 Nichols 2011, 19–21. 40 Nichols 2011, 17–18. 41 Aristotle, for example, relied on second hand information only when autopsy was impossible; Li Causi 2002, 149. 42 Scheppens/Delcroix 1996, 382–389.

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approach of the paradoxographers whose main resource for marvels, as far as we can tell, was libraries and earlier authorities. Lastly, and as a direct result of this unusual access to material, Ctesias differs from the paradoxographers in that he inserts himself into his work. The collectors of marvels often name their sources and in so doing, even when they intend to augment their credibility, they distance themselves from their content. At the end of it all, they are removing themselves from culpability by appealing to other authorities; ultimately, if something is deemed too incredible for belief, or can even be proven false, then it is the source cited that is to blame. Ctesias, as we have seen above, asserts his own place in his narrative, saying on several occasions that he personally saw all the things he describes and that he attests to their veracity. In other words, Ctesias is attempting to establish himself as the sole authority on his subject rather than relying on the reliability of earlier writers.

Conclusion So then, how can we classify Ctesias’ Indica, if at all? Like his Persica,43 the Indica is difficult to categorize, since it does not fall neatly into any one genre. It is at the same time a compendium of marvels, as later paradoxographical works would be, and the product of a personal scientific investigation. The result was a work of interest not only to marvel collectors but also those engaged in the sciences. To confirm this, one need only to look at how Ctesias was used by later writers. While his reputation suffered even in Antiquity, especially after the campaigns of Alexander allowed for Greeks to visit India in person, he continued to be used as a resource for natural scientists into the Roman period. Even if he is skeptical at times, Aristotle nevertheless accepts Ctesias as a legitimate authority on India.44 He follows Ctesias in his descriptions of the elephant45 and the parrot46 (both marvels to Ctesias) and in accepting as real some of the more fantastic creatures,

43 Recently, there has been a lot of debate over how to read the Persica with some suggesting to view it in light of historical fiction, poetry, or the novel. The bibliography has grown rapidly in the last few years, but see the recent works of Stronk 2011; Madreiter 2012; Wiesehöfer 2013. 44 He is especially reliant on Ctesias in zoological matters of India; Reese 1914, 99; Jacoby 1922, col. 2072. 45 F45 §  7, F45bα; on Aristotle’s use of Ctesias for his account of the elephant, see Bigwood 1993a, 539–544; Nichols 2011, 29. 46 H.A. 597b27; His use of the name bittakos, instead of psittakos as per Ctesias, indicates that he may have used an additional source; see Bigwood 1993b.

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such as the manticore (Arist. H.A. 2.1 p.  501a 24 = FGrH 688 F45dα)47 and the unicorn (HA 499b18; PA 663a18).48 Aelian and Pliny both use Ctesias as a scientific source as well (although with Pliny, science and marvel writing often overlap). It is thus difficult place the Indica into any single category. It essentially served as a transitional composition that bridged the gap between the ethnographic digressions containing marvels of the 5th C Ionian historians and the later collections of mirabilia that would define paradoxography. In addition to being used as a source for natural scientists, Ctesias’ name appears on several occasions in paradoxographical writings. As the evidence by Aulus Gellius shows (see above), he was associated with marvel writers, even if not considered one himself. In the mid 4th C, Theopompus would continue the tradition begun by Ctesias of devoting a lengthy discussion solely to marvels in Book 8, and possibly some of book 9, of his Philippica.49 So by the early 4th C, the reporting of marvels had grown from the digressions of Herodotus to the lengthy reports of Ctesias and Theopompus before evolving into the Callimachean catalogues of mirabilia that would define a new genre.

Bibliography Angelucci, M. (2014), “Water and Paradoxography: Polemon’s Work Περὶ τῶν ἐν Σικελίᾳ θαυμαζομένων ποταμῶν”, Orbis Terrarum 12, 9–26. Barth, H. (1968), “Zur Bewertung und Auswahl des Stoffes durch Herodot (die Begriffe θῶμα, θωμάζω, θωμάσιος und θωμαστός)”, Klio 50, 93–110. Bigwood, J. (1989), “Ctesias’ Indica and Photius”, Phoenix 43, 302–316. – (1993a), “Aristotle and the Elephant Again”, AJPh 114, 537–555. – (1993b), “Ctesias’ Parrot”, CQ 43, 321–327. Bowra, C. M. (1956), “A Fragment of the Arimaspea”, CQ 6, 1–10. Dorandi, T. (1999), Antigone de Caryste: Fragments, Paris. Fornara, C. (1983), The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome, Berkeley. Fraser, P. M. (1972), Ptolemaic Alexandria, (3 vols.), Oxford. Giannini, A. (1963), “Studi sulla paradossografia greca, I. Da Omero a Callimaco: motivi e forme del meraviglioso”, RIL 97, 247–266. – (1964), “Studi sulla paradossografia greca, II. Da Callimaco all’età imperiale: la letteratura paradossografica”, Acme 17, 99–140. – (1966), Paradoxographorum Graecorum Reliquiae, Milan. Hartog, F. (1988), The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, Berkeley.

47 Li Causi 2002, 143–145. 48 Li Causi 2002, 142–143. 49 FGrH 115 F64–77; see Shrimpton 1991, 15–20.

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Hunzinger, C. (1995), “La Notion de θῶμα chez Hérodote”, Ktèma 20, 47–70. Immerwahr, H. (1960), “Ergon: History as a Monument in Herodotus and Thucydides”, AJPh 81, 261–290. Jacoby, F. (1922), “Ktesias”, RE XI, 2032–2073. Laqueur, R. (1933), “Myrsilos”, RE XVI, 1148–1150. Lenfant, D. (2004), Ctésias de Cnide. La Perse, L’Inde, Autres Fragments, Paris. Li Causi, P. (2002), “Il mondo ipotetico: Aristotele e il trattamento delle rappresentazioni relative agli animali ‘favolosi’”, in: V. Ando/A. Cozzo (eds.), Pensare all’antica. A chi servono i filosofi?, Rome, 136–158. Madreiter, I. (2012), Stereotypisierung – Idealisierung – Indifferenz: Formen der Auseinandersetzung mit dem Achaimeniden-Reich in der griechischen Persika-Literatur, Wiesbaden. Munson, R. V. (2001), Telling Wonders: Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Musso, O. (1986), [Antigonus Carystius]. Rerum mirabilium collectio, Naples. Neer, R. (2010), The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture, Chicago. Nichols, A. (2011), Ctesias. On India and Fragments of his Minor Works, London. Prier, R. A. (1989), Thauma Idesthai: The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek, Tallahassee. Priestley, J. (2014), Herodotus and Hellenistic Culture, Oxford. Reese, W. (1914), Die griechischen Nachrichten über Indien bis zum Feldzüg Alexanders des Grossen, Leipzig. Romm, J. S. (1992), The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought, Princeton. Schepens, G./K. Delcroix (1996), “Ancient Paradoxography: Origin, Evolution, Production and Reception”, in: O. Pecere/A. Stramaglia (eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo greco latino, Cassino, 374–460. Shrimpton, G. S. (1991), Theopompus the Historian, Montreal. Stronk, J. (2011), “Ctesias the Poet”, in: J. Wiesehöfer/R. Rollinger/G. B. Lanfranchi (eds.), Ktesias’ Welt – Ctesias’ World, Wiesbaden, 385–401. Thomas, R. (2000), Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Vandiver, E. (1991), Heroes in Herodotus: The Interaction of Myth and History, Frankfurt. Vanotti, G. (2007), Aristotele. Racconti meravigliosi. Introduzione, traduzione, note e apparati, Milan. Wiesehöfer, J. (2013), “Ctesias and the History of the Greek Novel”, in: T. Whitmarsh/S. Thompson (eds.), The Romance Between Greece and the East, Cambridge, 127–141. Ziegler, K. (1949), “Παραδοξόγραφοι”, RE XVIII, 1137–1166.

Clarisse Prêtre

The Epidaurian Iamata: The first “Court of Miracles”? Abstract: The structure of the iamata, formulated by the numerous Asclepieian sanctuaries, reflects fourth century BC societal structures where several medical systems coexist, such as therapy, based on a “scientific” study, and divine medicine marked by empiricism and, sometimes, deriving from magic. Thus, the narratives involve considerations on diseases or clinical details about health care for patients. What is more, the syntactic form and terminology also glorify divine efficiency. Between techne and thauma, the aim of this paper is to explain how the polyphony of the iamata can put a therapeutic action at the service of the extraordinary and the miracle, turning rational medicine into a propaganda tool of the divine.

Introduction With the English terms “miracles” and “wonders”, two concepts are brought into connection: the religious irrational and the magical or irrational. The ancient Greek texts use the notion of miracles and wonders to express several points of view. For instance, in epic texts, thauma describes the witness of the extraordinary, expressing first astonishment and then admiration, if used in a positive light, or dazzled bewilderment if used negatively;1 however, we cannot speak of a distinctive difference between wonder and miracle. Thus, while in most major modern prevalent religions miracles and wonders are interpreted as the result of divine action, the ancient archaic thauma generally describes the reaction of the spectator in front of the unusual divine or natural or human, that is, his bewilderment in front of the incomprehensible divine. On the other hand, the term thauma describing the miracle act rather than the reaction, i.  e. wonderment, seems to have been firstly used and frequently noted in the Epidaurian iamata,2 although in some cases the term also describes the reaction of the patient who is healed in an unexpected way.

1 On miracles in Epic tradition, see Hunzinger 1993; 1994; 2010a; 2010b; this volume. 2 The iamata are the so-called “miraculous healings” texts that were recorded on stones at Epihttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-004

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It is very interesting to investigate how and why the perspective, through which the narrative of the thauma is being described, changes through the ages; in the archaic, the term reflects the subjective perception of a certain character while in the iamata, thauma, is the result of an omniscient narrator who describes the miracle-act itself. Are, then, the iamata the place par excellence of the thauma? Since iamata are written for advertising purposes indeed, they perpetuate the miraculous efficiency of the god in healing, and, thereby increase the prestige of the temple. But should we talk about thauma, miracles, wonders in epigraphic sources? Or is the court of miracles, “la cour des miracles” in the words of Victor Hugo,3 a contemporary vision that is distorted? Furthermore, the iamata were written in the fourth century BC and therefore were contemporaries of Hippocrates. During that period, two schools of thought prevailed: the belief in a divine causality and Hippocratic rationalism. Epidaurian inscriptions that served the god’s intentions were at the junction of those opposed thoughts: They were engraved in order to glorify Asclepius, but they also offered a curious blend of lexical imprecision – based on what seems logical, since the acts narrated are not the acts of doctors but often of servants and priests – and medical knowledge that frequently looks like the ones suggested by the Hippocratic corpus and later by Galen or even in Oribasius’ remedies. Thus, the Epidaurian epigraphic sources seem to be placed at the edge of the circulated medical theories. The strength of the popular belief in the action of the god is necessarily infiltrated through the force of the rational Hippocratic method that continues to grow over the centuries, whilst rational medicine commonly criticizes divine determinism on a regular basis, without calling into question traditional religion based on miraculous cures.4 Nevertheless, it is fruitful to examine how these so-called “miracles” are expressed in iamata. Remarkably, in all iamata, whether from Epidaurus or elsewhere, there is only one testimonial of the verb θαυμάζω. Its place on the stone is particularly meaningful since it is positioned in the first narrative of the first large stele with texts of healing; more precisely it occurs in the only text that begins

daurus, primarily, but were also found in Lebena in Crete, or in different cities of Greece and Asia Minor where a healing deity was to be found. 3 V. Hugo, Notre-Dame de Paris, p.  49. The court of miracles was a French term referring to districts of Paris where the beggars resided. A number of beggars faked terrible injuries and diseases. However, with returning to their homes in the slum, they dropped their sick ‘characters’. We borrow the expression, not to question the authenticity of the diseases of the patients at Epidaurus but to emphasize the extreme dramatization and the staging of the pathologies in the stories. 4 Compton 1998.



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with the word ἴαμα: It seems that the writers were looking to impress the audience by narrating the story of Kleo giving birth, after a five-year pregnancy; through a mise en abyme rhetorical construction, the text on the stone is a dedication by a grateful woman and is engraved in hexameter and pentameter: “It is not the size votive plaque to be admired, but divine action”, οὐ μέγεθος πίνακος θαυμαστέον, ἀλλὰ τὸ θεῖον.5 By this introductory sentence and the unique use of the verb θαυμάζω, the narrators emphasize for the future patients the strictly aretalogical purpose of the engraved texts: the only aim of the various narrative stagings is to arouse the thauma towards the god. If we examine closely both the content and the structure of the healing inscriptions, the extraordinary as testified in the iamata can be classified into two main categories: a) one which is expressed by the narrator of the miracle, dealing with the extraordinary and the modes of healing, including description of diseases, types of therapies implemented or/and results after treatments; b) a category on the performative aspect of miracles, including the rhetoric applied to the usual themes of miracles, such as disappearances, births, etc., but also the emotions experienced and described during a miracle.

Narrating Miracles The redactors of the healing steles had a wide narrative field of action at their disposal. Iamata could refer to diseases (often of unusual nature), or therapies whose descriptions bolstered the knowledge of the god, or else to extraordinary and spectacular results. The most extraordinary pathologies are often linked to the duration of the disease, for example that of the aforementioned five-year period pregnancy and another one which lasted three years.6 But if we attempt to provide a retrospective diagnosis, this phenomenon could be explained by the development of abdominal or pelvic masses that may accredit a lengthy pregnancy. However, the first medical tale does not conform to any rational medical solution; rather, it ends with the birth of a living child and, more importantly, a prodigious one, since he was able to walk as soon as he was born; instead, the facts of the pregnancy are represented as fictitious and are deliberately exaggerated. Likewise, the man who carries a spear in his knee for six years is another

5 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 22, I. The typical rhetorical procedures of the Hellenistic period have been applied here to highlight the connection between the stone with the inscription and the admiring emotion as experienced by the patient. See for this Chaniotis 2013. 6 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 22, II.

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case where the strange temporal perspective of a disease can be used to highlight divine efficiency:7 Where rational surgery did not work for years, as it is implied by the text, only a deity cured the suffering man, through overnight incubation. In any way, even the sober narrative style of the nosological description of the iamata, certainly due to the very essence of these epigraphic sources written by non-specialists, demands a simple effect-solution narrative, where etiology is of course absent, as it could harm the magnitude of the divinity; the deity only treats, cures, and can never constitute the source of a disease. The recovery mode forms another way to increase the thaumaturgic nature of the divine healing. Sometimes, Asclepius even uses the same techniques to human medicine. Surprising as the syncretism could be, it might provide an explanation to the confusing fact of why patients did not refer to a physician before consulting Asclepius and asking for a miracle. However, we should not forget that initially there were priests and servants with Asclepius in the sanctuary, who were experienced in surgical practices. Some of the stories state that the floor of the abaton was covered in blood, after waking the patient up;8 presumably, real surgeries were conducted, which were later served as divine miracles. Yet, despite this information providing a rational slip inside the divine justification of cures offered by the iamata, any therapeutic procedure in sanctuaries should be logically approved by the deity. The story of Eratokles, who was to be cauterized by doctors, reveals this in an emphatic way: while he was asleep at Troezen, before being cauterized by doctors, the God who was standing in front of him ordered him not to do cauterization, but go to sleep in the sanctuary of Epidaurus. Once past the deadline that had been ordered, the pus evacuated and the man left healthy.9 How can a surgical operation, despite the fact that it is performed by Asclepius, function as a testimony of a miracle? Often, one narrative element is enough to suspend the otherwise rational cure process; a woman with dropsy is the most spectacular example: She believed that God had cut off the head of her daughter and hung her body with the neck down. Once a continuous plethora of liquid had flowed, he picked up the body and placed the head back on the throat”.10 Where, in some cases, a simple incision is enough to drain aqueous or serous effusion, Asclepius’ operating mode, by cutting a head and then placing it

7 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 28, XII. 8 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 67, XXVII. All translations of Greek texts are conducted by us. For the several practices in the temple, see Dörnemann 2003, 28. 9 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 103, XLVIII. 10 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 65, XXI.



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back to the body, is able to cure a patient; such practice does not obey any therapeutic logic, while it highlights the strength of his divine power. Sometimes, the patient is healed without any medication, but merely through the god’s simple but thaumaturgic intervention. In a later healing inscription from Rome, dating back to the 2nd ce p.C., Caius, who was suffering from blindness, turned around himself from right to left and miraculously regained his vision.11 This echoes a ritual, part of religious practices, described by Pliny: “When paying adoration, we kiss the right hand, and turn the whole body to the right: while the people of the Gallic provinces, on the contrary, turn to the left, and believe that they show mere devoutness by so doing”.12 On other occasions, the therapy procedure is unexpected and perceived as a miracle because it bears no relation with the disease of the patient: For instance, Agestratos, who suffered from insomnia deriving from headaches, had learned pankration in a dream, with Asclepius as sport teacher.13 With Agestratos’ case, the god proves that he has a science beyond all human knowledge since no one but him could have suggested such an irrelevant and irrational therapy with, however, positive results. In order for the uncustomary therapy procedure to be underlined, animals are often involved, especially dogs and snakes. The therapeutic function of the dog’s saliva is now well documented (due to its higher concentration of leukocytes, compared to that in human saliva, combined with active detergents that are part of it); hence, a dog licking the wounds of a patient in the Epidaurian temple to heal him used to be considered miraculously awkward, although it is not puzzling in any way now. Likewise, the analysis of the snake’s saliva never proved to have a clear therapeutic role. As it seems, the ancient imagery developed around the snake has the purpose of providing a prodigious nature to the Asclepian health care. The snake does not even have to lick wounds; for example, it just has to sleep on a barren woman’s belly, and she will be able to givebirth to five children.14 Finally, besides extraordinary diseases and operational modes, cures are the third element that directly attests to the miraculous efficiency of God. Several recurring themes do highlight the divine thaumaturgic action. In the 4th ce. BC in Delphi, the inscriptionstill called today the “miracle of the hair”,15 is another variation of the topic of pregnancy: several diseases had prevented a woman from 11 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 216. 12 Plinius, HN, XXVIII, 25, 3. 13 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 66, XXIX. 14 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 72, XXXIX. 15 FD III, 1, 560+561.

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becoming pregnant and, thanks to Apollo, she could give birth to a girl already with hair on the chest when she was only one year old. In Delphi, as in Epidaurus, (where the child could run the instance he was born), we are confronted with the same amalgamation of medical realism and miraculous phenomenon accentuated by the completely unexpected speed of the result. The cancelation of time is also used in textual sources that aimed in praising the gods: in the Hymn to Demeter 235–242, for example, the child raised by Demeter is growing rapidly and we can read: “all were surprised to see him grow and develop into force godlike”. The intervention of historical factors in healing paradoxically increases their extraordinary character. A priori, any reference to real people should give more accuracy and credibility to the Epidaurian stories, and contribute to the god’s good reputation: “While she was asleep, she had a vision in a dream, she thought that a pretty boy stripped her naked and then, god touched her hand. Following this, Andromache had a son, descendant of Arybbas”.16 What is problematic is that Andromache is not known in any historical source as the mother of Arybbas’ son, even though she should have been. What is noted here is not only the intention to highlight the reputation of the sanctuary, through referring to its famous patients, but also to increase the wonderful character of Asclepius’ treatment: he does not merely cure infertility; he helps give birth to the son of the king. Not all references to miraculous healings relate to diseases though. Some of them exclusively deal with desperate people. For example, a father whose son has disappeared, or a woman who cannot find the gold that was hidden by her late husband: More precisely, “after her husband died, she learned that he had buried the gold somewhere; as she could not find it despite her searches, she went she arrived at the sanctuary to ask about the treasure, and while she was asleep, she had a vision: “she believed that God came to her and told her «in the month of Thargelion at noon, gold lies in the lion». When the day came, she went out and when she got home, she first searched the lion head stone and next to it, there was an ancient monument with a stone lion on top. As she found nothing, a soothsayer told her that the god did not say that the treasure was in the stone head, but in the shadow, given by the stone lion in the month of Thargelion at midday. So, she conducted another search for the gold in this way, and found the treasure. She then sacrificed the usual offerings to the god”.17 In addition to the divine intervention, the story points to a diviner who decrypts the words of the god to the woman. The diviner is the link between the

16 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 28, XIV. Arybbas was a king of Epirus who succeeded Neoptolemus in 360 BC. 17 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 100, XLVI.



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human and the incomprehensible divine, whereby the incomprehensibility of the god bolsters the miraculous forces of Asclepius. Asclepius is mainly the god of healing, but in this case his attributes extend to other areas of competence, not on physical aspects but psychological ones. The phenomenon is exceptional and by contextualizing these stories within medical inscriptions, the redactors again found there a way to show the superiority of the irrational aspects over the Hippocratic practices. Asclepius takes care of all human problems, whether these relate to their bodies or their minds. Remarkably, each of the three major steles of iamata has only one story like this, which makes it more extraordinary.

Indirect performance-miracles In addition to the etiological pathological and therapeutic descriptions, observed in a first reading of the iamata, the editors of the corpus often refer to diverse “tricks” in order to illustrate once more, yet from another ankle, the prodigious nature of the divine healing. Through syntactic effects, but also thanks to deliberate recurrence of some themes especially related to thauma, a most irrational aspect of these thaumaturgies is suggested. During these, an array of emotions takes place, expressing the feelings of the patients when confronted with the extraordinary. The rhetoric of the iamata is indeed much different from the poetic forms celebrating the gods; yet, despite their numerous differences, they also share a common ground; that of praising the divine. Without referring further to examples of common miracles, such as disappearances, state changes, fabulous births, etc., which evoke praising, it is also important to draw on most central element of these phenomena, that is, the epiphany of the deity. In the iamata, the god appears in a dream during incubation, either to give a therapeutic advice or to act himself. The stories where his physical form and his divine sigla are described are very rare, and most often he is qualified with the term θεός. In some cases, however, he appears as a handsome young man. For instance, there is a story about a man who suffers from a lithiasis in his membrum and comes in Epidaurus: “He had a vision in a dream. He believed he was lying with a fair boy. He had an orgasm in his sleep, ejected the stone and picked it up when he woke up, holding it in his hands”.18 Another example is taken from the story of Andromache giving birth to the son of King Arybbas thanks to the intervention of the god, as mentioned above: “she believed

18 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 28, XIV.

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that a handsome boy uncovered her and after that, the god touched her with his hand”.19 In another text, a man, one day after his incubation, said that “he believed that a good looking young man had put a drug upon his toe”.20 The most impressive episode which exhibits an epiphany of Asclepius can be said to be the following: in the absence of Asclepius who was at Epidaurus, his sons tried to cure a woman at Troezen. She had a worm in the abdomen and they cut off her head in order to treat her. Finally, they had to urgently call their divine father to come and fix their mistake, since they did not know how to put the head back.21 Beyond the comic effect that this narrative may create, what is actually its function? It confirms a certain divine hierarchy; that is, Asclepius, despite the well-known therapeutic qualities of his children, is the only one who is able to heal men. Moreover, the story ends with a clear statement: the god opens the abdomen and removes the worm, after putting the head back to its place. Often, the god, during his appearance, is depicted as having human reactions: beyond the therapeutic procedure, he also discusses with patients and seems to bargain his payment: A women refers to that in her narrative: “she believed that the god stood beside her and said that he would cure her, but that she would have to pay fees to the sanctuary by offering a silver pig as a memorial of her stupidity”. Furthermore, he punishes when you do not pay the debt “as he did not pay medical fees, the god made him blind again”, he may laugh with a sick child, “he believed that the god stood beside him and asked «what will you give me if I cure you?» «Ten dice», he answered. The god laughed and said he would cure him, and, finally, the god may even kiss a patient, “she believed that the god was kissing her while massaging her stomach”.22 Nevertheless, the divine anthropomorphism is a common feature in Antiquity, and as such, it does not add to the prodigious character of the iamata. However, one must take into consideration the close resemblance between the iamata and the divine hymns, based on the fact that they are both in charge of propagating the divinity. The hymns as well as the iamata have been created under very specific cultic and ritual circumstances.23 They both use the epiphany element in their narratives, and they both connect it somehow to wonderment. Precisely, because of this kind of anthropomorphism of the god, it is difficult to talk clearly about prodigious phenomenon in the iamata. The hymns and the iamata share 19 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 68, XXXI. 20 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 30, XVII. Concerning the epiphany, see Petridou 2016. 21 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, XXIII. 22 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 24, IV, 26, VIII, 72, XLI. The term γαστήρ has been translated as “stomach” to conform to the anatomical reality in the iamata. 23 Calame 1994, 391–400.



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the fact that they have been created under very specific cultic and ritual circumstances. However, there are differences between the two, particularly with regard to the narrator of the miracle and the role of the god as the performer of the miracle. From an enunciative and performative side, however, the link between the speaker/narrator and the god completely differs from the narrative scheme of the iamata. In a hymn, after the laudatory phase for the god, the narrative prepares the audience in welcoming the epiphany of the god, fulfilling therefore its expectations; this is often introduced by a cosmic silence and stillness.24 Whatever the form taken by the deity is, when he finally appears in the hymns, the epiphany constitutes a moment of wonderment for the viewer. Even when Aphrodite assumes a human form to avoid scaring Anchise (μή ταρβήσειεν), the latter is caught by an astonished admiration, because of her beauty, most characteristic of the divine, the glory of her person and her adornment.25 In contrast to the hymns, in the iamata the epiphany cannot generate the same astonishment, since it constitutes merely a presupposition for healing: it cannot be argued that the miracle depends on the epiphany; although the human reactions adopted by the god during the epiphany help trivializing his apparition. In the iamata, epiphany generates the miracle, without however constituting the miracle itself. Instead, the miracle highlighted by performative as well as narratological means, lies in the healing of all kinds of diseases, as extraordinary as they may seem. Hence, the dramatization of the healing with the narratological celebration of the marvelous events are in the iamata, contrary to the hymns, the ingredients composing the laudatio of the god. Once the cure is considered as to be admired, θαυμαστέον, the redactors of the iamata introduce an ultimate performative mean, in order to magnify divine efficiency. One cannot overlook that the other actor of these scenes is the patient, the sick man who went to the shrine to be cured. Again, a comparison with the poetic textual sources shows that even if the appraisal techniques concerning the gods are the same, the rules which govern the narratives are different. The thauma by Hesiod or in the Homeric hymns is a sign of the divine miracle expressed through human wonderment; this human feeling is often mixed with a kind of naivety, merely proving the distanciation between the gods and men: that is, in Hesiod or in the Homeric hymns, a divine miracle as such is never contested. On the contrary, the healing inscriptions abolish the distance between god and human and describe the diverse emotions experienced by the patients during the miracle act.

24 Williams 1978, 29. 25 Pirenne-Delforge 1989, 189–190.

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Admiration of the god’s miraculous powers, which is reported in subtle ways, is obviously the most positive emotion. From a woman who saw in her sleep “the major powers” of the god,26 πλείονας ἀρετὰς τoῦ θεοῦ, Asclepius demands that she narrates her vision. Hermodikos of Lampsacus, a spastic, presents the particularity of writing his ex-voto to Asclepius on the stone as the god had asked him to carry this out: “in recognition of your power, Asclepius, I dedicated this stone I raised, to prove your art is evident for all to see”.27 This is one of the more obvious manifestations of the patients’ faith in their miraculous healing, with the stone filling a dual role: both a therapeutical instrument proving divine efficiency and a gratulatory testimony from the cured patient; thereby, it underlines the importance of a memorial for the divine efficiency to help the miracle narrative reach a higher extent of credibility and verisimilitude. Beside admiration and gratitude, some less expected feelings frequently appear in the iamata. Fear, for instance, overwhelms a dumb girl, “Once arrived, she saw a snake crawling from a tree in the sacred grove. Filled with terror, she immediately called her mother and father and went away”.28 Still, greater is the frightment experienced by a man who was already lying on the operating surgical table: “While he was asleep, he had a vision in a dream; he believed that God was ordering the servants who were following him to grab him and hold him strong so that He could incise the abdomen. Then he fled, but soon after he was taken and affixed to the operating table. Then, Asclepius excised his abdomen to extract the lump and sewed him, and he was freed from his bonds”.29 The most stunning feeling, which is clearly stated in the narratives, is the disbelief in the prodigies of the deity. There are approximately ten cases questioning the efficiency of the god, and even this might appear very often in laudatory rhetoric, however, here, it is part of a structured thaumaturgic discourse. The narrative always follows the same process: a patient comes to the sanctuary but has some doubts about the results of the cure, and even openly mocks Asclepius: Very close to the Aristophanic parody of incubation in Plutus the iamata texts quote, for instance, that “He-sc. a patient- laughed at Asclepius’ treatment [---] and spoke fearlessly”.30 Sometimes the patient feels the need to be convinced with his own eyes the miracle-procedures: “While the suppliants were already asleep, Aischines climbed up a tree to spy on the sanctuary”.31 Other 26 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 156, XI, l. 10. 27 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 116. 28 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 100, XLIV. 29 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 66, XXVII. 30 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 70, XXXVI. 31 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 28, XI.



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times, patients try to deceive Asclepius by not paying their fees, showing no gratitude for their healing.32 In all these cases, the uncanny or unfaithful patient is punished by the god with the prolonging of his illness; as a result, the patient must spend another night at the temple, praying for his healing. We should note that many stories which include mockeries from patients, as well as their punishments, are placed at the beginning of the first stone of the iamata, possibly, once again, in order to overcome objections from future patients, who may also doubt the efficiency of the god. A story is worth mentioning here, as it vividly describes the matter of incredulity: “A man with all the fingers of the hand paralyzed but one came as a suppliant to the god. While looking at the votive tablets in the sanctuary, he did not believe in healing and criticised the stories. While he was asleep, he had a vision: he believed that, as he was playing the dice below the temple and was about to cast it, the god appeared, jumped on his hand by streching his fingers. When the god stepped aside, he bent his hand and stretched out his fingers, one by one. When he had straightened all his fingers, the god asked him if he would still be incredulous of the stories on the tablets in the sanctuary. He answered that he would not. The god then said, «because, formerly you were incredulous of these stories, though they were not incredible, well, from now on, we will call you Incredulous». When the day came, he went out healthy”.33 The composition of the story consists of all the components of a careful staging: the gratulatory votive tablets (pinakes), which are another visual proof of Asclepius’ miracles, the incredulity of the patient regarding the god’s efficiency, the miracle itself and the claim for remembrance that is fulfilled through a name which, as a medium, could help spread the magnitude of the god much easier and more effectively than the medium of the stone, whose immobility restricts its function, i.  e. to serve the god. The narrative seeks to underline, once more, that the god is magnanimous, not only because he cured the doubter, but moreover because the respective punishment was actually a light one (his name changed). The story ends with the ritual phrase: the day came, he went out healthy. Despite the strong evidence of a sort of rebellion against this irrational medicine, the god still performs miracles: what a great way to prevent the patients from future doubts and destroy their fears. That is the real purpose of this story. In any case, the aretological dimension of the iamata, with regard to the non-recognition of the god’s miraculous abilities, does not allow using the term impiety. Impiety concerns the deity itself while the miracle discourse of the

32 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 100, XLVII. 33 Prêtre-Charlier 2009, 24, III.

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iamata owes its existence to the god, who cannot be abolished; otherwise, we cannot have iamata. While the healing efficiency of the god can be challenged in the narrative, the god himself cannot be not doubted. The writers of the iamata stories do not hesitate to present a wide range of feelings: from admiration and gratitude to disbelief through suspicion and disappointment. By presenting conflicting evidence and an array of emotions, they obliterate the doubts of the patients and demonstrate that any future objection will be resolved by the definite success of the divine therapy. This is a really bold and unexpected rhetorical technique compared to the textual sources which celebrate the glory of the gods in a direct and an unidirectional way.

Epilogue The various direct (due to the extraordinary nature of some diseases and healings) and indirect performance-means, used by the redactors of the healing inscriptions, provide a sensible access to phenomena with a completely irrational layout. The ultimate question is: do the terms “miracles, wonders” (θαῦμα in Greek) really apply to iamata? If we accept that, in literary sources, the θαῦμα appears as we did not expect it, then, we must also agree that iamata do not constitute a θαῦμα, since healing is expected. Surprise is certainly evident in the narratives, but the patients, except in three cases of incredulity, are convinced of the “normality” of their healing from the moment they step in the sanctuary of Asclepius. The varied reactions to Asclepius’ therapeutics means, that is, the doubts manifested in the texts, the patient’s disappointment in the healing capacity of the god and the jokes and the mockery towards the god, are set in contrast with the absolute astonishment which is expected from the believers in the hymns to the gods; nevertheless, those elements, which do not doubt the deity itself but its healing capacities, are eventually used to serve the reputation of the god and describe the common character of the relationship between the patient and the god. The expression “court of miracles”, borrowed from Victor Hugo, seems appropriate for these stories: The extreme dramatization of healing allows testifying, in an original way, the efficiency of the divine medicine in an age where the Hippocratic medicine becomes popular and offers an undesirable alternative to healing deities.



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Bibliography Calame, C. (1994), Les Hymnes homériques [Modalités énonciatives et fonctions], Mètis. Anthropologie des mondes grecs anciens 9/10, 91–400. Chaniotis, A. (2013), “Paradoxon, Enargeia, Empathy: Hellenistic Decrees and Hellenistic Oratory”, in: C. Kremmydas/K. Tempest (eds.), Continuity and Change: Oratory in the Hellenistic Period, Oxford, 200–216. Compton, M. (1998), “The Union of Religion and Health in Ancient Asclepieia”, Journal of Religion and Health 37 (4), 301–312. Dillon, M. (1994), “The didactic nature of the Epidaurian Iamata”, ZPE 101, 239–260. Dörnemann, M. (2003), Krankheit und Heilung in der Theologie der frühen Kirchenväter, Tübingen. Edelstein, E./Edelstein, L. (1945), Asclepius, Baltimore. Girone, M. (1998), Iamata, Guarigioni miracolose di Asclepio in testi epigrafici, con un contributo di Maria Totti-Gemünd, Bari. Guarducci, M. (1934), “I ‘miracoli’ di Asclepio a Lebena”, Historia 8, 410–428. Herzog, R. (1931), Die Wunderheilungen von Epidauros, Leipzig. Hunzinger, C. (1993), “L’étonnement et l’émerveillement chez Homère: les mots de la famille de thauma”, REG 106, 17–19. – (1994), “Le plaisir esthétique dans l’épopée archaïque: les mots de la famille de thauma”, Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé, 4–30. – (2010a), “Entre séduction et déception: l’ambiguïté de la beauté du merveilleux dans l’épopée grecque archaïque”, in: A. Gaillard/J.-R. Valette (eds.), La beauté du merveilleux, Bordeaux, 21–41. – (2010b), “La perception du merveilleux: thaumazô et théèomai”, in: L. Villard (ed.), Études sur la vision dans l’Antiquité classique, Rouen, 29–38. Jouanna, J. (1992), Hippocrate, Paris. Kavvadias, P. (1900), Το Ιερόν του Ασκληπιού εν Επιδαύρωι και η θεραπεία των ασθενών, Athens. Kremmydas, C./K. Tempest (eds.) (2013), Continuity and Change: Oratory in the Hellenistic Period, Oxford. Lidonnici, L. (1995), The Epidaurian Miracle Inscriptions, text, translation and commentary, Atlanta. Nehrbass, R. (1935), Sprache und Stil der Iamata von Epidauros, Leipzig. Peek, W. (1962), “Griechische Weihgedichte aus dem Asklepieion von Epidauros”, WZHalle 11, 1001–1013. – (1969), Inschriften aus dem Asklepieion von Epidauros, Leipzig. Petridou, G. (2016), Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature and Culture, Oxford. Pirenne-Delforge, V. (1989), “Conception et manifestations du sacré dans l’Hymne homérique à Aphrodite”, Kernos 2, 187–197. Prêtre, C./P. Charlier (2009), Maladies humaines, thérapies divines, Analyse épigraphique et paléopathologique de textes de guérison grecs, Lille. Schepens, G./K. Delcroix (1996), “Ancient paradoxography: origin, evolution, production and reception”, in: O. Pecere/A. Stramaglia (eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo greco-latino, Cassino, 373–460. Taffin, A. (1960), “Comment on rêvait dans les temples d’Esculape”, BAGB 1960, 325–366. Wickkiser, B. (2008), Asklepios, Medicine, and the Politics of Healing in Fifth-century Greece: Between Craft and Cult, Baltimore. Williams, F. (1978), Callimachus, Hymn to Apollo. A Commentary, Oxford.

George Kazantzidis

Medicine and the paradox in the Hippocratic Corpus and Beyond Abstract: The aim of this chapter is to address the almost complete absence of human oddities in early paradoxography and to trace the developments which gradually transform the human body, in later collections, into a source of paradox and wonder. In my investigation, Hippocratic medicine occupies a central position. I argue that the main reason why paradoxography, in its early stages, excludes the human subject from its material has to do with the fact that in previous medical texts human nature has been studied thoroughly and systematically, so much so that it leaves, as it were, little room for imagination and paradoxographical exploitation. This strict line between medicine and the paradox collapses in later collections from the Roman imperial period. Phlegon of Tralles not only includes stories of humans in his marvellous accounts, but he seems to be drawing some of his material from medicine in order to describe anatomical oddities, deformities, monstrous births, sex changes and so on, which to him qualify perfectly as paradoxographical material. My aim in this section is to illustrate how for the first time medicine and paradox converge in the Hippocratic Corpus with almost exclusive reference to the female body, and how essentially Phlegon’s emphasis on women’s bodies can be situated in this tradition. While excluding the idea of paradox from its epistemological spectrum, early Greek medicine leaves the door open for it when it comes to women, and this selective treatment helps to put into perspective the dominant presence of female oddities in later paradoxography.

Introduction Recent interest in paradoxography, from its early conception as a derivative, miscellanistic genre in Hellenistic times to late antique accounts of miracle cures and other wondrous occurrences, has yielded new and important insights in scholarship over the past few years.1 A close look at the works of Antigonus of Carystus (Ἱστοριῶν παραδόξων συναγωγή) and ps.-Aristotle (Περί θαυμασίων

1 See e.  g. the discussions in Sassi 1995; Schepens/Delcroix 1996; Johnson 2006; Schepens 2009; Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 151–167 and Pajón Leyra 2011. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-005

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ἀκουσμάτων), both of which date back to the 3rd cent. BC,2 allows us to form a fairly good idea about the principles and epistemological premises by which the first paradoxographical collections are compiled: an interest in the bizarre and the mysterious, manifesting in the form of strange-looking animals, wondrous rivers and other astonishing natural phenomena, is combined with the paradoxographers’ use of highly authenticated sources (e.  g. Aristotle)3 in their attempt to distinguish paradox from fiction and suggest that the material presented constitutes an unmistakable part of reality.4 Being broadly situated within the realm, or more accurately in the margins of what we would call today ‘natural sciences’, paradoxography presents θαῦμα, first and foremost, as an impulse to mental inquiry – an inquiry which ‘the text declines to actualise but implicitly identifies as the task of the recipient’.5 As Nita Krevans explains: ‘the key to the genre is the objective and rational presentation of an item which appears to break the laws of nature’; its ‘aim is not the satisfied ‘aha!’ of understanding but the round-eyed ‘oh!’ of wonder’.6 What is almost entirely absent from these first collections, however, is the topic of human oddities.7 As originally conceived, paradoxography shows an 2 Antigonus of Carystus, the reputed Pergamene scholar who lived at Athens, compiled his collection in the mid- 3rd cent. BC. His work survives in 173, generally very short, chapters, though the end (and possibly the beginning) has been lost. The ps.-Aristotelian collection, on the other hand, consists of 178 chapters and represents a gradual accretion of material over the course of many centuries; it is generally believed that it has taken shape in its original from as early as the 3rd cent. BC, and was still being added to in the 3rd cent. AD. See the lemmata in Ziegler 1949 and Wenskus/Daston 2000; for Antigonus and ps.-Aristotle, see Dorandi 1995 and Flashar 1972 respectively. 3 Leigh 2013, 184 speaks of the paradoxographers’ ‘cheerfully parasitic relationship to more systematic works of scholarship’. 4 See Jacob 1983. 5 Munson 2001, 134; cf. Cameron 2004, 268: ‘the paradoxographer reduces explanatory detail to a minimum’, and Vanotti 2007, 26–29. 6 Krevans 2004, 175 and 2005, 91. 7 Judging from the excerpts cited by Antigonus, Callimachus  – the earliest paradoxographer on record – dealt mainly with wonders concerning rivers, springs and other aquatic phenomena. Philostephanus of Cyrene (3rd cent. BC), a pupil of Callimachus, wrote a work entitled Περὶ παραδόξων ποταμῶν, while Archelaus of Chersonesus’ Περὶ θαυμασίων (or Ἰδιοφυῆ, 3rd cent. BC) appears to have been concerned with zoological curiosities; cf. Polemon Periegetes’ Περὶ τῶν ἐν Σικελίᾳ θαυμαζομένων ποταμῶν (3rd–2nd cent. BC). One of the few fragments – transmitted by Aelian (XVI.34) – that sheds some light into Nymphodorus of Syracuse’s Περὶ τῶν ἐν Σικελίᾳ θαυμαζομένων (3rd – 2nd cent. BC) concerns goats in Sardinia. Finally, it is worth adding that Strato of Lampsacus (c. 355–269 BC), whom some suspect to have initiated the genre of paradoxography, concentrated on curiosities from the animal kingdom; see Vanotti 2007, 24. It is only at a later stage, e.  g. with Nicolaus of Damascus’ Παραδόξων ἐθῶν συναγωγή (1st cent. BC), that



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interest in mapping out a natural world full of marvels and wonders; yet, the very subject surrounded, and sometimes affected by them, is only rarely considered a cause for wonder per se. Indeed, one may say that the man is suggested to lie at the periphery of this strange world and is only exceptionally treated as an oddity in and of himself; rather, it is mostly through its circumstantial interaction with the physical elements that the human subject becomes part of a paradoxographical scenario – assuming, as it were, the role of a catalyst which helps to reveal how astonishing the world can be and how some of its marvellous aspects can affect the fixed norms of human nature (e.  g. by causing sickness or, inversely, by restoring health).8 In this sense, later collections, such as Phlegon’s Περί θαυμασίων (2nd cent. AD),9 differ substantially in that human characters10 assume a central position in narratives of the bizarre, and paradox is perceived as not only affecting but also emanating directly from human life.11 we find a systematic investigation of oddities arising from the world of humans. Interestingly enough, earlier instances of paradoxographical discourse during the 5th and 4th centuries BC (mainly in the context of ethnographic digressions in the works of Herodotus and Ctesias of Cnidus) implicate human oddities, often in combination with medical material (see e.  g. Thomas 2000, 86–100; Tuplin 2004; cf. Gabba 1981); however, when paradoxography emerges as an independent genre in Hellenistic times the concept of ‘marvelous human’ beings is more or less abandoned, and the emphasis shifts mainly on the rest of the natural world. 8 So, for instance, ps.-Aristotle ch. 66 tells the remarkable story of how ‘the spotted lizard, when it has sloughed its skin like a snake, is said to turn round and devour it’ – and then goes on to add that this phenomenon (which presents the core of the paradox in question) is observed by the physicians because the skin is thought to be a remedy for epilepsy (τηρεīσθαι γὰρ ὑπὸ τῶν ἰατρῶν διὰ τὸ χρήσιμον εἶναι τοīς ἐπιληπτικοīς). Similarly, the stories about the water at Tyana which ‘leaps at the eyes, hands and feet of perjurers, causing them to suffer from dropsy and consumption’ (ch. 152) or that of the stone which drives people crazy in ch. 167 are primarily focused on the wild elements of nature: the man appears to be part of the paradoxical script but in a supplementary way, i.  e. not as the direct cause of wonder. At any rate, in the vast majority of θαυμάσια in Antigonus and ps.-Aristotle human subjects are completely absent. 9 See the editions of Hansen 1996 and, more recently, of Braccini/Scorsone 2013. 10 As opposed to the superhuman heroes of the distant, mythical past which make their appearance in early paradoxography, such as Heracles (ch. 100), Jason (ch. 105), Diomedes (ch. 79), Philoctetes (ch. 107) and others in ps.-Aristotle’s collection. Most of these accounts are accompanied by ps.-Aristotle’s use of the verb μυθολογοῡσιν, which warns us about their credibility and differentiates this subset of stories from the rest of the paradoxographical material on rivers, stones and fires, which is introduced by the (more pragmatic) φασίν, ‘people say’. On the interrelated, yet distinct, genres of mythography and paradoxography (the latter presents its readers with a world that lies, at least temporally, closer to them and in this sense lends more credence to itself), see Higbie 2007, 238  ff. 11 A point hinted at but not fully explored in Johnson 2006, 178: ‘Early paradoxographies’ include stories ‘about bizarre plants, geographical formations, and the like. Gradually, however, the content became more fluid, including social customs and sexual oddities’.

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The aim of this paper is to address this initial absence and to trace the developments which gradually transform the human body into a source of wonder – that is, into something which, like any other part of the physical world, can deviate from the ‘norm’ in a way that eschews a straightforward explanation, and can therefore be labeled paradoxical. In this investigation, Hippocratic medicine (5th–4th cent. BC) will occupy a central position. I propose to show that one of the reasons why paradoxography, in its early stages, excludes the human subject from its material has precisely to do with the fact that in earlier medical writings the study of human nature has been pursued in a clear and systematic way – which leaves, as it were, little room for imagination and paradoxographical ‘exploitation’:12 disease, as one medical writer puts it,13 presents itself as θαυμάσιον and τερατῶδες (two terms which are inextricably connected in paradoxographical contexts)14 only to those who lack expert knowledge; when we proceed to apply the analytical tools of medicine, however, it transpires that the human body follows logical patterns and consists (almost entirely) of principles that can be explained thoroughly and rationally.15 In this context, the observation that something happening in the body (during sickness) is not as θαυμάσιον as it might seem at first sight, but has a solid and simple explanation instead, will be seen as occurring very often in the Hippocratic Corpus.

12 As Flemming 2005, 459–460 points out, the relationship between medicine and paradoxography should not necessarily be seen as ‘antagonistic’, especially in light of the fact that material on the healing properties of things that can be found in nature (plants, animals etc.) is commonly shared by both domains. ‘Hellenistic monarchy’, according to Flemming’s reading, ‘is big enough to hold elaborate discourses of rationality and irrationality in its embrace… Indeed it is possible that an overwhelming rationalism will inevitably produce its opposite… Overall, however, these contrasts seem too sharply drawn… Certainly, the development of bodies of occult knowledge about nature can be seen as an extension of methods of organization, of systematization, established in more ‘rational’ areas of natural knowledge, rather than their contradiction’ (2005, 460). While it is true that early paradoxography contains material of a ‘medical nature’ (see n.8 above and cf. Antigonus ch. 171), we should be careful not to stress the connection with scientific writings too far: on the one hand, the paradoxographers’ reference to things that can heal the human body (or mind) is often intertwined with reported supernatural beliefs that would have been unequivocally rejected by medical writers, as for instance ps.-Aristotle’s story of a stone in Nile which is said to cure insanity by ‘driving off wild spirits’ (ch. 166). At the same time, there is enough evidence to suggest that renowned pharmacologists during the early Hellenistic period, such as the Herophilean Andreas (c. 244–205 BC), wrote entire treatises (one of them entitled ‘On False Beliefs’) in order to refute paradoxography’s circumstantial and pseudo-scientific claim to medical lore; see von Staden 1999, 157–158. 13 Morb. sacr. 1 (6.352 L). 14 See Leigh 2013, 187, n.173. 15 See Lloyd 1979, 15–29.



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This line of thought, as I will argue, is – to some degree at least – self-consciously opposed to contemporary accounts of miraculous cures, as these are chiefly documented in the Epidaurian ‘iamata’: what we find there as a predominant notion, occasionally marked with the word θαῦμα, is precisely the idea that the divine and supernatural can interfere with human disease in ways that look wondrous and remain, for the most part, inexplicable. In accordance with the Hippocratic approach, Aristotle will be shown to refrain likewise from expressing amazement in his anatomical and biological writings; in fact, if there is something that makes Aristotle ‘wonder’ is how uniquely logical and perfectly beautiful the human body can be, and how every single part of it serves a specific purpose (Part. anim. 645a 15–36). This strict line between medicine and the paradox, as drawn for the first time in the Hippocratic Corpus and then reflected in early paradoxography’s subsequent exclusion of human curiosities from its spectrum, collapses in later collections. Phlegon not only includes stories of humans in his accounts but, in so doing, he draws some of his material from medical texts in order to describe anatomical oddities, deformities, monstrous births, sex changes etc., which to him qualify perfectly as paradoxographical material. My aim in the last section of this chapter is to show how for the first time medicine and paradox converge in the Hippocratic Corpus with almost exclusive reference to the female body and how essentially Phlegon’s emphasis on women’s bodies throughout his collection can be situated in this tradition. While systematically opposing itself to any sense of paradox, early Greek medicine leaves the door open when it comes to women, and this selective treatment seems to have direct consequences on what paradoxographers judge to be a fitting subject for thrilling speculation and discussion in later collections.

‘Nil admirari’, or Why there is nothing ‘marvelous’ about the human body in the Hippocratic corpus Let us start with the tale which occurs first, at the top of Stele A, among the Epidaurian ‘iamata’ – records of miracle cures that were inscribed on stone and set up in columns at the temple of Asclepius in Epidaurus in the late fourth century BC.16 As we read at IG IV2, 1 121.3–9:

16 On the compositional background of the ‘iamata’, see LiDonnici 1992. Some of the stories, circulating presumably in oral form, date back to the 5th cent. BC; see Wickisser 2008, 40.

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[Κλ]εὼ πένθ’ ἔτη ἐκύησε. αὕτα πέντ’ ἐνιαυτοὺς ἤδη κυοῦσα ποὶ τὸν / [θε]ὸν ἱκέτις ἀφίκετο καὶ ἐνεκάθευδε ἐν τῶι ἀβάτωι· ὡς δὲ τάχις//[τα] ἐξῆλθε ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ ἐκ τοῦ ἱαροῦ ἐγένετο, κόρον ἔτεκε, ὃς εὐ/[θ]ὺς γενόμενος αὐτὸς ἀπὸ τᾶς κράνας ἐλοῦτο καὶ ἅμα τᾶι ματρὶ / [π]εριῆρπε. τυχοῦσα δὲ τούτων ἐπὶ τὸ ἄνθεμα ἐπεγράψατο· “οὐ μέγε/[θο]ς πίνακος θαυμαστέον, ἀλλὰ τὸ θεῖον, | πένθ’ ἔτη ὡς ἐκύησε ἐγ γας/τρὶ Κλεὼ βάρος, ἔστε | ἐγκατεκοιμάθη καί μιν ἔθηκε ὑγιῆ”.17

Cleo was pregnant for five years. After the fifth year of pregnancy, she came as a suppliant to the god and slept in the Abaton. As soon as she walked out and exited the sacred area, she gave birth to a son who, as soon as he was born, washed himself at the fountain and walked about with his mother. Because of these things the fortunate woman inscribed upon an offering: ‘The wonder is not the size of the pinax, but the act of god: Cleo bore a burden in her stomach for five years, until she slept here, and he made her healthy’. Although there is a growing tendency among historians of medicine to emphasize that the dividing line between ‘temple’ and ‘rational’ medicine at the time of the Hippocratics should be seriously contested on various grounds,18 there are still strong indications of a competitive and antagonistic environment between the two domains. As William Harris observes, for instance, in his classical study on dreams in antiquity, after a relatively early Hippocratic treatise (On Regimen 4.86– 93) devoted on the subject (which was composed around 400 BC),19 ‘doctors took the study of dreams no further, in spite of the fact that the Hippocratic tradition was progressive in spirit and well aware that knowledge could be extended by research’. One ‘easy explanation’, Harris continues, ‘is that in practice physicians eventually realized that dreams were seldom much use, but it is also possible that the growing popularity of incubation shrines… meant that relying on dreams came to be associated with a rival form of medicine (my emphasis)’.20 Be that as it may, there is little doubt that to a Hippocratic physician, Cleo’s five-year pregnancy21 (relieved through incubation), as well as the striking detail that the child

17 For the text and its translation I follow the edition of LiDonnici 1995. 18 See, more recently, King 2006; cf. Nutton 1992; 1995 and Parker 1996, 184. 19 On Regimen 4.86–93 [6.640–63 L.]. For a detailed discussion, see Harris 2009, 243–250 and cf. van der Eijk 2004. 20 Harris 2009, 249. On dreams and divination in magical ritual, see Eitrem 1991. 21 Cf. IG IV2, 121.9–22, Stele A no.2 (Ithmonice of Pellene is pregnant for three years before giving birth to a daughter with Asclepius’ help). Medical authors recognized two types of pregnancy, a shorter one of seven months and a longer one lasting ten months; see Dasen 2013, 23. Cf. Aristotle, Gen. An. 772 b7–11.



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was born able to walk and wash itself, would have sounded absurd.22 A close look at the rest of the healing inscriptions reveals a similar degree of exaggeration, and one might add a taste for the sensational and the bizarre:23 one patient, for example, is said to ‘have been so blind that of one of his eyes he had only the eyelids left’; still, while others kept laughing ‘at his silliness to think that he could recover his sight’, he spends the night in the temple and when day comes he departs with his vision fully restored.24 In a different case, a surgical procedure goes horribly wrong and the patient’s head is cut off until the god returns to

22 As Garland 2011, 81 observes for the Epidaurian inscriptions, ‘the fact that the Greeks used the word iama from iaomai, meaning to ‘heal’, rather than thauma, suggests’ that ‘the cures are to be regarded as routine rather than miraculous, even though they came about in surprising ways’. Notice, however, the poignant and, one might add, programmatic, use of θαυμαστέον (something that should be ‘marveled’ but also ‘miraculous’) in the case of Cleo, which lies at the top of Stele A. In general, I am more inclined to agree with Jouanna 2012, 68–69 who stresses that, ‘although there is no evidence of rivalry between Hippocrates and the religious medicine of the sanctuaries of Asclepius, it is difficult to believe that Hippocrates … was able to give his support to the miraculous medicine of the priests of Asclepius’; cf. Versnel 1990, 191. The gods are very rarely mentioned as potential healers in the Hippocratic corpus: at Vict. 4.87 (6.642 L.) in addition to praying, one should also ‘help oneself’; cf. Virg. 3 (8.468 L.): women wrongly thank Artemis for their release from their ‘disease of virgins’; see Lami 2007, 52–54 with Hanson 2007. 23 Some of the cures in the Epidaurian inscriptions, as Dillon 1994, 257 observes, look fairly ordinary and ‘can perhaps be accepted. But the temple authorities have also recorded cures which defy credence’; in Stele A nos.3 and 4 (IG IV2, 1 121.22–4) we actually read of two patients who openly dismiss the inscribed cures as ‘impossible’ (θεωρῶν δὲ τοὺς ἐν τῶι ἱαρῶι πίνακας ἀπίστει τοῖς ἰάμασιν … περιέρπουσα δὲ [κατὰ τ]ὸ ἱα̣ρὸν τῶν ἰαμάτων τινὰ διεγέλα ὡς ἀπίθανα καὶ ἀδύνα[τα ἐόν]τα). Although it is natural to assume that this degree of exaggeration was meant by the temple authorities to assign Asclepius with miraculous powers, the mix of more credible with less credible accounts of healing inevitably casts a shadow of doubt on the collection of inscriptions as a whole. In this context, it would be instructive to contrast the fact that only one of the patients mentioned in these inscriptions fails eventually to obtain a cure (what Neiden 2005, 87 calls ‘the fiction of success’) with the observation that about 60 percent of the individual case histories recorded in the Hippocratic Epidemics end with the patient’s death. 24 Stele A, case 9; see Edelstein/Edelstein 1998, 231–232. It is worth noting that here, as elsewhere in the inscriptions (e.  g. Stele A, case 30), someone (be it the patient himself or external observes who happen to be around the temple) express their disbelief (ἀπιστία) that a cure is possible. Although as a narrative motif this is meant to highlight the god’s eventual triumph in healing the patient, it also reflects a certain anxiety and self-consciousness that some of these miracle stories do in fact sound somewhat exaggerated; see Whitmarsh 2015 ‘Introduction’ and Lloyd 1979, 38–41 on Asclepius and ‘belief’-medicine. In this context, it should be mentioned that Ἄπιστα appears as a title in some paradoxographical collections, e.  g. in the work of Isigonus of Nicaea (1st cent. BC or 1st cent. AD); wonders, as Packman 1991 points out, occupy a peculiarly indeterminate epistemological position between the plausible and the impossible – and this can be seen as applying also to the main bulk of the Epidaurian inscriptions.

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the temple and fastens it back to its place.25 Finally, to mention one last example, a woman visits the temple ‘for the sake of offspring’ and after dreaming that she has intercourse with a snake, within a year she gives birth to two sons.26 The Hippocratic scepticism towards ‘miracle’ stories (θαύματα) of this kind27 can be traced, among others, in their tendency to stress that a comprehensive examination of the human body eventually leaves someone with little to wonder at (θαυμάζειν)  – in the sense that in both health and sickness there is always a rational explanation for something that may initially look puzzling or even inexplicable. In one of the few Hippocratic texts, where an attack against temple medicine is explicitly launched, θαυμάσιον is highlighted precisely in association with ignorance, and it is applied to those who lack expert knowledge and are thus easily ‘astonished’ by what strikes them as unusual, or even preternatural. As we read in Morb. Sacr. 1 (6.352–4 L.) – a text which is designed to prove that that the so-called ‘sacred disease’ (epilepsy) is not divinely inflicted28 (nor, for that matter, can it be cured by the gods) but simply caused by a malfunction in the brain and an excessively phlegmatic constitution, Περὶ τῆς ἱερῆς νούσου καλεομένης ὧδ’ ἔχει· οὐδέν τί μοι δοκεī τῶν ἄλλων θειοτέρη εἶναι νούσων οὐδὲ ἱερωτέρη, ἀλλὰ φύσιν μὲν ἔχει καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ νοσήματα, ὅθεν γίνεται, φύσιν δὲ αὕτη καὶ πρόφασιν. οἱ ἄνθρωποι ἐνόμισαν θεῖόν τι πρῆγμα εἶναι ὑπὸ ἀπορίης καὶ θαυμασιότητος, ὅτι οὐδὲν ἔοικεν ἑτέροισι … εἰ δὲ διὰ τὸ θαυμάσιον θεῖον νομιεῖται, πολλὰ τὰ ἱερὰ νοσήματα ἔσται καὶ οὐχὶ ἓν, ὡς ἐγὼ ἀποδείξω ἕτερα οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἐόντα θαυμάσια οὐδὲ τερατώδεα,29 ἃ οὐδεὶς νομίζει ἱερὰ εἶναι.

25 Stele A, case 23; Edelstein/Edelstein 1998, 234. 26 Stele B, case 42. 27 Posidippus’ ‘iamatika’ draw heavily on the tradition of the Epidaurian inscriptions (Bing 2004; Wickkiser 2013), and they can be clearly placed, alongside his λιθικά, in a context which engages closely with the paradoxographical tradition; see Krevans 2005, 89–92 and Bing 2005, 134–135. 28 This is a general attitude among the Hippocratics; the gods are never mentioned as causes of diseases in the extant medical treatises; cf. Aer. 22 (2.80 L.). As Lloyd 1987, 11 observes, Hippocratic medicine ‘effectively… blocked any move to explain diseases by invoking divine or supernatural agencies’; cf. Lloyd 1979, 37–49; Hankinson 1998, 16–17 and Holmes 2010, 9 n. 28. The exclusion of supernatural agency along with the assumption that an illness which affects the mind, such as epilepsy, has a somatic cause lead to the realization among medical circles that there is nothing specifically θαυμάσιον about a mental illness (see n. 64 below). What is more, the fact that the only two cases in the Corpus where religious healing is explicitly attacked (‘On the Sacred Disease’, ‘On the Diseases of Young Girls’) concern pathological manifestations of epilepsy, shows doctors to be especially concerned with dispelling any sense of wonder specifically in relation to what we would call mental illness. 29 On the intrinsic link between wonder and dread, see Gutzwiller 2007, 166 (with special reference to early paradoxography).



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I am about to discuss the disease called ‘sacred’. It is not in my opinion any more divine or more sacred than others, but just as the other diseases have a nature from which they arise, likewise this one has a nature and a cause. But humans have considered it a divine thing because of their difficulty to understand it and their wonder at its peculiar character, since it looks quite different from other diseases … But if it is to be considered divine just because it is wonderful, there will be not one sacred disease but many, for I will show that other diseases are no less wonderful and portentous, and yet nobody considers them sacred.30 The contrast between the physician’s knowledge and the ignorance of the public is a standard motif in medical writings of the time. It should be, therefore, seen as no coincidence that the vast majority of θαῦμα- occurrences in the Corpus is generated precisely at points of the narrative which hint at how impressionable people can be, as opposed to sober technical expertise which intervenes and helps to explain away the mystifying and ‘wonderful’ aspects of the human body. At the same time, the high frequency with which doctors feel the need to stress that what they are dealing with can be accounted for rationally – and should by no means cause ‘wonder’ or ‘surprise’ (θαῦμα δὲ οὐδὲν31 / οὐδὲν θαυμαστόν32 / οὐ θαῦμά ἐστι33 / οὐ θαυμάσαιμι δ’ ἂν34) – suggests that, to some degree at least, they are alert, and perhaps even self-consciously opposed to ‘alternative’ practices and explanations, associated presumably with temple medicine. So, for

30 Translation in Jones 1923, 139–141. The author goes on to mention diseases such as ‘tertian’ and ‘quartan’ fevers or ‘sudden fits of delirium’ as equally remarkable with epilepsy; yet, as he states, no one ‘wonders at’ this kind of conditions (ὧν οὐ θαυμασίως γ’ ἔχουσιν); his aim is not, of course, to suggest that one should, but to show that people should similarly refrain from attributing to epilepsy ‘divine’ and ‘wonderful’ qualities; for the author’s penchant for rhetorical maneuvers of this kind throughout the treatise, see Laskaris 2002. 31 Coac. 80 (5.600 L.): ‘Fevers that are mild at the beginning and accompanied by throbbing in the head and thin urine have an exacerbation towards their crisis; it would be no wonder in such cases if delirium and sleeplessness also set in’ (θαῦμα δὲ οὐδέν, εἰ καὶ παρακοπὴ καὶ ἀγρυπνίη γένοιτο); cf. Cord. 3 (9.84 L.): ‘Now in the right ventricle [of the heart] there is no inborn fire, so that it is no wonder that the left ventricle is the rougher, being filled as it is with unmixed fire’ (ὥστε οὐ θαῦμα τρηχυτέρην γενέσθαι τὴν λαιὴν ἐσπνέουσαν ἀκρήτου). 32 Morb. 2.47 (7.68 L.). 33 Morb. 4.13 (7.566 L.): ‘If with the cavity still hot, excessively hot breath arrives in a person, it will be no wonder if he becomes feverish in such a situation’ (οὐ θαῦμά ἐστι τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἐκ τοῦ τοιούτου πυρετῆναι); cf. Morb. 4.16 (7.576 L.). 34 Acut. Sp. 8 (2.426 L.): ‘In fevers accompanied from the beginning by vertigo, throbbing in the head, and thin urine, wait for crises when the fever has its paroxysm; and I would not be at all amazed if patients of that kind were to be affected with delirium’ (οὐ θαυμάσαιμι δ’ ἂν οὐδ’ εἰ παραφρονήσειαν); cf. Prorrh. 1.116 (5.548 L.): … οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσαιμι.

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example, in discussing how each body responds to pain differently, depending on its unique physical constitution, a doctor observes that in many cases a wound that looks easy to treat can in fact ‘cause so much pain that the person becomes unable to breathe. Others, from the pain of that same wound, have no difficulty in breathing, but become delirious and die in fever’. As the doctor adds: ‘one should neither be amazed (ἀλλὰ χρὴ μήτε θαυμάζειν) nor feel dread (μήτε ὀρρωδέειν)’35 in seeing this, ‘being aware (εἰδότα)36 that the minds and the bodies of people differ greatly’ and therefore predispose each one of us to absorbing the same event in diverse ways. Knowledge (γνῶσις) is throughout suggested to lie at the extreme opposite of wonder37 and, when properly applied and tested through empirical observation and logical inference, to effectively eliminate it. Accordingly, medical expertise is essential in helping us make sense of complicated medical matters, which common people have the tendency to explain irrationally, as for instance those related to human procreation38 or the intricate nature of the female body.39 Thus, we are told that one should not ‘marvel seeing that the same women and the same men can produce both male and female offspring’ (μὴ θαυμάζειν τὰς αὐτὰς γυναῖκας καὶ τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἄνδρας γόνον καὶ ἄρσενα καὶ θῆλυν ποιέειν).40 Starting from the ‘visible’ (ἐμφανές) fact that this is something that actually happens very often, the medical author infers that ‘in both a woman and a man there exist both female [weak] and male [strong] seed’. Consequently, the sex of the child is determined when both partners coincide in producing male or female seed;41 according to this reasoning (λόγος), in those women who give birth to a girl, female seed is assumed to have been present in greater quantities during intercourse, while in those who give birth to a boy, the male seed predominated. The same tendency to reject that any notion of θαυμάσιον is involved in

35 The collocation of amazement with dread (the latter emerging as a reaction to seeing the patient going insane) reminds us of Morb. sacr. 1 (1.352–4): θαυμάσια … τερατώδεα. On dread and paradoxography, see more recently, Pajón Leyra 2014. 36 Notice how (scientific) knowledge, εἰδότα, is directly juxtaposed in the text to feelings of wonder and dread. 37 See e.  g. Vict. 1.24 (6.496 L.): πολλοὶ θαυμάζουσιν, ὀλίγοι γινώσκουσιν. 38 See the material discussed in Dasen 2005. 39 The female body’s susceptibility to ‘paradoxographical’ treatment, even within a scientific context, is discussed in detail below. 40 Genit. 7 (7.480 L.). As Lonie 1981, 137 observes, μὴ θαυμάζειν should not be translated here with the meaning ‘one should not be surprised’ but as ‘one should not consider it to be a paradox’, and proceeds to associate this passage with the preternatural connotations of θαυμασιότης in Morb. Sacr. 1 (6.352–4 L.); cf. Nat. puer. 26 (7.528 L.). 41 Genit. 6 (7.478 L.): ἢν μὲν ἀπ’ ἀμφοτέρων τὸ σπέρμα ἰσχυρότερον ἔλθῃ, ἄρσεν γίνεται· ἢν δὲ ἀσθενές, θῆλυ. See Lonie 1981, 135.



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the intricate manifestations of human nature can be found in medical accounts of deformity – a prime paradoxographical subject, especially in later collections of the genre.42 As we read at Genit. 11 (7.484), parents who are deformed, often give birth to perfectly healthy children; this can be explained by the fact that a disfigured body ‘still has everything equal in number with the whole’ (ἔχει γὰρ τὸν ἀριθμὸν πάντα τὸ πεπηρωμένον τῷ ὑγιεῖ) and can therefore maintain a sense of normalcy through reproduction. Likewise, ‘it should be considered no paradox’ (οὐ θαῦμα δέ μοι δοκέει εἶναι) that one’s offspring can inherit the deformities of the parent, so long as we assume that some kind of disease has affected the quality of the parent’s seed (its ‘moisture’) and accounts consequently for what is born as an ‘incomplete’ child. The Hippocratic doctor was, of course, aware that because of his technical expertise, and especially his power to predict with precision the course and outcome of a disease, he could very easily become an object of ‘wonder’ himself;43 while in theory this was thought to be an achievement and was judged positively, it was often combined with the cautious advice that one should try to avoid turning himself into a ‘spectacle’.44 In these contexts, θαῦμα occurs, once more, in a negative light, as something that can be easily instilled into an impressionable audience45 but has little to do with actual medical practice. A critique designed to warn against excessive theatricality in anatomical demonstrations performed in public,46 Art. 42–3 (4.182–8 L.), mentions, for example, how tying a patient on a ladder and shaking him violently (αἱ ἐν τῇ κλίμακι κατασείσιες),

42 On paradoxographical texts as a framework for the display of deformity and physical abnormality through the discourse of θαύματα, see Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 151–167; cf. Felton 2014 and ‘Ni’ Mheallaigh 2014, 264. For a detailed study on deformity, with references to paradoxography, see Garland 2010. As Hawes 2014, 55 observes, ‘the very term ‘monster’ (τέρας) encompassed’ in antiquity ‘both mythical creatures and deformed, often prodigious offspring’; cf. Lenfant 1999, 198. 43 See e.  g. Prog. 1 (2.112 L.): ‘In this way you will be justly admired (οὕτω γὰρ ἂν θαυμάζοιτό τε δικαίως) and be an able physician; for the longer time you plan to meet each emergency the greater your power to save those who have a chance of recovery, while you will be blameless if you learn and declare beforehand those who will die and those who will get better’; cf. Prorrh. 2.1 (9.6 L.): τῶν ἰητρῶν προρρήσιες ἀπαγγέλλονται συχναί τε καὶ καλαὶ καὶ θαυμασταὶ. 44 For the increasingly ‘epideictic’ nature of medicine at the level of public performance during the Second Sophistic, see Gleason 2009; the subject is exhaustively explored by Luchner 2004, esp. 9–30. For the connection between spectacle and theatricality in paradoxography, see e.  g. Phlegon, ch.1. 45 On θαῦμα and deception, see Vict. 1.24 (6.496 L.): ὁ πλεῖστα ἐξαπατήσας, οὗτος θαυμάζεται. 46 On the use (and abuse) of theatricality in anatomical demonstrations of that kind in Galen, see Gleason 2009.

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in order to straighten a humpback or relocate a fracture, does not really help;47 however, the text continues, one can find many doctors who use this method ‘mainly because they want to make the crowd gape and stare (ἐκχαυνοῦν τὸν πολὺν ὄχλον), for to such people it seems marvellous to see a man suspended or shaken or treated in such ways (τοῖσι γὰρ τοιούτοισι ταῦτα θαυμάσιά ἐστιν, ἢν ἢ κρεμάμενον ἴδωσιν, ἢ ῥιπτεόμενον, ἢ ὅσα τοῖσι τοιούτοισιν ἔοικε);48 and they always applaud these performances, never troubling themselves about the result of the operation, whether good or bad’.49 All in all, θαῦμα in the Hippocratic Corpus elicits invariably negative responses. Whether we interpret it as the kind of astonishment which is generated by ignorance or in connection with the common people’s tendency to be amazed by unusual conditions, such as epilepsy, which they then falsely attribute to supernatural agencies or, finally, as the effect being produced when medicine has been turned into a mere spectacle, ‘wonder’ is always something that a Hippocratic physician is careful to dismiss and expel from his account of human health and disease. This being so, in one exceptional instance θαυμάσιον appears

47 Nutton 2004, 352 n.62: ‘The depictions of this and similar operations in the Nicetas codex suggests a high chance of serious injury to the patient, and even death from disarticulation of the neck’; cf. Jouanna 1999, 98. 48 The abuse of medical knowledge for the sake of impressing an audience seems to become even more problematised in the first and second centuries AD. Dio Chrysostom (Or. 33.6) clearly situates performing doctors within the realm of the marvelous and the spectacular when describing them as conducting their experiments in the middle of a ‘gaping’ and ‘bewitched’ crowd (οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ κεχήνασι καὶ κεκήληνται). Aelius Aristides (Or. 39.14) mentions ‘doctors and wonder-workers’ in the same context when describing how they train their assistants to collaborate in ‘astonishing’ the spectators: οἱ παῑδες οἱ τῶν ἰατρῶν τε καὶ τῶν θαυματοποιῶν γεγυμνασμένοι … συμπράττοντες ἐκπλήττουσι τους θεωμένους. 49 The language of ‘marvel’ and ‘astonishment’ recurs often in Galen’s discussion of anatomical demonstrations performed in public; conducting an anatomical experiment successfully leaves the audience profoundly amazed, to the extent that doctors are believed to be no different from ‘wonder – workers’; see e.  g. De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis 2.4.29 (5.233 K.): … κἄπειτα θαυμάζουσιν ἐξαίφνης ἀκούσαντες ἐξ ἐγκεφάλου γίγνεσθαι τὴν φωνήν. ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον, ἐπειδὰν ἀκούσωσιν ὡς αἱ κατὰ προαίρεσιν ἅπασαι κινήσεις ὑπὸ μυῶν ἐπιτελοῦνται, θαυμάζουσί τε καὶ παραδοξολόγους ἡμᾶς ἀποκαλοῦσι. As Gleason 2009 illustrates convincingly, although Galen essentially believes that there is a perfectly rational explanation for everything that happens in the body, he nonetheless flirts closely with his emerging self- image as a wonder-worker; ‘[i] ndeed, once his opponents have been effectively silenced, Galen’s anatomical performances look less and less like an intellectual debate and more and more like a magic show’ (2009, 100); cf. von Staden 1995, 59. In this respect, the Hippocratics turn out to be unequivocally dismissive of the notion of θαυμάσιον, certainly more so than Galen whose public performances ‘tapped into the realm of unreason. What most spectators experienced may have been what Galen’s texts discuss least: blood, pain, fear and scopophilia itself’ (Gleason 2009, 114).



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to be endorsed as a positive quality. In discussing the delicate nature of ‘hidden membranes’ (ὑμένες ἀφανέες) in the area of the heart – ‘a piece of craftsmanship which deserves description above all others’ – the author of Cord. 10 (9.86–8 L.) notes how these ‘spread out like cobwebs through the cavities and surround the orifices on all sides and implant filaments into the solid wall of the heart’ which serve as a foundation to the arteries. And he continues: ἔστι δὲ αὐτῶν ζεῦγος καὶ θύραισι μεμηχάνηνται τρεῖς ὑμένες ἑκάστῃ, περιφερέες ἐξ ἄκρου περ ὁκόσον ἡμίτομα κύκλου, οἵ τε ξυνιόντες θαυμάσιον ὡς κλείουσι τὰ στόματα, τῶν ἀορτέων πέρας.

There is a pair of these arteries, and on the entrance of each three membranes have been contrived, with their edges rounded to the approximate extent of a semicircle. When they come together it is wonderful to see how precisely they close off the entrance to the arteries.50 The Hippocratic treatise ‘On the Heart’, from which the passage above derives, is considered by most scholars to be a late product, roughly dated around 300- 250 BC51 and certainly post-Aristotelian in view of the author’s central argument that καρδίη is where a person’s intelligence is located.52 The fact that the author has been influenced by Aristotle can be traced, among others, in his almost unique (by Hippocratic standards) use of θαυμάσιον which occurs here with the meaning of ‘marvelling’ at something that has been fully comprehended  – it signals, in other words, a kind of aesthetic satisfaction reserved only for those with an extensive knowledge of the human body and a deep appreciation of how extraordinary (but also logically constructed) it can be.53 In the same way, Aristotle (Part. an. 645a7–30) remarks that in all ‘natural things’ that come into being and perish there is something ‘marvellous’ to be found (ἐν πᾶσι γὰρ τοῖς φυσικοῖς ἔνεστί τι θαυμαστόν), provided that one is able to discern how everything in the world has a cause (δυνάμενοί γε τὰς αἰτίας καθορᾶν) and a purpose (τὸ γὰρ μὴ τυχόντως ἀλλ’ ἕνεκά τινος ἐν τοῖς τῆς φύσεως ἔργοις ἐστὶ), and how even the tiniest parts of a bigger structure work and interact with each other. Thus while examining the

50 Transl. by Lonie 1978. 51 See Craik 2014, 56; cf. von Staden 1989, 174–175. 52 See van der Eijk 2005, 124–125 and, for a detailed discussion, Lonie 1973. 53 Cf. VM 12 (1.596–8 L.): ‘since the ancient art of medicine has been able to come, by means of reasoning (λογισμῷ), from profound ignorance (ἐκ πολλῆς ἀγνωσίης) close to perfect accuracy, I think it is much more appropriate to marvel at its discoveries (θαυμάζειν τὰ ἐξευρημένα) as having been made admirably, correctly and not by chance’. See Schiefsky 2005, 222.

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human body’s parts one by one may cause some sense of discomfort (οὐκ ἔστι γὰρ ἄνευ πολλῆς δυσχερείας ἰδεῖν ἐξ ὧν συνέστηκε τὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων γένος, οἷον αἷμα, σάρκες, ὀστᾶ, φλέβες καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα μόρια), viewing the human body as a whole offers instead ‘immeasurable pleasures’ – to those who can appreciate what it is that they really see (ἡ δημιουργήσασα φύσις ἀμηχάνους ἡδονὰς παρέχει τοῖς δυναμένοις τὰς αἰτίας γνωρίζειν καὶ φύσει φιλοσόφοις). Knowing the reason for which something has been created allows us to appreciate its beauty (οὗ δ’ ἕνεκα συνέστηκεν ἢ γέγονε τέλους, τὴν τοῦ καλοῦ χώραν εἴληφεν)  – in other words, to wonder (θαυμάζειν) at its depth and meaning.54 In line with the Hippocratics, Aristotle considers it the task of philosophy in general to dispel any sense of to wonder at, but also be astonished by phenomena as being symptomatic of an ignorant world-view;55 θαυμάζειν appears instead in a positive light when it is conceived as the driving force behind mental inquiry and, when this inquiry has been carried out properly, as the kind of aesthetic experience associated with the pleasure of seeing the beauty of things which to others still look incomprehensible, perhaps even odd. ‘Nature’, according to Aristotle, ‘does nothing in vain’ (μηδὲν μάτην ποιεῖ ἡ φύσις),56 and this is consistently applied as a principle in both his human and animal biology; although there are admittedly cases, such as monstrous creatures or spontaneous generation, which challenge his taxonomic and teleological system, Aristotle’s tendency remains that of explaining them as exceptional instances (παρά φύσιν) ‘which can nevertheless be understood as in accordance with the regular processes of nature’.57 Jessica Priestley is thus right to observe that ‘despite the heavy reliance of the paradoxographical authors on Aristotle as a source for their material, it is remarkable how removed… their works are in their aims and outlook’; for while Aristotle’s ‘search for explanations is ultimately aimed at dispelling wonder at phenomena and replacing it with knowledge’, in paradoxography ‘knowledge and wonder are brought together’.58 A sense of wonder is precisely the response which these 54 For some general discussions of this passage in the context of Aristotle’s teleology, see Lennox 2010 and Leunissen 2010, 76–111. 55 See the discussions in Gastaldi 1989 and Pinotti 1989. 56 A phrase that occurs over twenty times in his work (e.  g. in De an. 434a30–31 where he continues: ἕνεκά του γὰρ πάντα ὑπάρχει τὰ φύσει, ἢ συμπτώματα ἔσται τῶν ἕνεκά του), notably in his biological writings; see Jouanna 2012, 309 who discusses its impact on Galen’s concept of nature. Cf. Priestley 2014, 75 n. 81: ‘There are only five examples of thauma and its cognates in the entire Hist. an. (almost 100,000 words)’. 57 Hawes 2014, 56. On the concept of monstrosity in Aristotle, see Lloyd 1991, 424 and 1996, 112–122; cf. Lada-Richards 2002, 43–46. 58 Priestley 2014, 86. Although wonder is clearly associated with the desire for knowledge, for Aristotle philosophy begins in wonder and it ends in lack of wonder; see the programmatic



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works aim to provoke in their readers while at the same time rejecting the possibility of a definitive answer. As it happens, the human body escapes from this epistemological reconfiguration; even though the rest of the natural world  – as outlined in the vast Aristotelian corpus  – is exploited as an inexhaustible source of oddities, early paradoxography refrains systematically from speaking about human subjects. As I have tried to suggest above, Hippocratic medicine, with its hard scientific facts and its explicit and systematic rejection of the θαυμάσιον, may have something to do with this; it turns, as it were, the human body into a ‘dry subject’ for discussion and leaves little room for sensational details and thrilling speculation.

An open door to paradox? The female body in the Hippocratic Corpus Antigonus of Carystus’ paradoxographical collection (the first surviving specimen of the genre which relies heavily on Callimachus, the earliest paradoxographer on record)59 has relatively little to say on the subject of human oddities;60 the few times it does so, emphasis seems to be placed on the female body and its reproductive functions – in line, perhaps, with paradoxography’s overall strategy to situate the very notion of ‘oddity’ within a universe of plenitude and proliferation, where things are born in such quantities that inevitably some of them will

statement in Metaph. 983a13–21: ἄρχονται μὲν γάρ, ὥσπερ εἴπομεν, ἀπὸ τοῦ θαυμάζειν πάντες εἰ οὕτως ἔχει, καθάπερ <περὶ>τῶν θαυμάτων ταὐτόματα … ἢ περὶ τὰς τοῦ ἡλίου τροπὰς … ἢ τὴν τῆς διαμέτρου ἀσυμμετρίαν (θαυμαστὸν γὰρ εἶναι δοκεῖ πᾶσι <τοῖς μήπω τεθεωρηκόσι τὴν αἰτίαν> εἴ τι τῷ ἐλαχίστῳ μὴ μετρεῖται). δεῖ δὲ εἰς τοὐναντίον καὶ τὸ ἄμεινον κατὰ τὴν παροιμίαν ἀποτελευτῆσαι, καθάπερ καὶ ἐν τούτοις ὅταν μάθωσιν. οὐθὲν γὰρ ἂν οὕτως θαυμάσειεν ἀνὴρ γεωμετρικὸς ὡς εἰ γένοιτο ἡ διάμετρος μετρητή. Things seem to be different in Aristotle’s theory of tragedy: in that case, it is by understanding that the events of the plot, though unexpected, are intelligibly linked to one another that wonder is produced in us (see Lear 1992, 323–324); yet, this wonder is one of aesthetic satisfaction (similar to what we experience when we comprehend the anatomical details of the human body) and not an indication of ignorance. Θαυμάσιον in paradoxography lies more closely to the latter category; a paradoxographical text ‘abandons’ its reader just at the point where a scrupulous investigation of things should begin according to Aristotle. 59 See Acosta Hughes/Stephens 2012, 17; cf. Fraser 1972, I.700–1. 60 For a recent discussion of some aspects of Antigonus’ collection, see Leigh 2013, 188–194.

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deviate from the normal type.61 So, for instance, in ch.110 we read that five is the highest number of children that can be born at one time;62 this remark is followed by the reported instance of a woman (καὶ μνημονεύεσθαι μίαν) who gives birth to twenty children in total in four different pregnancies, ‘most of which managed to survive in the end’.63 Likewise, in the ps.-Aristotelian Περί θαυμασίων ἀκουσμάτων (which is also counted among the earliest instances of the genre), out of 178 chapters only a few are explicitly concerned with human subjects: ch. 91 tells us of how in the land of Ligurians ‘women bear children while at work’ and after washing the infant they go on with their household jobs almost as if nothing important had happened; in chs. 31, 32 and 178 we read of people who go insane and, upon recovery, some of them report how pleasant they found the whole experience to be.64 This latter subset of stories has been argued by some to 61 The notion of ‘mother Earth’ giving birth to strange natural phenomena is particularly dominant in Lucretius’ account of terrestrial wonders in the latter part of DRN 6; see the illuminating discussion in Gale 2000, 196–231 with Schwindt 2009; cf. Thibodeau 2011, 139–150. 62 Cf. Aristotle, Hist. an. 584b with Dasen 2013, 21. Cf. also chs. 28–29 in Phlegon’s Περί θαυμασίων: καὶ Ἀντίγονος δὲ ἱστορεῖ ἐν Ἀλεξανδρείᾳ μίαν γυναῖκα ἐν τέτρασιν τοκετοῖς εἴκοσι τεκεῖν καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα τούτων ἐκτραφῆναι. Καὶ ἑτέρα τις γυνὴ κατὰ τὴν αὐτὴν πόλιν πέντε ἐν ἑνὶ τοκετῷ ἀπεκύησεν παῖδας, τρεῖς μὲν ἄρρενας, δύο δὲ θηλείας, οὓς αὐτοκράτωρ Τραιανὸς ἐκέλευσεν ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων χρημάτων τρέφεσθαι. Soranus of Ephesus, the reputed gynecologist of Phlegon’s time, reports the case of a woman who gives birth to five children on three different occasions, ‘with difficulty’ (Gyn. 4.1.4). 63 Γυναῖκα τίκτειν πλεῖστα πέντε. καὶ μνημονεύεσθαι μίαν ἐν τέτταρσιν τόκοις εἴκοσι τετοκυῖαν καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα τούτων ἐκτραφέντα. 64 See e.  g. ch.178 (the last of the collection as we have it): Δημάρατον Τιμαίου τοῦ Λοκροῦ ἀκουστὴν νοσήσαντα ἄφωνόν φασιν ἐπὶ δέκα γενέσθαι ἡμέρας· ἐν δὲ τῇ ἑνδεκάτῃ ἀνανήψας βραδέως ἐκ τῆς παρακοπῆς ἔφησεν ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον ἥδιστα αὑτῷ βεβιῶσθαι. It may be significant that three stories in the collection (chs. 31, 32 and 178) which refer to specific incidents relating to human oddities revolve around the theme of insanity. Indeed, it can be argued that mental illness, as opposed to a strictly physical disease, manifests itself with even more bewildering and sensational symptoms, and is therefore easier to ‘exploit’ in a paradoxographical context. To name one example, Bolus of Mendes, a third century BC writer on pharmacology, magic and paradoxography is credited with one of the earliest discussions of ‘hydrophobia’, which seems to have also attracted the interest of the Herophilean physician Andreas; see von Staden 1989, 568 n.14. At the same time, some of the case histories in the Hippocratic Epidemics, which revolve around mentally ill individuals, seem to be formed as bizarre narratives with a distinct paradoxographical potential. Such is the case, for instance, of Nicanor who was terrified ‘whenever he heard the sound of the flute begin to play at a symposium… He said that he could hardly bear it when it was night, but if he heard it in the daytime he was not affected’. Democles, on the other hand, would become ‘blind and paralyzed, and could not go along a cliff nor on to a bridge to cross a ditch of the least depth. But he could go through the ditch itself’ ([Hipp.] Epid. 5.86–7, 5.44 L.). That said, the Hippocratics systematically avoid to even imply that cases such as the above have anything θαυμάσιον in them – mainly due to their conviction that there is no such thing as



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derive from ‘On Pleasure’,65 by Heraclides of Pontus, who is also credited with the paradoxical account of a woman who remained breathless for thirty days before being resuscitated by Empedocles (Περὶ τῆς ἄπνου).66 This story was extremely popular at the time of Pliny the Elder (NH 7.175) and even Galen tried to explain it on scientific grounds, by invoking the extraordinary nature of the female body. As Galen explains, precisely because a woman needs little heat to survive, she can stay alive without a (perceptible) pulse and with a minimum of perspiration (conducted through the skin) for an extended period of time, thus creating the false impression that the patient has died;67 these periods can vary from few hours to days or, according to Heraclides’ account which Galen repeatedly invokes as medically plausible, for an entire month.68 As it happens, echoes of Heraclides’ account may also be found in Phlegon’s Περί θαυμασίων (the first paradoxographical collection to deal systematically with human subjects69), which opens with the tale of a maiden who comes back to life – only then to die again.70 For the rest of the collection – as we shall see below – Phlegon remains consistent

a divinely inflicted disease (see n.28 above) as well as their belief that an illness that affects the mind has always an internal, somatic cause which, upon medical inquiry, can be rationally and fully explained; see Singer 1992 and Gundert 2000. 65 See e.  g. Vanotti 2007, 151; cf. Athenaeus, Deipnosoph. 554E-F with Fortenbaugh 2011, 211. For a recent discussion of Heraclides’ ‘pleasurable madness’ and its reception in Roman times, see Citroni 2016. 66 For a recent discussion, see van der Eijk 2009. 67 Galen, De locis affectis 6.5 (8.414–5 K); see Debru 1996, 206–209. 68 Galen, De difficultate respirationis 1.8 (7.773 K.); see King 1998, 225–226. 69 Phlegon was a freedman of the emperor Hadrian and lived in the second century AD. 70 Notice, for example, how the ‘raised-from-the-dead’ motif permeates both narratives. In Phlegon 1.14–16 people visit the maiden’s death-chamber and upon finding that her body is missing they rush to her house, where they find the girl’s parents lamenting her second death  – … θαυμάσαντες δὲ καὶ ἐκπλαγέντες εὐθέως παρεγενόμεθα πρὸς τὸν Δημόστρατον εἰς τὸν ξενῶνα ὀψόμενοι τὴν νεκράν, εἰ κατ’ ἀλήθειαν ἐμφανής ἐστιν. ἰδόντες δὲ χαμαὶ κειμένην εἰς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἠθροιζόμεθα· τὰ γὰρ γεγονότα μεγάλα τε ἦν καὶ ἄπιστα). In Heraclides’ story too Empedocles is said to raise the breathless woman from the dead (Ἡρακλείδης μὲν γὰρ τὰ περὶ τῆς ἄπνου διηγησάμενος, ὡς ἐδοξάσθη Ἐμπεδοκλῆς ἀποστείλας τὴν νεκρὰν ἄνθρωπον ζῶσαν, Diogenes Laertius 8.67). Origenes, Adversus Celsum 2.16 reads this as an actual miracle and not just as a highly crafted and sophisticated medical intervention on Empedocles’ part. A parallel interest in the motif of ἀναβίωσις can be spotted in Galen’s medical writings. As Gleason 2009, 101 points out, ‘[i]mmobilisation, sometimes followed by reanimation, was indeed the clincher in many of Galen’s vivisection demonstrations’. See e.  g. De placitis Hippocratis et Platonis 7.3.30 (5.609 K.): ‘when pneuma is let out through wounds, the animal becomes like a corpse (αὐτικα μὲν οἷόνπερ νεκρὸν γίγνεσθαι τὸ ζῷον), but when it has been collected again [i.  e. through medical intervention] the animal comes back to life’ (ἀναβιώσκεσθαι). See Hansen 1980 and 1989; cf. Morgan 2013, 308  ff.

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in drawing a substantial part of his ‘marvellous’ material from stories regarding women – be it in the form of spontaneous sex changes or monstrous and multiple births. All in all, it seems fair to argue that when human subjects gradually enter the paradoxographical spectrum, turning themselves into objects of wonder, it is in direct association with the typically mystifying qualities of the female body which, unlike its more transparent male equivalent, remains elusive to a high degree and eschews a full rational explanation. I would suggest that the first indications of looking at the female body as potentially more liable to a paradoxical reading can already be traced in the Hippocratic Corpus. Indeed, whereas θαυμάσιον is openly rejected for male patients invariably, there seems to be something in a woman’s body that tests the certainty of rational and exhaustive explanation71  – and thus opens a window to the marvelous and the bizarre.72 In a seminal article published in 1992, entitled

71 On γυναικεῖα νοσήματα or γυναικεῖαι νοῦσοι as a distinct and well-defined category of diseases in the Hippocratic Corpus, see Hanson 1990, 310 n. 11 and Blundell 1995, 98–99. For a detailed discussion, see Manuli 1980. Mul. 1.62 (8.126 L.) explicitly claims that many of women’s diseases are difficult to understand (χαλεπὰ ξυνιέναι). It is also worth noting that the individual case histories in the Hippocratic Epidemics show men outnumbering women in the ratio of two to one, presumably because it was more usual for women to seek help from traditional healers or temple medicine rather than from the Hippocratics; see Dean-Jones 1994, 136. This would seem to suggest that even when it comes to therapy per se, women were more inclined to appeal to supernatural agencies, thus creating a sort of continuum between their mystifying bodies and their paradoxical treatment. 72 The ‘marvelous’ nature of the female body is repeatedly highlighted also in Aristotle’s work. For instance, in his discussion of fetal development, which starts with the male’s generative semen imparting form on the matter provided by a woman’s menses, Aristotle writes (Gen. anim. 2.5.741b7–9): ‘As the parts of the animal to be formed are present potentially in the matter, once the principle of movement has been supplied, one thing follows on after another without interruption, just as it does in the marvelous automata’ (ἐνυπαρχόντων δ’ ἐν τῇ ὕλῃ δυνάμει τῶν μορίων, ὅταν ἀρχὴ γένηται κινήσεως ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς αὐτομάτοις θαύμασι συνείρεται τὸ ἐφεξῆς). Menstrual blood is conceptualized at this point as a highly specific set of potential movements which, once activated by the male seed, take place automatically, in a marvelous way; see Mayhew 2004, 44–45 and Bianchi 2014, 75–76. More generally, one recalls that Aristotle calls the female sex ‘a natural deformity’ (Gen. anim. 775a15–16: καὶ δεῖ ὑπολαμβάνειν ὥσπερ ἀναπηρίαν εἶναι τὴν θηλύτητα φυσικήν, cf. 716a17  ff; 728a18  ff; 765b8  ff; 766a30  ff.) – a deviation, that is, from the ideal type represented by the perfect, male body. The notion of deformity leads us straight into the paradoxical realm of monstrosities (Gen. anim. 769b 31: καὶ γὰρ τὸ τέρας ἀναπηρία τίς ἐστιν); what is more, there are cases where the production of females is explicitly said to resemble that of monsters, considering that, according to Aristotle at least, the process of generation is teleologically ordered towards the production of a male offspring in the likeness of the father: when this fails to happen, nature has ‘in some way, departed from the type’; see Gen. anim. 767b5  ff.: καὶ γὰρ ὁ μὴ ἐοικὼς τοῖς γονεῦσιν ἤδη τρόπον τινὰ τέρας ἐστίν. παρεκβέβηκε γὰρ



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‘Women and Dirt’, Heinrich von Staden was the first to observe how animal excrement occurs in the Corpus as a pharmacological ingredient exclusively in the gynaecological treatises. According to his explanation, the underlying notion of combating female filth with animal filth73 resonates with the widespread belief across Greek ritual, magic and religion that women, unlike men, are excessively susceptible to impurity and pollution.74 Similar notions adopted by Hippocratic gynecology include the idea that the production of male offspring is connected with the right (and better) side of the human body while that of female offspring with the left, the claim that the female body is affected by the periodicities of the moon, and that conception occurs most often in the middle of the lunar month.75 More importantly, fundamental medical concepts, such as the notion of the ‘wandering womb’ (the uterus acts as an entity of its own and travels throughout the body seeking moisture, sometimes causing delirium and suffocation),76

ἡ φύσις ἐν τούτοις ἐκ τοῦ γένους τρόπον τινά. ἀρχὴ δὲ πρώτη τὸ θῆλυ γίγνεσθαι καὶ μὴ ἄρρεν. That females are not in accordance with nature (they are παρά φύσιν) is evident also in Gen. anim. 728a17–20 and 738b19–22 (the language used in these passages lies rather close to Aristotle’s remarks on ‘freaks’ in Phys. II 8 and Metaph. 1034a34-b4). For this text, see Witt 2012, 86 and the general discussion by Nielsen 2008. 73 Animal excrement and reproduction appear in close association in the very first chapter of ps.-Aristotle’s collection, in his description of the beast known as ‘bolinthos’. The material is directly drawn from Aristotle, Hist. anim. 630 a18-b17: ‘Before dropping their young they scatter their dung in all directions, making a kind of circular rampart around them; for the animal has the faculty of ejecting excrement in most extraordinary quantities’. 74 von Staden 1992. For a review of the evidence, see also Hanson 1998 and von Staden 2008; cf. Scarborough 1991. Notice how the ‘filthy’ female body becomes a paradoxographical subject in Antigonus of Carystus ch.118: τὰς δὲ Λημνίας δυσόσμους γενέσθαι Μηδείας ἀφικομένης μετ’ Ἰάσονος καὶ φάρμακα ἐμβαλούσης εἰς τὴν νῆσον· κατὰ δή τινα χρόνον καὶ μάλιστα ἐν ταύταις ταῖς ἡμέραις, ἐν αἷς ἱστοροῦσιν τὴν Μήδειαν παραγενέσθαι, δυσώδεις αὐτὰς οὕτως γίνεσθαι, ὥστε μηδένα προσιέναι. Jackson 1990, 81 invites a suggestive connection between this passage and the notion of menstrual pollution, citing as evidence Aristotle, Insomn. 459b–460a where we find the remarkable claim that if a menstruating woman looks into a polished mirror, the mirror’s surface becomes clouded with a blood-red colour (ἐν γὰρ τοīς ἐνόπτροις τοīς σφόδρα καθαροīς, ὅταν τῶν καταμηνίων ταīς γυναιξὶ γινομένων ἐμβλέψωσιν εἰς τὸ κάτοπτρον, γίνεται τὸ ἐπιπολῆς τοῦ ἐνόπτρου οἷον νεφέλη αἱματώδης); for a detailed discussion, see Cole 2004, 108  ff. Pliny the Elder, HN 7.15.63–7 openly claims that menstruation is the ‘most marvelous’ process found in nature (‘nihil facile reperiatur mulierum profluvio magis monstrificum [= τερατῶδες]) and that its ‘monstrous / paradoxical’ qualities are unrelentingly negative, linked to poison and contamination. 75 For the evidence, see Lloyd 1983, 82–83. 76 For some illuminating discussions, see Manuli 1983, 147–192; Hanson 1990, esp. 319–321 and Dean-Jones 1994, 69–77.

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flirt rather closely with folk beliefs77 and establish an image of the female body as being less predictable, occasionally dangerous and certainly not so closely observant of the scientific principles which apply to its male equivalent.78 All in all, as Brooke Holmes concludes, ‘medical writers, while lively polemicists, in many cases provided new justification for conventional wisdom. The constructed and “fantastic” nature of what the medical writers believe about the body is particularly evident in their ideas about the female body, which dovetail neatly with long-held cultural stereotypes about female inferiority and women’s childbearing function’.79 With these observations in mind, let us have a look at the following passage from the Hippocratic De natura pueri 13 [7.490 L.], which recounts the medical author’s personal involvement and autopsy in an incident of unusual abortion: ὡς δὲ εἶδον τὴν γονὴν ἑκταίην ἐοῦσαν ἐγὼ διηγήσομαι. Γυναικὸς οἰκείης μουσοεργὸς ἦν πολύτιμος, παρ’ ἄνδρας φοιτέουσα, ἣν οὐκ ἔδει λαβεῖν ἐν γαστρὶ, ὅκως μὴ ἀτιμοτέρη ἔῃ· ἠκηκόει δὲ ἡ μουσοεργὸς, ὁκοῖα αἱ γυναῖκες λέγουσι πρὸς ἀλλήλας· ἐπὴν γυνὴ μέλλῃ λήψεσθαι ἐν γαστρὶ, οὐκ ἐξέρχεται ἡ γονὴ, ἀλλ’ ἔνδον μένει· ταῦτα ἀκούσασα ξυνῆκε καὶ ἐφύλασσεν αἰεὶ, καί κως ᾔσθετο οὐκ ἐξιοῦσαν τὴν γονὴν, καὶ ἔφρασε τῇ δεσποίνῃ, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦλθεν ἕως ἐμέ· καὶ ἐγὼ ἀκούσας ἐκελευσάμην αὐτὴν πρὸς πυγὴν πηδῆσαι, καὶ ἑπτάκις ἤδη ἐπεπήδητο, καὶ ἡ γονὴ κατεῤῥύη ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν, καὶ ψόφος ἐγένετο, κἀκείνη δὲ ἰδοῦσα ἐθεῆτο καὶ ἐθαύμασεν.

And I will now recount how I came to see the form that a seed has on the sixth day. A female relative of mine once owned a very valuable singing girl who had relations with men but who was not to become pregnant lest she lost her value. The singing girl had heard what women say to one another, that when a woman is about to conceive, the seed does not run out of her, but remains inside. She understood what she heard and always paid attention, and when she one time noticed that the seed did not run out of her, she told her mistress and the case came to me. When I heard what had happened, I told her to jump up and down

77 See Faraone 2011 with Dean-Jones 1991. Likewise, Lloyd 1983, 50 observes how Aristotle’s scientific theorizing interacts closely with ‘popular beliefs’ when it comes to his discussion of an ‘anomalous species’ of animal (a categorization that may be seen to apply also to the female which is conceived as being by constitution a deformed male). 78 It is not a coincidence, for example, that Galen, De locis affectis 6.5 (8.414–5 K.) associates the symptoms of Heraclides’ breathless woman with ‘hysterical suffocation’; see King 1993, 34. A strange story of apparent death appears thus to be explained through an appeal to a concept that draws its roots from the (equally strange) belief that a woman’s uterus can be dislocated and travels throughout the body. 79 Holmes 2010, 10; cf. Flemming 2000, 3–9. On ‘fantastical’ elements, see Joly 1966 and Lloyd 1967, 30–31; 1979, 146–160; 1983; 1992, 122–124.



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so as to kick her heels against her buttocks, and when she did this for the seventh time the seed ran out onto the ground with a noise, and then on seeing it gazed it and was amazed.80 The story is intriguing in several respects.81 Although θαυμάσιον seems to be eventually rejected  – mainly by being attributed to the dumbfounded patient, but not to the doctor who reports the episode  –it is still found at the centre of a narrative which effectively invites its readers to be amazed.82 Taken out of its medical context and examined independently, this is an incident that could have easily occurred in a paradoxographical collection83  – an impression that is further corroborated when one considers other formal elements, such as, for instance, the author’s choice to introduce his narrative by mentioning the fact that he witnessed it himself84 or the motif of an internal audience (the patient ‘gazing’ and feeling ‘bewildered’ by what she sees), which recurs in paradoxogra-

80 Translation in Potter 2012, 35–37. 81 It is very strange, for instance, that the medical author advises the (deeply controversial from an ethical perspective) abortion without showing any consciousness that his conduct might be criticized in any way; the passage aroused suspicion already in Soranus, Gyn. 1.60 82 Cf. Lonie 1981, 160: ‘Hippocratic authors did not always resist the temptation to make an impressive rhetorical display… It is true that this chapter is written in a lively style, reminiscent of Herodotus, which aims partly at entertainment’. 83 Galen was impressed by this passage and quotes it on several occasions. Ιn De semine 1.4 (4.525 K.) he introduces it by placing special emphasis on its ‘beautiful’ qualities as a narrative, employing a kind of language that we usually associate with the pleasure derived from fiction: ἄμεινον δὲ Ἱπποκράτους ἀκοῦσαι περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν λέγοντος ἐν τῷ περὶ φύσεως παιδίου γράμματι· παιδεύσει τε γὰρ ἡμᾶς τῷ τῆς θεωρίας ἀκριβεῖ, καὶ τέρψει, κεράσας οἵᾳ δὴ λέξει τὴν διήγησιν, ὥστ’ ἐπανιέναι τε βραχὺ τὸ σφοδρὸν τοῦ λόγου, καὶ διαναπαύεσθαι σὺν ὠφελείᾳ τερπόμενον. It should be added that for Galen τέρψις as a concept is mostly connected to the literary qualities of a certain work. In De anatomicis administrationibus 3.9 (2.393), for instance, he warns his addressee against reading medical texts ‘as if they were Herodotus’, for pleasure rather than solid advantage (σὲ δ’ οὐχ ὡς Ἡροδότου τὴν ἱστορίαν ἕνεκα τέρψεως ἀναγνῶναι προσήκει, ἀλλὰ τῇ μνήμῃ παραθέσθαι τῶν ὀφθέντων ἕκαστον, ὅπως εἰδῇς ἁπάντων τῶν μερῶν αὐτῆς ἀκριβῶς τὴν φύσιν). One can detect here the ambivalent nature of τέρψις: it is the kind of response elicited by fanciful stories (Galen may be alluding specifically to the ethnographic material found in Herodotus) but not by the hard facts of science. In the same vein, Galen associates elsewhere Herodotus with Ctesias of Cnidus (In Hippocratis librum vi Epidemiarum 3.13, 17B.33 K.) whose work thrives with paradoxographical material; see Tuplin 2004, 345–347 and Nutton 2009, 25. On pleasure and the satisfaction of intellectual curiosity in paradoxography, see Vanotti 2007, 22; cf. Jacob/Polignac 2000, 93. 84 On autopsy and paradoxography, see Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 166; cf. Priestley 2014, 79 ‘as is often the case when his subject matter is ‘wondrous’, Herodotus is careful to make his account sound credible’ by emphasizing, among other things, ‘his autopsy’.

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phy as a way of self-reflexively anticipating the text’s eventual effect on its readers.85 The female body can thus be seen as a matrix generating paradoxographical plots – even when the author’s presumed intention is to suggest that it too can be explained rationally. As a proof of how stories of this kind could easily lapse into exaggeration – despite their being placed within the crisp, clinical context of Hippocratic medicine – one may adduce a similar incident recounted at Carn. 19 (8.608–10 L.), which some have taken to be an imitation of the passage I have quoted.86 In this case, the medical author claims to have produced the abortion of a seven-day embryo not once but several times; and in each case, he says, the embryo was already fully formed. He claims to have seen, by immersing the embryo in water, the facial features, the limbs including fingers and toes, and the genitals. Once more, it should be seen as no coincidence that this incredible story revolves around the female body and, though designated again as a scientific fact that should not be ‘marveled’,87 effectively belongs more to the realm of imagination than to actual medical observation and practice. Finally, even when there is no autopsy and the medical narrative is set in foreign and remote places, the temptation to describe something as θαυμαστόν continues to be closely tied to the female body. In an early medical text which has been thoroughly discussed in association with Herodotus’ ethnographical material88 (a generating force of ‘marvelous’ stories in the course of historical narrative),89 the Hippocratic author of ‘Airs, Waters, Places’ remarks how in the distant land of the Scythians,90 people tend to have a ‘moist’ and ‘soft’ bodily

85 This becomes a standard practice e.  g. in Phlegon where the internal characters of his tales are often presented as being carried away by feelings of ἔκπληξις and θαυμασμός, e.  g. in ch.1.16: θαυμάσαντες δὲ καὶ ἐκπλαγέντες. 86 See Grensemann 1968, 64  ff. and Lonie 1981, 160; cf. Dean-Jones 1995, 45–46. 87 Carn. 19 (8.608–10 L.): πρῶτον μὲν ἐπὴν ἐς τὰς μήτρας ἔλθῃ ὁ γόνος, ἐν ἑπτὰ ἡμέρῃσιν ἔχει ὁκόσα περ ἐστὶν ἔχειν τοῦ σώματος· τοῦτο δέ τις ἂν θαυμάσειεν ὅκως ἐγὼ οἶδα … αἱ ἑταῖραι αἱ δημόσιαι, αἵτινες αὐτέων πεπείρηνται πολλάκις, ὁκόταν παρὰ ἄνδρα ἔλθῃ, γινώσκουσιν ὁκόταν λάβωσιν ἐν γαστρί· κἄπειτ’ ἐνδιαφθείρουσιν· ἐπειδὰν δὲ ἤδη διαφθαρῇ, ἐκπίπτει ὥσπερ σάρξ· ταύτην τὴν σάρκα ἐς ὕδωρ ἐμβαλών, σκεπτόμενος ἐν τῷ ὕδατι, εὑρήσεις ἔχειν πάντα μέλεα καὶ τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν τὰς χώρας καὶ τὰ οὔατα καὶ τὰ γυῖα. The phrase ‘one may wonder how I know this’ (τοῦτο δέ τις ἂν θαυμάσειεν ὅκως ἐγὼ οἶδα) suggests that the author is not unaware that his story may be lacking in realism – still, this does not prevent him from stating it as a scientific fact. 88 See e.  g. Thomas 2000, 86–100. 89 See Munson 2001 and Priestley 2014, 51–108. 90 On the Scythians as a favorite subject-matter in paradoxographical contexts, see Pajón Leyra 2014, 312–313; cf. ps.-Aristotle, ch. 141 (on the poison which Scythians smear on the tip of their arrows) and Aulus Gellius, NA 9.4. On the intrinsic link between wonders and the discourse of geographical otherness, see Whitmarsh 2013, 20–21.



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constitution because of the climate and their way of living. While this is said to apply to both sexes invariably, in the case of women the observation is added that their bodies grow ‘wonderfully’ ‘flabby and torpid’ (τὰ δὲ θήλεα θαυμαστὸν οἷον ῥοϊκὰ καὶ βραδέα εἶναι τὰ εἴδεα).91 In other words, we can see how even in an ethnographic context, climatic determinism suffices to explain rationally a man’s bodily constitution, but it still allows some space and sense of paradox when it comes to the intricate nature of the female body. In line with the Hippocratic tendency to leave the door open to paradox when it comes to women, most of the paradoxographical material concerning human subjects in later collections revolves around the female body. What is more, in Phlegon’s text we notice a systematic inclusion of details which, in keeping with the (pseudo)scientific conventions of the genre, find clear parallels in medical texts of the period. So, for example, his extravagant tales of spontaneous sex change (most of which involve women’s bodies transforming into men’s)92 can be sufficiently explained in light of contemporary medical theories according to which the female genitalia – being symmetrically designed as an internal version of men’s – may under extreme circumstances ‘pop out’ if the body’s heat is too high.93 The Hippocratic female body is similarly capable of generating extraordinary incidents – which cannot be paralleled in stories of male patients. Such is, for instance, the story of Phaethousa (Epid. 6.8.32, 8.444 L.) who became mas-

91 Aer. 20 (2.74 L.): … δι’ ἄλλ’ οὐδὲν ἢ διὰ τὴν ὑγρότητα τῆς φύσιος καὶ τὴν μαλακίην… ῥοϊκὰ δὲ γίγνεται καὶ πλατέα … τά τε γὰρ ἄρσενα, ἕως ἂν οὐχ οἷά τε ἐφ’ ἵππου ὀχέεσθαι, τὸ πολὺ τοῦ χρόνου κάθηται ἐν τῇ ἁμάξῃ, καὶ βραχὺ τῇ βαδίσει χρέονται, διὰ τὰς μεταναστάσιας καὶ περιελάσιας· τὰ δὲ θήλεα θαυμαστὸν οἷον ῥοϊκὰ καὶ βραδέα εἶναι τὰ εἴδεα. 92 Hansen 1996, 115. See e.  g. ch.6: παρθένος γὰρ γονέων ἐπισήμων τρισκαιδεκαέτις ὑπάρχουσα ὑπὸ πολλῶν ἐμνηστεύετο, οὖσα εὐπρεπής. ὡς δ’ ἐνεγυήθη ᾧ οἱ γονεῖς ἐβούλοντο, ἐνστάσης τῆς ἡμέρας τοῦ γάμου προϊέναι τοῦ οἴκου μέλλουσα αἰφνιδίως πόνου ἐμπεσόντος αὐτῇ σφοδροτάτου ἐξεβόησεν. ἀναλαβόντες δ’ αὐτὴν οἱ προσήκοντες ἐθεράπευον ὡς ἀλγήματα ἔχουσαν κοιλίας καὶ στρόφους τῶν ἐντός· τῆς δὲ ἀλγηδόνος ἐπιμενούσης τρισὶν ἡμέραις ἑξῆς ἀπορίαν τε πᾶσι τοῦ πάθους ποιοῦντος, τῶν πόνων οὔτε νυκτὸς οὔτε ἡμέρας ἔνδοσιν λαμβανόντων, καίτοι πᾶσαν μὲν θεραπείαν αὐτῇ προσφερόντων <τῶν> ἐν τῇ πόλει ἰατρῶν, μηδεμίαν δὲ τοῦ πάθους δυναμένων αἰτίαν εὑρεῖν, τῇ τετάρτῃ τῶν ἡμερῶν περὶ τὸν ὄρθρον μείζονα τῶν πόνων ἐπίδοσιν λαμβανόντων, σὺν μεγάλῃ οἰμωγῇ ἀνακραγούσης, ἄφνω αὐτῇ ἀρσενικὰ μόρια προέπεσεν, καὶ ἡ κόρη ἀνὴρ ἐγένετο. While the story includes (ironically) the intriguing detail that the whole episode defies medical explanation, what is happening to the girl’s body is perfectly plausible from a medical perspective. See n.93 below, on a variety of scientific sources confirming the possibility that male parts can suddenly pop out of the female body. 93 See e.  g. Galen, De usu partium 14.6–7 (4.164–5 K.); cf. Arist. Gen. anim. 728a; Soranus Eph. Gyn. 1.9–10. For some general discussions of sexual ambivalence in antiquity, see Laqueur 1990 and Brisson 2002.

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culine in appearance (τό τε σῶμα ἠνδρώθη,)94 even growing a beard, when she stopped menstruating and abstained from sex (τοῦ δὲ ἀνδρὸς αὐτῆς φυγόντος), and despite attempts at medical treatment she died.95 The story is perfectly plausible by Hippocratic standards: Hippocratic doctors believe that women are moist by nature and they can dry out with age or when the uterus is not sufficiently moistened through regular sex, ‘so in theory gender should have been a sliding scale rather than a fixed condition of male and female opposites’.96 Lack of sexual intercourse can do terrible things to the human body, a fact that is mostly emphasized in medical writings in relation to women (whose sexual appetite is deemed to lack the ingredient of conscious desire and resembles an insatiable animal drive)97 rather than men. It may be along the same lines that Phlegon (ch. 2) speaks of a woman who gives birth to a hermaphrodite, after noticing that the period of incubation coincided with the loss of her husband (χηρεύουσα).98 At the same time, a certain (medical) tendency to treat women as inferior in relation to men,99 often to such an extent that the female body is assimilated to that of an animal (Aretaeus of Cappadocia, in fact, says that the ‘womb is like an animal within an animal’),100 may provide a further reason as to why in early paradoxog94 Aristotle, Hist. anim. 589b29  ff. speaks of the possibility that a female can, under certain circumstances, turn into a male (and vice versa) and ascribes these incidents to the fact that nature can sometimes be twisted (διεστραμμένη), thus giving rise to freaks and monstrosities. For the vocabulary of deformity in Aristotle (ἀνάπηρος, πεπηρωμένος, ἀτελής, διεστραμμένος), see Witt 2012, 90–94. 95 For the case of Phaethousa, see King 1998, 9–10, 56–57. 96 Foxhall 2013, 73. Cf. Nielsen 2008, 383 on Aristotle: ‘the difference in generative organs is not explanatorily basic in Aristotle’s biology. He recognizes that female generative organs… have their own characteristic functions, but whether an animal develops testes or a uterus in turn depends on its level of vital heat’. It is this heat ‘and the concomitant ability or inability to produce perfect seminal fluid, that at the most basic level defines an animal as male or female’; see also Holmes 2012, 42–44 and Witt 2012, 97. 97 See Dean-Jones 1992; cf. Carson 1990. In Antigonus ch.11 5 the notorious sexual drive of female horses is illustrated with reference to the sexual appetite of παρθένοι. 98 Phlegon ch.2: ἡ δὲ ἄνθρωπος ἔμενεν ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ χηρεύουσα, ἡνίκα δὲ ὁ τοκετὸς ἤπειγεν, τίκτει παιδίον αἰδοῖα ἔχον δύο, ἀνδρεῖόν τε καὶ γυναικεῖον, καὶ τὴν φύσιν θαυμαστῶς διηλλαγμένον. Cf. Soranus, Gyn. 3.26 who notices that hysteria in women is usually preceded by long widowhood. 99 A belief commonly shared by the Hippocratics and Aristotle. See Dean-Jones 1994, 58–59 and King 1998, 28–29. As Holmes 2010, 185 observes, ‘the very characteristics that determine the normative expression of female nature can signify as pathological vis-à-vis a male norm’. 100 For a discussion of Aretaeus’ ideas in relation to Plato’s concept of the womb as ‘a living creature inside the female body that desires making children’ (Tim. 91a-c), see Parker 2012, 113. As regards the Hippocratics, see e.  g. the analogy between a woman and a sacrificial victim which occurs in the gynecological treatises, such as in Mul. 1.6 (8.30 L.): ‘if a woman is healthy, then during menstruation the blood flows like that of a sacrificed victim and it clots quickly’ (χωρέει



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raphy women’s bodies are easier to transform into objects of wonder. It is worth noting, for instance, that Antigonus of Carystus’ exceptional reference to women giving birth to ‘five children at once’ (ch.110) is closely preceded by a chapter devoted to the ‘most wonderful’ fertility of mice (ch.105) – in a way which suggests that the female body appears here as a point of comparison.101 Similarly, in ps.-Aristotle ch.80 we are told that ‘among the Umbrians they say that the cattle bear three times in the year, and the earth bears many times as many fruits as that which is sown: also that women have many children and seldom bear one (at a time), but most of them two or three’ (εἶναι δὲ καὶ τὰς γυναίκας πολυγόνους καὶ σπανίως ἓν τίκτειν, τὰς δὲ πλείστας δύο καὶ τρία).

Conclusion The picture emerging from these passages is that of a continuum between animals and women, as if the latter belong more closely to the natural world surrounding them than men do.102 If we add to this the paradoxographical fascination with images of fertility, procreation and abundance (the world is strange precisely because it is inhabited by too many things)103 we begin to form an idea as to the reasons why the female (reproductive) body becomes increasingly a favorite subject in this context.104 As I have tried to show, this process is facilitated (we might even say, foregrounded) by the medical writings of the Hippocratics: while Hippocratic medicine rejects the ‘wonderful’ and the ‘marvelous’ as symptomatic of ignorance, its treatment of women in terms which differ significantly from those applied to men effectively lays the groundwork for turning the human body into an object of wonder and accounts for late paradoxography’s deep fascination

δὲ αἷμα οἷον ἀπὸ ἱερείου, καὶ ταχὺ πήγνυται, ἢν ὑγιαίνῃ ἡ γυνή). Similar phrasing is used on other occasions to describe the lochial flows when she bleeds following childbirth (Mul. 1.72 = 8.152 L.; Nat. puer. 18 = 7.502 L.). Aristotle agrees that a young girl’s menstrual blood is οἷον νεόσφακτον, ‘like that of a freshly-slaughtered beast’ (Hist. an. 581b1–2). On the ‘beastly’ nature of women in Plato – the female is seen in that case as a degraded state of being in relation to the male, ‘with no hope of achieving true human flourishing’ – see Holmes 2012, 32–33. 101 Cf. Aristotle, Hist. anim. 580b10–11: ‘The reproduction of mice is most astonishing with respect to number and speed when compared with other creatures’. 102 See Sassi 2001, 30–31 and 82  ff. Cf. Campbell 2014, 243–244. 103 See Beagon 2014, 417–418. 104 Already in Antigonus of Carystus, most of the material on human oddities concerns strange births; see esp. chs. 110–114.

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with female oddities.105 As Nicole Loraux points out, in classical antiquity ‘the operator par excellence that makes it possible to conceive of identity as fashioned, in practical terms, by otherness’106 is the feminine element. Paradoxography, in this sense, provides a nice illustration of how this ‘otherness’ is highlighted by a genre which deals precisely with things that look different and alien, things that ‘deviate from the type’  – to use Aristotle’s formulation. More importantly, though  – and considering the Hippocratic background  – the emphasis placed on the female body helps to confirm that while setting to describe a world inhabited by oddities, paradoxography sticks close to principles and modes of thinking which are by no means arbitrary or irrational, but lie rather at the very core of contemporary science.

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105 The female appears either as a direct source of oddity or, occasionally, as the agent who helps reveal the odd aspects of the world. See especially, ps.-Aristotle ch.174: ‘On Mount Tmolus they say that there is a stone like ivy which changes its colour four times a day: it is seen by girls who have not reached the age of discretion’ (βλέπεσθαι δὲ ὑπὸ τῶν παρθένων τῶν μὴ τῷ χρόνῳ φρονήσεως μετεχουσῶν). 106 Loraux 1995, 4. Cf. Zeitlin 1996, 53–86.



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(2006), “The origins of medicine in the second century A. D.”, in: S. Goldhill/R. Osborne (eds.), Rethinking Revolutions through Ancient Greece, Cambridge, 246–263. Krevans, N. (2004), “Callimachus and the pedestrian Muse”, in: A. Harder/R. F. Regtuit/ V. Wakker (eds.), Callimachus II, Leuven, 173–183. – (2005), “The editor’s toolbox: Strategies for selection and presentation in the Milan epigram papyrus”, in: K. Gutzwiller (ed.), The New Posidippus: A Hellenistic Poetry Book, 81–96. Lada-Richards, I. (2002), “‘Foul monster or good savior?’ Reflections on ritual monsters”, in: C. Atherton (ed.) Monsters and Monstrosity in Greek and Roman Culture, Bari, 41–82. Laqueur, T. (1990), Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, Harvard. Lami, A. (2007), “[Ippocrate], Sui disturbi virginali: testo, traduzione e comment”, Galenos 1, 15–59. Laskaris, J. (2002), The Art is Long: On the Sacred Disease and Scientific Tradition, Leiden. Lear, J. (1992), “Katharsis”, in: A. O. Rorty (ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics, Princeton, 315–340. Leigh, M. (2013), From Polypragmon to Curiosus: Ancient Concepts of Curious and Meddlesome Behaviour, Oxford. Lenfant, D. (1999), “Monsters in Greek ethnography and society in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE”, in: R. Buxton (ed.), From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Oxford, 197–214. Lennox, J. G. (2010), “The unity and purpose of On the Parts of Animals I”, in: J. G. Lennox/ R. Bolton (eds.), Being, Nature and Life in Aristotle, Cambridge, 56–77. Leunissen, M. (2010), Explanation and Teleology in Aristotle’s Science of Nature, Cambridge. LiDonnici, L. R. (1992), “Compositional Background of the Epidaurian Iamata”, AJPh 113, 25–41. – (1995), The Epidaurian Miracle Inscriptions: Text, Translation, and Commentary, Atlanta. Lloyd, G. E. R. (1967), “Popper versus Kirk: A controversy in the interpretation of Greek science”, BSPS 18, 21–38. – (1979), Magic, Reason and Experience: Studies in the Origin and Development of Greek Science, Cambridge. – (1983), Science, Folklore and Ideology: Studies in the Life Sciences in Ancient Greece, Cambridge. – (1987), The Revolutions of Wisdom: Studies in the Claims and Practice of Ancient Greek Science, Berkeley. – (1991), Methods and Problems in Greek Science: Selected Papers, Cambridge. – (1992), “The transformations of ancient medicine”, BHM 66, 114–132. – (1996), Aristotelian Explorations, Cambridge. Lonie, I. M. (1978), [translation of the Hippocratic ‘On the Heart’ in: G. E. R. Lloyd (ed.), Hippocratic Writings, Harmondsworth. – (1981), The Hippocratic Treatises, ‘On Generation’, ‘On the Nature of the Child’, ‘Diseases IV’: A Commentary, Berlin. Loraux, N. (1995), The Experiences of Tiresias: The Feminine and the Greek Man (transl. by P. Wissing), Princeton. Luchner, K. (2004), Philiatroi: Studien zum Thema der Krankheit in der griechischen Literatur der Kaiserzeit, Göttingen. Manuli, P. (1980), “Fisiologia e patologia del femminile negli scritti ippocratici dell’ antica ginecologia greca”, in: M. D. Grmek (ed.), Hippocratica. Actes du Colloque Hippocratique de Paris (4–9 Septembre 1978), Paris, 393–408.

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Lisa Irene Hau

‘One might rightly wonder’ – marvelling in Polybios Histories Abstract: This paper investigates the use of θαῦμα (thauma) and its cognate verbs and adjectives in Polybios’ Histories. It argues that this word group is used in four basic ways: 1. The expression ‘I wonder at so-and-so’s stupidity/absurdity/other undesirable quality’ is used very frequently as a rhetorical opening of speeches, both the ones orginally delivered in Greek and those originally delivered in Latin. 2. Thauma and its adjectives are used to designate natural and ethnographical marvels, but only occasionally, and Polybios generally seems to associate these with a less serious and investigative type of historiography than his own since an investigation into causes will most often dispel the wonder. 3. In methodological passages Polybios posits his own historiographical project and its topic as a marvel, placing him in the tradition of historiographers who stress the greatness of their topic and achievement. 4. The most frequent use of thauma-words in the Histories is to designate human qualities – moral and intellectual – as marvels. The article concludes that Polybios redefines thauma and its cognates in order to further his own historiographical agenda: partly to demonstrate that it is human beings who make history happen, not supernatural powers, and partly to exhort the reader didactically to imitate marvellous human beings of the past in order to become marvellous himself. Polybios could only do this because the category of the marvellous had considerably inbuilt flexibility, but it was only worth doing because the marvellous was a powerful conceptual category which immediately signalled that its content was not just interesting, but also important, and worth remembering.

Introduction Polybios is usually considered a sensible, no-nonsense historian, interested only in politico-military history. With this image, his Histories is perhaps not the first place one would go to in order to look for the role that the marvellous plays in Greek thought. However, Polybios’ writing – his language, his rhetoric, his interests, his moral convictions  – are in many ways representative of his time, and when he disagrees with prevailing opinion, he does not hesitate to say so. For this reason, it is always worth asking what he thinks and how he expresses it if one wants to know anything about the Hellenistic mind-set. In fact, if one conhttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-006

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ducts a TLG search for thauma* (‘marvel/wonder’) in Polybios, no fewer than 105 instances come up; when one searches for paradox*, 153 instances appear. Polybios’ use of the latter semantic group to express his interest in paradoxical or unexpected events and their role in historiographical explanation has been well analysed by Maier.1 However, no one, to the best of my knowledge, has systematically investigated Polybios’ use of thauma and its cognates.2 This paper is based on such an investigation. The appendix contains a list of all uses of thauma and its cognates in Polybios, arranged thematically; the paper itself discusses the five dominant uses of this semantic group in the Histories: marvelling as a rhetorical ploy, natural and ethnographical marvels, Polybios’ topic as a marvel, the marvel of human virtues, and the marvel of the human mind. In the conclusion, we shall then discuss what this may reveal about the role of the marvellous in Hellenistic thought.

Marvelling as a rhetorical ploy By far the most common use of thauma and its cognates in the Histories (33 instances) occurs in speeches, both in direct and indirect discourse, and other rhetorical passages where someone, either the narrator or a character, says that he ‘marvels’ at the incompetence, stupidity, unreasonableness, or similarly undesirable character trait of someone else. We see it repeatedly in passages where Polybios is polemicizing against other historiographers, such as these examples from his famous attack on Phylarkhos: ἐν δὲ τούτοις πρῶτον μὲν τίς οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσειεν τὴν ἀπειρίαν καὶ τὴν ἄγνοιαν τῆς κοινῆς ἐννοίας ὑπὲρ τῆς τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν πραγμάτων χορηγίας καὶ δυνάμεως; In this narrative, who would not wonder at the lack of experience and at the mistaken belief in the wealth and power of the Greeks? Plb. 2.62.23 Τὸ δὲ συνεχὲς τούτῳ τίς οὐκ ἂν ἔτι μᾶλλον θαυμάσειε; Who would not wonder even more at what comes next? Plb. 2.63.1

1 Maier 2012. 2 It is absent from the introduction to Walbank’s monumental commentary (1957–79) and from the monograph based on his Sather Lectures (1972) as well as from the good, recent monograph on Polybios by McGing 2010. Pédech 1964, 391–397 briefly touches on it, only to conclude that Polybios rejected the tradition of the fantastical. 3 Translations are my own unless otherwise stated.



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Other examples are found in outbursts against the historiographers Philinos, Theopompos, and Timaios.4 In these passages we repeatedly see the expression: ‘who would not (rightly) wonder …’ (τίς οὐκ ἂν [εἰκότως] θαυμάσειεν) used to discredit Polybios’ historiographical predecessors. In a mirror-image of this expression, Polybios frequently counters imagined criticism by telling the reader in his narratorial voice that ‘there is no need to wonder’ at his own historiographical choices, such as his selectivity or choice of emphasis, thus forestalling exclamations along the lines of ‘who can fail to wonder at the absurdity of Polybios in devoting so much space to Scipio the Younger’?5 The expression ‘I marvel at the absurdity of X’ is not reserved for methodological disputes, however. Polybios also employs it frequently in passionate evaluations of historical characters, expressing disdain for immoral and/or counter-productive behaviour. (Immoral actions in Polybios are most often counter-productive).6 Examples of character traits and behaviours ridiculed with this rhetorical phrase are the greed of Perseus, which lost him his potentially best ally and thereby his kingdom and his life (Plb. 29.9.7), and the ignoble flight of the Rhodian Deinon, which put numerous other people in danger and ultimately did not even save his own life (Plb. 30.8.8).7 The use of thaumazein, ‘to marvel/ wonder’, in these passages, gives expression to the narrator’s amazement at the wrongheaded behaviour of the character criticised. Like the use of this phrase in

4 Against Philinos: τίς οὐκ ἂν εἰκότως θαυμάσειεν Φιλίνου τοῦ συγγραφέως […] (Who would not rightly wonder at Philinos the historiographer … Plb. 3.26.2); against Theopompos: εἰ δέ τις ἀναγνῶναι βουληθείη τὴν ἀρχὴν τῆς ἐνάτης καὶ τετταρακοστῆς αὐτῷ βύβλου, παντάπασιν ἂν θαυμάσαι τὴν ἀτοπίαν τοῦ συγγραφέως … (if anyone should desire to read the beginning of his forty-ninth book, he will be amazed at the absurdity of this historiographer, Plb. 8.9.5); against Timaios: ἐν γὰρ τούτοις πάλιν οὐ μόνον ἄν τις ἐπιφθέγξαιτο τὰ καὶ περὶ Δημοχάρους, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν θαυμάσειε τῆς πικρίας (In this instance, again, who would not repeat the criticism of his slanders of Demokhares and also wonder at the excess of hostility displayed? Plb. 12 15.5). Polybios is notorious for his criticisms of other historiographers; see e.  g. Walbank 1972, 34–40, Plümacher 1998; Schepens 2005; Marincola 2003 and 2013; Baron 2013, ch. 4. 5 E.  g. Plb. 1.12.8, 36.8.6, 38.4.1. 6 For a detailed discussion of the connection between morality and utility in Polybios, see Hau 2016. 7 Plb. 29.9.7: τοῦ δὲ Περσέως πάλιν τίς οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσειε πῶς ἄλλο τι συμφορώτερον ἢ προυργιαίτερον ἐνόμισε τοῦ δοῦναι τὰ χρήματα καὶ καταπιεῖν ἐᾶσαι (τὸν) Εὐμένη τὸ δέλεαρ; (As for Perseus again, who would not wonder how he thought there could be anything more in his interest and more advantageous than to give the money to Eumenes and let him swallow the bait?); Plb. 30.8.8: ἐξ ὧν θαυμάζειν ἦν τίνι ποτὲ λογισμῷ χρώμενος ὁ Δείνων προσανεῖχε τῷ ζῆν καὶ τὸν παραδειγματισμὸν ὑπέμενε τοῦτον (on the basis of these events one may wonder what calculations made Deinon cling to life and endure being made a laughing stock).

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criticisms of historiographical predecessors, it is a rhetorical ploy aimed at invoking the reader’s disdain and ridiculing the target. Once this has been recognised as a rhetorical technique used by Polybios, we see it everywhere in the Histories, not only where the narrator speaks, but also in the direct and, especially (since these are much more numerous), indirect speeches of characters. A typical instance is the Roman general T. Flamininus’ contemptuous response to Philip V when the latter refuses to come ashore for peace talks: τοῦ δὲ τῶν Ῥωμαίων στρατηγοῦ θαυμάσαντος καὶ φήσαντος ἴσον εἶναι πᾶσι τὸν κίνδυνον καὶ κοινὸν τὸν καιρόν, μεταλαβὼν ὁ Φίλιππος οὐκ ἔφησεν αὐτὸν ὀρθῶς λέγειν· When the Roman general expressed his surprise and said that the danger was the same for all and the chances equal, Philip said he was mistaken. Plb. 18.1.8

In the light of the frequent use of the statement ‘I marvel at’ to criticise and ridicule historical characters and authors in the Histories, it is reasonable to assume in cases like this that θαυμάσαντος καὶ φήσαντος (literally ‘he marvelled and said’) is to be interpreted as θαυμάζειν ἔφη, ‘he said that he marvelled (i.  e. at Philip’s paranoia)’, thus expressing disdain and disapproval. Numerous other instances of indirect speech show characters claiming to marvel at the misguided behaviour of others.8 The expression is so common in the indirect speeches of the Histories that we must be justified in assuming that it was an actual rhetorical technique used regularly by Hellenistic public speakers, an observation which gives us a tantalising glimpse into the otherwise obscure practices of Hellenistic oratory.9 Interestingly, many of the speakers who use this expression in the Histories are Roman. Sometimes they speak to a Greek audience and so, presumably, in Greek, but occasionally they speak to a Roman audience, and Polybios must be assumed to have translated – or rewritten – the speech into Greek.10 Roman 2nd-century oratory is even more obscure to us than Greek Hellenistic oratory, but, tantalisingly, parallels can be found in the fragments of Cato the Elder’s speeches from the 190s and 180s BC: 8 E.  g. Scipio Africanus 11.28 1, L. Cornelius 18.50.8, the Senate 21.1.4, Cato the Elder 39.1.5. See the full list in the Appendix. 9 For what is known about Hellenistic oratory, see Tempest/Kremmydas 2013. 10 Romans speaking to a Greek audience: Flamininus 18.1.8, 18.5.1, 18.37.5, 23.5.12; the Senate 23.9.14; Marcius Philippus 28.7.4. Romans speaking to a Roman audience: Scipio the Elder 11.28.1, the Senate 30.32.2, Cato 39.1.5.



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atque quamquam multa noua miracula fecere inimici mei, tamen nequeo desinere mirari eorum audaciam atque confidentiam. And although my enemies have done many new and unbelievable things, I am still unable to stop marvelling at their boldness and confidence. From the speech dierum dictarum de consulatu suo (191 or 190 BC), Malcovati F22, transl. by FRRO11 miror audere atque religione non teneri, statuas deorum, exempla earum facierum, signa domi pro suppellectile statuere. I am amazed that people dare and are not restrained by reverence from setting up at home, like pieces of furniture, statues of the gods, samples of their faces, and their images. From a censorial speech ut praeda in publicum referatur (184 BC), Malcovati F98, transl. by FRRO12

It seems, then, that ‘I marvel at X’s undesirable quality’ may well have been a common figure of speech used in both Greek and Latin oratory of the 2nd century BC. In Polybios, this figure of speech is so widespread (33 instances) and its field of application so varied (historiographical disputes, narratorial moralising on the behaviour of historical characters, political speeches delivered by internal characters) that it cannot be said to reveal anything about the role of the marvellous in Hellenistic thought, only about Hellenistic rhetoric. For that reason I want to leave it behind for now and concentrate on Polybios’ other uses of words from the root thauma.

Natural and ethnographic marvels When we think about ‘marvels’ in Greek literature, most of us probably first think of strange natural phenomena and unusual ethnic customs. This kind of marvel only occurs in a handful of passages of the Histories: the citadel of Ekbatana is ‘marvellously constructed with a view to strength’ (θαυμασίως πρὸς ὀχυρότητα κατεσκευασμένην 10.27.6), and the way the Nomads cross the River Oxus is

11 = Charisius, Ars Grammatica, ed. Barwick (Teubner, 1925) p. 297. I owe my awareness of this fragment and the one below to the FRRO (Fragments of the Roman Republican Orators) project led by Catherine Steel at the University of Glasgow, and more specifically to the kind and enthusiastic efforts of Christa Gray. The translation is by FRRO. 12 = Priscian Institutiones grammaticae, Keil vol. 2 p. 367–368). The emendation in the second fragment of religionem non tenere to religione non teneri is by the FRRO team.

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described as θαυμαστόν (10.48.2).13 Polybios reveals his distaste for the narration of such marvels in general in a passage connected with the description of Ekbatana: τοῖς μὲν γὰρ αἱρουμένοις τὰς ἐκπληκτικὰς τῶν διηγήσεων προφέρεσθαι καὶ μετ᾽ αὐξήσεως ἔνια καὶ διαθέσεως εἰθισμένοις ἐξαγγέλλειν καλλίστην ὑπόθεσιν ἡ προειρημένη πόλις ἔχει, τοῖς δ᾽ εὐλαβῶς προσπορευομένοις πρὸς πᾶν τὸ παρὰ τὴν κοινὴν ἔννοιαν λεγόμενον ἀπορίαν παρασκευάζει καὶ δυσχρηστίαν. The aforementioned city provides a most excellent topic for those who choose to tell tales of shock and awe and are in the habit of reporting matters with exaggeration and rhetorical artistry, but for those who approach every story beyond common sense with caution it is difficult to know how to talk about it. Plb. 10.27.8

Clearly, for Polybios, the telling of marvels is characteristic of the kind of historiography from which he wants to distinguish his own work: that of sensationalist and untrustworthy reporters. His comment on Timaios’ description of the ‘marvel’ of wild goats on the island of Corsica who respond to the call of a horn explains why: it seems marvellous (θαυμάσιον 12.4.5) and people marvel when they first hear about it (ὥστε θαυμάζειν … τοὺς πρώτους ἀκούσαντας 12.4.7), but after Polybios has explained the reason (the goats only seem to be wild and have been conditioned to respond to the horn) there is no need to marvel any longer. Knowledge of what causes such surprising phenomena dispels the marvel, and Polybios’ Histories has the uncovering of causes as its core purpose (see especially Plb. 3.6–7 and 11.19a). In this, Polybios is in line with Aristotle, who argues in the Metaphysics that wonder is something felt at inexplicable phenomena (τῶν ἀτόπων), but when one uncovers the cause (τὴν αἰτίαν) of the phenomenon, one no longer wonders (Arist. Metaph. 1.982b–983a).

13 Other examples: the fertility of Africa (12.3.2), the strategic position of Corinth (30.10.3). It is most likely also this description of natural phenomena and ethnographic customs as ‘marvellous’ that lies behind Polybios’ description of Isokrates, a murderer sent to Rome in a cage, as a θέαμα θαυμάσιον, a ‘marvellous spectacle’ (32.3.7).



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Polybios’ topic as a marvel If Polybios is not keen on designating natural phenomena or ethnic customs ‘marvels’, he does not hesitate to posit his chosen historical topic, or parts of it, as an object of wonder. This happens for the first time, spectacularly, in the preface: τὸ γὰρ τῆς ἡμετέρας πραγματείας ἴδιον καὶ τὸ θαυμάσιον τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν τοῦτ’ ἔστιν ὅτι, καθάπερ ἡ τύχη σχεδὸν ἅπαντα τὰ τῆς οἰκουμένης πράγματα πρὸς ἓν ἔκλινε μέρος καὶ πάντα νεύειν ἠνάγκασε πρὸς ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν σκοπόν, οὕτως καὶ (δεῖ) διὰ τῆς ἱστορίας ὑπὸ μίαν σύνοψιν ἀγαγεῖν τοῖς ἐντυγχάνουσι τὸν χειρισμὸν τῆς τύχης, ᾧ κέχρηται πρὸς τὴν τῶν ὅλων πραγμάτων συντέλειαν. The uniqueness of my work and the marvel that defines our times is that, just as fortune has made almost the whole world lean towards one part and has forced everything to incline towards one and the same end, thus it is also necessary through my history to create an overview for my readers of the organisation of affairs which fortune has used to accomplish the consummation of her whole plan. Plb. 1.4.1

This is Polybios’ justification for writing the Histories. Herodotos wrote about the ‘great and marvellous (θωμαστά) deeds of Greeks and barbarians’, Thucydides recorded the greatest war ever fought (μέγαν  … καὶ ἀξιολογώτατον τῶν προγεγενεμένων – the greatness is what makes it worth narrating).14 Justifying his project in the tradition of these his most famous predecessors Polybios sets out to write a history of the marvel that defines his own time (τὸ θαυμάσιον τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν). This marvel is a man-made phenomenon: the symploke, the converging of world events into one connected whole under the aegis (or threat) of Rome. It is this marvellous topic that will make his account unique (ἴδιον), but his insistence on its importance anchors him in the historiographical tradition.15 Having announced this connection between the marvellous nature of his topic and the uniqueness of his own work in the preface, Polybios goes on repeatedly to justify his inclusion of or emphasis on an event by references to what is marvellous. Thus, the scale of the preparations and armament of the Romans and Carthaginians ahead of the Second Punic War are repeatedly called thaumasta at

14 For marvels in Herodotos, see Hunzinger 1995; Thomas 2000; Munson 2005 and Priestley 2014. For a brilliant discussion of the connection between the prefaces of Herodotos and Thucydides, see Moles 1993. 15 For the topos in ancient historiography of insisting on the surpassing greatness of one’s own topic, see Marincola 1997, 34–43. For the concept of ‘anchoring’ innovation in the past see the agenda statement of Oikos: http://www.ru.nl/oikos/anchoring-innovation/anchoring-innovation/ (accessed 3rd of February 2016).

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the beginning of book 8, and they are by implication worth spending time on for both author and reader. Other military operations on a grand scale sometimes earn the epithet as well.16 Moreover, Polybios takes it for granted that other historians follow the same impulse and write about what they find marvellous. This is clear from this passage, which forms part of a digression on the twin purposes of historiography, utility and pleasure, and criticises the practice of unnamed ‘other historians’: ἀλλ’ ἴσως ἀναγκαῖόν ἐστι συγγνώμην ἔχειν τοῖς μὴ συνεφιστάνουσι μήτ’ ἐπὶ τὰ τῆς φύσεως μήτ’ ἐπὶ τὰ καθόλου κατὰ τῆς οἰκουμένης πράγματα· δοκεῖ γὰρ αὐτοῖς ταῦτ’ εἶναι μέγιστα καὶ θαυμαστότατα τῶν προγεγονότων οἷς ἂν αὐτοὶ παρατυχόντες ἐγκυρήσωσιν ἢ πυθόμενοι παρά τινων πρὸς αὐτὰ ταῦτα προσέχωσι τὸν νοῦν. διὸ καὶ λανθάνουσι πλείω τοῦ καθήκοντος διατιθέμενοι λόγον ὑπὲρ τῶν μήτε καινῶν ὄντων διὰ τὸ καὶ ἑτέροις πρότερον εἰρῆσθαι μήτ’ ὠφελεῖν μήτε τέρπειν δυναμένων. But perhaps we must excuse historiographers who do not draw attention to events which happen either naturally or generally in the inhabited world. For they think that the greatest and most marvellous of past events are those which they themselves happen to have encountered or which they paid special attention to when they heard about them from someone. For that reason they inadvertently devote too much space when composing their works to matters that are neither new (since they have previously been said by others) nor conducive to either benefit or pleasure. Plb. 15.36.9

This passage shows that Polybios expects every historian to write about what they consider marvellous, even if they do not all understand what truly deserves the epithet. It also shows, however, that he thinks that events should not earn a place in history simply because they are marvellous, but that the information about the marvels should also be new and, perhaps more surprisingly, conducive to either benefit or pleasure. Polybios’ insistence on the importance of didactic utility in a historical work and, indeed, on the didactic benefit to be derived from the Histories, is well known. His acknowledgement that pleasure is also a valid purpose of reading historiography is less universally acknowledged. However, as it is clear from the passage leading up to the quoted lines, Polybios did, in fact, believe that pleasure had a legitimate part to play for his readers: not the short-lived and sordid pleasure derived from a ‘sensationalist’ narrative of the type he criticised Phylarkhos and Timaios for offering, but a pleasure derived from having acquired a true understanding of historical events and their causes.17 Benefit and pleasure are thus not conflicting goals for a serious reader of historiography, but mutually 16 E.  g. Plb. 2.28.11, 8.1.4, 8.7.2. 17 See especially Plb. 1.1–2 and 15.36, with Walbank 1990.



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supportive gains. The kind of marvel that belongs in a serious historical narrative according to Polybios, then, is the kind that is both exciting to read about and provides the reader with historical understanding, which will in turn also give him pleasure. In this, Polybios is again in line with Aristotle, who in the Rhetoric connects marvelling closely with learning and states that both are pleasant because they result in new knowledge.18 No doubt, the marvel of the symploke admirably fulfilled these two functions – excitement and didacticism – in Polybios’ mind.

The marvel of human virtues It is, however, not only large military operations and the new interconnectedness of the civilized world that are called ‘marvels’ and ‘marvellous’ in the Histories. In book 16, Polybios justifies his lengthy narrative of Philip V’s siege of Abydos by calling it marvellous, θαυμάσιος, and then explains explicitly that it was not so in terms of scale, but in terms of the nobility and courage of the defenders of the city: ἡ δὲ πρᾶξις αὕτη κατὰ μὲν τὸ μέγεθος τῆς παρασκευῆς καὶ τὴν ποικιλίαν τῶν ἐν τοῖς ἔργοις ἐπινοημάτων, δι’ ὧν οἵ τε (πολιορκοῦντες καὶ) πολιορκούμενοι πρὸς ἀλλήλους εἰώθασιν ἀντιμηχανᾶσθαι καὶ φιλοτεχνεῖν, οὐ γέγονε θαυμάσιος, κατὰ δὲ τὴν γενναιότητα τῶν πολιορκουμένων καὶ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τῆς εὐψυχίας, εἰ καί τις ἄλλη, μνήμης ἀξία καὶ παραδόσεως. This affair did not become a marvel because of the size of the armaments and the variety of contrivances involved in the deeds (the contrivances which ⟨the besiegers and⟩ besieged habitually invent and counter-invent against each other), but was made worthy of being remembered and passed on to posterity, if any ever was, because of the bravery and exceptional courage of the besieged. Plb. 16.30.2–3

18 Arist. Rhetoric 1371b: ἐπεὶ δὲ τὸ μανθάνειν τε ἡδὺ καὶ τὸ θαυμάζειν, καὶ τὰ τοιάδε ἀνάγκη ἡδέα εἶναι, οἷον τό τε μιμούμενον, ὥσπερ γραφικὴ καὶ ἀνδριαντοποιία καὶ ποιητική, καὶ πᾶν ὃ ἂν εὖ μεμιμημένον ᾖ, κἂν ᾖ μὴ ἡδὺ αὐτὸ τὸ μεμιμημένον· οὐ γὰρ ἐπὶ τούτῳ χαίρει, ἀλλὰ συλλογισμὸς ἔστιν ὅτι τοῦτο ἐκεῖνο, ὥστε μανθάνειν τι συμβαίνει (‘Since both learning and marvelling are pleasant, it is necessary that also things connected with them are pleasant, such as a work of imitation, like a painting or a sculpture or a poem, and everything which might be well imitated, even if the imitation itself is not pleasant: for it does not please [the viewer] on these grounds, but because the inference is that the imitation and its object are identical, so that it happens that we learn something’.) See Hunzinger 2015.

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This creates a link between ‘marvellous’ and ‘worth remembering’/‘worth including in a history’, corresponding to Herodotos’ preface and paralleling Thucydides’ connection of ‘greatest’ with ‘most worth narrating’. It assumes that ‘marvellous’ normally refers to the scale of events or preparations, as indeed is the case in many passages of the Histories, but then posits the argument that events can be marvellous for other reasons, such as the qualities displayed by the people involved. In this way, Polybios uses the epithet ‘marvellous’ as a weapon in his on-going polemic with earlier and contemporary historians over what is and is not fitting as a topic for historiography.19 The characterisation of the nobility and courage of the Abydenes as marvellous leads us to the next big group of thauma-passages in Polybios: passages where qualities of historical characters are described as marvellous, or as being wondered at. This use of thauma and its cognates is almost as common (30 instances) in the extant parts of the Histories as the rhetorical use with which we began this paper (33 instances). The sense of marvel at the virtues or behaviour of historical individuals is often focalized through a character in the story so that the marvelling becomes homodiegetic, i.  e. internal to the narrative. Such marvelling characters function as proxies for the reader and show him/her how to respond appropriately to the events narrated. An example is this passage where Hamilkar Barka and his Carthaginian troops wonder at the brave and unusual behaviour of Naravas the Numidian, who comes unarmed to their camp in order to gain an audience with the general: τοῦ δ’ Ἀμίλκου θαυμάσαντος τὴν ἐπιβολὴν καὶ προπέμψαντός τινα τῶν ἱππέων, εἰς λόγους ἔφη βούλεσθαι συνελθεῖν τῷ στρατηγῷ. διαποροῦντος δ’ ἀκμὴν καὶ διαπιστοῦντος τοῦ τῶν Καρχηδονίων ἡγεμόνος, παραδοὺς ὁ Ναραύας τὸν ἵππον καὶ τὰς λόγχας τοῖς μεθ’ αὑτοῦ παρῆν ἄνοπλος εὐθαρσῶς εἰς τὴν παρεμβολήν. οἱ δὲ τὰ μὲν ἐθαύμαζον, τὰ δὲ κατεπλήττοντο τὴν τόλμαν· Hamilkar marvelled at the undertaking and had a man ride out to see what he wanted. Naravas said that he would like to meet the general. The leader of the Carthaginians was still unsure what to make of this and whether he should trust the man when Naravas handed over his horse and spears to his attendants and boldly came into the camp unarmed. The Carthaginians marvelled at and were shocked by his courage. Plb. 1.78.4–6, transl. modified from Waterfield

The wonder of the Carthaginians at the courage of the Numidian is tinged with fear (τὰ μὲν ἐθαύμαζον, τὰ δὲ κατεπλήττοντο), and this is indeed often the case

19 For Polybios’ polemics, see Walbank 1972, 34–40; Plümacher 1998; Schepens 2005; Marincola 2003 and 2013; Baron 2013 esp. ch. 4.



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in Polybios. Courage is one of the virtues most often marvelled at by characters in the Histories. Another equally military virtue, which is also often an object of wonder, is speed of movement (e.  g. 3.61.4, 5.18.5, 9.8.2). Other military virtues attracting wonder are cleverness in strategy and good leadership, both of them particularly when exercised by Hannibal (e.  g. 8.34.10, 11.19.6). Other virtues marvelled at belong to the moral realm. The one most often graced with thauma-words is the exercising of restraint or mildness towards one’s defeated enemies or captives. We see an example of this in book 22, where Polybios looks back to Philip II as a role-model for how to behave in victory (22.16.1): ‘everyone marvels at his magnanimity’ (θαυμάζουσι μὲν πάντες Φίλιππον διὰ τὴν ορ … ς μεγαλοψυχίαν). As with most military virtues, the reader is clearly meant to share the homodiegetic characters’ sense of marvel, but here the marvel is not combined with fear, but with admiration. It is noteworthy that the verb here is in the present tense, signifying that Philip is still remembered and admired in Polybios’ day, and that contemporary rulers – and Polybios’ readers – would do well to emulate him and thus win such immortal admiration for themselves. The sense of marvel is supposed to aid Polybios’ didactic project in making his readers want to emulate the heroes of the past.20 The same is true of numerous passages that express marvel at and admiration for a character’s generosity or lack of greed. An example is Polybios’ praise for the behaviour of Aemilius Paullus after his defeat of Perseus, when he came into possession of the entire treasury of Macedon. Polybios goes out of his way to praise Paullus’ integrity in that he did not acquire any of the wealth for himself (apart from the library, which later stood Polybios himself in good stead when he befriended Paullus’ sons in Rome): ἐξ ὧν εἴποι τις ἂν καταλελύσθαι τὴν δόξαν τῶν θαυμαζομένων παρὰ τοῖς Ἕλλησι περὶ τοῦτο τὸ μέρος ἀνδρῶν· εἰ γὰρ τὸ διδομένων χρημάτων ἐπὶ τῷ τοῦ διδόντος συμφέροντι, τούτων ἀπέχεσθαι θαυμαστόν ἐστιν, ὃ λέγεται γεγονέναι περί τε τὸν Ἀθηναῖον Ἀριστείδην καὶ περὶ τὸν Θηβαῖον Ἐπαμινώνδαν, τὸ κύριον γενόμενον αὐτὸν ἁπάσης τῆς βασιλείας καὶ λαβόντα τὴν ἐξουσίαν ὡς βούλεται χρήσασθαι, μηδενὸς ἐπιθυμῆσαι πόσῳ θαυμαστότερόν ἐστιν; On the basis of these events one may say that the reputation of those who are most marvelled at/admired among the Greeks in this respect has been overshadowed. For if it is marvellous/ admirable to refuse to touch money offered in the interest of the giver, as Aristeides of Athens and Epameinondas of Thebes are said to have done, how much more marvellous/admirable is it for one who had a whole kingdom at his sole disposal, and had liberty to do what he wished with it, to covet none of it? Plb. 31.22.5–7, transl. modified from Paton

20 For a thorough examination of moral didacticism in Polybios, see Hau 2016.

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Here, Polybios compares Paullus’ lack of greed with that of two famously incorruptible Greeks, Aristeides of Athens and Epameinondas of Thebes, and a hierarchy of marvels is introduced: it is marvellous that Aristeides and Epameinondas refused to accept bribes, but it is even more marvellous (θαυμαστότερoν) that Aemilius Paullus did not desire any of the royal riches for himself. Polybios seems to be engaged in a comparison of national heroes: the traditional Greek paradigms of temperance in money-matters are impressive, but this recently deceased Roman has outdone them. This may seem like an odd thing to say for a Greek writing about Rome for a primarily Greek audience, but a similar passage from a little later in the same book of the Histories may help to throw some light on it.21 This passage concerns Scipio the Younger, a close friend of Polybios himself and adopted son of Aemilius Paullus. Scipio has inherited his adoptive grandmother’s great wealth and has immediately given it all to his biological mother, who was not previously well off, so that she can now drive through Rome in style. This elicits the following response from the internal audience: συνέβη τὰς γυναῖκας θεωμένας τὸ γεγονὸς ἐκπλήττεσθαι τὴν τοῦ Σκιπίωνος χρηστότητα καὶ μεγαλοψυχίαν καὶ πάσας προτεινούσας τὰς χεῖρας εὔχεσθαι τῷ προειρημένῳ πολλὰ κἀγαθά. τοῦτο δὲ πανταχῇ μὲν ἂν εἰκότως φαίνοιτο καλόν, ἐν δὲ Ῥώμῃ καὶ θαυμαστόν· ἁπλῶς γὰρ οὐδεὶς οὐδενὶ δίδωσι τῶν ἰδίων ὑπαρχόντων ἑκὼν οὐδέν. The women who saw this taking place were dumbfounded by Scipio’s goodness and generosity, and all stretched out their hands in prayer that many good things would befall him. This [Scipio’s generosity] would probably be thought admirable everywhere, but in Rome it was even marvellous: for absolutely no one there ever gives away anything of his own property to anyone willingly. Plb. 31.26.9

It is noteworthy that Polybios uses the verb ἐκπλήττεσθαι to describe the reaction of the women: in most of his Histories the verb is used to express fear, usually in a military context, as we saw with the Carthaginians being struck with wonder and alarm at the courage of a Numidian above. In this passage, fear can hardly be implied, but the reaction described must be strong and violent, like panic caused by the enemy, hence my translation ‘dumbfounded’. It is the next sentence, however, that may help to throw some light on the Aemilius Paullus passage discussed above. Here we are told that, although generosity such as that displayed by Scipio would likely be admired everywhere, in Rome it is truly ‘marvellous’ (θαυμαστόν). For in Rome, Polybios says, ‘absolutely no one ever gives away anything of his own property to anyone willingly’ expressed with an

21 For Polybios’ intended audience, see Plb. 1.1.5, 1.3.7–10, 6.11.3.8, 31.22.8–11.



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emphatic triple-negative. This puts his praise of Aemilius Paullus and the comparison with Aristeides and Epameinondas into perspective: Paullus and Scipio are especially marvellous because they display their conspicuous lack of greed in Rome, where people are generally more tight-fisted than in Greece. Aristeides and Epameinondas are justly famous in Greece, and it is no coincidence that no parallel role-models exist in the Roman tradition of historical exempla since generosity is not such a celebrated virtue among Romans. Aemilius Paullus and Scipio the Younger were special, and especially marvellous, in this respect because they were influenced by Greek models and Greek moral virtues, in Scipio’s case partly mediated through Polybios himself. The marvel, then, is made particularly marvellous because it happens in an unexpected geographical context, just as a natural phenomenon could be described as especially marvellous if it happened in a place where such occurrences had never happened before.22

The marvel of the human mind This elevation of human virtue to the level of a natural marvel is seen also in a number of passages scattered throughout the Histories where Polybios comments on the vast difference that the right person at the right time can make to history. Here are two typical examples, commenting on the importance of Arkhimedes and Hannibal respectively: οὕτως εἷς ἀνὴρ καὶ μία ψυχὴ δεόντως ἡρμοσμένη πρὸς ἔνια τῶν πραγμάτων μέγα τι χρῆμα φαίνεται γίνεσθαι καὶ θαυμάσιον. Such a great and marvellous thing does the genius of one man show itself to be when properly applied to certain matters. Plb 8.7.8, transl. by Paton εἷς ἧν ἀνὴρ αἴτιος καὶ μία ψυχή … οὕτως μέγα τι φύεται χρῆμα καὶ θαυμάσιον ἀνὴρ καὶ ψυχὴ δεόντως ἁρμοσθεῖσα κατὰ τὴν ἐξ ἀρχῆς σύστασιν πρὸς ὅ,τι ἂν ὁρμήσῃ τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων ἔργων. One man and one mind … Such a great and wonderful product of nature is a man with a mind properly fitted by its original constitution to execute any project within human power. Plb. 9.22.6, transl. by Paton

22 Maria Gerolemou has pointed out to me that there may be a precedent for Polybios’ designation of human moral virtue as marvellous in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia; see esp. Xen. Cyr. 1.1.1 and 4.2.14.

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In both of these passages Polybios uses the expression εἷς ἀνὴρ καὶ μία ψυχή – ‘one man and one mind’  – to emphasise the fact that one individual changed or determined the course of history, and that he did so by his mental powers (that is, not by any supernatural assistance, a point that Polybios often makes polemically against popular belief and the works of other historians as we shall see below).23 In both passages, Polybios also uses the expression οὕτως μέγα τι χρῆμα καὶ θαυμάσιον – ‘such a great and marvellous thing’ – to describe the one man and his marvellous mind. This expression puts the man and his mind squarely in the realm of marvellous natural phenomena, such as unusually big storms and beasts of extraordinary size.24 Such natural marvels – which were, of course, often thought to be supernatural – do not find much space in Polybios’ human-centred work, as we have seen. In their stead, he posits human achievement and the human mind as the marvels of his narrative. When the reader gazes in wonder at the marvellous virtues of the great characters of the Histories he/ she is inspired to aim for similar greatness. In this way, the marvellous becomes didactic as it encourages readers to strive for courage, generosity, and historical significance.25 In a few passages we see Polybios engaging with popular notions of the marvellous and justifying his own concept of what is truly remarkable. For instance, Scipio Africanus the Elder’s careful planning of and preparations for the capture of New Carthage are said to be worth dwelling on because they are more divine and more marvellous (θειοτέρους εἶναι καὶ θαυμαστοτέρους) than the popular story of his being helped by the gods (Plb. 10.2.6). The two epithets θειοτέρους and θαυμαστοτέρους are chosen carefully and provocatively by Polybios, who here has a particular point to make, and one about which he is passionate: men with minds like Scipio’s are rare and should be admired, not for their special relationships with any remote gods, but for their own achievements.26 And with the admiration should come a desire to emulate those great men, to learn from history and be commemorated in return, an endeavour which only makes sense in a world where human beings can better themselves by training and practice

23 It has been argued that this emphasis on the importance of the individual is inspired by Stoicism (Hirzel 1882, von Scala 1890), but Pédech 1964, 249–253 is surely right to see a less focused influence by Hellenistic thought generally. 24 The most famous example of χρῆμα used in this sense is no doubt the description of the wild boar which terrorizes Croesus’ land in Herodotos (Hdt. 1.36). 25 For Polybios’ moral didacticism, see Hau 2016. 26 See e.  g. Plb. 3.47.6–48.12, 10.2 10.9. For a discussion of such passages where Polybios passionately argues for a human explanation against a popular belief in supernatural causes, see Hau 2011.



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and where it is their actions rather than supernatural forces that make history. Thus, the deliberate removal of the marvellous from the divine to the human sphere has wide implications for Polybios and his readers.

Conclusions The first conclusion that can be drawn from this survey is that Polybios, like Herodotos and apparently like most of his other historiographical predecessors, considered the marvellous worth including in his work of history. Even more than that, he considered the label ‘marvellous’ potent enough to function as a justification for including various events and details in his narrative, and even for choosing the rise of Rome as his topic. In this, he seems to have been, as far as we can tell, semantically and conceptually in line with most of his historiographical predecessors. Our second conclusion, however, must be that Polybios differed from many of his predecessors in one important respect. He did not have much time for the kind of seemingly supernatural marvels that had fascinated historiographers from Herodotos to Phylarkhos and Timaios and which doubtless was still fascinating to most of his contemporaries: inanimate things coming alive, human beings saved by animals, or strange coincidences.27 Such occurrences do not find a place in his Histories. Instead, Polybios redefines thauma into the marvel of human virtue, human achievement, the human mind, and his own historiographical topic. An exception may seem to be the connection made in his preface between the marvellous nature of his topic and tykhe, fortune, who is said (as quoted above), to have brought about the symploke, the knitting together of the whole world under the dominance of Rome. However, I have shown elsewhere that tykhe in the Histories is only ever used to express historical causation in highly rhetorical passages with an attention-catching purpose, such as, precisely, the preface. In the narrative of the Histories, away from its show-piece attention-grabbing passages, it is human beings who bring about historical events, and tykhe is simply an expression used to cover the unforeseen, which in retrospect can always be explained.28

27 Statue coming alive: Phylarkhos FGrH 81 F45; human beings saved or befriended by animals: Phylarkhos FGrH 81 F26, F27, F49, F61, and Timaios FGrH 566 F29; strange coincidences: Timaios FGrH 566 F60, F105, F106, F150a. For the character of Phylarkhos’ work, see Kroyman 1956; Africa 1960 and 1961; Pédech 1989; Hau 2016: 141–8. For the character of Timaios’ work, see Pearson 1987; Vattuone 2002; Baron 2013; Hau 2016: 129–36. 28 See Hau 2011.

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Something similar seems to be true of thauma: in the preface, and only there, the work of tykhe is said to be thaumasion. In the rest of the work, the marvels are man-made: the displays and results of human virtue and human intelligence. This feature of Polybios’ work most likely makes it an outlier in the genre of Greek historiography, in the company of Thucydides and perhaps Hieronymos of Kardia and a few others, but away from the mainstream represented by Phylarkhos, Timaios, Theopompos, and Douris, all keen on supernatural – or rare natural – marvels, to judge from references to them in later authors. The focus on human causation, virtue, intelligence and marvellousness is also one of the features of the Histories that make it so convincing to present-day readers, who are, after all, mainly scholars schooled in a tradition of leaving out the supernatural and divine sphere(s) from historical accounts. However, before letting this lull us into a comfortable acceptance of Polybios’ version of events we have to remember the implications of our first conclusion: that labelling something or someone ‘marvellous’ is, for Polybios, a way of justifying its inclusion in the narrative and so implies that something else, to his mind not-marvellous, has been left out instead. In other words, the marvellous generosity of Scipio the Younger was worth describing in great detail, but, say, the legal intricacies of Roman inheritance laws which made it possible were not.29 As with the more ‘sensationalist’ historiographers interested in non-human marvels readers still only see the image of the past which the historiographer wants them to see. Let us now take a step back from Polybios and look at what our investigation can tell us about the role played by wonders and the marvellous in Hellenistic thought more generally. We have seen that Polybios uses thauma and its cognates to further his own agenda. This agenda is partly causative-explanatory in positing that it is human beings who make history happen, not supernatural powers, and partly exemplary-didactic in exhorting the reader to imitate marvellous human beings of the past in order to become marvellous himself (Polybios’ ideal reader was surely male). Polybios could only do this because the category of the marvellous had considerably inbuilt flexibility: it was possible for him to keep the category and change its contents from natural and supernatural phenomena to human characteristics in order to make a point. And this strategy only worked because the marvellous was a powerful conceptual category for the Hellenistic Greeks, which immediately signalled that its content was not just interesting, but also important, and worth remembering.

29 See Walbank 1979, ad Plb. 31.25–28.



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Bibliography Africa, T. W. (1960), ‘Phylarchus and the gods. The religious views of a Hellenistic historian’, Phoenix 14, 222–227. – (1961), Phylarchus and the Spartan Revolution, Berkeley–Los Angeles. Baron, C. A. (2013), Timaeus of Tauromenium and Hellenistic Historiography, Cambridge. Hau, L. I. (2011), ‘Tyche in Polybios: narrative answers to a philosophical question’, Histos 5, 183–207. – (2016), Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus, Edinburgh. Hunzinger, C. (1995), ‘La notion de θῶμα chez Hérodote’, Ktema 20, 47–70. – (2015), ‘Wonder’, in: P. Destrée/P. Murray (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, Chichester, 422–437. Kroymann, J. (1956), ‘Phylarchos’, RE Suppl. VIII, 471–489. Maier, F. (2012), ‘Überall mit dem Unerwarteten rechnen’. Die Kontingenz historischer Prozessse bei Polybios, Vestigia 65, Munich. Marincola, J. (1997), Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. – (2003), ‘Beyond Pity and Fear: the Emotions of History’, AncSoc 33, 285–315. – (2013), ‘Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’: A Reconsideration’ in: B. Gibson/ T. Harrison (eds.), Polybius and his World, Oxford, 73–90. McGing, B. (2010), Polybius’ Histories, Oxford. Moles, J. (1993), ‘Truth and Untruth in Herodotus and Thucydides’ in: C. Gill/T. P. Wiseman (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, 88–121. Munson, R. V. (2005), Telling wonders: ethnographic and political discourse in the work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Pearson, L. (1987), The Greek Historians of the West: Timaeus and his Predecessors, Atlanta. Pédech, P. (1964), La Méthode Historique de Polybe, Paris. – (1989), Trois Historiens Méconnus: Théopompe, Duris, Phylarque, Paris. Plümacher, E. (1998), ‘TERATEIA. Fiktion und Wunder in der hellenistisch-römischen Geschichtsschreibung und in der Apostelgeschichte’, Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 89, 66–90. Polybius (1922–1927) The Histories vol. I–VI (transl. by W. R. Paton) Cambridge, Mass.– London. – (2010) The Histories. A New translation by Robin Waterfield with an Introduction and Notes by B. McGing, Oxford World’s Classics, Oxford. Priestley, J. (2014), Herodotus and Hellenistic culture: Literary Studies in the Reception of the Histories, Oxford. Schepens, G. (2005), ‘Polybius on Phylarchus’ ‘Tragic’ Historiography’, in: G. Schepens/J. Bollansee (eds.), The Shadow of Polybius. Intertextuality as a Research Tool in Greek Historiography, Leuven, 141–164. Tempest, K./C. Kremmydas (eds.) (2013), Hellenistic Oratory: Continuity and Change, Oxford. Thomas, R. (2000), Herodotus in Context, Cambridge. Vattuone, R. (2002), ‘Timeo di Tauromenio’, in: R. Vattuone (ed.), Storici greci d’Occidente, Bologna, 177–232. Walbank, F. W. (1957), A Historical Commentary on Polybius I, Oxford. – (1967), A Historical Commentary on Polybios II, Oxford. – (1972), Polybios, Berkeley–Los Angeles–London. – (1979), A Historical Commentary on Polybios III, Oxford.

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(1990), ‘Profit or Amusement: some thoughts on the motives of Hellenistic historians’, in: H. Verdin/G. Schepens/E. de Keyser (eds.), Purposes of History – Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries B. C., Leuven, 253–266.

Appendix: all 105 instances of θαῦμα and its cognates in the Histories ‘I marvel at’ as a rhetorical figure of speech: 33 instances 2.62.2 and 63.1.2: the narrator marvels at the inexperience and ignorance of Phylarkhos. 3.20.3: Khaireas and Sosylos describe a marvellously gloomy Senate meeting (ironic). 3.26.2, twice: the narrator marvels at the mendacity of Philinos. 4.16.2: Philip V does not marvel at the treachery of the Aitolians since he knows it is in keeping with their usual habit. 5.36.4: Sosibios marvels at Kleomenes’ statement that he should trust mercenaries. 8.9.5: the narrator marvels at the absurdity of Theopompos. 9.32.5: direct speech by Khlaeneas the Arkananian: ‘You must not marvel at the fact that the greater part of my speech refers to Philip and Macedon’. 12.3.2 and 4.5: the narrator marvels at the ignorance of Timaios. 12.9.4: the Locrians marvel at the audacity of Aristotle in getting their origin wrong. 12.12.5: the narrator marvels at the mendacity of Timaios. 12.15.5: the narrator marvels at the bias of Timaios. 12.25c.3: the narrator marvels at the maliciousness of Timaios. 12.26.9: the narrator marvels at the incompetence of Timaios in speech writing. 15.19.5: Hannibal marvels that the Carthaginians do not count themselves lucky to have obtained lenient terms from Rome. 15.20.1: the narrator marvels at the disloyalty of Antiokhos III and Philip V. 18.1.8: Flamininus marvels at the paranoia of Philip V. 18.5.1: Flamininus marvels at Aitolian devotion to booty. 18.13.1: the narrator marvels at the crimes of human beings, particularly treachery. 11.28.1: Scipio the Elder marvels at the disloyalty of mutinous troops. 18.15.6: the narrator marvels at the expectations of traitors. 18.37.5: Flamininus marvels at Greek in-fighting. 18.50.8: Roman envoy marvels at Antiochus III’s crossing to Greece. 18.53.10: Skopas marvels at the daring of those who come to arrest him. 21.1: the Senate marvels at Spartan refusal to recall exiles. 23.5.12: Flamininus marvels at the carefreeness of Deinokrates. 23.9.14: The Senate says that the Akhaians should not marvel if they do not try to prevent cities revolting from the Akhaian League. 28.7.4: Q. Marcius Philippus marvels at Rhodian inactivity. 29.9.7: the narrator marvels at the greed of Perseus. 30.2.7: messenger from king Eumenes marvels that Attalos would endanger the kingdom. 30.8.8: the narrator marvels at the shameful clinging to life of Deinon and Polyaratos.



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30.32.2: the Senate marvels that the Akhaian envoys keep coming back for another answer. 39.1.5: Cato marvels at the conceit of Postumius who apologizes for his attempt to write history in Greek.

Sub-category: no need to wonder at Polybios’ h ­ istoriographical decisions or information: 11 instances 1.12.8: the reader should not wonder at his inclusion of older history. 3.33.17: the reader should not wonder at his knowledge of Hannibal’s arrangements in Spain. 3.57.6: the reader should not wonder at his omission of geography/ethnography. 5.90.4: the reader should not wonder at the wealth and rapid growth of Rhodes considering its strategic position and advantages. 6.11.4 and 6: Roman readers will not marvel at what Polybios includes, but grumble about what he excludes. 9.26a.5 and 9.27.1: many marvel at how Sparta can be larger than Megalopolis when its circumference is smaller, but that is because they have forgotten their geometry. 36.8.6: the reader should not wonder that Polybios pays special attention to Scipio the Younger. 36.12.1: the reader should not wonder that Polybios sometimes talks of himself in the third, sometimes in the first person. 38.4.1: the reader should not wonder that Polybios’ style becomes more ambitious and rhetorical when he talks about the defeat of Greece by Rome.

Marvelling/surprise at an unexpected occurrence (expressed, if at all, not in a speech, but as a shout of surprise, and often positive): 5 instances 8.21.1: Antiokhos marvels at the capture of Akhaios. 8.26.1: Hannibal doesn’t want the Romans to marvel/be surprised that he spends a long time around Tarentum, so he pretends to be sick. 18.40, fragment: not marvellous/surprising that trickery tricks the naive (but that it tricks those who are themselves tricksters). 21.30.11: Fulvius invades Aitolia and marvels at/is surprised at lack of resistance. 21.38.6: a Gallic chieftain marvels/is surprised to have the head of his wife’s rapist thrown at his feet.

Natural and ethnographical marvels: 9 instances 4.42.1: No need to be amazed that rivers silt up the Pontos. 10.27.6: the strong position of Ekbatana is a marvel. 10.48.1: the Nomads cross the River Oxus in a marvellous way. 12.3.2: the fertility of Africa is a marvel.

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12.4.5 and 7: goats responding to a horn seems a marvel until one knows the reason. 30.10.3: Aemilius Paullus marvels at the strategic position of Corinth. 32.3.7: the caged Isocrates is a marvel. 36.14.2: it is a marvel that Aulus Mancinus did not die from being hit on the head by a falling roof tile (ironic).

Topics of the Histories and other works of historiography as marvels: 11 instances 1.4.1, preface: the symploke is the marvel of Polybios’ time and will make his work unique. 1.63.7: the size of armaments and undertakings in the First Punic War is a marvel. 2.28.11: three-army battle is a marvel. 6.56.9: the narrator builds up to his revelation that it is superstition that holds the Roman state together by saying that it is a fact that will seem marvellous to many. 8.1.4, 8.2.8, 8.2.10: the scope of Roman and Carthaginian operations is a marvel. 8.7.2: firepower of Sicilian catapults is a marvel. 15.36.9: other historiographers write about what they find most marvellous. 16.20.4: other historiographers concentrate on what is pretentious and showy because they think it great and marvellous. 35.1.1: the unbroken fighting of the Celtiberian War is a marvel.

Human qualities described as marvellous/marvels: 30 instances 1.72.3: the Carthaginians have marvelled at/admired and honoured those who treated the Libyans harshly. 1.78.4 and 6: bravery of Naravas 3.61.4: military speed 4.82.1: ‘behaviour and deeds’ of Philip V 5.12.1: hypothetical restraint of Philip V in victory would have been marvelled at. 5.18.5: military speed of Philip V 8.34.10: cleverness of Hannibal 9.8.2: speed and competence of Epameinondas 9.9.5 and 10: Speed and efficiency of Hannibal 10.19.4: female beauty 10.40.7: lack of power-lust in Scipio the Elder 11.9.8: Philopoimen’s disdain for showiness 11.19.6: The leadership of Hannibal 12.25  f.2: Ephoros’ knowledge of naval warfare 12.28.10: Ephoros’ phraseology, approach, and arguments 15.5.8: daring and ambition of Scipio the Elder 16.22.1: loyal guardianship of under-age king 16.30.3 and 33.4: courage of the Abydenes



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18.28.5: Roman fighting styles 18.46.14: Roman liberation of Greece 21.38.7: female pride and intelligence 22.16.1: magnanimity of Philip II 23.13.1: leadership of Hannibal 31.22.5–7, 3 times: lack of greed in Aemilius Paullus and others 31.26.9: generosity of Scipio the Younger 36.10.5: the Macedonians marvel at the military successes of the Pseudo-Philip.

Sub-category: the marvel of the human mind: 5 instances 3.59.2: We should marvel at the historiographers of old for knowing anything at all about ­geography. 8.7.8: Arkhimedes 9.22.6: Hannibal 10.2.6: Scipio the Elder 12.15.8: Agathokles of Syracuse

Spurious: 2 instances 21.38.7: the epitomiser says that Polybios marvelled at the pride and intelligence of a Gallic chieftain’s wife who killed her rapist, but it is unclear if Polybios himself used the verb. 36.16.12: Plutarch gives Polybios as his source for Massinissa’s soldiers marvelling at the sight of him eating dirty bread, but he is unlikely to be using Polybios’ exact words.

Sophia Papaioannou

Omens and Miracles: Interpreting Miraculous Narratives in Roman Historiography Abstract: Omens, as a powerful and impressive manifestation of divine favor, are a recurrent theme in Roman historiography, especially in Livy’s account of the Republican Roman past, and accompany the performance of individuals destined to become rulers of the Respublica or already serving as such. The tradition of imperial biography, which developed into a genre of literary prose during the imperial Roman period, redefined the miraculous in the Roman tradition as a trait of the emperor. The present chapter examines three episodes from the Roman historiographical tradition where the miraculous designates leadership and helps interpret historical progression. The selected episodes come from the work of three Roman historiographers of different eras and political/cultural mindsets. The first concerns the emergence of a snake from the inside of the central column in the palace of Tarquinius Superbus as reported in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita 1.56. The second is recorded on Suetonius’ Life of Galba 1 and relates the remarkable story of an eagle dropping unharmed into the lap of Livia Drusilla, a hen carrying a laurel spring. The third deals with the healing miracle attributed to the emperor Vespasian in Suetonius, Vespasian 7 and Tacitus, Histories 4.81–2. All three episodes suggest that miracles have a macrocosmic significance, as they become models for interpretation of similar situations in the future, and offer metaphoric yet detailed assessments of contemporary events.

Introduction The lives of Roman emperors are distinguished both by omens and prodigies, that is, divine signs that declare their predestined and divinely approved greatness, and by miracles, namely, performances of wondrous deeds that defy logical explanation and serve to declare the divine nature of the emperor and his superiority over the forces of nature.1 Both omens and miracles belong to the sphere of 1 The indispensability of the wondrous not only marks the biographies of the principes, but it is a characteristic of the Roman culture from Augustus onwards. The paradoxical/marvelous distinguishes many important aspects of the Roman experience in the Age of Augustus, from https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-007

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the marvelous, are unanimously greeted as god-sent, and call for interpretation in order to produce the narrative to be utilized for the aggrandizement of the individual recipient of these supernatural signs.2 A significant difference between the omen and the miracle in Roman historiography involves their reception. Omens normally require interpretation by some expert and usually (though not always) appear to individuals rather than larger crowds. Miracles are always performed, that is, they take place before an audience, and their validity (and their very acknowledgement as miracles) depends on their acceptability as markers of extraordinariness.3 In the present paper, I look at selective expressions of the wondrous and the miraculous in Augustan vs. Imperial Historiography from a literary as well as political perspective. I claim that the narrative of an omen or a miracle is a literary text which reproduces some events that are considered historical, or better, part of the constructed memory of an individual or collective past – even though the historiographer and his contemporary audience do not necessarily believe that these events happened at all (this concerns omens which mostly occur in the absence of witnesses) or took place as reported (and if they did, that they carry the meaning they were offered at the time). Three factors involved in the proper contextualization of a miracle determine my exploration of these wonders: firstly, the “historicity” of the story wherein the omen or the miracle is contextualized; secondly, the cultural context of the so-considered present time, or the time that generated the literary narrative; and thirdly, intertextuality, the literary memory of a similar omen or miracle, and its respective context. In light of the above, I shall look at three manifestations of the wondrous and the miraculous as reported in the texts of three Roman historiographers of different eras and political/cultural mindsets. The first concerns the emergence

politics to art to daily life (the marvelous growth of the empire; the paradoxical fusion of tradition and innovation of the Augustan settlement; the abstract styles of painting in art; the architectural transformation of the Roman landscape, etc.). Illuminating, on this transition from the rationalism of the Late Republic (epitomized in Lucretius) to the marvelous and the fantastic of the Augustan era, is the introductory chapter by Philip Hardie in Hardie 2009. 2 Cf. Riemer 2006, offers a very good discussion on (and concentration of) the various miraculous stories associated with the Roman emperors from Augustus onwards, and especially with the Flavians; her sources are Martial’s epigrams (where a great number of wondrous events distinguish all Flavian emperors) and all major prose authors of the Early Empire, foremost Suetonius and Tacitus. These imperial miracles she compares to the miracles of Jesus in the New Testament tradition. 3 These serious considerations are not taken into account by Garland 2011, who accepts that “an overlap, both essential and linguistic, exists between miracles on the one hand, and omens and prodigies on the other” (p. 76).



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of a snake from the inside of the central column in the palace of Tarquinius Superbus as reported in the first book of Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita [hence: AUC] (1.56), a miracle that signaled the impending fall of monarchy and the establishment of the Roman Republic. The second miraculous happening comes from the opening chapter of Suetonius’ Life of Galba and is part of a remarkable story of an eagle dropping unharmed into the lap of Livia Drusilla, a hen of brilliant whiteness, which was carrying a sprig (ramulum) of laurel in its beak. I shall conclude with the famous healing miracle attributed to the emperor Vespasian by both Tacitus and Suetonius. Vespasian was credited with healing a blind man and restoring another man’s crippled hand (or leg), while visiting the shrine of Sarapis in Egypt (Suetonius, Vespasian 7; Tacitus, Histories 4.81–2; also Dio Cassius 65.8.1, who reports only part of the miracle). All these extraordinary episodes achieve a number of purposes: they presuppose some intertext and engage dynamically with it, they are commentaries on contemporary events, they serve political and ideological intentions; in short, they suggest that moments marked by remarkable events have macrocosmic significance, as they become models for interpretation of similar situations in the future, and macroscopic value, for they provide comprehensible transcriptions, though in metaphoric language and amplifying detail, of cryptic ideas often difficult to capture in their original manifestation.

Republican Omens The first wondrous event to be considered is recorded in Livy, AUC 1.56. It foretells the rise of Brutus, the “founder” of the Republican state,4 who was often associated with Romulus,5 Augustus’ original ancestral hero-model. Lucius Iunius Brutus was hardly a favorite with Augustus. He had been embraced as a model by a series of Republican, anti-Caesarian leaders, including Cicero and

4 The reference study of Brutus’ biography and the understanding of his role in the political, religious, and legal history of Republican Rome is Mastrocinque 1988, which approaches Brutus not simply as a founder character, but as the incarnation of the essence of the Respublica, its history, law, and religion; chapter 1 (pp. 13–38) discusses the rich literary tradition on Brutus and Tarquinius Superbus. Livy’s translations are taken from Roberts 1912–24. Suetonius’ translation comes from Rolfe 1914, Cassius Dio’s from Cary 1914–28, while Tacitus’ follows Hadas 1942. 5 On the association of Brutus and Romulus, cf. Miles 1988, 198: “Livy’s narrative still makes it appropriate to view Brutus as fulfilling potentialities first prepared for by Romulus”; Miles 1986 ranks Brutus among the early Roman conditores beginning with Romulus and ending with Camillus.

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most prominently Marcus Iunius Brutus the Younger, one of Caesar’s assassins and self-declared liberator, champion of the ancestral Respublica, which Caesar, Augustus’ adoptive father, allegedly had dissolved. With Augustus’ rise to power the reputation of Lucius Iunius Brutus declines. Brutus is an important hero of Rome but his deeds are at best vague and ambiguous: he appears in the Heldenschau in Aeneid 6, where he is called the ‘Avenger’, but there is no mention of his contribution to the foundation of the Respublica. Instead, what is emphasized the most in Vergil’s text, is his cruel treatment of his sons, whom he ordered to be executed for stirring a revolt against the fatherland (Aen. 6.815–23). Still, Brutus’ profile was inspiring for Augustus because Brutus was “the leader with perhaps the strongest public Apolline profile” at the start of the triumviral period.6 When Augustus decided to embrace Apollo as his patron deity and enrich his biography accordingly, it was inevitable that his attachment to Apollo would be seen against Brutus’ precedent. The omen in Livy that involves Brutus the Senior and Apollo alike is to be read against Augustus’ self-modeling on Brutus-as-founder-of-theRespublica tradition under the direction and patronage of the Delphic Apollo. In the omen that heralded the Elder Brutus’ glorious destiny and tied him to Apollo a snake emerged from the inside of a wooden column in the palace of Tarquinius Superbus,7 as the latter was engaged with the establishment of the first Roman colonies, at Signia and Circei (AUC 1.56.4 Haec agenti portentum terribile visum: anguis ex columna lignea elapsus cum terrorem fugamque in regia fecisset, ipsius regis non tam subito pavore perculit pectus quam anxiis implevit curis. “While he was carrying out these undertakings a frightful portent appeared; a snake gliding out of a wooden column created confusion and panic in the palace. The king himself was not so much terrified as filled with anxious forebodings”). Since the Etruscan priests called were not qualified to address omens affecting personally the royal household,8 Tarquin decided to consult the Delphic oracle (AUC 1.56.5). For this he sent his two sons along with L. Iunius Brutus, his nephew (AUC 1.56.6–7). The first part of the story ends here. The second part (AUC 1.56.7–9) comprises, in narrative terms, a parenthesis: Livy offers details on Iunius Brutus. We are told that Brutus, in order to protect himself from the king’s invidia and avoid having the tragic fate of his older brother who had been murdered by Tarquin because he had been suspected of having taken part in a conspiracy 6 Miller 2009, 24 (on Brutus’ symbolic ties to Apollo on pp. 24–6); also Zanker 1990, 49. 7 See detailed discussion of the text in Ogilvie 1965, 216–218. 8 The association of the Etruscan haruspices with this legendary prodigy is, according to MacBain 1982, “in a purely conventional and uninformed manner” (p. 45), a clear anachronism, for “it is unlikely that any authentic detail of their activity in that period survived in the annalistic tradition” (p. 46).



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against the king, kept a very low profile with his royal relatives, by pretending to be dim-witted (AUC 1.56.9). He had accompanied Tarquin’s sons to Delphi “more as a butt for their sport than as a companion” (ludibrium verius quam comes, AUC 1.56.9). Once there, however, Brutus offered Apollo a present which, according to Livy, alluded to his own character: a rod of gold hidden inside a hollow staff of cornelwood: [Brutus] aureum baculum inclusum corneo cavato ad id baculo tulisse donum Apollini dicitur, per ambages effigiem ingenii sui (“[Brutus] had with him a golden staff enclosed in a hollow one of cornelwood, which he offered to Apollo as a mystical emblem of his own character.” AUC 1.56.9). The rest of the story (1.56.10–12) is quoted below: (10) Quo postquam ventum est, perfectis patris mandatis cupido incessit animos iuvenum sciscitandi ad quem eorum regnum Romanum esset venturum. Ex infimo specu vocem redditam ferunt: imperium summum Romae habebit qui vestrum primus, O iuvenes, osculum matri tulerit. (11) Tarquinii ut Sextus, qui Romae relictus fuerat, ignarus responsi expersque imperii esset, rem summa ope taceri iubent; ipsi inter se uter prior, cum Romam redisset, matri osculum daret, sorti permittunt. (12) Brutus alio ratus spectare Pythicam vocem, velut si prolapsus cecidisset, terram osculo contigit, scilicet quod ea communis mater omnium mortalium esset. After executing their father’s commission the young men were desirous of ascertaining to which of them the kingdom of Rome would come. A voice came from the lowest depths of the cavern: “Whichever of you, young men, shall be the first to kiss his mother, he shall hold supreme sway in Rome.” Sextus had remained behind in Rome, and to keep him in ignorance of this oracle and so deprive him of any chance of coming to the throne, the two Tarquins insisted upon absolute silence being kept on the subject. They drew lots to decide which of them should be the first to kiss his mother on their return to Rome. Brutus, thinking that the oracular utterance had another meaning, pretended to stumble, and as he fell kissed the ground, for the earth is of course the common mother of us all.

The revelation of Brutus’ real identity and the disclosure of his grand destiny offer the true interpretation of the snake omen. This is why Livy’s narrative expands so much on Brutus and does not report what exactly the priestess told Tarquin’s sons about the snake prodigy. The interaction of the young Tarquins with the Delphic priestess is passed over summarily (the phrase, at AUC 1.56.10, perfectis patris mandatis, “[sc. Tarquin’s sons] after executing their father’s commission”, is the only mention to it) as if something of no importance, and understandably so, because the actual interpretation of the snake omen is tied to Brutus.9 Livy’s

9 Mastrocinque 1988 in chapter 2 suggests that the priestess’ answer to the snake prodigy was part of the original version of the story (which goes as far back as Fabius Pictor, who was inspired in turn by popular tales), but in subsequent treatments of the prodigy story the answer was

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introduction of Brutus to the narrative forefront, thereby redirecting the narrative focus of the story from Tarquin’s omen to Brutus, calls into consideration the allegorical nature of Brutus’ gift against the marvel of the snake hidden inside the wooden column. Livy’s readers naturally comprehend the actual interpretation of the omen: the snake is Brutus, hiding behind the deceptive act and the mask of a brutus (=“dim-witted”).10 The story, however, does not end here. The omen is decoded, but it has not been fully interpreted because, first, it has to be rationalized and contextualized. The readers need to understand, in other words, why it was sent by the gods, and what it means. Contextualization, as a matter of fact, is a prerequisite for the inclusion of the wondrous and paradoxical in a historiographical narrative. Thus, Brutus’ story continues with a third and final part that relates a second interaction of Tarquin’s sons with the oracle, as they took the initiative and asked which of them would become king. This time the response is recorded. The oracle informs the princes that king will become he who will be the first to kiss their mother (AUC 1.56.10). Titus and Arruns take the oracle literally (AUC 1.56.11); Brutus, however, realizes that by “their mother” the Delphic oracle meant the common mother of all, Earth, so right away he falls on his knees and kisses the ground (AUC 1.56.12). The emphasis on the episode of the embassy to Delphi, in sum, is on: a) Brutus and his double identity, which is symbolically conveyed through his meaningful gift to Apollo; and b) the revelation of Brutus’ destiny to succeed Tarquin. The latter becomes the center of the third and last part of the narrative. The association between the mother/earth and the future leader of Rome in Brutus recorded therein, produces a wider context around the snake omen. The particular omen, a traditional element in the Tarquin-Brutus story, is of special significance in Livy’s narrative: it alludes to the association of the snake with renewal and rebirth, but also with legitimate originary leadership. These motifs reach back to the legend of Romulus and the foundation of Rome, and project Brutus as a new Romulus, since Brutus, guided by Apollo, will soon become a new sort of founder, for he is about to lead the Roman movement against the Tarquins and institute the Respublica.

removed in order to enforce the association with Brutus; for Mastrocinque, the elimination of the original answer had taken place before Livy who follows a well-established tradition on this. 10 AUC 1.56.8: Bruti quoque haud abnuit cognomen ut sub eius obtentu cognominis liberator ille populi Romani animus latens opperiretur tempora sua. “and did not even protest against his nickname of ‘Brutus’; for under the protection of that nickname the soul which was one day to liberate Rome was awaiting its destined hour.” Smith 2007, 287: “[Brutus] sees that, just as the snake has emerged from the column, soon it will be time for him to act, to reveal his liberator animus. In a sense, the gift which he presents to Apollo is a re-enactment of the omen and shows that he understands its meaning.”



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The portrayal of Brutus and Romulus as founding fathers is in accordance with the ideology of rebirth that distinguished the idealized Respublica of Brutus’ days as envisioned by the generation prior to Livy and at a time the Republic was disintegrating.11 The promise of the restoration of this idealized Respublica sits at the core of the Augustan political rhetoric. At the same time, Augustus’ projection of his novus ordo seclorum against the events leading to beginning of the Respublica tactfully circumvented Brutus’ pivotal role by emphasizing the event of change in the regime and by elevating the contribution of Apollo in this change, who by the time Livy was composing his first pentad had become the leading divine agent of the Augustan revolution.12 In fact, depending on the time Livy was drafting the first book of the AUC, it may be plausibly suggested that the emphasis on the Apollonian element in Brutus’ story underscores the prophetic side of Apollo  – one of Apollo’s sides embraced by Augustus. This embrace was “translated at Rome into [Apollo’s] sponsorship of the priests in charge of the Sibylline Books” and brought about, according to Livy’s testimony, the renaming of the priests appropriately as “the supervisors of Apollo’s rites” (AUC 10.8.2 antistites… Apollinaris sacri).13 Finally, it is tempting to justify the oracular consultation of the young Tarquins about their father’s succession in the context of the Augustan Apollo’s “link with the concept of new age”. This link had been established already during the triumviral period when, following the defeat of Brutus and Cassius, the official moneyers printed on coins the image of Apollo, the sun god of renewal, in order to celebrate the second Triumvirate as a promising new age – and probably in order to invalidate via recontextualization the Apollonian imagery that only the previous year Brutus the Younger had employed, too, in order to declare the murder of Caesar as the beginning of a new bright era for Rome.14 The tie of the snake with originary leadership is a locus communis in Greek mythology – major Greek cities were founded by leaders who had intimate associations with snakes and the earth.15 The founder and first king of Athens, Cecrops,

11 The constitutional and civic revolution initiated by Brutus mirrors the anxieties of the first-century Romans about the role of the individual in the state and about the new Roman civic identity in the political reality of the Augustan regime; detailed analysis of this complex situation in Mastrocinque 1988; Feldherr 1997. 12 On the association of Augustus to Apollo, see recently Miller 2009; the early stages of this process that began taking shape in the early thirties are discussed on pp. 15–53. 13 Miller 2009, 29. 14 Miller 2009, 30. 15 The association of Brutus with the snake omen has inspired Smith to demonstrate (in Smith [2007]) how Livy “appropriated from Greek literature the imagery evocative of earthborn heroes

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is a half-man; his successor, Erichthonius, was guarded by a snake as a baby; and Pandion, another early king, is likewise earthborn. The aristocratic families of Thebes were the descendants of the spartoi, the “sown men”  – Kadmos the founder of Thebes originally fought against them, but later he collaborated with them. He even married his daughters to them (cf. Agaue, Pentheus’ mother, was married to Echion). The same ideology of earth-born heroic leadership entwined with authenticity and renewal is appropriated by Livy for Brutus, who introduces him not just as a divinely sanctioned leader of Rome, but also as a second founder of the city.16 The autochthonic element is enforced in the episode of the embassy to Delphi by two additional important details: first, the Delphic temple was built on top of the dead body of Python, the giant snake-guardian of the spring Telphousa. Second, in Livy’s account, the second oracle given to the sons of Tarquin, on the identity of their father’s successor, comes not from the Delphic priestess but from a voice from the depths of the earth (AUC 1.56.10 Ex infimo specu vocem redditam ferunt, “A voice came, they report,17 from the lowest depths of the cavern.”). Finally, Brutus’ emerging as a leader in the aftermath of a mission that ostensibly had a different goal calls to mind another famous story of another leader and city-founder, which emerged as such while his party was consulting the Delphic oracle, namely, the story of Battus, the founder of Cyrene. Like Brutus, Battus was following an embassy to Delphi led by the king of Thera to inquire about other matters, specifically how to end a drought of seven years and how to solve their problem of overpopulation. When the king of Thera asked for the priestess’ advice, he was told to go to Libya and found a city there. This advice seemed irrelevant to the inquiry because neither the king nor anybody in the embassy knew where Libya was. In the aftermath of this embassy, Battus was appointed leader of the expedition to colonize Libya, even though he was just one of the king’s attendants. Also, like Brutus, Battus’ name was a nickname given to him on account of a physical handicap – battos in Greek means “stammer”.18

in order to depict Brutus not just as a divinely sanctioned leader of Rome but also as a second founder of the city at a crucial moment in its history” (Smith [2007] 285). 16 See more examples of earthborn city-founders and leaders in Smith 2007, 289–290. 17 Livy’s use of the “Alexandrian footnote” here does not necessarily suggest that Livy has in mind some earlier version inclusive of this detail; rather, given the folkloristic character of the narrative, it may well have been his own invention; the attribution of this to anonymous sources simply aims at bolstering its credibility; the “Alexandrian footnote” trope, e.  g. an inserted ferunt or dicuntur to signal a scholarly allusion, is discussed in Hinds 1998, 1–16. 18 The story of Battus and the foundation of Cyrene in Libya are reported in Herodotus 4.150  ff.



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Like Herodotus’ story about Battus, Livy’s narrative details, which frame the introduction of Brutus, in conjunction with the snake omen operate on three different levels: a) Livy presents Brutus as another city founder, thus underlining his role in leading the constitutional transition from regnum to respublica. b) Livy calls for Brutus to be seen in the context of Romulus, not only because the foundation of the Respublica is comparable to the founding of Rome, but also because the biographies of the two founders share crucial points of proximity: both Brutus and Romulus enter the political forefront at the head of a coup against the king. Both live under assumed identities (Brutus deliberately, Romulus unknowingly). Both of them have legitimate claim to succession on account of their mother (Tarquinia-Rhea Silvia,19 both women being first-degree blood relatives to the king20). Then, once both overthrow the regime, they find that they share power with a twin, biological, in Romulus’ case, political, in Brutus’ own (the other consul, Tarquinius Collatinus), whom however both marginalize in one way or another (Romulus violently, Brutus diplomatically: he suggests that Tarquinius Collatinus should go into self-imposed exile because of his kinship to the Tarquins – Brutus does not consider himself to be threatened by his own close kinship).21 c) Livy’s narrative of Brutus’ rise to power, fulfilling the will of the gods and specifically that of Apollo, via the omen of a snake, alludes once again to Augustus, for crucial details in the story of Brutus are to be found in the quasi-legendary tradition tied to the biography of Augustus as well. The first and most prominent point of proximity is the association of Augustus to Apollo, which included among other things an omen involving a snake.22 The story about this omen became popular in the early 20s, shortly after Augustus established his regime – and around the time Livy published his first pentad. According to this story, Octavian’s mother Atia had conceived her son not by his putative father, Caius 19 Smith 2007, 291 further notes that Rhea Silvia bearing a name meaning “wood” (silva) and evoking the Titaness Rhea, who was a child of the Earth, has chthonic association, which makes Romulus likewise an earthborn ruler. 20 Brutus’ blood relationship to the king on his mother’s side is mentioned briefly at 1.56.7. For more details, see Dionysius of Halicarnassus 4.68.1. See also Mastrocinque 1988 chapter  8 on the plebeian (according to him) branch of the royal family issued by Tarquin’s sister and Brutus’ mother, and its affinities with the foundation myth. 21 Also, Brutus’ second colleague, Publius Valerius Publicola, was the descendant of a certain Valerius who played leading role in uniting the Romans and the Sabines–a violent conflict brought about early by Romulus who first enforced the union when he orchestrated the rape of the Sabines; cf. Smith 2007, 292. 22 Cf. Wildfang 2000.

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Octavius, but by Apollo in the form of a snake (probably in deliberate recollection of the similar legend about the alleged divine paternity of Alexander the Great23). According to Zanker, this story must have been quite popular, for it generated its own artistic iconography, as evidenced in a glass cameo that depicts Apollo in the form of the snake winding around the Delphic tripod; the snake is Apollo because behind its head is set a nimbus of sunlight.24 Given the association of Apollo with snakes,25 the most logical thing for Livy’s readers of the Brutus story would have been to suppose that the snake omen had been sent to Tarquin by Apollo. To sum up, the wondrous appearance of the snake from the column of Tarquin’s palace sits at the end of a complex thread of political associations, which presuppose familiarity with a number of significant Greek intertexts in order to be explored and comprehended appropriately. This sophisticated literary interface speaks for the nature and function of omens, god-sent signs of more or less cryptic meaning, which appear to chosen individuals and signal their future prominence. These omens do not require a wider audience, but rather seal the exclusive personal communication of the future leader with the gods, while at the same time corroborate the ever-present control of the divinity over human affairs. In Roman historiography omens appear in abundance to the leaders of the Respublica. The transformation of leadership ideology that took place with the rise of Augustus transformed the nature of communication with the divine. The philosophy of the charismatic individual who is a favorite of the gods revised the nature of exclusive communication with the divine, which progressively becomes a spectacle performed before a wider audience, less an intellectual challenge and more an impressive display of de facto supernatural power. If omens is the means through which gods indicate Republican leaders, miracles is the indubitable proof of divine origin for an aspiring emperor. In the popular tradition on Augustus, as discussed in the section immediately following, omens both appear together with miracles and acquire features of a miracle. 23 E.  g. Plutarch, Life of Alexander 2–3; on the Roman emperors’ claim to divinity after the model of Alexander, cf. Spencer 2002, 178–180 and 2009, 251–274. 24 Zanker 1990, 50–51; the cameo is depicted on p. 51. On Atia and the snake, see Suetonius, Augustus 94.4; Cassius Dio 45.1.2. Gurval 1995, 100–102, pointing out two more epigrams which refer to the same event and date from the late 40s, cites Weinstock 1971, 14 as he argues that the story about Atia and the snake predated the death of Caesar. For both Gurval and Weinstock the publicizing of this omen was Augustus’ idea: in this way Augustus drew himself next to Apollo and acquired “divine legitimation” for his succession of Julius Caesar; the macroscopic function of this omen will become better understood later on, as Apollo will progressively become Augustus’ patron deity. 25 Apollo’s first deed was the conquest of the snake Python, while the Delphic temple was built on top of the body of the she-dragon Pytho.



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Republican Omens Transformed Suetonius’ Life of Galba opens with a remarkable story from the early days of Augustus’ biography. In the year 39/38 BC an eagle dropped unharmed into the lap of Livia, Octavian’s new bride at the time, a hen of remarkable whiteness; this hen was carrying a sprig (ramulum) of laurel in its beak. Livia proceeded to interpret the omen – on her own, without turning to the guidance of professional priests  – and determined that the omen was a divine message predicting that her husband Octavian would become emperor. In acknowledgment of the major psychological value of this wonder for garnering the public favor and legitimizing the rule (and the dynastic line) for her husband, Livia decided to nurse the hen and its offspring, and she planted the laurel sprig at her estate.26 Progenies Caesarum in Nerone defecit; quod futurum, compluribus quidem signis, sed vel evidentissimis duobus apparuit. Liviae, olim post Augusti statim nuptias Veientanum suum revisendi, praetervolans aquila gallinam albam ramulum lauri rostro tenentem, ita ut rapuerat, demisit in gremium; cumque nutriri alitem, pangi ramulum placuisset, tanta pullorum suboles provenit, ut hodieque ea uilla ad Gallinas vocetur, tale vero lauretum, ut triumphaturi Caesares inde laureas decerperent; fuitque mox triumphantibus, illas confestim eodem loco pangere; et observatum est, sub cuiusque obitum arborem ab ipso institutam elanguisse. (Suetonius, Galba 1) The race of the Caesars ended with Nero. That this would be so was shown by many portents and especially by two very significant ones. Years before, as Livia was returning to her estate near Veii, immediately after her marriage with Augustus, an eagle which flew by dropped into her lap a white hen, holding in its beak a sprig of laurel, just as the eagle had carried it off. Livia resolved to rear the fowl and plant the sprig, whereupon such a great brood of chickens was hatched that to this day the villa is called Ad Gallinas, and such a grove of laurel sprang up, that the Caesars gathered their laurels from it when they were going to celebrate triumphs. Moreover, it was the habit of those who triumphed to plant other branches at once in that same place, and it was observed that just before the death of each of them the tree which he had planted withered.

26 Suetonius, Galba 1. Other sources recording the event include Pliny, Historia Naturalis 15.135–7 and Cassius Dio 48.52.3–4. In fact, the chronological placement of the story to the time shortly after Octavian’s marriage to Livia is recorded in Pliny, not in Suetonius. The sources are in agreement on all major details of the story, which endorses the proposed reading of the omen as presaging the rise to power for Augustus’ dynasty. The political and overall symbolic importance of this story, in relation to the similarly meaningful imagery on the frescoes of Livia’s villa ad Gallinas, is fully discussed in a series of studies by Marleen Flory and Jane Reeder, including Flory 1988–89 and 1995; Reeder 1997 and 2001; contra Murison 1992.

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Livia’s role, both in receiving the omen and in proceeding to interpret it on her own, links her to Tanaquil, the spouse of Tarquinius Priscus, who interpreted correctly the snatching of her husband’s cap by an eagle as an omen of future greatness. This omen was reported in Livy, AUC 1.34. The first Tarquin, at the time an Etruscan man named Lucumo, who was traveling to Rome in the company of his wife and planning to settle there permanently, reportedly saw an eagle hovering over his head. This eagle suddenly swept down and took off Tarquin’s cap and later replaced it carefully. Tanaquil, Tarquin’s wife, was delighted at the omen: to her the eagle, Jupiter’s avian messenger, indicated the great god’s plan to reserve for her husband the royal crown of Rome. The Etruscan Tanaquil was said to have been skilled in omen interpretation. Livia Drusilla’s experience in Suetonius’ narrative is projected against that of her legendary ancestress in the throne of Rome. Both women were consorts of rulers who initiated a new leadership tradition at Rome. By this indirect yet clear association to the diviner Tanaquil, Suetonius’ Livia is reported to possess the gift of clairvoyance and the ability to influence politics as well:27 both women recognize, interpret, and act upon similar omens that foretell their respective families’ rise to power.28 It is possible that Tanaquil’s profile as an omen-interpreter had been formed in the early republican historiographical sources whence Livy drew his material. Yet, the earliest surviving and detailed literary source on Tarquin’s queen and her catalytic role in the dynastic rule of the Tarquins is Livy, AUC 1. It is possible, then, to argue that Tanaquil’s characterization in AUC 1.34 was inspired by the tradition that developed in the 30s around Livia following her marriage to Octavian, because in Tanaquil Livy sought to evoke the dominant personality of Livia Drusilla who exerted her influence on Augustus’ policy, especially on succession.29 The association of Livia to Tanaquil is practically sealed by the unmistakable parallelism between Augustus and Tarquin/Lucumo. Impressively, the very omen of the eagle, which marvelously foretold the grand destiny of Lucumo, dis-

27 See the discussion of Livy 1.34 in Ogilvie 1965, 142–145. 28 Despite the statement in Livy (and Dionysius of Halicarnassus), there is no actual proof that Etruscan women were skilled in the arts of divination, and accordingly, Tanaquil’s performance as an interpreter of omens is strange. Possibly her portrayal draws on heroines from the Greek mythological tradition with similar supernatural powers. Conducive to this argument is the observation that Tanaquil’s behavior in the story echoes that of heroines of Greek tragedy, in Ogilvie 1965, 144: “Tanaquil is modelled after the prophetic women of Greek myth, in particular Medea”. According to Momigliano 1969, 457, Livy expresses a common belief of the Romans of his day that does not necessarily have to be true. 29 On Livy’s Tanaquil evoking Livia Drusilla and also Agrippina, see Bauman 1994.



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tinguishes Augustus’ biography as well. This time our source is Suetonius and his record of supernatural events, which is reportedly associated with Augustus’ early life in obvious prediction of his imperial future. The miracle in question presumably occurred when Augustus was still a young boy: Ad quartum lapidem Campanae viae in nemore prandenti ex inproviso aquila panem ei e manu rapuit et, cum altissime evolasset, rursus ex inproviso leniter delapsa reddidit. (Suetonius, Augustus 94.7) As he was lunching in a grove at the fourth milestone on the Campanian road, an eagle surprised him by snatching his bread from his hand, after flying to a great height, equally to his surprise dropped gently down again and gave it back to him.

The parallelism that underlines the omens of Tanquil and Livia is clearly deliberate. The remarkable similarity of the two epiphanies is the ideological product of the Augustan regime, and it is part of the effort during the reign of Augustus to enforce the view that the leadership of Octavian was predestined. This effort utilized material from different, non-Roman traditions. One probable tradition involves the legends of Lydia, especially in light of the widespread conviction at Rome in antiquity that the peoples of Latium were of Lydian origin. A famous episode of Lydian mythological history that shares striking parallels with the story of Tarquin and Tanaquil is that of Gordius and his Telmessean wife. Both Tarquin and Gordius rose from humble origins to become kings after they saw significant omens foretelling their royal destiny; and Gordius’ Telmessean wife likewise was an expert interpreter of auspices, since the Telmesseans, like the Etruscans, were skilled in divination.30 Livia, then, looks up to Tanaquil as much as to Gordius’ wife. She comprises an outstanding example in the context of the Augustan cultural campaign to shape anew the story of young Octavian against the ancient and well-developed tradition of the Lydians, Rome’s supposed ancestors. The story of Gordius and his wife is reported in Arrian and is part of the tradition of Alexander the Great, several episodes of which had been reproduced in revised but recognizable form in the legend of Augustus. A dense, crosstextually, episode is the story surrounding the mysterious divine paternity of Augustus from Apollo who mated with his mother, Atia, in the guise of a snake. This par30 The story of Gordius and his Telmessean wife is recorded in Arrian 2.3. Other Roman legends of Lydian origin include those of Faunus and Picus (Ovid, Fasti 3.295–310) that have as Lydian precedent those of Midas and Silenus (Theopompus, FGrHist II.b Fragment 75b); also in Pliny, noting in Historia Naturalis 35.55 that Candaules died the same year as Romulus; see Scapini 2011, 291–309.

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ticular anecdote echoes the tradition about Alexander’s divine paternity by Nectanebo who mated with Olympias, likewise in the guise of a snake (cf. Plutarch, Life of Alexander 2–3). Yet, the Alexandrian precedent does not have to be the only model behind Augustus’ miraculous conception, for Augustus was not the only serpent-sired leader of Rome; an identical legend is known for Scipio Africanus, the conqueror of Hannibal. It is very interesting that both legends date from the same period, the early years of Octavian’s rise to power.31 This may well suggest that Augustus’ systematic modeling of his biography on that of Alexander runs parallel to a more complex policy in the later years of the Republic that witnessed the power-games of the omnipotent Roman generals from Sulla onwards to ‘Romanize’ themes from biographies of eastern monarchs, and in doing so, to legitimize the appropriated, to make it politically acceptable. On its part, the tradition of Alexander the Great deliberately included elements also present in the biographical traditions of various oriental rulers, for it served obvious reasons of political propaganda. Of special appeal were those anecdotal tales that infused Alexander’s biography with information that drew him close to the Pharaohs, obviously introducing him as their god-approving successor. The ideological dynamic of those tales was not lost on Augustus who capitalized on it, and in doing so, set a great precedent for later emperors. The two miracles discussed in the next section belong in this tradition of appropriating Alexandrian symbolism, and they are associated with Vespasian, the founder of the second imperial dynasty at Rome, the Flavians.

31 The Atia anecdote in Suetonius, Augustus 94 is recycled at Cassius Dio 41.1.2–3. Suetonius’ source however is the Greek work of Augustus’ contemporary Asclepiades of Medes, Theologoumena (= FGrHist 617 F 12), hence the setting of the original date of the anecdote to ca. 40 BCE or the time of Augustus’ rise is plausible. The parallelism is considered deliberate by the day of the fifth-century CE poet Sidonius Apollinaris (Carmina 2.121–6). There is a strikingly similar tradition about Scipio Africanus, namely that he was a son of Jupiter, who supposedly had appeared in Scipio’s mother’s bed in the form of a snake; notably the beginning of this tradition is set ca. 40 BCE, too, since its earlier sources, according to Aulus Gellius (who records the full episode at 6.1.1–6), are two Roman authors of the second half of the 1st cent. BCE, Caius Oppius, a contemporary of Julius Caesar, who composed a biography on Scipio about the time of the Second Triumvirate, and Julius Hyginus, a contemporary of Augustus. The Augustan birth-myth is discussed in Kienast 1982, 218–219 n. 54; on the tradition on Scipio’s origin from Jupiter in the guise of a snake, which prior to Gellius is recorded already in Livy 26.19.7–8, see Walbank 1967; the most recent discussion of the tradition of serpent-sired rulers that began with Alexander is Ogden 2011, 15–17.



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Emperors and Miracles In early July 68 CE, a few days after the death of Vitellius, a miracle occurred, according to the literary tradition. The agent of this miracle was the Roman general Vespasian. A few days earlier Vespasian had crossed from Judaea to Egypt and there, on July 1st, he was declared emperor by the provincial governor Tiberius Alexander. The miracle took place a few days later, at the very time Vespasian was entering Alexandria where he was received as a new Serapis.32 The more detailed account for the events surrounding this miracle is Suetonius, a valuable source of anecdotal information for the first twelve emperors, which, if studied properly, can generate important knowledge on the construction of imperial ideology. The same story, with some slight but notable differences, is recorded also in Tacitus, Suetonius’ contemporary, and its memory survives into the next century as it is briefly mentioned in Cassius Dio. The three texts are listed below: Suscepto igitur civili bello ac ducibus copiisque in Italiam praemissis, interim Alexandriam transiit, ut claustra Aegypti optineret. E plebe quidam luminibus orbatus, item alius debili crure sedentem pro tribunali pariter adierunt, orantes opem valitudini demonstratam a Serapide per quietem: restituturum oculos, si inspuisset; confirmaturum crus, si dignaretur calce contingere. Cum vix fides esset ullo modo successuram ideoque ne experiri quidem auderet, extremo hortantibus amicis palam pro contione utrumque temptavit; nec eventus defuit. (Suetonius, Vespasian 71–3) Therefore he began a civil war and sent ahead generals with troops to Italy; he crossed meanwhile to Alexandria, to take possession of the key to Egypt. A certain commoner, who was deprived of his sight, and another who was lame, together approached him while he was sitting at the tribunal, imploring him for the cure for their illness that had been shown them by Serapis as they slept, saying that if Vespasian should spit upon the one, his sight would be restored, and if he should deign to touch the other with his heel, his leg would regain strength. Although Vespasian could scarcely believe that it would succeed by any means, to the point that he dare not even try, at last, with his friends urging him on, he made the attempt publicly before the assembled crowd and he was not unsuccessful. Per eos mensis quibus Vespasianus Alexandriae statos aestivis flatibus dies et certa maris opperiebatur, multa miracula evenere, quis caelestis favor et quaedam in Vespasianum

32 Cf. the strikingly similar paradigm of Alexander, who a few months after his triumphant arrival in Egypt, where he was welcomed as liberator from the Persians, visited the oracle of Zeus Ammon at the desert of Siwah and, unaccompanied, entered the temple (Strabo, Geography 171.43=Callisthenes FGrHist 124 F 14; Plutarch, Life of Alexander 27.5–9). In his encounter with the chief priest he inquired about his paternity and received the longed-for answer that he was the son of Zeus/Ammon. This event became for Alexander, according to the sources, the first step on the road to deification.

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inclinatio numinum ostenderetur. e plebe Alexandrina quidam oculorum tabe notus genua eius advolvitur, remedium caecitatis exposcens gemitu, monitu Serapidis dei, quem dedita superstitionibus gens ante alios colit; precabaturque principem ut genas et oculorum orbis dignaretur respergere oris excremento. alius manum aeger eodem deo auctore ut pede ac vestigio Caesaris calcaretur orabat. Vespasianus primo inridere, aspernari; atque illis instantibus modo famam vanitatis metuere, modo obsecratione ipsorum et vocibus adulantium in spem induci: postremo aestimari a medicis iubet an talis caecitas ac debilitas ope humana superabiles forent. medici varie disserere: huic non exesam vim luminis et redituram si pellerentur obstantia; illi elapsos in pravum artus, si salubris vis adhibeatur, posse integrari. id fortasse cordi deis et divino ministerio principem electum; denique patrati remedii gloriam penes Caesarem, inriti ludibrium penes miseros fore. igitur Vespasianus cuncta fortunae suae patere ratus nec quicquam ultra incredibile, laeto ipse vultu, erecta quae adstabat multitudine, iussa exequitur. statim conversa ad usum manus, ac caeco reluxit dies. utrumque qui interfuere nunc quoque memorant, postquam nullum mendacio pretium. (Tacitus, Historiae 4.81) During the months while Vespasian was waiting at Alexandria for the regular season of the summer winds and a settled sea, many marvels continued to mark the favour of heaven and a certain partiality of the gods toward him. From among the Alexandrian commoners, a man, well known for his loss of sight, threw himself before Vespasian’s knees, praying him with groans to cure his blindness, being so directed by the god Serapis, whom this most superstitious of nations worships before all others. And he prayed that the emperor would moisten his cheeks and eyes with spit from his mouth. Another, whose hand was useless, prompted by the same god, begged Caesar to step and trample on it. Vespasian at first ridiculed these appeals and treated them with scorn; then, when the men persisted, he began at one moment to fear the discredit of failure, at another to be inspired with hopes of success by the appeals of the suppliants and the flattery of his courtiers: finally, he directed the physicians to give their opinion as to whether such blindness and infirmity could be overcome by human aid. Their reply treated the two cases differently: they said that in the first the power of sight had not been completely eaten away and it would return if the obstacles were removed; in the other, the joints had slipped and become displaced, but they could be restored if a healing pressure were applied to them. Such perhaps was the wish of the gods, and it might be that the emperor had been chosen for this divine service; in any case, if a cure were obtained, the glory would be Caesar’s, but in the event of failure, ridicule would fall only on the poor suppliants. So Vespasian, believing that his good fortune was capable of anything and that nothing was any longer incredible, with a smiling countenance, and amid intense excitement on the part of the bystanders, did as he was asked to do. The hand was instantly restored to use, and the day again shone for the blind man. Both facts are told by eye-witnesses even now when falsehood brings no reward. τοῦ Οὐεσπασιανοῦ δὲ ἐς τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρειαν ἐσελθόντος ὁ Νεῖλος παλαιστῇ πλέον παρὰ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ἐν μιᾷ ἡμέρᾳ ἐπελάγισεν: ὅπερ οὐπώποτε πλὴν ἅπαξ γεγονέναι ἐλέγετο. καὶ Οὐεσπασιανὸς δὲ αὐτὸς τυφλόν τέ τινα καὶ ἕτερον οὐκ ἀρτίχειρα, προσελθόντας οἱ ἐξ ὄψεως ὀνειράτων, τοῦ μὲν τὴν χεῖρα πατήσας τοῦ δὲ τοῖν ὀφθαλμοῖν προσπτύσας, ὑγιεῖς ἀπέφηνε. (Cassius Dio 65.8.1)

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Following Vespasian’s entry into Alexandria the Nile overflowed, having in one day risen a palm higher than usual; such an occurrence, it was said, had only taken place only once before. Vespasian himself healed two persons, one having a withered hand, the other being blind, who had come to him because of a vision seen in dreams; he cured the one by stepping on his hand and the other by spitting upon his eyes.

Once in the city, Vespasian, unaccompanied, entered the temple of the oracular god Serapis. It was at Serapis’ command, Suetonius notes, that the blind and the lame Alexandrians approached and implored him to cure them. Vespasian is reluctant to do so at the beginning (in fact, in Tacitus he actually mocks the two handicapped men), but eventually, after he is reassured that there is no harm for him involved in giving it a try, he undertakes the task and succeeds.33 There is some variance in the three accounts. In Tacitus and Cassius Dio, one of the two men is blind and the other has a paralyzed hand. According to Suetonius, the blind man was followed by one with a lame leg. All three sources, however, agree that the two men turned to Vespasian at the instruction of Serapis. In all three accounts, further, spittle is the requested means of healing the blind man. As to the second invalid, regardless of his affliction, both Cassius Dio and Suetonius report that Vespasian used his foot or heel to cure the crippled limb. Worthy of note is also the fact that in the longer, more detailed account of Tacitus both invalid men direct Vespasian on the precise method of cure he is to apply, for they had received specific directions on this by Serapis in their sleep. Tacitus’ account stands apart from the other two versions also on the emphasis he gives to Vespasian’s consultation of expert physicians prior to undertaking to cure the two suffering men. The physicians indeed rise to the task and offer Vespasian important information not only regarding the nature of the two men’s impairments, but also on the process of healing he needs to follow, thus implicitly admitting, from an expert’s perspective, Vespasian’s healing touch as possible and acceptable. This is the reason why Tacitus has Vespasian solicit both a diagnosis and an indirect set of instructions from the physicians: the presence of the physicians enhances the credibility and hence the ‘historicity’ of the miracle. Along similar lines (of rationalizing the extraordinary) we should assess the information that, in the accounts of Suetonius and Tacitus, Vespasian’s healing miracle is witnessed by a large crowd. Unlike an omen that may appear equally to individuals in private settings and to larger groups, a miracle always is a public spectacle and performed before a large audience because performance is a prerequisite for the definition of this miracle as such. Since the success of every per33 On Vespasian’s miracle-working, including his dealings with the Alexandrian deities, as recorded in Tacitus and Suetonius, see Levick 1999, 68–69 (with notes); Garland 2011, 84–87.

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formance is determined by the (positive) reaction of the audience, the impact and importance of a miracle is contingent to the spectators’ reaction, their marveling at the powers of the miracle-worker, not the anatomy of the miracle per se (whether it is impressive or not, rare, credible, more or less effective, etc.). This explains why the performance of miracles constitutes such an effective tool of political propaganda.34 The latter detail, the public performance of miracle-working, receives much greater emphasis in Tacitus. The reason for this has to do with the rules that govern the literary genre of historiography vs. biography. Historiography reports facts and seeks to provide rational explanation on the basis of proof and evidence. The distinction is made already in Herodotus who notes the provenance of his sources on his various narratives and assesses their credibility accordingly. Eye-witness testimony, preferably by the historiographer himself (and if this is not possible, by numerous contemporary (to the narrated event) sources), is the leading proof that a narrative is historical and therefore true. The more the details accompanying it, the more objective the story, hence the more credible the historiographical narrative: this is especially true of miracles, events that have no rational cause, and therefore may be hard to make their way into the rational, cause-and-effect-seeking narrative of a historian.35 The particular generic constrains of historiography explain why Tacitus’ reproduction is twice as long as Suetonius’ even though both had access to the same sources, and wrote their works at about the same time. It also explains why Suetonius does not feel any obligation to include Vespasian’s consultation of the physicians. Suetonius’ biographical work observes different generic constraints and is not bound by the same obsession with historical accuracy. He does not strive to prove anything and convince anybody about Vespasian’s rightful ascension. Unlike the historian Tacitus who is concerned to emphasize the superior qualities of an imperial candidate, for the biographer Suetonius Vespasian was an emperor beyond dispute.36 34 Cf. Schepens/Delcroix 1996. 35 The θαύματα (‘wonders’ or ‘marvels’) are particularly plentiful in Herodotus, for they are part of the broader concept of historiē, or ‘inquiry’, and usually identify with areas beyond the familiar (and therefore ‘rational’) space of the Greek world. On θαύματα/θώματα in Herodotus, see Hunzinger 1995; also Hartog 1988, 230–237, and Munson 2001, esp. 232–265. 36 The political background to Vespasian’s miracle episode and the problems associated with the founding of a new dynasty, including the portrayal of Vespasian in light of Augustus, the founder of the previous dynasty, which dictate a political reading of the structure of Tacitus’ narrative, are discussed in Riemer 2006, 40–43, which offers an illuminating close reading of Tacitus’ and Suetonius’ passages in light of Vespasian’s rising (but not yet established) imperial fortunes.

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The description of Vespasian’s miracle in Egypt in Suetonius’ biography is preceded by a chapter (5) which records a series of omens appearing both in earlier stages of Vespasian’s life and shortly before the time he is declared emperor, and discloses post facto Vespasian’s imperial destiny. These omens – a recurrent theme in all of Suetonius’ imperial biographies37 – are distinct from the miracle in Alexandria. Firstly, even though omens and other supernatural phenomena (significant dreams) occur throughout Vespasian’s reign, the emperor performs no other miracle. Secondly, on the basis of the surviving sources, before Vespasian no emperor had been depicted as personally engaging in working miracles.38 On the contrary, as if following after Vespasian’s precedent, four of the subsequent eight emperors either were credited with such miracle-working or were at least thought capable of so doing.39 In a way, one might say, following Vespasian, miracle-working becomes an infallible sign of imperium-administration. Trevor Luke has recently showed that Vespasian’s miracle-working is a Roman construction which may have been conceived by Domitian but certainly developed and popularized by Trajanic historiography – specifically Suetonius and Tacitus.40 I shall focus on key Egyptian elements in Vespasian’s biography and argue that the association of Vespasian with Serapis – and through him with Alexander and his heirs to the Egyptian throne, the Ptolemies – was not a detail of much concern for either Suetonius or Tacitus. This is to be expected, given that the primarily Roman audience of the two historiographical texts was not aware of, and certainly little interested in, the political ideology of the Ptolemies and the 37 E.  g. Riemer 2006, 39–40. 38 Luke 2010, 78; id 2010, 78 n.4 notes that Philo (Legatio ad Gaium 2.9) credits Augustus with putting an end to plagues, but there is no suggestion that he actively participated in the cures. Suetonius (Augustus 94) lists other miracles, but these occurred before Augustus’ adulthood. 39 Titus attempted to end a plague (Suetonius Titus 8.4). Pliny the Younger (Panegyricus 223) writes of sick people’s belief in Trajan’s healing power. Hadrian ended a drought in Africa (Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Life of Hadrian 22.14) and healed two people (ibid. 25 1–4). Marcus Aurelius was credited with lightning (Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Life of Marcus Aurelius 24.4) and rain miracles (Dio Cassius 71.8 10; Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Life of Marcus Aurelius 24.4). The latter case, which appears in multiple versions appealing to different constituencies, shows how susceptible these stories were to partisan remolding. 40 Domitian’s authorship behind the construction of Vespasian, the healer and miracle-worker, is suggested also by the fact that this miracle is not reported by the earliest source on Vespasian and the only eye-witness to the emperor’s sojourn in Egypt, Josephus. Josephus had accompanied Vespasian and Titus to Alexandria, and it is striking that he does not mention anything about these cures. Unless Josephus had some serious reason not to (which I find unlikely), it is almost certain that Vespasian’s healing miracle was not part of his legend prior to the reign of Domitian; see Luke 2010, 81.

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political dimensions of Alexander’s legend. Instead, both writers were intimately familiar with the politics of their day and meant to explain the inclusion of the particular miracle in light of imperial ideology. Luke, too, is convinced of the political purpose of the miracle-narrative, which he associates with the design of Vespasian’s forum, a project envisioned and undertaken by Vespasian’s second son and, later, emperor Domitian. Luke argues that both Suetonius and Tacitus probably discerned a systematic effort on Domitian’s part to bolster the divine status of his deceased father and imperial ancestor by devising a close association, on the one hand, with Egypt, and on the other hand, with Aesculapius/Asclepios the god of healing. Domitian promoted strongly the association with Serapis in the architecture of the Campus Martius, when he undertook restoration of the area shortly after he came to power. Beheld by a well-documented fascination with all things Hellenic and Egyptian, Domitian amplified the Egyptian element in the restoration of the Iseum Campense, the shrine of Isis in the Campus, and the Serapeum. Aesculapius/Asclepios enters the narrative via Serapis. The way the two crippled men are instructed in their sleep by a visitation by Serapis to seek their healing, the very nature of their inflictions, their appeal to Vespasian, Vespasian’s initial hesitation, and ultimately the concession and the healing, replicate the set structure of the so-called Asclepian cure inscriptions (iamata).41 These iamata inscriptions were texts that record in detail the various stages of an afflicted individual’s appeal to Asclepios for a cure.42 The cultic structure of the inscriptions attested in the structure of Vespasian’s narrative of miraculous healing has ignited Luke to argue that the texts of Suetonius and Tacitus have been inspired from the structure of some healing cult associated with a healing cult of Vespasian post mortem. This cult, which originated in the cult of Asclepios, would have been developed by Domitian. In Domitian’s time an assortment of healing deities and cults were celebrated in Rome. The Campus Martius hosted the Iseum and the Serapeum (Serapis was a healing god). Not far from there was the Divorum, the temple in the Roman forum that housed several cults, among which belonged the healing cult of Asclepios and Hygeia. By Domitian’s time in the Divorum were also the statues of the divi Vespasian and Titus. These statues,

41 See details in Luke 2010, 81. 42 On the direct influence of political and societal circumstances on the text of iamata, their studied texture that is the outcome of a confluence of techne and thauma, as to make scientific knowledge a stepping stone for the promotion of the miraculous, and, by association, rational medicine a propaganda tool that legitimizes the extraordinary, see the chapter by Clarisse Pretre in this volume.

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too, were believed to have healing powers, and one could appeal to them directly without the mediation of some priest.43 Expanding further on Luke’s argument (Luke [2010] 99–102), I would like to justify the inclusion of these miracles in Vespasian’s biography in light of the presence of comparable special association with the divine and the miraculous in the biography of Augustus. Vespasian’s healing faculties are meant to evoke the miraculous deeds credited before him only to Augustus.44 The association of the two leaders must have been conceived by Domitian. With Nero, the last of the Julio-Claudians, dead, Vespasian was the founder of a new imperial dynasty at the end of a turbulent year when the leadership of Rome changed hands four times. At the time, Vespasian probably did not have envisioned himself as a new Augustus, which would inspire him to promote his rule as a repetition of Augustus’ own, design his biography to echo that of Augustus, and similarly advertize his era as a new age. His elder son and successor Titus ruled for a time too short to suffice for the materialization of such a grand-scale ideological enterprise. It was Titus’ successor, his brother Domitian who must have done so.45 The concept of the emperor first as healer of individuals and subsequently as the restorer of peace and the Respublica featured prominently in the biography of Augustus. The

43 Here I summarize Luke 2010 which advances an elaborate and well-researched argument on Domitian’s attraction to the Greek and Egyptian culture, and the appeal on him of Egyptian imperial architecture and monumental iconography. Luke’s study exhibits a few tenuous threads, such as the alleged possible association of the Alexandrian commoners (e plebe Alexandrina, Suetonius, Vespasian 7.1) who sought their cure from Vespasian, with the social status of the participants in the healing cult of the Divorum, the loftiest of whom came from the ranks of the imperial freedmen (Luke, p. 96). On Flavians’ (and especially Domitian’s) obsession for all things Egyptian, see also Swetnam-Burland 2007 and Luke 2010, 89–91 (focusing on the Egyptianizing monuments in Domitian’s rebuilding of the Campus Martius); also Roullet 1972; specifically on the Iseum Campense, see Darwall-Smith 1996, 142–145. On a different front, Vespasian’s confluence of miracle-working and science in his healing performance parallels a set of similar anecdotes transmitted in the historiography of Alexander the Great, and reveals that political propaganda typically uses the scientific explanation of a certain natural phenomenon as the starting point to the construction of a miracle, which in turn proves that the performer of the miracle enjoys the divine favour; see Badian 1991 and the chapter by Irene Pajon Leyra in this volume (also on Alexander). 44 In turn, Augustus was most likely inspired by the set of miracle-working in the biography of Alexander the Great, starting as early as the taming of Boukephalas while Alexander was still a child (Arrian, Anabasis 27.3, Plutarch, De Alexandri magni fortuna 2.9, 10, 13); on Alexander’s special childhood deeds, see Stadter 1996. 45 Luke 2010, 78: “The development of the story of Vespasian’s wonders during the reign of Domitian was critical in ensuring that, in spite of Domitian’s personal unpopularity, post-Flavian emperors could also be conceived as wonder-workers”.

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same concept became a central theme in the imperial Flavian ideology as fashioned by Domitian:46 Vespasian, the founder of the dynasty, likewise was to be seen as a leader who could bring an end to civil wars and to political and moral decline, in distinct reminiscence of Augustus. In truth, Augustus is never explicitly mentioned to have performed miraculous healings. But a) as noted, he is the only Roman emperor prior to Vespasian to have performed miracles. According to Suetonius, Augustus performed miracles from a very young age, and he mentions the silencing of the frogs when Octavian was a toddler: Cum primum fari coepisset, in avito suburbano obstrepentis forte ranas silere iussit, atque ex eo negantur ibi ranae coaxare. As soon as he [Augustus] began to talk, it chanced that the frogs were making a great noise at his grandfather’s country place; he bade them be silent, and they say that since then no frog has ever croaked there. (Suetonius, Augustus 94 7)

The Jewish philosopher Philo (Embassy 144–5), further, reports that Augustus had the ability not only to “calm the torrential storm on every side” but also to “heal plagues that afflicted both the Greeks and the barbarians”.47 b) Most importantly, he is the only emperor prior to Vespasian explicitly associated with Asclepios/Aesculapius. The association potentially features already in the tradition on the birth of Augustus. He was sired by Apollo in the form of a snake (Suetonius, Augustus 94.4), in direct evocation of the serpentine form of the healing god Aesculapius, also a son of Apollo. Actually, Augustus’ decision to make Apollo his patron deity may well have been ignited by the fact that in the Republican era Apollo was seen in Rome primarily as healer. Before Augustus, there was only one temple to Apollo in Rome, the Temple of Apollo Medicus, the healer, in the Campus Martius. This Temple of Apollo Medicus, originally dedicated in the mid-fifth century BCE, was restored in 32 BCE by C. Sosius (hence the temple is known as temple of Apollo Medicus Sosianus). At the same time, Augus-

46 Wonder-working is a quality of Domitian himself and also of his brother Titus in several of Martial’s epigrams: Domitian’s presence tames the circus lions (e.  g. Martial, Epigrammata 1.6; 1.104.21–22; 8.15.2); an antelope chased by a pack of molosser dogs flees to Titus for protection and stands before him as a suppliant; the dogs did not touch her (Martial, Liber Spectaculorum 30.1–4); in another epigram (Liber Spectaculorum 17) a formidable elephant approaches Titus “in reverence and humility” (pius et supplex) and worships him (adorat). These and several other epigrams on the sacred divine essence (numen) of the Flavians are discussed in Sauter 1934, 168–180; and more recently in Clauss 1999, 347–353 and Riemer 2006, 33–38. 47 Garland 2011, 84.

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tus was undertaking the construction of his grand temple of Apollo Palatinus on the Palatine Hill. Sosius and Octavian were opponents when their Apolline projects commenced. Yet, after Actium, Sosius was pardoned and Apollo Sosianus seems to have come within the Augustan orbit. This integration served nicely Augustus’ implicit self-advertisement as healer of the Respublica: in fact, Horace twice figures Apollo as healer in reference to Augustus.48 Apollo’s identity as the god of healing never became popular in Rome prior to its interfusion with Aesculapius in the Age of Augustus. Contrary to the worship of Apollo Medicus, that of Aesculapius was a very popular, albeit a private one since its arrival in Rome in the early third century BCE. More importantly, it seems that the kinship of Aesculapius to Apollo, a prominent detail in the legend of the Greek Asclepios, is not particularly emphasized in Rome prior to the Age of Augustus. In combination with the entrance of the cult of Apollo Medicus Sosianus within the orbit of the princeps, Aesculapius became the catalyst for the projection of Apollo the healing god, who had appointed his son Aesculapius to serve in his place at Rome. This interfusion and interaction between Apollo Medicus and Aesculapius is ideally captured in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 15. In an episode almost certainly invented by Ovid, Apollo the healer directs the Romans who turn to him for assistance (for a salutifera sors urbis, “the City’s lot that would procure salvation”, 16.632–3) and alleviation of the plague devastating them, to his son Aesculapius. As a result, Aesculapius, who in Ovid’s epic is called twice salutifer, “procurer of salvation” (s. urbi, “for the City”, at 15.744; s. orbi, “for the world”, earlier at 2.643 – obviously alluding to the identification of urbs/Rome and orbs/the known world under Roman rule at the time of Augustus), arrives in Rome, and he does so in the guise of a snake. Stok, and now Miller and Lipka, all argue that Ovid alludes to an integration of the two cults of Apollo Medicus and Aesculapius by Augustus.49 Inspired by this elaborately fashioned aspect of Augustus’ profile as medicus, Apollo and Aesculapius together, Domitian uses it for Vespasian, enhanced through the addition of Serapis, the Egyptian version of the healing god. And to make an impression so as to distinguish Vespasian from Augustus he makes his father an actual healer, and a miracle-worker at that, not just a political medicus. Domitian’s idea took roots. Thence, miracles became a

48 On the incorporation of the Apollo “the Healer” into the image of Augustus, and the appropriation of the temple of Apollo Sosianus, which was notably rededicated on September 23, Augustus’ birthday, see now Miller 2009, 176–178. 49 On the integration of the two cults, see Lipka 2009, 77–78; Miller 2009, 365–367; Stok 1992, 178.

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means through which the care of the emperor for his people was manifested, in a way, as an evolved expression of the Hellenistic institution of euergesia.50

Conclusion The integration of miracles and wonders, along with other supernatural phenomena, most notably omens, in the biographies of Roman leaders across time, is an established literary motif in Roman historiographical prose. Even though they are reported as actual events, especially those associated with historical characters (in our case, Livia Drusilla and the emperor Vespasian), the absence of multiple sources to endorse the occasion and the consistent presence of similar manifestations of the supernatural or divine will in the biographies of legendary heroes of Rome (in our argument Iunius Brutus) lead to the conclusion that they have been devised to fulfill carefully targeted goals that address both literary aspirations and ideological beliefs. A miracle account in Roman historiography is foremost a literary narrative that operates in the context of a larger story and routinely incorporates motifs to be identified either in other parts of the same story or cross-textually in narratives that serve similar purposes and belong to the same genre. A miracle usually takes place before witnesses, the intradiegetic stand-in for the readers. The reaction of these witnesses, and their ability (or inability) to appreciate this miracle properly lures the readers adroitly into the interpretation process and manipulates their perspectives. Thus, the wondrous emergence of the snake in Livy’s Brutus story and Vespasian’s healing powers are as much about the two leaders’ glorious destiny as about the employment of the miracle motif to notify the various audiences of this glorious destiny. On some occasions, no internal audience is visibly involved, as it is the case in the story of Livia Drusilla’s heaven-sent olive branch. This is so because the issue at stake is not the credibility of

50 Hellenistic euergesia (Lat. liberalitas) was the urge to “accomplish good deeds” by public benefaction, and a means to declare the political prominence of the euergetes. The recipient of the euergesia was the civic body rather than individuals (and the anonymity of the crippled men in Vespasian’s case may imply just that – they are to be seen as representatives of the entire populace of Alexandria); the people received the euergesia not because they had individual needs but because they were part of a body of people whom the euergetes took under his protection. In imperial Rome, euergesia reflects on the emperor’s benevolence, the expression of his majesty, the security he inspires, rather than singling out specific gifts or ways of benevolence. In this sense, it is not the details of the particular miracle that counts but the fact that Vespasian can employ a miracle of this sort, and that he does so for the benefit of the poor and destitute of Egypt.

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the event–which in these cases is never contested–or its interpretation, but its significance as an agent of a certain message firmly announced by the author, a message that is enforced by its intertextual anadiplosis which the literary memory of the reading audience is expected to identify.51

Bibliography Abbreviation: FGrHist = F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker. Leiden 1923–58 (repr. 1954–69). Badian, E. (1991), “Alexander the Great and the Scientific Exploration of the Oriental Part of His Empire”, AncSoc 22, 127–138. Bauman, R. (1994), Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, London. Cary, E. (1914–28), Dio’s Roman History in Nine Volumes, London–New York. Clauss, M. (1999), Kaiser und Gott: Herrscherkult im römischen Reich, Stuttgart–Leipzig. Darwall-Smith, R. H. (1996), Emperors and Architecture. A Study of Flavian Rome, Brussels. Feldherr, A. (1997), “Livy’s Revolution: Civic Identity and the Creation of the Res Publica”, in: T. N. Habinek/A. Schiesaro (eds.), The Roman Cultural Revolution, Cambridge, 136–157. Flory, M. (1988–89), “Octavian and the omen of the gallina alba”, CJ 84 (4), 343–356. – (1995), “The symbolism of the laurel in cameo portraits of Livia”, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 40, 43–68. Garland, R. (2011), “Miracles in the Greek and Roman world”, in: G. H. Twelftree (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Miracles, Cambridge, 75–94. Gurval, R. (1995), Actium and Augustus: The Politics and Emotions of Civil War, Ann Arbor. Hadas, M. (1942), Complete Works of Tacitus. Edited with an introduction, Modern Library 222, New York. Hardie, P. (ed.) (2009), Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture, Oxford. Hartog, F. (1988), The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History (transl. by J. Lloyd), Berkeley–Los Angeles. Hinds, S. (1998), Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry, Cambridge. Hunzinger, C. (1995), “La notion de thōma chez Hérodote”, Ktèma 20, 47–70. Kienast, D. (1982), Augustus. Prinzeps und Monarch, Darmstadt. Levick, B. (1999), Vespasian, London. Lipka, M. (2009), Roman Gods: A Conceptual Approach, Leiden. Luke, T. S. (2010), “A Healing Touch for Empire: Vespasian’s Wonders in Domitianic Rome”, Greece & Rome 57 (1), 78–106. MacBain, B. (1982), Prodigy and expiation: a study in religion and politics in Republican Rome. Collection Latomus 177, Bruxelles.

51 I would like to express my sincere thanks to Maria Gerolemou for her acute and thought-provoking observations and suggestions, which helped improve my arguments throughout the chapter.

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Mastrocinque, A. (1988), Lucio Giunio Bruto. Ricerche di storia, religione e diritto della repubblica romana, Trento. Miles, G. (1986), “The Cycle of Roman History in Livy’s First Pentad”, AJPh 103, 1–33. – (1988), “Maiores, Conditores, and Livy’s Perspective on the Past”, TAPhA 118, 185–205. Miller, J. F. (2009), Apollo, Augustus, and the Poets, Cambridge–New York. Momigliano, A. (1969), Quarto Contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico, Rome. Munson, R. (2001), Telling Wonders: Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Works of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Murison, C. L. (ed.) (1992), Suetonius: Galba, Otho, Vitellius, London. Ogden, D. (2011), Alexander the Great: Myth, Genesis and Sexuality, Exeter. Ogilvie, R. M. (1965), A Commentary on Livy, Books 1–5, Oxford. Reeder, J. C. (1997), “The statue of Augustus from Prima Porta, the underground complex, and the omen of the Gallina Alba”, AJPh 118, 89–118. – (2001), The Villa of Livia ad gallinas albas, Archaeologia Transatlantica 20, Providence RI. Riemer, U. (2006), “Miracle Stories and Their Narrative Intent in the Context of the Ruler Cult of Classical Antiquity”, in: M. Labahn (ed.), Wonders Never Cease, Edinburgh, 32–47. Roberts, W. M. (transl.) (1912–24), Livy’s History of Rome (6 vols.) (2nd ed.), Dent. Rolfe, J. C. (transl.) (1914), Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars (2 vols.), London–New York. Roullet, A. (1972), The Egyptian and Egyptianizing Monuments of Imperial Rome, Leiden. Sauter, F. (1934), Der römische Kaiserkult bei Martial und Statius, Stuttgart–Berlin. Schepens, G./K. Delcroix (1996), “Ancient Paradoxography: Origin, Evolution, Production and Reception”, in: O. Pecere/A. Stramaglia (eds.), La Letteratura di Consumo nel Mondo Greco-Latino. Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Cassino, 14–17 settembre 1994, Cassino, 373–460. Stok, F. (1992), “La rivincita di Esculapio”, in: G. Brugnoli/F. Stok (eds.), Ovidius parōdēsas, Pisa, 135–180. Swetnam-Burland, M. (2007), “Egyptian Objects, Roman Contexts: A Taste for Aegyptiaca in Italy”, in: L. Bricault/M. J. Versluys/P. G. P. Meyboom (eds.), Nile into Tiber. Egypt in the Roman World, Leiden, 113–136. Scapini, M. (2011), Temi greci e citazioni da Erodoto nelle storie di Roma arcaica, Studia Classica et Mediaevalia 4, Nordhausen. Smith, S. (2007), “Brutus as an Earthborn Founder of Rome (Livy 1.56)”, Mnemosyne 60, 285–293. Spencer, D. (2002), The Roman Alexander. Reading a Cultural Myth, Exeter. – (2009), “Roman Alexanders: epistemology and identity”, in: W. Heckel/L. A. Tritle (eds.), Alexander the Great: A New History, Malden, MA–Oxford, 251–274. Stadter, P. A. (1996), “Anecdotes and the Thematic Structure of Plutarchean Biography”, in: I. A. Fernandez Delgado/F. Pordomingo Pardo (eds.), Estudios sobre Plutarco: Aspectos Formales, Actas del IV Simposio Espanol sobre Plutarco, Salamanca, 26 a 28 de mayo de 1994, Madrid, 291–303. Walbank, F. W. (1967), “The Scipionic Legend”, PCPhS 13, 54–69. Weinstock, S. (1971), Divus Iulius, Oxford. Wildfang, R. L. (2000), “The Propaganda of Omens: Six Dreams Involving Augustus”, in: J. Isager/R. Wildfang (eds.), Divination and Portents in the Roman World, Odense, 43–55. Zanker, P. (1990), The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, Ann Arbor.

András Kraft

Miracles and Pseudo-Miracles in Byzantine Apocalypses* Abstract: Miracles present a central theme in Byzantine prophetic texts. They are associated with eschatological protagonists, most notably with the motifs of the Antichrist and the Savior-Emperor, who are the dominant narrative figures in historical apocalypses, upon which the present study lays its focus. By surveying more than a dozen Byzantine prophecies from the sixth to sixteenth century this study aims to excavate the meaning and implications of miraculous deeds in the longue durée of Byzantine apocalyptic thought. In particular, it is shown how specific miraculous actions and characterizations – attributed to the Savior-Emperor and the Antichrist respectively – are to be read as either homologous or inverted correspondences that emulate biblical precedences of divine beneficial acts. Apocalyptic miracles (and pseudo-miracles) are, first and foremost, constructed as Christocentric typologies that stress the continuation of the miracle accounts known from the Gospels and the Old Testament. Furthermore, it is shown which specific events carried miraculous as well as eschatological connotations for the Byzantines.

Introduction Byzantine prophetic writings are most often concerned with disclosing the sequence of good and bad rulers that are to appear at the end of time. In the description of these eschatological rulers one encounters various miraculous deeds that are either genuine beneficial wonders or false and deceptive miracles. While the genuine wonders are generally prophesied in connection with a Savior-Emperor, the deceptive marvels are reserved for the Antichrist. This dualistic dimension of, on the one hand, legitimate and, on the other hand, false miracles is characteristic of the apocalyptic genre. That being said, Byzantine apocalypses * The main part of this paper was composed while in residence at the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations, Istanbul in 2014/15. It is my most pleasant duty to thank the RCAC for its most generous support and for the opportunity to present a preliminary version of this paper at the joint VEKAM and RCAC conference entitled: “New Research Projects: Architecture, History and Culture in Byzantine and Ottoman Periods” held at the VEKAM Archive, Ankara, 12 December 2014. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-008

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do not always mention miracles and wonders expressis verbis. Most notably, the miraculous appearance and deeds of the Savior-Emperor are rarely referred to as a wonder (τέρας) or as a miracle (θαῦμα),1 yet they are clearly designed to evoke and express wonder. That is, Byzantine prophecies do not always label miracles even though their contexts qualifiy them as such. What is more, when miracles and wonders are explicitly referred to, they are not clearly distinguished from one another. Accordingly, the miraculous signs (σημεῖα) and wonders (τέρατα) of the Antichrist are used indiscriminately. This paper sets out to investigate the descriptions of miracles and wondrous attributes that Byzantine apocalyptic prophecies advance both explicitly as well as implicitly and considers their theological meaning. Since the literary genre of Byzantine apocalypses does not produce any theoretical discussion concerning the nature of miracles, it is necessary to excavate the conceptual layers that define apocalyptic miracles from the narrative content of a selection of prophecies. This excavation will be carried out on the topoi of the Antichrist and the Savior-Emperor.2 It is worth mentioning that the practice to associate emperors with the miraculous continues a tradition already pronounced in classical Roman historiography.3 A major difference, however, is that the miracle accounts investigated here are usually not attributed to historical potentates but to anticipated figures of the future. Ultimately, it will become clear what characterizes a miracle in Byzantine apocalypses and which specific miracles carried apocalyptic connotations. To begin with I should present the source material and define its literary genre. I use the term “apocalypse” not in the strict sense as proposed by John Collins in his seminal study on the apocalyptic genre, where he defined it as a group of texts which convey revelatory information that involves either the end of times or the otherworld and that is necessarily mediated by an otherworldly being.4 This definition might well describe the literary landscape of late antiquity but it is doubtful whether it equally applies to the Byzantine period. In fact, if one was to apply this definition to Byzantine prophecies, then, neither the Greek Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, nor the apocalyptic section of the Life of Andrew the Fool, nor a good number of the various Danielic and Leonine proph-

1 For a rare case, see below note 33. 2 Although the Antichrist and the Savior-Emperor are the most pronounced characters in apocalyptic narratives, there are also other eschatological heroes in this genre who are associated with miracles as, for instance, the fictitious Martyr-Monk Stephanos in the Apocalypse of Leo, esp. ll.332–334. 3 On this, see Sophia Papaioannou’s contribution in this volume. 4 Collins 1979, 9.



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ecies would qualify as proper apocalypses, since none of these is mediated by an otherworldly being.5 Consequently, one would have to use descriptive terms like “apocalyptic chronicle,” “apocalyptic hagiography,” “apocalyptic oracles”6 and the like, which would diminish the literary commonality that underlies all these prophetic texts and provides them with a shared pool of motifs, oracles, and exegetical techniques. Yet, what would we gain if we were to consider some Pseudo-Danielic prophecies as proper apocalypses while others as mere apocalyptic oracles, given that, in terms of content, structure, literary style, and intention, they are congruous? Thus, instead of promoting a monolithic definition, I endorse the view that the apocalyptic genre underwent historical development.7 For our purposes here it suffices to enlarge Collins’ definition and to define Byzantine apocalypses as a literary genre with a narrative framework that discloses prognostications concerning the eschatological future, which relates either to this world, with a focus on universal history (political or historical apocalypses),8 or to the next world, with a focus on the personal fate of the deceased (moral apocalypses).9 This paper examines, in particular, the former subgenre, while the latter will briefly be considered at the end of this study. The source material surveyed here consists primarily of political (or historical) prophecies, which consist of the Greek Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius and subsequent Pseudo-Leonine as well as Pseudo-Danielic prophecies;10 the latter presented a favored format throughout the Byzantine millennium to disclose the historical course of events leading up to the Second Coming.11 These prophecies all share the same narrative structure: they relate historical events of the past, the present, and the presumed future. That being said, each and every event is presented as the genuine future that had been foretold in ancient days. On the whole, the sequence of events progresses along standard motifs that include an initial moment of crisis at the hands of an enemy, the subsequent liberation from this affliction through a Savior-Emperor, the eventual arrival of the eschatolog5 For instance, prophecies like Daniel καὶ ἔσται and Seven-Hilled Daniel would not qualify as apocalypses, because they are not revealed through a divine agent. The Daniel-Diegesis and the Last Daniel prophecy, however, might qualify as apocalypses, since they begin with revelatory proclamations through a divine voice, that is, by an otherworldly being. 6 For the term “apocalyptic oracles”, see DiTommaso 2005, 202 and DiTommaso 2014, 129–130. 7 Cf. DiTommaso 2005, 203–206. 8 Historical apocalypses are most often written under the rubric of vision (ὅρασις), oracle (χρησμός), narrative (λόγος) or narration (διήγησις). 9 Moral apocalypses are also called “heavenly journeys” or “heavenly visions.” On this subgenre, see Baun 2000 and 2007, 9–33. 10 For a list that specifies the surveyed source material, see the Appendix. 11 On the characteristics of Pseudo-Danielic prophecies, see DiTommaso 2005, 195–230.

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ical peoples of the north, and, finally, the workings and ultimate defeat of the Antichrist. In terms of this narrative structure, the prophecies present a rather coherent corpus. As for their dating, the selected prophecies stretch from the sixth to the sixteenth century and thus go beyond the watershed of 1453, which – arguably – did not mark a significant turning point in the development of Byzantine apocalyptic thought, except with regard to its dissemination. The Ottoman conquest of Constantinople in 1453 caused an immense proliferation of the genre, which can be seen from the fact that Byzantine apocalyptic material comes down to us in manuscripts from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.12 Seen from the perspective of the whole Byzantine apocalyptic tradition, the most significant developments took place in the seventh and eight centuries, notably during the Greek translation and subsequent adaptation of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, which had probably been composed around the year 691 CE.13 This originally Syriac apocalypse chronicles all of human history starting from Adam and Eve in paradise and ending with the Second Coming of Christ. The intention of this work was to discourage Christians – irrespective of their sectarian backgrounds – from apostatizing and from converting to Islam. For that the pseudonymous author constructs an imperial ideology according to which the Christian Roman Empire is the last divinely ordained kingdom in history, which cannot be overcome by any contender. This imperial ideology was constructed on three biblical passages:14 firstly, on Paul’s Second Epistle to the Thessalonians (2 Thess 2:6–7), which states that there is an unspecified force that withholds the arrival of the Antichrist. Pseudo-Methodius follows a long tradition in identifying this withholding force (τὸ κατέχον / ὁ κατέχων) with the Roman Empire.15 Thus, the Antichrist, who – by that time – was understood to be the last agent prior to Christ’s return, will only arrive once the Roman Empire will have been removed. By implication, this precludes the possibility of any other eschatological kingdom to appear on the stage of world history. Secondly, based on Psalm  67:3216 the Roman Empire is said to be delivered directly into the hands of God by a last Roman emperor in a dramatic abdication scene on top of Mount Calvary in Jerusalem. This reinforces the notion that the Roman Empire holds the most privileged position in history for it is situated directly bordering the second Parousia. Thirdly, Genesis 49:17 is used to specify the identity of the Antichrist, who is said

12 See Brandes 2005, 462. 13 See Reinink 1993, xviii and Brock 1982, 19. For a general overview, see Greisiger 2009. 14 I follow here Benjamin Garstad’s succinct summary, see Garstad 2012, xi. 15 See Podskalsky 1972, 55. 16 Ps 67:32 (LXX): … Αἰθιοπία προφθάσει χεῖρα αὐτῆς τῷ Θεῷ.



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to descend from the Jewish tribe of Dan.17 Without any further qualification given, Pseudo-Methodius – by means of silence – rejects previous speculations that the Antichrist would be a future Byzantine emperor.18 All these elements drew on earlier traditions to be sure, but it was the authority and eloquence of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius that elevated these exegetical motifs to quasi-canonical status.

Miracles and the Savior-Emperor What is more, the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius promoted the motif of a Savior-Emperor.19 As noted above, Byzantine prophecies aim at revealing various scenarios concerning the future succession of good and bad emperors. From among these anticipated rulers excels an ideal monarch, who is frequently presented to be the last, legitimate Byzantine emperor. For this reason, the ideal emperor is often referred to as the Last Emperor.20 He is said to arise at a moment of great peril, which he successfully averts before ushering in a time of peace and prosperity. Following this final imperial restoration, he is said to travel to Jerusalem in order

17 At least since Irenaeus (d. c.200) and Hippolytus (d. c.236), the Antichrist was believed to be of Jewish descent, see Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses V.30,2 in Brox 2001, 224–226 and Hippolytus, De antichristo § 15 in Achelis 1897, 11–12 (= PG 10, 737C–740A). For a more recent critical edition of Hippolytus’ De antichristo, see Athanasopoulos 2013, 131–194, esp. 147–148. In this respect the preliminary study by Gow 2003, esp. 51–57, who argues that the Byzantines did not promote the Jewish identity of the Antichrist, has to be supplemented with the apocalyptic source material presented below and, thus, needs to be corrected. For some critical remarks regarding the ambiguity of the eschatological fate of the Jews in Byzantium, see Magdalino 2014, 231–235. 18 The early seventh-century exegete Andrew of Caesarea testifies for this tradition in his Commentary on Revelation chap. 54 (= on Rev 17:11) in Schmid 1955, 189. For a rich survey of this tradition in late antique sources, see the notable study by Rubin 1961. 19 The Pseudo-Methodian motif of a Savior-Emperor markedly differs in its functions from previous descriptions of eschatological emperors, as can be found, for instance, in the Oracle of Baalbek in Alexander 1967, esp. 17–21 (= ll. 136–208). The debate whether this topos originated with Pseudo-Methodius or whether it originated in earlier, now lost, authors does not need to detain us here. For this issue, see esp. Alexander 1985, 151–184, Möhring 2000, 39–53, and more recently Greisiger 2014, 172–180. 20 It should be noted at this point that the initially singular motif of the Last Roman Emperor as found in the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius tended to fragment into a sequence of emperors in subsequent prophecies. Thus, it is often more correct to speak of a series of Last Emperors rather than the Last Emperor. For further details about the later development of the “Last Roman Emperor” motif, see Kraft 2012. Consequently, I prefer the term Savior-Emperor, which, moreover, conveys a Christological connotation, which will be argued for in what follows.

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The Pseudo-Methodian narrative describes a future Byzantine emperor who appears all of a sudden in great glory similarly to Christ’s unexpected (although not unforeseen) resurrection and epiphany to his disciples. A most clear expression of this comparison can be found in the fifteenth-century Seven-Hilled Daniel II.6, which reads: “and he will appear as if from the dead,”24 where the Savior-Emperor is literally likened to the resurrected Christ. Moreover, the Greek translation of the originally Syriac Pseudo-Methodian Apocalypse, as well as later prophetic writings, used the verbs of raising/rising up and waking up/awakening (i.  e., ἀνίστημι/ἀνίσταμαι and ἐγείρω/ἐγείρομαι) to describe the appearance of this emperor thereby emulating the terminology of the Gospels to describe the resurrection. To be sure, these verbs were also used to describe other eschatological emperors, who are to appear prior to or following the ideal emperor. However, when viewed together with the additional qualifications provided, these verbs acquire a Christological dimension. Such a qualification is, for instance, that the Christ-like emperor is believed “to be dead and good for nothing,”25 which undoubtably refers to the death of the crucified Christ. This characterization became a shorthand expression that univocally refers to the legendary emperor and that can be found in most Byzantine and post-Byzantine apocalypses.26 Further qualifications include his humble origin,27 associations with the crucifixion,28 and, most significantly, his death scene, which is described in close resemblance to the Gospel accounts of Christ’s death. In addition, this Christ-like emperor is associated with God rushing to the protection of the people of Israel

24 Seven-Hilled Daniel II.6: καὶ αὐτὸς <ὡς> ἐκ τῶν νεκρῶν ἐμφανισθήσεται … Internal evidence suggests that the Seven-Hilled Daniel prophecy was composed around the year 1470. 25 Ps.-Methodius XIII.11: ὡσεὶ νεκρὸν ὄντα καὶ εἰς οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα. 26 See, among others, Daniel-Diegesis V.5: καὶ ἐγείρει κύριος βασιλέα τῶν Ῥωμαίων, (ὅνπερ λέγουσιν οἱ ἄνθρωποι νεκρὸν ὄντα καὶ εἰς οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα,) … | Ps.-Chrysostom V.2: καὶ τοῦτον κρατήσαντες ἀπάξουσιν [αὐτὸν] μέχρι δίνης, κἀκεῖ χρίσουσιν αὐτὸν εἰς βασιλέα, ὃν εἶχον οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὡσεὶ νεκρὸν καὶ οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα. | Daniel καὶ ἔσται II.5: ἀναβιβάσαντες δὲ αὐτὸν ἐν ἅρματι [καὶ] χρίσονται αὐτὸν βασιλέα, ὃν ἐδόκουν οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὡς νεκρὸν εἶναι καὶ οὐδὲν χρησιμεύειν. | Seven-Hilled Daniel II.6: καὶ αὐτὸς <ὡς> ἐκ τῶν νεκρῶν ἐμφανισθήσεται … | Leonine Oracles #13, p.82, l.2: ὁ νεκρὸς ἤδη [lege εἴδει – A. K.] καὶ θέα λελησμένος· | Tale of the True Emperor p.92, ll.39–40: ὃν ἐδόκουν οἱ ἄν(θρωπ)οι ὡς οὐδὲν ὄντα, καὶ εἰς οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα· 27 See, for instance, Ps.-Chrysostom V.1: … οὕτινος τὸ ὄνομα ἦν ἔλαττον ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ. | SevenHilled Daniel II.5: … καὶ ὁ λέων πτωχὸς ἐμφανισθήσεται … | Apocalypse of Andrew the Fool 853B: Ἐν ταῖς ἐσχάταις ἡμέραις ἀναστήσει κύριος ὁ θεὸς βασιλέα ἀπὸ πενίας  … | Visions of Daniel ll.401–402: … ὅτι μετὰ τὸν ἔκδημον βοῦν, ἤτοι τὸν ἐκ πενίας ἀναστησόμενον βασιλέα τοὺς μεταξὺ ῥηθέντας … | Tale of the True Emperor p.90, l.1: Περὶ τοῦ θρηλλουμένου πτωχοῦ καὶ ἐκλεκτοῦ βασιλέως· 28 For example, see Last Daniel § 47: … ἔχοντα ἐπὶ τὸν δεξιὸν πόδα μέσον τοῦ καλάμου ἧλον.



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(Ps 77:65) and with distributing divinely sanctioned punishment (Deut 32:30).29 Furthermore, some prophecies portray the miraculous appearance of the Savior-Emperor through a revelation by a divine or angelic voice, which announces the emperor to the Constantinopolitan people30 and which commands him to do battle with the enemy.31 These military campaigns always end in marvelous victories and result in the final recovery and peaceful prosperity of the empire. Hence, he is, at times, characterized as “the peaceful and holy emperor” (ὁ εἰρηνικὸς καὶ ἅγιος βασιλεύς),32 who is “marvelous and virile” (θαυμαστὸς καὶ ῥωμαλέος).33 Amid the various developments of the topos, Byzantine apocalypses persistently justified the miraculous character of the eschatological hero through a typology with Christ’s resurrection and/or with biblical cases of direct divine intervention. This kind of typological association is best brought out by the following characterization from an anonymous prophecy (probably from the ninth century), according to which the eschatological emperor will “resemble the son of God.” The expression used here is taken from Heb 7:3, where Christ is likened to the Old Testament priest Melchizedek.34 It appears that the typological chain between Old and New Testament characters was being continued into the future. The Savior-Emperor motif was constructed  – and that, persistently throughout the Byzantine apocalyptic tradition – as the typological antitype of Christ.35 We will return to this below.

29 For a chart listing these and other attributes, see Kraft 2012, 245–249. 30 For instance, Daniel καὶ ἔσται II.3: … καὶ <εὑ>ροῦσιν αὐ<τὸν> δι’ ἀποκαλύψεως θεοῦ. | Oracular interp. of Ps.- Gennadius cols. 771–772:  … καὶ φωνὴ βοήσει τρίτον, στῆτε στῆτε μετὰ φόβου. σπεύσατε πολλὰ, σπουδαίως εἰς τὰ δεξιὰ τὰ μέρη ἄνδρα εὕρητε γενναῖον, θαυμαστὸν, καὶ ῥωμαλαῖον. τοῦτον ἕξητε δεσπότην· … 31 Among others, see Last Daniel § 50–51: καὶ δώσουσιν εἰς τὴν δεξιὰν αὐτοῦ χεῖρα ῥομφαίαν λέγοντες αὐτῷ· ἀνδρίζου καὶ νίκα τοὺς ἐχθρούς σου· The subject of the sentence is τέσσερες ἄγγελοι. | Seven-Hilled Daniel II.8: καὶ τὴν ῥάβδον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ μάχαιραν δώσουσιν αὐτῷ καὶ εἴπωσι· λαβὲ καὶ ἐν τούτῳ νίκα τοὺς ἐχθρούς σου. The subject of the sentence is δύο ἄγγελοι. | Prophecy of Ps.-Laskaris fol. 151r: … κὶ να τὸν ἠπῆ, με τοῦτών | θέλεις νηκάη τοὺς εχθροῦς (σ)ου· τὸτε ὀ βασιλεὺς να ὁ|ρῆσοι τα ξανθα γένη· … The subject here, too, is an angel representing the divine will. 32 Prophecy of Ps.-Laskaris fol. 151r. 33 Oracular interp. of Ps.-Gennadius cols. 771–772. For an English translation and a solid historical contextualization of this prophecy, see Turner 1968. 34 Anonymi vacticinium p.48, ll.27–28:  … καὶ ἐξαναστήσεται αἰφνίδιος (lege αἰφνίδιον vel αἰφνιδίως – A. K.) βασιλεὺς δίκαιος ἀφωμοιωμένος τῷ υἱῷ τοῦ θεοῦ … Cf. Heb 7:3 ἀπάτωρ ἀμήτωρ ἀγενεαλόγητος, μήτε ἀρχὴν ἡμερῶν μήτε ζωῆς τέλος ἔχων, ἀφωμοιωμένος δὲ τῷ υἱῷ τοῦ θεοῦ, μένει ἱερεὺς εἰς τὸ διηνεκές. The same typology is also used in the Tale of the True Emperor p.94, ll.62–64. 35 It should be noted that the Savior-Emperor is, at times, also characterized as a New Moses

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Miracles and the Antichrist Byzantine apocryphal prophecies do most frequently mention wonders and miracles in connection with the description of the Antichrist.36 The main sources of the Antichrist motif were the canonical works of the Johannine and Pauline epistles,37 the Book of Revelation38 as well as patristic treatises, most notably Hippolytus of Rome’s discourse On the Antichrist.39 As mentioned above, the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius also put its mark on the Antichrist figure. The pseudonymous apocalyptist asserted that the Antichrist would only appear once the κατέχον, the withholding power, has been removed. Byzantine prophecies, as a rule, understand the removal of this withholding power as the willful abdication of the Savior-Emperor.40 This eschatological scheme serves as a means to guarantee to the Byzantines the most privileged position in salvation history due to their unrivaled proximity to the final trial and the Last Judgment. Once released, the Antichrist was believed to perform a variety of pseudo-miracles in order to deceive Jews as well as Christians. Fashioned on the Gospel accounts, Byzantine prophecies disclosed that the Anti-Christ would perform some of the very same miracles that Christ had performed,41 including the healing of the sick and walking on water.

(e.  g., Tale of the True Emperor p.90, ll.19–20) or as a New Constantine (see the examples from note 31). That is to say, the resemblances between the Savior-Emperor and Christ are, particularly in later Byzantine apocalypses, supplemented with additional typological layers of Christian prophets and heros. 36 Among others, see Ps.-Methodius XIV.8: Ποιήσει γὰρ σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα πολλὰ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἀδρανῆ καὶ ἐξίτηλα· | Ps.-Chrysostom VI.4: ποιήσει γὰρ σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἀδρανῆ καὶ ἐξίτηλα· | Last Daniel § 74: καὶ οὕτως βασιλεύσει ὁ ἀντίχριστος καὶ πράξει θαυμαστὰ καὶ παράδοξα πράγματα. 37 1 Jn 2:18–22, 4:2–3 and 2 Jn 7 as well as 2 Thess 2:1–12. The passages from Mt 24:24 and Mk 13:22 have generally been taken to refer to the Antichrist as well. 38 One of two beasts of Rev 13 was generally understood to represent the Antichrist. For the various possible identifications, see Andrew of Caesarea’s Commentary on Revelation chap. 36–37 (on Rev 13:1–17) in Schmid 1955, 135–144. 39 On the incipient development of the Antichrist legend, see the still insightful study by Bousset 1895, esp. 76–83 as well as Jenks 1991 and McGinn 1999, 33–78. On the Antichrist in Byzantium, see Alexander 1985, 193–225, and Podskalsky 1972, 86–98, passim. 40 A notable exception is the Daniel-Diegesis. 41 This mimetic relationship is most succinctly expressed in the motif of the Antichrist imitating the voice of Christ: Apocalypse of Leo ll.502–503: … μιμούμενος τοῦ Μεσία τὴν φωνήν …

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The Antichrist, as his very name indicates, was understood as the antithetical (or antisymmetric) antitype of Christ. Conversely, as we have seen above, the Savior-Emperor was modeled in close resemblance to Christ, thus being his positive (or symmetric) antitype. By implication, the Antichrist figure was not only the antisymmetric opposite of Christ but also of the Savior-Emperor. That is why this legendary emperor is persistently credited with not being “dead and good for nothing” while this very characterization is affirmed about the Antichrist.43 The anti-symmetry between the Christ-like Savior-Emperor and his antagonistic counterpart, the Antichrist, is continuously worked out in Byzantine prophecies. Various other parallels were drawn up to express this antagonism.44 There existed different exegetical interpretations as to which miracles the Antichrist would perform. None of the Byzantine prophecies surveyed here mentions any attempt by the Antichrist to resurrect the dead. The prophecies, thus, argue – ex silentio – that this miracle cannot be emulated.45 Most often, miracle accounts of the Antichrist are concerned with healings, exceptional natural phenomena and with the bringing about of specious periods of prosperity. The Daniel-Diegesis stands out with transmitting an otherwise unknown tradition of the Antichrist, who attempts to transform a stone into bread. The attempt fails. 43 Compare, for instance, Ps.-Methodius XIII 11:  … ὃν [scil. τὸν βασιλέα Ῥωμαίων  – A.  K.] ἐλογίζοντο οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὡσεὶ νεκρὸν ὄντα καὶ εἰς οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα· with Ps.-Methodius XIV.11: … παρουσίᾳ οὖν πάντων τῶν ἐθνῶν ἐλέγξουσιν αὐτοῦ τὴν πλάνην καὶ ἀναδείξουσιν αὐτὸν [scil. τὸν υἱὸν τῆς ἀπωλείας – A. K.] ψεύστην ἐπὶ παντὸς ἀνθρώπου καὶ μηδὲν ὄντα … and Daniel καὶ ἔσται II.5: … [καὶ] χρίσονται αὐτὸν βασιλέα, ὃν [scil. τὸν βασιλέα Ῥωμαίων – A. K.] ἐδόκουν οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὡς νεκρὸν εἶναι καὶ οὐδὲν χρησιμεύειν with Daniel καὶ ἔσται V.16: ἐνώπιον πάντων ἐλέγξουσιν αὐτὸν [scil. τὸν υἱὸν τῆς ἀπωλείας – A. K.] ὡς ψευστὴν καὶ οὐδὲν χρησιμεύοντα. 44 One further example is the contrast between the genuinely prosperous period inaugurated by the Savior-Emperor and the ephemeral prosperity provided by the Antichrist. See Daniel-Diegesis VI.24 together with XI.36–37, XII.6. The antisymmetrical correspondence is brought out here by the juxtaposition of sustainable prosperity with short-lived and, thus, false abundance. The antagonistic association of these two eschatological rulers has also to be seen against the background of the longstanding anxiety that the Antichrist will be a future Byzantine emperor. On this, see Andrew of Caesarea’s comments on Rev 13:2 (Commentary on Revelation chap. 36) in Schmid 1955, 136–137: … ὁ ἀντίχριστος ὡς Ῥωμαίων βασιλεὺς ἐλευσόμενος … as well as on Rev 17:11 (Commentary on Revelation chap. 54) in Schmid 1955, 189: οὐ γὰρ ἐξ ἄλλου ἔθνους παρὰ τὰ προλεχθέντα, ἀλλ’ ὡς Ῥωμαίων βασιλεὺς ἐπὶ καταλύσει καὶ ἀπωλείᾳ τῶν αὐτῷ πειθομένων ἐλεύσεται … See further Visions of Daniel l.731 and Apocalypse of Leo ll.551  f. 45 On this issue, see Bousset 1895, 116–119. It is telling that an early, Syriac adaptation of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, the so-called Edessene Apocalypse, does mention the resurrection of the dead among the Antichrist’s false miracles; see Suermann 1985, 92. It also predicts that the Savior-Emperor would not rise in a Christ-like fashion, while the abdication scene would follow (and not precede) the destruction of the Antichrist. These differences signify that the Edessene Apocalypse belongs to a different exegetical tradition.



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Instead of turning into bread, the stone transforms into a dragon, who denounces the Antichrist for trickery and lawlessness.46 Although the exact provenance of this story is unclear, it appears to mimic the language of the Gospel accounts of Christ’s healing miracles (Mk  2:11)47 and to invert Christ’s rejection to perform this very miracle when being tempted by the devil in the desert (Mt 4:3).48 While Christ rejects to turn a stone into bread, the Antichrist attempts to accomplish it but fails, which presents a further, good example of an antithetical typology. The various accounts of the Antichrist’s miracle-workings demonstrate that Byzantine prophecies are also exegetical works. This might shed new light onto the still elusive nature of the apocalyptic genre. As presented above, the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius constructs its apocalyptic section around the exegesis of 2 Thess 2:6–7, Ps 67:32, and Gen 49:17, which became standardized exegetical elements in virtually all subsequent Byzantine apocalypses. On other issues, however, apocalyptists were more flexible. While Byzantine prophecies unanimously follow Hippolytus in identifying the two witnesses of Rev 11:3–12 with Enoch and Elijah,49 some prophecies also reverberate a supplementary interpretation by Pseudo-Hippolytus that adds John the Evangelist to the two witnesses;50 accordingly, either two or three agents are said to denounce the Antichrist. In a similar fashion, apocalyptists variously fleshed out core passages such as Rev 18:21, which describes the destruction of Babylon,51 or Rev 13:1–4, which presents the physiognomy of the beast of the sea.52 It appears that apocalypses also func-

46 Daniel-Diegesis XIII.9–14. Cf. Apocalypse of Leo l.517. 47 As already observed by Berger 1976, 141. 48 For the typological significance of this motif within the Gospel of Matthew, see Daniélou 1960, 158. 49 See Hippolytus, In Danielem 4.35 in Bonwetsch 1897, 278–280 and Hippolytus, De antichristo § 43 in Achelis 1897, 27 (= PG 10, 761A); Athanasopoulos 2013, 169. See also Ps.-Hippolytus, De consummatione mundi § 29 in Achelis 1897, 301 (= PG 10, 933A–C); for a more reliable text of the pseudepigraphical De consummatione mundi, see now Athanasopoulos 2016, 71–116, at 98–100. For a useful survey of early Christian literature that identifies Enoch and Elijah as the two witnesses, see VanderKam/Adler 1996, 92–100. 50 See Ps.-Hippolytus, De consummatione mundi § 21 in Achelis 1897, 297 (= PG 10, 921C–924C; Athanasopoulos 2016, 89–91). Cf. Daniel-Diegesis XIV.1; Apocalypse of Andrew the Fool 869C, Visions of Daniel ll.733–767. 51 For example, see Apocalypse of Andrew the Fool 868Β: Πάσης τῆς πόλεως βυθιζομένης … μένει δὲ μόνος ὁ ἐν τῷ φόρῳ στῦλος, καθότι κέκτηται τοὺς τιμίους ἥλους. … and Last Daniel §  69–70: καὶ εὐθὺς σεισθήσεται ἡ Ἑπτάλοφος καὶ καταποντισθήσεται σύμψυχος ἐν βυθῷ. καὶ μόνος ὁ Ξηρόλοφος ἔσται φαινόμενος. 52 As mentioned above in n. 38, the beast of the sea was often identified with the Antichrist. One should bear this in mind when reading the physiognomies of the Antichrist as reported, for example, in Daniel-Diegesis XI.16–27, Apocalypse of Leo ll.477–484, Visions of Daniel ll.647–655.

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tioned as exegetical literature: prophecies interpreted biblical and patristic texts similarly to what professional commentaries did in a more erudite and exhaustive fashion. While the modern reader might tend to see wishful thinking in much of the prophetic material that has come down to us, one should not overlook the earnest interest of the apocalyptists in reconstructing the history of the future on the basis of canonical and apocryphal material, which were woven together into typological patterns. Probably, this exegetical practice served not only scholarly purposes. These reconstructed histories of the future also aimed at fine-tuning particular occurrences by advancing prayer-like narratives that could be directed to the omnipotent Godhead, who could – due to His omnipotence and benevolence – be made to change the course of history.53 With that said, which exact miracles the Antichrist tries to emulate is a matter that depends on the apocalyptist’s exegetical orientation and discretion. The pseudo-miracles that are chosen, however, unavoidably attempt to reiterate Christ’s miracle-workings and, by implication, stand in opposition to the genuine Christ-like deeds of the Savior-Emperor.

Apocalyptic Miracles Why would events like sudden appearances, the healing of the sick, or defeating enemies qualify as miracles? They are miracles because they present emulations of biblical cases of divine beneficial acts. These emulations manifest themselves in true and in false miracles, which are carried out through an angelic or human agent (most often through an emperor), on the one hand, and through the Antichrist, on the other. In the latter case, they are explicitly labeled as (pseudo-) miracles, while in the former, they are qualified as such through their scriptural allusions. In political prophecies virtually all miracle descriptions revolve around christocentric typologies, in which Christ functions as the axis of symmetry defin-

53 This persuasion is well expressed in the Tale of the True Emperor p.92, ll.46–47: καὶ τότε εἰσακούσεται κ(ύριο)ς τῆς δεήσεως αὐτῶν· καὶ θήση τὰ ὦτα ἐπὶ τοὺς κατοικοῦντας τὴν γῆν· For another noteworthy example, see the people’s prayer in Daniel καὶ ἔσται IV.17–18:  … μὴ καταποντίσῃ ἡμᾶς ἡ ὀργή σου, κύριε, ἕως τέλος, ὅτι ἐκύκλωσεν ἡμᾶς ἐσχάτη ἄβυσσος τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν <ἡμῶν>. σῶσον τὸν λαόν σου, ὁ θεὸς ἡμῶν. In response to it, God is said to show mercy and to command His apocalyptic angel to halt the destruction; Daniel καὶ ἔσται IV.19: καὶ σπλαγχνισθεὶς ὁ κύριος ἐπὶ τοῖς δάκρυσιν αὐτῶν ἐρεῖ τῷ ἀγγέλῳ· ἆρον τὴν ὀδύνην <ἀπὸ> τῆς γῆς ἕως καιρῶν τινων. Cf. Magdalino 2003, 266.



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ing both His positive, as well as His antithetical, counterparts. These typologies instantiate the paradigms of beneficial divine intervention that were known from the past histories of the Old and New Testaments. Arguably, apocalyptic miracles were, thus, rather well known phenomena. The emphasis lay with the repetition – or rather the continuation – of the wonders that were associated, through typological chains, with God’s previous interventions. Reading miracles as cases of continued divine intervention is supported by the literature from the apocalyptic subgenre of heavenly visions. Revelatory texts like the Apocalypse of Anastasia or the Apocalypse of the Theotokos do not revolve around miracles happening in the material world. Instead they revolve around the wonders of intercessory help,54 of divine grace,55 and around the miracle of the transmission of such revelations, which often entail the death and subsequent re-awakening of the visionary.56 That being said, heavenly visions agree with political prophecies in portraying genuine miracles as divine interventions in human affairs, which are – in the former subgenre – mediated by a saint or by the Virgin. Moreover, one can argue that these miracles, too, show forth cases of divine assistance that emulate biblical precedents.57 Since the same redemptive miracle could potentially be performed by a good as well as by an evil agent, the meaning of these miracles was inherently ambivalent. Apocalyptic miracles, like any other miracle in Byzantium, were ambivalent events because there were no infallible criteria to discern genuine miracles from feigned ones.58 In order to somewhat moderate this puzzling ambivalence apocalyptists tended to assign particular miracles to specific agents (e.  g., a miraculous appearance to the Savior-Emperor, healing miracles to the Antichrist) and to elucidate the good or evil character of these miracles. Yet, uncertainties always persisted. While much of the structure of apocalyptic miracles was rooted in typological reasoning, their moral significance had to be continuously derived from proper interpretation; a need that apocalyptists were eager to meet with their continuous revision of the future. In sum, Byzantine apocalyptic prophecies present the dualistic battle of good versus evil in terms of stylized conflicts between Christ-like and Antichrist-like protagonists. While Byzantine emperors could also be described as Antichrist-like

54 See, for instance, Apocalypse of the Theotokos § 4 in James 1893, 116–117. 55 For instance, Apocalypse of the Theotokos § 29 in James 1893, 126. 56 See Apocalypse of Anastasia in Homburg 1903, 2, ll.7–12. 57 For instance, cases of divine grace (χάρις) can be found in Gen 6:8 and Eph 2:8, while the re-awakening of the visionary might be paralleled with the raising of Lazarus (Jn 11:1–44). 58 See Kazhdan 1995, 80–82.

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actors,59 the symbolic figure of the Savior-Emperor is always constructed in resemblance to the miraculously rising and victorious Christ. These miracle associations were earnestly expected to take place and carried, thus, a normative character. These “normative fictions”60 can be shown to have been indeed influential, as for instance (to only name one example that is easily overlooked), in Anna Komnēnē’s portrayal of the decisive victory at Levounion (Thrace, 1091), where her father, Emperor Alexios I Komnēnos, defeated the Pechenegs. Komnēnē presents the victory as follows: As for the emperor, one might say that on this occasion the verse of Deuteronomy was visibly fulfilled in him: ‘How should one chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight?’ For in that crisis the Emperor Alexius, by opposing himself to so great a multitude of barbarians, gloriously bore almost the whole brunt of the war, up to the moment of victory itself.61

Here, Emperor Alexios’ victory is associated with the divine intervention from Deut 32:30, which gives his stunning victory an arguably eschatological dimension, since it links Alexios to the Christ-like figure of the Savior-Emperor.62 Even though this victory is not explicitly said to have been a miracle, there should be little doubt that any Byzantine reader would have understood this accomplishment to be anything less than God-like. Likewise, Byzantine prophecies often avoid calling miracles by their name. They are, however, recognizable in their respective contexts, and in particular, through their typological connections with earlier salvific events. András Kraft Central European University, Budapest

59 See, for instance, the characterizations in the Apocalypse of Andrew the Fool 856C–D, 857C–860B. 60 Patlagean 1981, 213. 61 Alexias VIII.2.5, ll.36–41 in Reinsch/Kambylis 2001, 240: περὶ δὲ τοῦ αὐτοκράτορος ἐκεῖνο ἄν τις εἴποι τὸ ᾆσμα τοῦ Δευτερονομίου τότε καὶ τελούμενον καὶ ὁρώμενον· πῶς διώξεται εἷς χιλίους καὶ δύο μετακινήσουσι μυριάδας; μονονουχὶ γὰρ <μόνος> κατ’ ἐκεῖνο καιροῦ ὁ βασιλεὺς Ἀλέξιος πρὸς τοσοῦτον βαρβάρων πλῆθος ἑαυτὸν ἀντικαταστήσας τὸ βάρος ὅλον τοῦ πολέμου μέχρι καὶ τῆς νίκης αὐτῆς καλῶς διῳκονομήσατο. Translation in Sewter 1969, 250–251. 62 See also Zonaras’ account (Βüttner-Wobst 1897, 760, ll.8–12), according to which Alexios had been told by certain monks that he was to fulfill the Pseudo-Methodian prophecy of abdicating in Jerusalem. On the issue of Alexios as the Savior-Emperor, see Mamagkakis 2014, 258  f, 274–343. For a general discussion on the relation between historical characters and the Savior-Emperor motif, see Tapkova-Zaimova/Miltenova 2011, 87–118.



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– (2016), Ψ.-Ιππολύτου Περὶ τῆς συντελείας τοῦ κόσμου – Κριτική Έκδοση. 2η Έκδοση (= Ps.-Hippolyti, De Consummatione Mundi – A Critical Edition. 2nd Edition), Bibliotheca Graecorum et Romanorum 6, Ioannina. Baun, J. (2000), “The Moral Apocalypse in Byzantium”, in: A. I. Baumgarten (ed.), Apocalyptic Time, Leiden, 241–267. – (2007), Tales from another Byzantium. Celestial Journey and Local Community in the Medieval Greek Apocrypha, Cambridge. Berger, K. (1976), Die griechische Daniel-Diegese, Leiden. Bonwetsch, G. N. (1897), Hippolytus’ Werke. Erster Band, erste Hälfte: Die Kommentare zu Daniel und zum Hohenliede, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte I,1, Leipzig. Bousset, W. (1895), Der Antichrist in der Überlieferung des Judentums, des neuen Testaments und der alten Kirche. Ein Beitrag zur Auslegung der Apocalypse, Göttingen. Brandes, W. (2005), “Der Fall Konstantinopels als apokalyptisches Ereignis”, in: S. Kolditz/ R. C. Müller (eds.), Geschehenes und Geschriebenes. Studien zu Ehren von Günther S. Henrich und Klaus-Peter Matschke, Leipzig, 453–469. Brock, S. (1982), “Syriac Views on Emergent Islam”, in: G. H. A. Juynboll (ed.), Studies on the First Century of Islamic Society, Carbondale, 9–21, 199–203. Brox, N. (2001), Irenäus von Lyon. Adversus Haereses: Gegen die Häresien (vol. 5), Fontes Christiani VIII, 5, Freiburg. Βüttner-Wobst, T. (1897), Ioannis Zonarae Epitomae historiarum, libri XIII–XVIII, (vol. 3), Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae 50, Bonn. Collins, J. J. (1979), “Introduction: Towards the Morphology of a Genre”, in: Apocalypse: The Morphology of a Genre, Semeia 14, 1–20. Daniélou, J. (1960), From Shadows to Reality: Studies in the Biblical Typology of the Fathers, London. DiTommaso, L. (2005), The Book of Daniel and the Apocryphal Daniel Literature, Studia in Veteris Testamenti Pseudepigrapha 20, Leiden. – (2014), “The Armenian Seventh Vision of Daniel and the Historical Apocalyptica of Late Antiquity”, in: K. B. Bardakjian/S. La Porta (eds.), The Armenian Apocalyptic Tradition: A Comparative Perspective. Essays Presented in Honor of Professor Robert W. Thomson on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday, Leiden, 126–148. Garstad, B. (2012), The Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, An Alexandrian World Chronicle, Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library 14, Cambridge, Mass. Gow, A. (2003), “La tradition de «l’Antéchrist» juif en occident”, in: M. V. Dmitriev/D. Tollet/ E. Teiro (eds.), Les Chrétiens et les Juifs dans les sociétés de rite grec et latin: Approche comparative: Actes du colloque organisé les 14–15 juin 1999 à des Scienes de l’Homme (Paris), Paris, 43–58. Greisiger, L. (2009), “The Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius (Syriac)”, in: D. Thomas/ B. Roggema/J. P. Monferrer Sala (eds.), Christian-Muslim Relations. A Bibliographical History. Vol. 1: (600–900), The History of Christian-Muslim Relations 11, Leiden, 163–171. – (2014), Messias. Endkaiser. Antichrist: Politische Apokalyptik unter Juden und Christen des Nahen Ostens am Vorabend der Arabischen Eroberung, Orientalia Biblica et Christiana 21, Wiesbaden. Jenks, G. C. (1991), The Origins and Early Development of the Antichrist Myth, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 59, Berlin.

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Kazhdan, A. (1995), “Holy and Unholy Miracle Workers”, in: H. Maguire (ed.), Byzantine Magic, Washington, DC, 73–82. Kraft, A. (2012), “The Last Roman Emperor Topos in the Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition”, Byzantion 82, 213–257. Lolos, A. (1976), Die Apokalypse des Ps.Methodios, Meisenheim am Glan. Magdalino, P. (2003), “The Year 1000 in Byzantium”, in: idem (ed.), Byzantium in the Year 1000, Leiden, 233–270. – (2014), “‘All Israel will be saved’? The forced baptism of the Jews and imperial eschatology,” in: J. Tolan/N. de Lange/L. Foschia/C. Nemo-Pekelman (eds.), Jews in Early Christian Law: Byzantium and the Latin West, 6th–11th centuries, Religion and Law in Medieval Christian and Muslim Societies 2, Brepols, 231–242. Mamagkakis, D. A. (2014), Ο αυτοκράτορας, ο λαός και η Ορθοδοξία: Αλέξιος Α΄ Κομνηνός (1081–1118): κατασκευάζοντας την δημόσια αυτοκρατορική εικόνα (= The emperor, his people and Orthodoxy: Alexios I Komnenos (1081–1118): constructing a public imperial image), Diss. Athens. McGinn, B. (1999), Antichrist: Two Thousand Years of the Human Fascination with Evil, (2nd ed.), New York. Möhring, H. (2000), Der Weltkaiser der Endzeit. Entstehung, Wandel und Wirkung einer tausendjährigen Weissagung, Stuttgart. Patlagean, E. (1981), “Byzance et son autre monde. Observations sur quelques récits”, in: Faire croire. Modalités de la diffusion et de la réception des messages religieux du XIIe au XVe siècle. Actes de table ronde de Rome (22–23 juin 1979), Rome, 201–221. Podskalsky, G. (1972), Byzantinische Reichseschatologie: die Periodisierung der Weltgeschichte in den vier Grossreichen (Daniel 2 u. 7) und der tausendjährigen Friedensreiche (Apok. 20): Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung, Munich. Reinink, G. J. (1993), Die Syrische Apokalypse des Pseudo-Methodius, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 541, Leuven. Reinsch, D./A. Kambylis (2001), Annae Comnenae Alexias, (2 vols.), Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 40, Berlin. Rubin, B. (1961), “Der Antichrist und die ‘Apokalypse’ des Prokopios von Kaisareia”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 110, 55–63. Schmid, J. (1955), Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes. 1. Teil. Der Apokalypse-Kommentar des Andreas von Kaisareia. Text, Münchner theologische Studien 1, Munich. Sewter, E. R. A. (1969), The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, Harmondsworth. Suermann, H. (1985), Die geschichtstheologische Reaktion auf die einfallenden Muslime in der edessenischen Apokalyptik des 7. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt. Tapkova-Zaimova, V./A. Miltenova (2011), Historical and Apocalyptic Literature in Byzantium and Medieval Bulgaria, Sophia. Turner, C. J. G. (1968), “An oracular interpretation attributed to Gennadius Scholarius”, Ελληνικά 21, 40–47. VanderKam, J. C./W. Adler (eds.) (1996), The Jewish Apocalyptic Heritage in Early Christianity, Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum 4, Assen.

Maria Gerolemou

Wonder-ful Memories in Herodotus’ Histories Abstract: With an awareness that the experience of the wondrous as an emotional event is often privileged in the construction and retrieval of memories, Herodotus utilizes wonder as a mnemonic aid. The wondrous as an easily recollected emotional memory is therefore taken as a mechanism that raises questions on past events, particularly on how an event was experienced and, consequently, what is remembered and in what manner. Moreover, unlike the Homeric thauma idesthai, the Herodotean wonder is not defined by a mere static portrayal of an extraordinary event or object; rather, it directs further action primarily related to the ability of the author to collect and criticize facts, reforming and forming in this way contemporary, past and future experiences. That is, while the wondrous validates itself as a successful memory mechanism (from the past and present and for the future), it also allows Herodotus to access and intervene in (or manipulate) certain memories. Hence, sidestepping the discussion about oral memory vs. the cultivation of memory through written records, this paper follows Herodotus’ deconstruction of past emotional memories as a reliable source of information; although memories are generally important to him, they are not treated as an indispensable and integral part of the historical discourse.

Introduction In classical Antiquity, narratives of wonders were often perceived as a constitutive element and a working tool of fiction.1 Expressions such as παραδοξολογεῖν, telling wonders, and μύθους πλάττειν, construct untrue stories, were used to represent the imaginary and promote fiction as a generic category that contrasted the genre of historiography, as the latter was strictly based on true facts. More specifically, wonder-stories were cited as evidence of the disintegration of the historiographic methods maintained by the great ‘pragmatical’ historians (Thucydides, Polybius) and for disparaging the intentions of their authors, whose “sole

1 See, for example, the thaumastoi writers, the wondrous writers (24, 28, 29, 31), whom Lucian chastises in his Quomodo historia conscribenda sit (10, 21, 29, 31, 32). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-009

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purpose [was] to cater to the taste of the masses, interested in nothing else, but cheap entertainment”.2 For instance, authors like Ctesias in his account of Persia (FGrHist 688 T8), Ephorus on the Sauromatae and Scythians (FGrHist. 70 F 42), Diodorus Siculus in his discussion of Egypt (e.  g. 1.37.4, 1.69.7), Strabo in his work on the Hyperboreans (1st book, especially 1.2.35) or in his periplous of Africa (2nd book) and sources of the Nile (17.1.52), and Lucian in his Vera Historia, specifically in his report on the isle of the blessed (2.31), discarded the ‘wondrous’ in historical writings, trying to rationalize, often in a confrontational manner, this narrative-mode which was frequently depicted as Herodotean (e.  g. Diod. 1.69.7).3 However, by criticizing wonder-stories as fictional nonsense, and their authors as liars or manipulators of the ‘truth’, the prosecutors of the ‘wondrous’ overlooked the successful ways through which the authors of wonder stories managed to convince their audience into treating those accounts as worth remembering and circulating, regardless of whether they were based on true facts or not. In the Imperial Period,4 when assembling peculiarities was widespread in paradoxographical treatises, in historiography and, above all, in biography, wonder-stories started functioning as a culturally successful concept, highlighting either the mental capacities of their author, who collects and represents them, or the knowledge that should be attained by their recipients for being able to recognize them as novelty. Hence, as mental achievements, wonder stories contributed to the value of the text, its creator as well as its recipient.5 For example, Aelian, in his most paradoxographical treatise,6 i.  e. in De natura Animalium, describes in his prologue his composition as a keimêlion,7 an object of value to be appraised and remembered, which would have not been manufactured without the spoudê,

2 Schepens 1996, 378. On ancient sources referring to the debate about the nature of the genre of history in general, see, among others, Moles 1993, 88 n. 1. 3 Though, see Diod. 2.15.2, 2.32.3, 9.20.4. Strabo’s report on the paradoxa in Egypt is influenced by Herodotus too (17.2.5, cf. also 12.3.9). See also Plutarch’s report regarding a peculiar Egyptian custom in Quaestionum Convivalium 729A citing Herodotus as a source. Herodotus was celebrated as an excellent and potent story-teller in Quintilian 10. 1. 73, Lucian, Herod. 1–2. See also Hellanicus fr. 185. Cf. further on the subject Momigliano 1960; Evans 1968; Hartog 1988, 297–309; Sawlivich 1991; Hose 2004, 153–155; Boedeker 2002, 109–116. Cf. on the Hellenistic descendants of Herodotus Murray 1972, 202 and passim. 4 This turn was probably influenced by the positive philosophical use of the concept of the wondrous. E.  g. on thauma in Aristotle, see Wilson Nightingale 2004, 254, 261–265 and Carvalho 2015 with a rich bibliography on the subject. 5 Cf. Marincola 1997, 57–62. 6 Whom Giannini refuses to consider as a paradoxographer 1964, 132, n. 206. 7 Cf. Thucydides’ κτῆμά ἐς αἰεὶ; on that, see Rood 2006, 239. On keimẽlia, see Reiterman 2014.

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labor of its designer;8 here, the admirable object affirms both the author’s engagement in amassing and representing his material in a highly eloquent way as well as in evaluating the reliability of the extraordinary things narrated (in Aelian’s case, the remarkable nature of animals). The receiver of the wondrous, on the other hand, does not necessarily need to be a cultivated author but any random person, educated or not, who had merely witnessed a wondrous event or heard an extraordinary story which he believes or rejects. However, what provokes bewilderment in the educated differs from that which provokes bewilderment in the uneducated, i.  e. a polymath is not as easily amazed as an ignorant person. For instance, in Aelian’s Varia Historia, wonder-stories are often referred to as an objet d’art that presupposes the “πεπαιδευμένα”, educated ears of the audience (14.47). In contrast, the mob’s admiration is treated critically in Varia Historia, as it does not arise from paideia; e.  g. the person who οἱ πολλοί, the many, admire must ipso facto be doing something wrong (14.8, 13.6; cf. also 3.6, 3.8). In a similar way, many events in Herodotus appear miraculous to people because they do not have the necessary knowledge to discern the ‘mechanisms’ that produce them. For that reason and because Herodotus feels obligated to present everything he was told (7.152.3), he does not segregate rationally explainable wonders from unproven ones in his study of the wondrous.9 The wondrous in Herodotus, like in the authors of the Imperial era, is positioned not merely between falsehood and truth but between events worth remembering and not worth remembering.10 In other words, he focuses on when wonder stories, though violating the canonical social structure, are successfully spread and how some wonders stories, though based on false premises, have managed to survive through time. According to his findings, judging wonder appropriately requires determining first whether the object of wondering is worthy of wonder indeed. *

8 In VH 12.41 Apelles marvels at a painting of Ialysos, painted by Protogenis, because he had been painting it for seven years. By contrast, the small erga of the Myrmikides the Milesian and of Callikrates the Lacedaemonian are admired by Aelian (1.17), but ironically, due to the limited time and effort of their creation. On the labor, ponos, of the author as a prerequisite of critical inquiries, see Marincola 1997, 148–158; Marincola 2007; Priestley 2011, 115–117. 9 Cf. Lateiner 1986 and Thomas 2000. 10 On memory in antiquity, see Yates 1966, ch. 2; regarding Aristotle on memory, see Sorabji 1972, 1–21; see further Simondon 1982; on epic remembering, Agocs 2009; on remembrance in Pindar, Price 2012; on memory techniques, see Sorabji 1972, 22–34 and Small 1997, 72–84.

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Herodotus treats the past as a mere construction and acknowledges the fact that as soon as an event enters memory it can no longer be directly experienced. Due to this, he searches for methods which both construct and intervene in memory, with the aim of rehabilitating it – τούτων μνήμην ποιήσομαι is a phrase repeated throughout the Histories. That is, not solely the memorable thing is of great importance to him but also the means of conveying it from generation to generation. Along this line, Herodotus seems to take advantage of the fact that wonders, because of their novelty, the unfamiliarity of the information they carry as well as due to the fact that, as extraordinary sense perceptions,11 they evoke strong emotions, can function as affective stimuli which facilitate the process of recollection.12 For instance, in the Lydian Logos (in 1.93), Herodotus omits any general description of Lydia, because, when compared to Greece, i.  e. in juxtaposition to his own and his audience’s experience, not so many differences are found; rather, the Lydian customs are close to the Greek ones, they are παραπλήσιοι (1.94.1),13 i.  e. Greece and Lydia are culturally and visually similar. Only a few things can be considered incomparable to the Greek ones, such as the gold-dust of Tmolon and the gigantic tomb of Alyattes, which Herodotus explicitly depicts as wondrous (1.93.1–2). By denying Lydia any use of the visualization-formula of the thōmasia, i.  e. by identifying his experience of the land as unexceptional, Herodotus implicitly deprives the land of remembrance. On the other hand, by recalling the stored memory of the wondrous through narrative, Herodotus reactivates past extraordinary events in the minds of his audience;14 this gives him the chance to influence not only individual memories but cultural or collective memories too.15 Specifically, through the restoration of the sight of wondrous past events combined with the ability of memory to change and be shaped according to the moment it recalls, Herodotus often corrects, deletes or replaces the past wondrous.16 Epic poets also make use of wonders as memory aids; this is best documented in the frequent use of the formula thauma idesthai, which in the narrative constitutes an elemental part of the ekphrasis of artifacts (mostly produced by the

11 See Prier 1989, on thauma as connected to sight. 12 See e.  g. McGaugh 2000; LaBar/Cabeza 2006; Mather 2007; Roozendaal/McGaugh 2011. 13 Cf. also 3.103; Herodotus does not describe camels because they are recognizable to the Greeks; therefore, they cannot provoke wonder. 14 On that, see Nikulin 2015, 36. 15 For the term “cultural memory”, see Assmann 1992. See further Halbwachs 1950. 16 See Paivio 1983, 15  f.

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gods).17 Describing something in a distinctive and elaborate way (enargōs18) creates pictureable and easier to recollect memories for the audience, preserving in this way cultural memory and identity.19 The unquestionable memory of heroic deeds, events and divine artifacts defined by the epic formula θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι20 is, however, substituted in the Herodotean narrative with a discursive response to wonderment and memory.21 By generally warning his audience that the ὁδοὶ λόγων, paths leading to stories, besides leading to the truth can also lead to a refined but false story (1.95.1),22 Herodotus conveys wonder as a ‘serious’ and ‘sober’ emotion. The past is generally treated by him merely as an experiential construction, and for this reason it should pass through a sieve of rational thinking first which will allow it to function as a source of information. In this regard, Herodotus does not hesitate to correct or even rationalize several wonder-ful stories that endure time, i.  e. he corrects any dubious sources that have been lightly and hastily conveyed via the memory of social groups or individuals, if they are implausible. According to Herodotus, then, for something to be part of the thōmasia, it must not only be part of an everlasting mental construction but to also have a reasonable and traceable story. For instance, in paragraph 21 of the story of Egypt, Herodotus offers various opinions on the cause of the Nile’s inundation. He rejects the second as

17 See on Homeric ekphrasis Becker 1995; in general, on ekphrasis, see Goldhill 1994; Elsner 2002 and 2007; Webb 2009; Squire 2009. On ekphrasis as connected to memory, see Webb 2009, 110. 18 On enargeia, see Zanker 1981 and Webb 2009, 22. 19 Cf. Paivio 1983, Bradley et al. 1992; Minchin 2001, 26–31 and ch. 3 discussing visual memory and Homeric epos. 20 For example, the following are all described as “wonders to see”: The wagon of the gods in Il. 5. 725, the weapons of Achilles, a gift of the gods to Peleus in Od. 18. 83, 377 (18. 467), in Od. 10. 439, the weapons of Rhesus that only a god can have, in Od. 6. 306 the spindle of Arete (and of the Nymphs in 13. 108), the high walls of Scheria constructed by Poseidon in Od. 7. 45, and in 8.366 the robes of Aphrodite. On thauma in Homer, see Snell 1955 54; Nenci 1957–1958; Mette 1961, 49–54; Prier 1989, 84–87; Hunzinger 1993 and 2005; and in this volume; see further Fisher 1995. 21 Cf. Purves 2010, 143. For this specific character of the Herodotean ‘wonder’, cf. Hartog 1988, 236–237; Hunzinger 1995; Munson 2001, 232; Greenwood/Cartledge 2002, 359. 22 Ὡς ὦν Περσέων μετεξέτεροι λέγουσι, οἱ μὴ βουλόμενοι σεμνοῦν τὰ περὶ Κῦρον ἀλλὰ τὸν ἐόντα λέγειν λόγον, κατὰ ταῦτα γράψω,  ἐπιστάμενος περὶ Κύρου καὶ τριφασίας ἄλλας λόγων ὁδοὺς φῆναι (“I mean then to be guided in what I write by some of the Persians who desire not to make a fine tale of the story of Cyrus but to tell the truth, though there are no less than three other accounts of Cyrus which I could give”, transl. by Godley 1920) Cf. also 1.117.2, οὐ τρέπεται ἐπὶ ψευδέα ὁδόν, ἵνα μὴ ἐλεγχόμενος ἁλίσκηται (related to Arpagus), see also 1.22, on Cyrus and the truth about his origins. On the ὁδοὶ λόγων in Herodotus (1.95 1, 1.117.2, 1.22, see also the τριφασίας ὁδούς in 2.20.2 and 2.34), see e.  g. Becker 1937, 101–138; Dewald 1987, 149; Purves 2010, 68  f.

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ἀνεπιστημονεστέρη, less scientifically grounded, and allocates it to the aphanẽ of his narrative (2.21, 2.23),23 i.  e. stories which, according to him, prevent explanation because of the limited access to facts (cf. e.  g. 7.37). Nonetheless, he describes it for the purpose of merely providing an exciting story, λόγῳ δὲ εἰπεῖν θωμασιωτέρη, namely that the Nile derives from a river named Ocean which flows around the world. Thus, even though Herodotus here seems to deny the thōmasion, indirectly criticizing those who uncritically believe in it, he includes it in his own narrative and recalls it as a story which is known to his audience, that is, one which corresponds to his audience’s experience.24 Notably, he only refers briefly to the story’s wondrousness, since his true objective is to correct false information (2.20.1). According to him, there is no such river with the name Ocean, which is probably an invention of Homer or another poet (2.23.1); moreover, the sun deposits all the water into the Nile and this is what causes it to flood. However, due to the fact that such stories are marvelous they become part of the collective memory and, as a result, they claim a place in Herodotus’ narrative. The fact that they exist in memory, and consequently in historical discourse, is regarded by Herodotus as problematic. He thus explicitly distances himself from previous authors, especially epic poets (2.21, 2.23, 2.116, 2.120), who he holds largely responsible for spreading stories of spectacular but false wonders.25 For example, the epic poet Aristeas, described in the Histories as a thaumatopoios i.  e. a miracle-worker, wrote a work on the Arimaspians, an odd tribe that lived in the northern regions of the earth.26 Aristeas’ work corresponds to false information, which has to be corrected; hence, after presenting, and in this way recalling, the stories of Aristeas on the Arimaspians (4.13), Herodotus intervenes and replaces them. In 4.16, he provides new information concerning the nations beyond the Issedones, which up to that point had only been discussed by Aristeas. In this way, Herodotus offers the audience a new ‘crossbreed’ version of Aristeas’ reports

23 The person here criticized is Hecataeus; on that, see How/Wells 1912, ad loc.; Lloyd 1976, ad loc.; Thomas 2000, 136. 24 On people accepting things that they could easily recognize, cf. Quint. 8.3.71 and Webb 2009, 109–111. 25 On Herodotus as against the validity of the stories coming from the poets, see: 3.115.2, 4.32, against Hesiod and Homer; 2.156 (against Aeschylus); but cf. 3.38.5 on Pindar; at 4.29 Homer is even used as a source of evidence. See on that Munson 2001, 237; see further Marincola 2006, 23; Priestley 2014, 56. In particular, on Herodotus challenging Homer, see Thomas 2000; 267, Boedeker 2000 and 2002, 97–109; Goldhill 2002, 21, but also, see Strasburger 1972; Nagy 1987; Rengakos 2006. On Herodotus considering esp. Sappho, see Chiasson 2012, 134–137. 26 A fragment from Aristeas, which survives in Ps-Longinus De Subl. 10.4, starts with the term thauma, describing the Arimaspean’s reaction when they saw a ship for the first time.

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(4.24.1, 4.27).27 Importantly, both Aristeas’ presumably extraordinary narrative as well as the wonderful-sounding statement of the Nile’s inundation successfully survived until Herodotus’ time (ἔτι καὶ ἐς ἐμὲ). However, despite the fact that they constitute a part of the collective memory, they proved to be insufficient and need to be corrected. In the same vein, Herodotus positions himself in direct opposition to the former reports on Egypt (2.43) as they are defined by ἀπειρία (2.45.228), inexperience, and for that reason should be corrected or improved.29 On that account, Herodotus concludes, taking into consideration the fact that the Egyptian Logos is the product of its own journey and labor, that Egypt is the land with the highest number of wonders (πλεῖστα θωμάσια, 2.35.1),30 as its nature, including its climate, rivers, soil, as well as its customs, differ significantly from the rest of the world (2.35.2, τὰ πολλὰ πάντα ἔμπαλιν τοῖσι ἄλλοισι ἀνθρώποισι ἐστήσαντο ἤθεά τε καὶ νόμους, cf. also 2.91.1). Likewise in 4.195, the story of the collection of gold dust from the bottom of the lake by the maidens with the use of feathers smeared with pitch, told by the Carchedonians and spread as a rumor, is recorded by Herodotus as dubious (ταῦτα εἰ μὲν ἔστι ἀληθέως οὐκ οἶδα, τὰ δὲ λέγεται γράφω). However, he does not entirely reject it but tries to support it by offering his own eye-witness testimony for seeing pitch drawn from the waters of a lake in Zakynthos indeed. On the other hand, the odd story of how the Indians gather gold dust by using giant ants (3.102–5), according to Herodotus’ statement in 3.106.1, is considered plausible because India is placed on the edge of the world, and for that reason it is blessed (τὰ κάλλιστα ἔλαχον). Herodotus does not seem to doubt its authenticity at all; in locating some of the ants in the Persian king’s palace (3.102.2), he indirectly introduces the story of the gold and the ants as a true story of wonders which can and should be remembered. Not only the wondrous information and its narrators but also its receivers are judged by Herodotus, on the basis of the elements that induce feelings of wonder and astonishment. For example, the amazing story of the diver Scyllias, who swam under water from Aphetae to Artemisium, is interpreted by Herodotus

27 Cf. the stories on the Hyperboreans (4.32–36). According to Herodotus, though Hesiod and Homer mention their existence, they couldn’t have been real. 28 ἐμοὶ μέν νυν δοκέουσι ταῦτα λέγοντες τῆς Αἰγυπτίων φύσιος καὶ τῶν νόμων πάμπαν ἀπείρως ἔχειν οἱ Ἕλληνες (“Now it seems to me that by this story the Greeks show themselves wholly ignorant of the character and customs of the Egyptians”, transl. by Godley 1920). See Lloyd 1976, ad loc. referring to the possible ‘ignorant Greeks’ who wrote reports on Egypt. 29 See Marincola 1987, passim. 30 Cf. Barth 1968, 97; Lloyd 1975, 141–147; Asheri, D./Lloyd, A.  B./Corcella 2007, 234–235. See further, Hartog 1998, 236; Purves 2010, 142.

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as a mere lie, even if Scyllias is regarded as a hero by his contemporaries who are indirectly criticized as thoughtless (8.8.2).31 According to Herodotus, Scyllias came to Artemisium on a boat (8.8.3). Also, Otanes’ praise of democracy in the discussion of forms of government in Book Three (§  80) is described as something the Greeks did not expect to hear from a Persian, since people in Persia lack knowledge about democracy; in order for Herodotus to prove that the Athenians’ judgment was superficial and narrow-minded, he lists the democratic activity of Mardonius, also a Persian, in Ionia (6.43.3). At Book 1.60, Herodotus appears critical of the Athenian reaction with regards to the miracle designed by Peisistratus, who supposedly walks back to Athens under the guidance of Athena. In reality, it is not Athena who guides Peisistratus but a woman named Phya, dressed in full armor, in a chariot. Heralds were sent to the city to proclaim that the Athenians should “give a hearty welcome to Peisistratus, whom Athena herself honoured beyond all men and was bringing back to her own citadel” (1.60.5).32 The Athenians were persuaded that the woman was the goddess herself, and, because of this false impression, they were paying worship to a mere human creature. Herodotus considers such an act to be unthinkable as, according to him, the Greeks and among them the Athenians were distinguished from the Barbarians in being more skillful and free from any kind of foolishness (1.60.3). Likewise, in 6.105, he indirectly mocks the Athenians first for believing Philippides’ incredible story of meeting the god Pan and then for inaugurating a shrine in his honor.33 In the Fourth Book, Herodotus describes the climatic conditions of the country of the Issidones, especially its abnormal winter time (§ 28). Remarkably, when it rains in other countries (ἐν ἄλλοισι χωρίοισι), the Issidones enjoy no rain, as it only rains during the summer there. If there is thunder in the winter, people are afraid because neither they nor their animals are used to such conditions; thus, they falsely perceive them as a divine sign (cf. further e.  g. 2.54–7, 2.143, 4.5, 7.129, 7.188–9, 8.137). In 1.74.4 he mentions that the solar eclipse was interpreted by the Lydians and the Persians as a divine sign sent specifically to them, even though this was predicted and explained by Thales as a natural phenomenon (cf. 1.75; cf. 7.37, 9.10). The skepticism with regards to divine omnipotence, sometimes even provokes the author’s aporia, wonderment, due to his own lack of

31 How/Wells 1912, 2.238; Munson 2001, 254. Cf. further Greenwood/Cartledge 2002, 360 and Bowie 2007, 99. 32 Transl. by Godley 1920. 33 Lateiner 1989, 66. Contrary to Lateiner, see Harrison 2000, 82  f., who argues that the skepticism of Herodotus is not clear here.

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knowledge, e.  g. in 9.65.2 as to why none of the Persians who fought by the altar of Demeter at Plataea managed to step onto the altar or happened to die within the temple area; this is interpreted by Herodotus as a divine sign that the goddess refused to accept the men who burnt her temple in Eleusis.34 Up to this point, I have emphasized how important it is for Herodotus to remember and receive the past and contemporary wondrous in an appropriate and critical manner. At the same time, Herodotus often draws on wonders which he underlines as possessing the characteristics that should define an astonishing event that deserves to be preserved in memory. In this sense, Herodotus chooses to represent as marvelous objects, events, and humans the sight which elevates the “humanly possible”.35 For instance, in Egypt, where the importance of memory is acknowledged (cf. e.  g. 2.77.1),36 Herodotus marvels at monuments which survived through time not only in virtue of their materials but above all through the extraordinary feat of their construction. The detailed description of monumental wonders in Herodotean historie, besides giving an impression of precision, realism, and thus narrative authority, simultaneously underlines the intensity of the wondrous when it refers to something meticulously constructed, or to the effort of the builder as essential for the creation of something extraordinary. For instance, the watercourses made by the Semiramis are noteworthy, ἀξιοθέητα (1.184),37 the works of

34 See further e.  g. the story told by Dicaeus in 8.65.1; the dust that he and Demaratus saw coming from Eleusis that was caused by thirty thousand men is perceived by them as a thauma. See on that Harrison 2000, 69. In 6.117.2, the surprise of the unexplained blindness of the Athenian Epizelus during the battle at Marathon is described by Herodotus with the term ‘θῶμα’ and explained, eventually, as a divine message, a battle apparition, cf. on that Harrison 2000, 83  f. Generally on divine signs and miracles, see Harrison 2000, ch. 3, Hollmann 2001, 54 on terata, Hartog 1988, 232 on sêmata. 35 Shimron 1989, 37. 36 Cf. Hunter 1982, ch. 2. 37 As ἀξιοθέητα, see the following: In 1.14.3, the throne from which Midas used to judge, in 2.111.4, the stone obelisks dedicated to the temple of the Sun by Pheros, in 2.163, a palace in Sais (see also 2. 176.2 the ἔργα τὸ μέγαθος ἀξιοθέητα, the colossus at Memphis made by Amasis, 2.182.1, 3.123.1, 4.162.3). See also as θέης ἄξιος 1.25.2, 9.25.1, the dead Persian Masistius because of his beauty and his huge size, 9 70.3, 9.109.1 (Amestris’ coat). Similarly, many things can be ἀξια λόγου, ἀξιαπηγητότατα, worthy of discussion, such as the military deeds of Alyattes against the Milesians in 1.16, the temple of Hephaestus in Egypt (2.99.4) or the temple of Boubastis which is pleasant to the eye, ἡδονὴ δὲ ἰδέσθαι, and is remarkable for that very reason (2.137.5 cf. on the contrary as not ἀξιαπηγητότατον 5.57.2, cf. also 2.70). Barth 1968, 98, uses terms such as ἀξιοθέητος or ἀξιαπηγητότατος as synonyms to θωμάσιος and its derivatives, cf. on that also Immerwahr 1960, 268 n. 17.

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Alyattes are ἀξιαπηγητότατα (1.17),38 but only the embankment created by Nitocris could still provoke admiration and is depicted as marvelous. This is because of the amount of work invested in it, which is manifested in its sheer size and height (1.185.3).39 Wonderment is more likely to occur in response to viewing an object that is larger than the viewer;40 for this reason, the Egyptian Labyrinth is a θῶμα μυρίον (2.148.6), huge miracle compared to the Greek monuments (2.148.2), however, compared to the Egyptian lake Moirion described in the next paragraph, it is not so astonishing; this is a bigger wonder, θῶμα ἔτι μέζον, because of its size (§ 149.1) and the building itself, since it is χειροποίητός καὶ ὀρυκτή, i.  e. it is a manmade lake and was dug out artificially. Leto’s shrine in the temple of Apollo and Artemis near the city of Buto, and particularly the fact that the entirety of the walls is made of a single large stone, is also recognized as θῶμα μέγιστον compared to the rest of the buildings in the temple41 and, in essence, the most marvellous of all the things Herodotus saw in that temple.42 The same applies to the Propylaia of the temple of Athena at Sais (2.175.1–4), which owes its depiction as marvellous to its height, vastness and the beauty of the grandiose stones (§  175.1), as well as to the time and labour that was required for its construction (2.175.5, τὸν ἀρχιτέκτονα αὐτῆς ἑλκομένης τῆς στέγης ἀναστενάξαι οἷά τε χρόνου ἐγγεγονότος πολλοῦ καὶ ἀχθόμενον τῷ ἔργῳ43). Similarly, Herodotus is fascinated by the entirety of Babylon, which he calls ἀξιαπηγητοτάτη (“most worth telling”), due to the fact that the city fulfils all the principal conditions to be considered as wondrous, specifically for its enormous size (1.78) and its unique building process that demanded extremely hard labour (1.178.2,  ἐκεκόσμητο δὲ ὡς οὐδὲν ἄλλο πόλισμα τῶν ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν, cf. also 1.179). Yet, he considers the Babylonian river trade-boats to be the greatest wonder of all because of the material they are made of and the way they operate (1.194.1).

38 See Bloomer 1993, passim; general on the superlative “[it] is used as a powerful analytic and compositional tool” (p. 33). 39 On size and ‘wonders’, see Barth 1968, 104 and 108; Lloyd 1975, 143; Hartog 1988, 236  f.; Munson 2001, 240–241 and 259; Greenwood/Cartledge 2002, 360. 40 Keltner and Haidt 2003, 310. 41 Though Herodotus finds for instance the temple of the seat of the oracle (chrẽstẽrion) noteworthy, ἄξιον λόγου (2.155 1). 42 What is less distinguishable is the island of Chemmis which, as he was told by the Egyptians but did not see himself, floats. The island was already described as floating by Hecataeus (FGrHist 305); perhaps this is why Herodotus tries to suppress this information. On that, see Marincola 1987; see also Pearson 1975, 85; How/Wells 1912, 25; Lloyd 1975, 131; Lateiner 1989, 93–95; Munson 2001, 239. 43 “[W]hile it was being drawn the chief builder groaned aloud for the much time spent and his weariness of the work”, transl. by Goadley 1920.

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Thus, something is worthy of remembrance if it evokes in its recipient the feeling of amazement, especially if it had required sufficient labour for its construction.44 According to Immerwahr, “the motivation attributed by Herodotus to the great builders is precisely that of arousing in the beholder a feeling of marvel, and thus perpetuating their fame”.45 Moreover, the description of the construction process seems to shorten the distance between the past extraordinary and the contemporary receiver, increasing in this way the chances of the describer to create a solid mnemonic imprint which will serve as a guideline for the future audience. Just as monuments are described as wondrous based on the laborious process of their construction in order to mark not merely them but their constructor (most of the time, king) as memorable, extraordinary behavior is used as a marker to preserve the memory of remarkable people too. Θαῦμα in Homer is used to define heroic behavior, such as when Hermes, disguised as a Myrmidon, marvels at the courage of Hector (Il. 24.394; cf. 5.601) or in the Odyssey when Telemachus becomes the object of amazement because of his rhetorical skills (1.382, 18.411, 20.269) and courage in leaving Ithaca to look for his father (4.655). In contrast, Herodotus, apart from describing commonly courageous actions as admirable, insists on marking as a wonderful deed something that normally would not be expected by agents of heroic acts or conducted by agents who are otherwise rejected from the traditional heroic ethical code, i.  e. the aristocratic prerequisites of eukleia.46 For example, the brave behavior of the woman Artemisia, the daughter of Lygdamis of Halicarnassus, who after the death of her husband took charge of her son, despite being already νεανίας, i.  e. in an age to rule, is referred to by Herodotus in the Seventh Book of the Histories as θῶμα, wonder

44 In 7.187.1, Herodotus is not astonished by the difficulties of supplying water to the large army of Xerxes because he considers such difficulties as expected. In contrary, after his calculations, he is surprised about the necessary labour for preparing food for such a large number of people. Similarly, the gathering of cinnamon (3.111.1) is described by Herodotus as θωμαστότερον τούτων, more wonderful than the production of incense in the same country, due to the effort it requires (3.110); but even more marvelous, ἔτι τούτων θωμαστότερον, is the gathering of ledanon (called ladanon by the Arabians) described in the next paragraph, because ledanon is to be found on the beard of goats and rams (3 112, cf. further 4 199). But see 6.47.1, about the old mines of Thasos compared to the new ones, after the settlement of the Phoenicians, which are also described as θωμασιώτατα, yet, without referring to the effort that was required for their construction. See further wonders of art whose, however, creation procedure is not being described only assumed: For instance, the θώρηξ that Amasis sent to the Spartans as a gift (3.47.2) arouses admiration as well as the silver and gold glasses of Maeandrius in 3.148.1 that surprise the Spartan Cleomenes who cannot but marvel at them (ἀπεθώμαζέ τε καὶ ἐξεπλήσσετο). 45 Immerwahr 1960, 265. 46 Cf. Bassi 2003 and Gerolemou 2013.

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(§  99.1). Specifically, Herodotus admires the courage and bravery, ὑπὸ λήματός τε καὶ ἀνδρηίης, that Artemisia has exhibited in the campaign against Greece on Xerxes’ side without being forced.47 Again, in the First Book he describes the willingness of Candaules’ wife, to the astonishment and consequent admiration of Gyges (§ 11.3), to take decisions which carry major political consequences in order to punish the crime of her husband, who forced her to expose her naked body to a stranger. Similarly, the remarkable decision taken by Intaphrenes’s wife, namely to save her brother instead of her sons or husband, causes Dareius’ amazement and approval (3.119.5). Herodotus also describes as wonderful the story of Syagros, an effeminate man, who surprisingly and unexpectedly guides his exiled compatriots back to Gela and rescues the fugitives without initiating a conflict or inducing the interference of a powerful ruler (7.153). Again the τόλμη of the seer, Hegesistratus, who cuts off part of his foot, freeing himself from his yoke in an unheroic manner, i.  e. self-injuring, and escapes from Sparta, evokes the admiration of the Lacedaemonians (9.37.3).48 ** The authorial γνώμη, judgment of Herodotus,49 i.  e. his individual memory shaped against the cultural memory cultivated by the epic poets and the Muses, and consequently his work itself, should also provoke a sense of wonderment to its recipients and support its own commemoration (cf. 4.144, 7.135, 9.16.2, μνημόσυνά […] γνώμης […] καταλιπέσθαι).50 Memory is reserved, as I have argued above, for the work that is most extraordinary in terms of its laborious production.51 On a more abstract level, like the monuments which were first meant as an

47 Cf. e.  g. Artemisia’s willingness to advise Xerxes in 8.68.1  ff., 8.101  f., her war tactics, 8.871  ff. 48 Cf. also 1.121ζ, here Rampsinitos marvels at the τόλμη of the thief of his treasure; cf. to the contrary 9.58.3. Likewise, in 7.208.3, the Persian spy wonders at the unexpected image of the placidity of the Spartan army before the battle against the more powerful Persian army of Xerxes. Cf. the same in 7.218.2, the Persians wonder at the army of the Phocians who, although inferior, are preparing for the war against them. 49 For the authorial voice in Herodotus, see Dewald 1987, 147–170; Marincola 1997, 121–137; Luraghi 2001; Boedeker 2000; Thomas 2000, 235–248; Brock 2003; Rood 2006. 50 Cf. Bischoff 1962, 304–305, 309. Words, he argues, are included in the ἔργα  and γενόμενα (p. 304) which are described as thōmasta. Likewise, in the proem of his Deipnosophistai Athenaeus implicitly presents himself as a thaumastos, creator of an elaborate narration (ὁ θαυμαστὸς οὗτος τοῦ λόγου οἰκονόμος). In a similar manner, in Ad Pompeius 3 Dionysius of Halicarnassus describes Herodotus’ Histories as παλαιὸν ἔργον κάλλιστον καὶ θαυμασιώτατον, an old work, beautiful and marvelous (cf. also De Thuc. 23). 51 See, for example, the Queen of Babylon, Nitocris, in Book One (§ 185) who has built an admi-

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aid to memory but then, due to the extraordinary of their construction, became objects to be remembered in their own right, Herodotus’ historie is marked as both a medium of memory and a commemorative object in memory of its creator, who has selected, put together and displayed his material.52 At the beginning of the historie, Herodotus emphatically appeals to the wondrous as an emotionally arousing stimulus. Herodotus states here that he does not want to provide a meticulous account of all acts by men but only the genomena ex anthrōpōn, human deeds, specifically, the thōmasta erga, the wonderful ones.53 The term wondrous here clearly functions as an emotional stimulus in regard to his way of narrating the past: Thaumata are, as already argued, not a new mental concept; it was already used in the epics, where it was mostly linked with the commemoration of divine artifacts and heroic deeds. Yet, in contrast to the epic, the Herodotean θωμάσια belong mostly to the ἀνθρωπήια, i.  e. they derive from

rable dam, or the Dodecarchs, the twelve Kings of Egypt, who construct a labyrinth (2.148  f.) or Amasis who sent an admirable vase to the Spartans (2.175 and in 3 47). See also 1.14 (Gyges), 1.185 (Nitocris), 2.101 (king Moeris), 2.102, 2 106 (Sesostris), 2 135 (Rhodopes), 2.136 (Asyches), 4.87.1, 4.91 (Darius), 6.122 (Callias), 9.72.1 (those who fought in Plataea). See further Christ 1994 who argues that Herodotus shares with most of his kings “a drive not only to measure, but also to explore, the world” (p. 175). However, according to Christ, Herodotus tends to differentiate himself from his kings as their interest in the unknown-extraordinary eventually becomes imperialistic and tyrannical. 52 Cf. Grethlein 2008, 35 regarding the epic aphthiton kleos. 53 Erbse 1956, 211, reviewing what other scholars wrote on the Herodotean proem, interprets ἱστορίης ἀπόδεξις, the display of his inquiry, in the introductory sentence as a reference to Herodotus and the personal praise that he will gain through the redaction of his history. See also Fowler 1996, 69–87. Koenen 1993, 95–96 thinks that the deictic pronoun ἥδε in the first sentence of the Histories points to the book of Herodotus itself. It was common practice for an ancient historian to seek personal glory (cf. e.  g. Thuc. 1.22.4); see further on that Moles 1993, 93–94. He argues for the “heroic” role of Herodotus as a historian and for the fame he anticipates for his work. For the term apodexis, see Thomas 2000, 249–269. For Thomas, the oral and written presentation of the apodexis of Herodotus is close to the realm of rhetorical epideixis underlining proof, demonstration and personal achievement. See also Bakker 2002, 6–13. He argues for the Herodotean project as being the “historie of an aitie” taking the word ἀπόδεξις not as an evidence for the “medial” character of Herodotus’ work but as pointing inter alia to Herodotus’ intention to leave his work as a μνημόσυνον. Thus, “apodexis is not only the accomplishment of great deeds, but also their recording, which cannot fail to become a great accomplishment itself, a mega ergon in the process” (p. 28). For ἔργα θωμαστά in correspondence with μνημοσύνη and accordingly κλέος, see also Raubitschek 1939. For ergon as “achievement” comprising both monuments and deeds, see Immerwahr 1960, 18 and 263–269. For Immerwahr “[i]n Herodotus, ergon has a tendency to mean the finished product of an activity” (p. 269). The greatness of the past, per Immerwahr, can be traced in Herodotus through the visible traces of the ἔργα and their μνημοσύνη, remembrance.

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human actions.54 More importantly the epithet thōmasios is not merely linked to the object of wonder (e.  g. towards the divine artifact), like in epic narrative, but it is indicative of the wonderer’s selection criteria. Thus, by utilizing the concept of wonders in his narrative, Herodotus does more than merely adopting a widely circulated mnemonic formula, inherited by Homer; he furthermore connects wonders with laborious inquiry and theoria; the successful outcome of the inquiry depends foremost on the abilities of the interrogator of the wonder-story. At 1.23, in the story of Arion and the dolphin, the Corinthians and the Mytilenaens assert that Periander, the tyrant of Corinth, first took the story told by Arion, according to which a dolphin carried him to the coast on his back, saving him from the sailor-thieves who were threatening his life, as a θῶμα μέγιστον (1.23.1), however, as he didn’t believe Arion, he conducted an inquiry to recover the truth (1.24.7):55 He waited for the sailors to come to Argos. As soon as they arrived, Periander asked what news they carried for Arion to which they replied that they had left him flourishing at Tarentum. Precisely at that moment, Arion came out and appeared in front of them and their obvious shock for seeing him there (ekplagentas) exposed their lies. What is interesting in the story is the fact that Herodotus carefully saves the term θωμάζω for the examination conducted by Periander and does not connect it with the beautiful song of the ἀρίστου ἀνθρώπων ἀοιδοῦ, the best singer Arion, and the possible joy of the thieves while listening to it. A story which follows the same pattern is mentioned in Book One (§  68); here, a blacksmith in Tegea admires the size of the coffin and, in effect, the corpse of the hero Orestes. Due to the fact that he could not believe (ὑπὸ δὲ ἀπιστίης56) that so huge human beings exist, he had to challenge his disbelief by opening the coffin. His fascination occurs within the context of a previous ‘wonder’, described earlier in the paragraph, where the Spartan Lichas admires the forging of iron by a smith who was trying to convince him that there are greater wonders than his forging, which Lichnas is unaware of. Obviously, he was referring to Orestes’s corpse. Not only inquiry but primarily the theoria, the investigation and attainment of knowledge,57 undertaken by the pursuer of wonders determines the success of

54 Cf. Dewald 1987, 158. 55 Cf. Gray 2001; he argues that Periander’s inquiry mirrors Herodotus’ own inquiry into wonder-stories; see also Packman 1991, 400. 56 On apistia in Herodotus, cf. Packman 1991, 399–408, here p. 405. 57 On the philosophical θεωρία in fourth century philosophers cf. Wilson Nightingale 2001, passim and 2005, 162–180. On theoria in generally, see Koller 1957; Rausch 1982; Rutherford 1995. On the meaning of θεωρία as related to ‘wonders’ esp. in Herodotus, see also Redfield 1985, 98–102, calling Herodotus a “wondering strange” or a “tourist” (p. 99). Cf. generally on the θεωρία of

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wonder-stories (i.  e. prevalence over time) which tend to end with κλέος, renown, for the θεωροῦντες who are awarded the title of σοφός, a sage.58 For instance, Solon, who, after constituting the Athenian laws (1.29), went abroad for ten years and thereby acquired great wisdom, succeeds in inciting Croesus’ admiration (1.30) by intervening into his life and changing his criteria for happiness.59 Although at first Croesus did not have the sophia to appreciate the information given by Solon (attested later by the oracle cf. 1.91), Solon succeeded in morally transforming Croesus (1.86.3). Because of that, Solon effectively assumes the role of the ‘warner’ to Croesus, a role that he later grants to Croesus himself (1.86.3) who becomes a “warner” to Cyrus (1.207) and Cambyses (3.36).60 In fact, Cyrus is so astonished by Croesus’ lack of reaction towards the looting of his country by the Persians that he decides to free Croesus and make him his trustworthy adviser (1.88.1).61 Wonderment functions here as a mechanism which helps people to expand their mental horizons. Such people become wise enough to shape or correct the experience of others. Nevertheless, one must be in the position to actively celebrate the qualities of wonder, rather than passively receive them.62

Epilogue The wondrous was already used in epic narrative as a visual event which evokes strong emotions to its recipients. Herodotus, as an artificer of memory who recognizes how the procedure of remembering works, tries to manipulate it by reviving such emotional memories. He thereby gains the opportunity to intervene into the past, correct and rewrite experiential fallacies and, simultaneously, to describe them as wondrous, and hence to memorialize for the future that which he has selected as outlandish according to his own criteria. In other words, he succeeds

Herodotus Montiglio 2000, passim. On Herodotus compared with the travelled Odysseus, see Strasburger 1972, 40  f.; Boedeker 2002, 99; Thomas 2000, 9–16; Wecowski 2004, 153; Montiglio 2005, ch. 6; Marincola 2007, esp. 13–15. 58 On a σοφός Herodotus, see Fowler 1996, 86–87; Thomas 2000, 262–263; Wecowski 2004, 157. 59 On Solon in the Histories functioning as Herodotus’ alter ego, see Redfield 1985, 102; Montiglio 2000, 89; Montiglio 2005, 134–136; Marincola 2007, 15. 60 For the ‘warner’ figure as constructive in the narrative of Herodotus, see Lattimore 1939, 34–35, the warner is “a mode of understanding history”. For Herodotus as “warner”, see Bischoff 1962, 312–314. 61 The same occurs in the story of Cambyses in 3.14.8 marveling at the inexplicable reaction of Psammenitus in his suffering. 62 Hepburn 1980, 6.

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in using the category of the thōmasia in such a way that it challenges the authority of the past to effectively form knowledge for the future.

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Chrysanthi Demetriou

Wonder(s) in Plautus Abstract: This paper examines the cases where a Plautine comic intrigue is identified with a story of wonder. It focuses on the Amphitruo, the only play from the period of New Comedy that revolves around divine actions. By elaborating on the idea that miraculous incidents in the Amphitruo are presented as a comic scheme by Jupiter, it co-examines the incidents of this unique comedy with other, more ‘conventional’ Plautine intrigues, mainly in the Mostellaria and the Miles Gloriosus. By juxtaposing the way wonders are presented by the comic tricksters, and how they are perceived by their audience, the paper argues that Plautus, in his treatments of wonders, while offering a manifold approach to the wondrous, also accentuates the importance of personal experience. Finally, the playwright’s treatment of wonders is examined as a possible parallel to contemporary ideological debates, in order to also disclose the interests of Plautus’ audience.

I Introduction1 Plautus’ work is based upon conventional New Comedy plots of love-stories, occurrences of mistaken identity, as well as intrigues set up by comic schemers plotting against other characters, who constitute a threat to the protagonists’ plans. This paper will examine instances where such comic deceptions relate to events that cause amazement, constructed by the comic trickster who wishes to deceive and finally prevail over his ‘enemies’. In particular, the paper focuses on the Amphitruo, the only extant New Comedy play that revolves around divine, miraculous actions. Firstly, I will present the play’s unique features and their various scholarly interpretations, and, secondly, I will elaborate on the idea that the play’s divine scheme can be, in fact, identified with a comic deception. For the purpose of this analysis, I will read the Amphitruo along with other comic plays, mainly the Mostellaria and the Miles Gloriosus (section II).2 Afterwards (in section III), emphasis will be placed on the characters’ reactions to wonders

1 I would like to thank Ioannis Konstantakos, Regine May, Sophia Papaioannou as well as the editor of this volume for their invaluable comments on earlier drafts of this paper. 2 The emphasis of the discussion will be therefore placed upon Amphitruo (written in the period 190–185 BCE), Mostellaria (perhaps composed in the 190’s, probably based on Philemon’s Phasma) and Miles Gloriosus (based on Alazon, probably composed in 206–205 BCE), while parhttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-010

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for demonstrating the parallels between the treatment of the miraculous by the comic characters in the Amphitruo and the treatment of the wondrous in the other two comedies. Following this juxtaposition, I shall attempt to give a systematization of the characters’ reactions (in section IV), arguing that, in the experience of the wondrous, Plautus accentuates the power of evidence and autopsy. Finally, the aim of this analysis is to trace Plautus’ position in the treatment of wonders, within their social context, suggesting that the dramatic incidents under examination, presumably, echo ongoing popular, religious and – even – philosophical debates (section V). Prior to proceeding to this discussion, it is necessary to establish certain preliminary clarifications on terminology: a) As we shall see in the following analysis, in the incidents under examination, we repeatedly observe the use of the verb which usually denotes the experience of bewilderment, miror. This particular verb reveals the reaction of surprise and wonder in several cases in Plautus,3 while the adjectives mirus and mirabilis in the Plautine corpus signify amazing or marvellous things.4 As expected, in the plays under discussion, such terms are reasonably assigned to characters that experience astonishing events in order to denote their reactions; yet, these terms are not the only indicators of incidents that cause bewilderment. As mentioned above, in this paper, I am not interested in cases that merely cause surprise to their audience, but, rather, in incidents where a bewildering event forms part of an intrigue, i.  e. a Plautine play-within-the-play.5 Therefore, the selection of the cases under discussion is by no means based on solely linguistic criteria. b) Since in the Amphitruo we deal with supernatural events caused by gods, these events are usually defined as ‘miraculous’.6 In some cases I follow this convention, particularly where I refer to the gods’ intervention in this play. However, as the subsequent analysis aims to show, ‘miracles’ (as outcomes of divine actions) and ‘wonders’ (as astonishing events) are, at least to some extent, constructed according to the same patterns, since divine and human tricksters, as well as their ‘victims’, behave in a similar way; in any case, those who experience either event share the same feeling, that of wonder (cf. the title of this paper).

allel references to other comedies (e.  g. Curculio, perhaps of 193 BCE) will be made. On the chronology of Plautus’ plays, see Fontaine 2014, 517. 3 E.  g. in Pl. Capt. 545 and Mer. 371. 4 E.  g. in Pl. Ps. 512 and Pl. Trin. 931. 5 On this feature of Plautine composition, see the second section of this paper. 6 Duckworth 1994, 150, for instance, defines the events associated with Hercules’ birth as “miracles”.



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II Drawing the framework: wonders as comic intrigues The Amphitruo reflects the well-known myth on Hercules’ birth: Jupiter takes advantage of Amphitruo’s absence, steals his form and sleeps with his wife, Alcumena. In his adventures on earth, he is accompanied by Mercury, who also assumes a human form, that of Sosia, Amphitruo’s slave. The gods’ deception leads to various misunderstandings and extraordinary events that spark the human characters’ wonder, and, eventually, lead to the happy-end of the story, after Jupiter’s appearance. The Amphitruo is the only surviving Latin comic play that revolves around the divine and which presents miraculous incidents. As far as Plautus’ unusual source material is concerned, apart from the assumption that Plautus was influenced by Euripides’ Bacchae,7 it has been also argued that Plautus’ original probably belonged to the period of Middle Comedy and that the comic element in the Amphitruo basically derives from the deployment of the wondrous in a domestic environment. This, essentially, creates a sharp contrast between the supernatural forces and the human experiences, while it portrays a divine intervention that distracts everyday human life.8 What is more, the play’s ending, where Amphitruo, after experiencing Jupiter’s presence, ceases his search for Teiresias and returns to his house, has been widely read as an emphatic indication in favour of a comic, rather than a tragic, ending

7 See Slater 2001, who pointed to the parallels between the two plays (esp. p. 197–198) and concluded that Plautus’ work “is a comic response to the metatragic possibilities he saw in the Bacchae” (p. 201). On Plautus’ source, see also the examination of various suggestions by Christenson 2000, 50–55, who seems positive to the possibility that the playwright used a tragic play as his prototype, either a Greek one or a Roman version (p. 55). However, as Konstantakos 2002, 158 n. 58 points out, the possibility that Plautus composed a play without a Greek comedy original is not consistent with the playwright’s general composition practices. On the other hand, Manuwald 1999 examines tragic and comic elements of the play as well as parallels with dramatic tradition, concluding that the playwright made use of tragic material which he successfully transformed into a comedy; she rightly indicates that Plautus is not the first one who achieved this, however, the first to have used a term to describe this process. On Plautus’ transformation of a tragic myth and the combination of tragic and comic elements, see also Dumont 1998. 8 Konstantakos 2014, 93. On Zeus’ erotic adventures as constituting the theme of a distinct category of mythological comedies, see Konstantakos 2002, 159–164. On the possibility that Plautus had a Middle Comedy prototype, see Green 2015, 65–79, who suggests that Plautus’ play finds parallels in a scene of a South Italian vase painting that probably depicts an excerpt from what might constitute the Greek original.

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of the play, which accentuates the ‘domestic’ environment that normally features in comic plays.9 Yet, while Plautus’ unusual plotline and the play’s possible sources have unsurprisingly led to various interpretations, it is still not plausible to confirm what belongs to a Greek original – if we accept that one, either comic or tragic, existed indeed  – or what Plautus’ personal contribution to the presentation of the storyline is. Thus, it seems safe to simply treat the Amphitruo as a Plautine comedy that is definitely addressed to Plautus’ contemporary Roman audience, hence, one that corresponds to Plautus’ spectators’ perspectives and interests. In other words, while acknowledging the plot’s distinguished position in the comic corpus, what is of seminal importance is to approach the play without dismissing the playwright’s general characteristics and interests, as these are naturally evident in other comedies. Additionally to questions on Plautus’ sources, the play’s unique nature, i.  e. the reference and portrayal of gods’ adventures, has also sparked a long discussion on the playwright’s religious intentions: some scholars note that the strong theatrical tone functions as a constant reminder to the audience that what they are watching is a fictional story.10 As a consequence, the audience is not particularly concerned with the religious connotations. At the same time, others trace a careful treatment of the religious elements by the playwright,11 such as the fact that Alcumena’s piety is finally rewarded.12 On the other hand, the Amphitruo

9 Moore 1998, 124 notes that at the end of the play, when Amphitruo is looking for Teiresias, Jupiter’s intervention sends him back “to the domestic world of comedy”. On Amphitruo’s final decision as a sign of the rejection of tragedy, see also Dupont 2001, 181–182. Similarly, Sharrock 2009, 289 notes that Amphitruo rejects tragedy and goes back to his house, thus back to a comic play. She further regards Amphitruo’s applause for Jupiter (1146) as “comic, but also ritual and affirmative of the god and the play”. 10 E.  g. Moore 1998, 110–111. Mercury emphasizes Jupiter’s human characteristics already from the prologue while, throughout the play, he stresses the contrast between humans and gods, reminding thus the audience that they do not actually see gods but actors. E.  g. in lines 986–987 we have an interesting remark by Mercury, who complains about the fact that he cannot act like comic slaves do, an instance which enhances the supposed superiority of comic characters in a funny contrast to a god. Christenson 2000, 290 ad loc. points to the irony of having in fact a slave playing this role. 11 Hanson 1959, 60 has pointed out that several cases reflect the belief of an “omniscience or superior knowledge of divinity”, with special reference to Mercury (line 57) and Jupiter (lines 1133–1134). Similarly, Sharrock 2009, 61 reads the play as “a hymn to Jupiter and to Hercules”. 12 The play points to the reciprocity in the relationship between gods and mortals, a notion culminated at the end of the story, when Jupiter’s miraculous intervention can be seen as a reward for Alcumena’s piety; on this aspect in several Plautine plays, see the discussion by Hanson 1959, 85–88, which also includes Amph. 39–49, 180–184 and the end of the story (on Bromia’s charac-



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has been also read as an experimental literary construction13 that reflects the “contemporary religious skepticism” of Plautus’ time.14 In this context, scholars have questioned the farcical tone of the play, suggesting that human characters are in fact mere victims of the gods who seem to be the only ones enjoying a festive atmosphere.15 However, the interpretation of Plautus’ intentions regarding the portrayal of divine intervention is firmly linked to the presentation of the wondrous incident per se and its reception by the comic characters. In this context, the parallel examination of cases that cause astonishment in other, more ‘conventional’ Plautine comedies can contribute to a deeper understanding of Plautus’ workmanship. It is noteworthy that, on the basis of Mercury’s reference to Jupiter as an architectus, a master-builder (Amph. 45, in the prologue), scholars have acutely identified Jupiter with scheming comic slaves, since he, as servi callidi do, sets up an intrigue, assuming the role of an architectus doli.16 Plautus’ strong metathe-

terisation of Alcumena as pia and pudica in 1086). On further references to Alcumena’s piety, see page 92 and Slater 2011, 307. In this context, see, more recently, Gruen 2014, 605–606: in discussing instances in which characters mock the gods (or deeply religious characters), he concludes that Plautus does not underestimate religion, since he rarely presents characters mocking gods as sympathetic. 13 Segal 1987, 171–191 reads the Amphitruo as Plautus’ late experiment with the genre, a genuine Plautine play that shows the playwright’s remarkable workmanship, arguing that, through exploiting a theme similar with that of Euripides’ Bacchae, it “presents nothing more elevated than an act of adultery and the joys of Alcmena’s body” (p. 174). Similarly, Christenson 2000, 37–44, argues that Alcumena is portrayed as a “sexually caricatured figure” (p. 43), in order to present a subversive image of Roman marriage. See also Owens 2001, 220–221, on Alcumena’s representation as both a virtuous matron and a lady seeking sexual pleasure. Segal thinks that Plautus’ main theme here is not concerned with elevated, divine and religious matters but with sexual desire: see the whole reading of the comedy in Segal 1987, 171–191. See also Jeppesen’s reading of Alcumena’s monologue in lines 633–653: he succinctly points out that envisaging her performance (e.  g. looking at a male ‘pregnant’ actor) points to parody and it is therefore humorous (Jeppesen 2013, 33–39). On the other hand, Gunderson 2015, 191–202, in an examination of the audience’s possible reactions, points to her tragic position, as a human manipulated by a god, a fact going back to Mercury’s indication in the beginning of the play, that this is a tragicomedy. On irony serving as a means to revealing more serious aspects, as the use of humans by gods, see also Forehand 1971, 651. 14 Segal 1987, 187. On the other hand, Hunter 1987, 295 notes that Amphitruo “is a play in touch not only with the traditions and techniques of the comic stage, but also with the realities of traditional Greek religious thinking.” 15 Gunderson 2015, 183–188 and 211–212. Similarly, Feeney 1998, 106–107. 16 On the assimilation of Jupiter with a Plautine servus callidus, see e.  g. Slater 2001, 189. On the fact that Mercury presents Jupiter as an architectus, a term attributed to schemers, see also Moore 1998, 111, with reference to Mercury’s prologue (lines 26–31), noting that ‘Mercury’ reveals that

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atrical tone is well-known: comic intrigues are often constructed and presented in theatrical terms, and the comic schemers often reflect the comic playwright, setting up their deceptions in a way that resembles the structure of a theatrical performance.17 Elaborating on this association, I propose the reading of the Amphitruo along with two comedies that present ‘traditional’ Plautine intrigues: Mostellaria and Miles Gloriosus. In the Mostellaria, we deal with a common intrigue, arranged by a clever slave plotting against his old master. The trickster Tranio, in order to keep the senex away and thus conceal his young master’s ‘naughty’ behaviour in the absence of his father, arranges a play-within-the-play, by concocting a supernatural event: he pretends that his master’s house has been possessed by a ghost and, therefore, has to be deserted.18 In the Miles Gloriosus we deal with another comic intrigue:19 the trickster Palaestrio tries to convince Sceledrus, a fellow-slave, that what he had witnessed earlier was in fact an illusion. Sceledrus saw Philocomasium, his master’s mistress, kissing another man at the neighbouring house, which threatens Palaestrio’s plans to unite Philocomasium with her lover, Palaestrio’s master, who, in fact, is the man that Philocomasium was in dalliance with. At first, Palaestrio uses logical arguments to convince Sceledrus, claiming that it would be impossible for the girl to access the neighboring house, but Sceledrus insists on the validity of his visual experiences (e.  g. in lines 345, 347, 368, 369–370, 374). While Sceledrus’ argumentation and insistence seem considerably firm, Philocomasium, following Palaestrio’s instructions and trying to convince Sceledrus that the girl he saw is actually her twin sister, refers to a

he is an actor obeying to the orders of the leading actor, ‘Jupiter’. Also, in 112 (in discussing lines 38–49): “Mercury reinforces the identification of Jupiter as chief actor by calling him architectus, a word Plautus uses elsewhere of play-producing clever slaves”. On the role of the comic slave having been taken by a god, see also Gunderson 2015, 212. On the term and the metaphorical meaning of architectus, used also for Palaestrio in the Miles Gloriosus, see Sharrock 2009, 16–17. 17 The most significant work on this aspect of Plautine composition is Slater 2000a – see for instance the reading of Pseudolus in pp.  97–120. Similarly, Sharrock 2009, 4, discussing the deceptive nature of drama, notes that a theatrical intrigue functions as “a metaphor for the play”. 18 At the end of II.i, Tranio explicitly refers to a play, cf. 427–428 ludos […] faciam (“I’ll play a comedy”). Plautus’ texts and translations throughout the paper are taken from De Melo 2011– 2013. On Tranio as a metatheatrical playwright, as well as metatheatrical motifs in the whole play, see Frangoulidis 1997, 21–75. 19 On a metatheatrical reading of the tricks in the Miles Gloriosus, see Frangoulidis 1994, who notes that “given their fictional plot and their performance on stage by a troupe of actors, these two tricks can be viewed as plays, while Palaestrio, the craftsman of these intrigues, can be seen as a playwright” (p. 83).



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prophetic dream, somnium (380–381).20 The dream is explicitly portrayed as a part of the comic intrigue (386) that initiates a deception process:21 it seems that Sceledrus is so confident about his personal experience that an extraordinary event is necessary for enhancing the trick against him.22 Although in the Amphitruo the situation certainly differs from the other two plays, since gods, and not only humans, are among the main characters, the construction of extraordinary events in these three comedies follows a similar pattern. Given the well-known reading of dreams as reflections of plots or as illusions that lead towards the success of a comic deception,23 wonders, which either take the form of a dream (as in the Miles Gloriosus and, as we shall see below, partly, also in the Mostellaria) or create confusing visual experiences (mostly in the Amphitruo), are eventually assimilated to an intrigue arranged as a theatrical deception. In all three cases, Plautus’ plays-within-the-plays are identified with wonder stories, and the comic tricksters exploit their opponents’ reactions to an astonishing event in order to achieve their goals. The comic schemers, divine or human, try to prevail over their victims through conversation and argumentation (cf. the dialogues of Mercury  – Sosia, Tranio  – Theopropides and Palaestrio  – Sceledrus discussed below).24 And, as we shall see below, if wonders, eventually, fail to fulfill their dramatic purpose, i.  e. the success of a comic intrigue, it is due to the lack of knowledge of the tricksters and/or their audience. As expected, in the Amphitruo, the divine schemer, being in a superior position against the human characters, constitutes the most successful trickster and manipulator of wonder stories.25 20 Guastella 2003, 55 points to Plautus’s use of somnium as a significant term which refers to dreams conveying messages. 21 See Frangoulidis 1994, esp. 77, on metatheatricality in the use of the dream: the identification of Palaestrio’s intrigue with a dream emphasizes its illusionary character. 22 Lev Kenaan 2001, 163 traces a paradoxical situation: “What is surprising here is that Palaestrio adopts a deceptive strategy that does not offer Sceledrus an alternative factual explanation, but rather, an explanation which explicitly takes the form of an illusion, a dream”. 23 See Slater 2000a, 140–142, on similar references in the Plautine plays (among which Amphitruo and Mostellaria): the characters that control intrigues are awake, standing in opposition to their victims, who are usually (metaphorically) dreaming. Similarly, Sharrock 2009, 100 succinctly notes that “[v]ision is power”, associated with the trickster assuming the playwright’s role; see also 101–114, on the connection between sight and deception. 24 On the important role of argumentation in drama, especially in plays of doubles, with special reference to Amphitruo and the Miles Gloriosus, see also García-Hernández 2003, 99–100. 25 Gunderson 2015, 213–214 notes the superior knowledge of the gods, which secures that their plans will be successful. The presentation of their intrigue as a comedy mirrors their position: “the world is a stage, and humans are mere players, with whom one plays as one sees fit” (p. 214). Similarly, Christenson 2000, 15 discusses the “imbalance of knowledge and power between the

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III Experiencing wonders: a study of the comic characters’ reactions As mentioned above, the Amphitruo is undoubtedly unique,26 since bewilderment cases result from the divine manipulation of human characters. In the prologue, we are informed that the extraordinary events which take place form part of a plan set up by Jupiter himself:27 that particular night is longer because the god is, at this instance, sleeping with Alcumena (lines 112–114). Correspondingly, the spectators are going to witness duplications of characters and will only be able to distinguish humans from divine characters through the ornaments on their hats – signa (lines 142–147).28 Mercury notes – or perhaps even ‘directs’ – the audience’s reactions on this matter (89 quid? ammirati estis? – “What? You are surprised?”), implying the spectators’ surprise upon discovering Jupiter’s unusual stage role.29 Indeed, the play manifests itself as a story in which the dramatic characters’ lives are full of miraculous experiences that will spark their astonishment.30 The definition of the wondrous is in fact strictly associated with its audience’s response. This is because for something to be defined as an extraordinary event, it has to be perceived as such.31 In this context, we have to

divine and human characters” as a significant theme of this play, which is particularly evident in the play’s monologues. 26 Its unique nature is stressed by Mercury in the prologue of the play, noting that this play is a tragicomoedia. See also Moore 1998, 108–110, on the novelty of the play’s theme and Plautus’ innovation of presenting Jupiter in a comic way. 27 Moore 1998, 110–111 argues that the emphasis on theatricality, especially in the prologue (lines 26–31) “saves Plautus from any charge of blasphemy” (p. 110). See also p. 116 on costume changing as a metaphor: as Mercury becomes a slave, in the same way Hercules’ story becomes a comedy. 28 These signs, while being indicators of Jupiter’s miraculous intervention, simultaneously put the spectators in a privileged position; see Moore 1998, 115. On the other hand, Christenson 2000, 163–164 ad 142–147 indicates that the use of the tokens does not have a vital function, since Plautus makes the distinction evident by verbal means. On the audience’s “superior knowledge”, see also Christenson 2000, 34. 29 Christenson 2000, 29 notes that it is particularly significant that Mercury accentuates the element of wonder already from the prologue (in lines 29, 86–89 and 116), in a play in which both the spectators and the characters experience surprise. Similarly, Feeney 1998, 28 notes that the play keeps its spectators in the state of wonder from the beginning to the end, due to the appearance of gods and doubles. On the other hand, Sharrock 2009, 35 notes that the spectators watch the play from the gods’ perspective. 30 Christenson 2000, 29 notes that words with “mir-root” are very frequent in this comedy, principally in humans’ speech. 31 See Hardie 2009, 6 on Aristotle’s connection of thauma with emotions, such as fear and pity, as well as its relationship with “knowledge, truth, verisimilitude”.



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distinguish between the ‘internal’ audience, i.  e. the characters that experience the astonishing events in the course of the play’s action, and the play’s ‘external’ audience, i.  e. Plautus’ contemporary spectators, whose possible reactions will be discussed at the end of this paper. In the Amphitruo, the first comic character who experiences the outcomes of Jupiter’s miraculous intervention is Sosia, Amphitruo’s slave, when he ponders upon the strangely long night (279–283).32 Later, after seeing his copy, i.  e. Mercury, Sosia doubts his own being, ending up in complete confusion (455–456). While Sosia is presented as an easy victim of the gods’ intrigue, Amphitruo doubts Sosia’s statements already from his first appearance in the play.33 It has been rightly noted that Amphitruo is presented as a character “resistant to the gods’ wizardry” and a “blocking character” to Jupiter’s intrigue,34 in contrast to Sosia, who “is the one most apt to acknowledge supernatural influence”.35 Amphitruo is not convinced by Sosia’s claims that there is one person simultaneously present in two places, and he calls this impossible (566–568): AMPH […] tun id dicere audes, quod nemo umquam homo antehac uidit nec potest fieri, tempore uno homo idem duobus locis ut simul sit? “AMPH […] Do you dare to tell me a thing which no one’s ever seen before and which is impossible, namely that one and the same man can be in two places simultaneously at the same time?”

On the contrary, Sosia not only accepts the possibility of duplication, but also considers it an astonishing event (594–596): SOS AMPH SOS

sum profecto et hic et illic. hoc quoiuis mirari licet. nec tibi istuc mirum <mirum> magis uidetur quam mihi.36 quo modo? nihilo, inquam, mirum magis tibi istuc quam mihi;

32 Christenson 2000, 198 ad 283 translates the phrase mira sunt as “it’s a wonder”, as equivalent to mirum est. 33 Christenson 2000, 30 notes that Amphitruo here “establishes himself as a rigorously logical figure”. 34 Christenson 2000, 30. 35 Christenson 2000, 260 ad 701. Duckworth 1994, 269 interprets their diverse reactions as the playwright’s use of the “contrast” technique. 36 Interestingly, Christenson 2000, 246 ad 595 translates: “and this miracle appears no more miraculous to you than it does to me” (cf. the use of the term ‘miracle’ discussed in the introduction of this paper).

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“SOS I really am both here and there. Anyone may be surprised at this. And that surprise doesn’t seem any more surprising to you than to me. AMPH How’s that? SOS I’m telling you, this is no more surprising to you than to me.”

Sosia’s speech continues until line 602, explaining how he was eventually convinced for the existence of an “other” Sosia. According to Amphitruo’s understanding, Sosia is insane, a victim of magic, stating ‘strange’ and therefore impossible and nonsense things.37 Later on, when the object that verifies Alcumena’s claims is discovered (781), although Sosia gives immediate explanations accepting anew the possibility of a person’s duplication and identifying this as a wondrous event (cf. the double use of mirum in Sosia’s reference to the possibility of his and Amphitruo’s duplication in 828–82938), Amphitruo stresses the need for an investigation (791, 847), even when he becomes confused about his own identity (844). Towards the end of the play, when Amphitruo and Jupiter finally meet each other, the statement by Blepharo, the arbitrator called to decide who the true Amphitruo is, that he has never experienced such “strange” things before – mira (1036) – serves as an indicator of the revelation of the final miraculous events in the play. When Alcumena gives birth, Amphitruo’s logic is defeated, and, eventually, he ends up being in a total confusion (1077 totus timeo, ita med increpuit Iuppiter – “I’m all in fear, the way Jupiter struck me”). Bromia,39 the witness of the miraculous birth, is in a similar situation (1079–1080): BRO eadem nos formido timidas terrore impulit in aedibus tu ubi habitas. nimia mira uidi. “BRO The same fear struck us timid women with fright in the house where you live. I have seen very strange things.”

37 Amph. 604 quas, malum, nugas? satin tu sanus est? – “Damn it, what sort of rubbish is this? Are you in your right mind?” / 605–606 huic homini nescioquid est mali mala obiectum manu, / postquam a me abiit – “This man’s suffered some evil through the evil hand after he left me” / 616 nimia memoras mira – “You are telling strange things indeed” / 626 ita nugas blatis – “You’re waffling such nonsense.” 38 On the repetition of mirum, see also Christenson 2000, 272 ad 828–829. 39 Christenson 2000, 309 ad 1077 points to the significance of Bromia’s name, the character who will narrate the extraordinary events: it refers to a Maenad, and it is associated with thunder (βρόμος) – “The use of a Maenad to describe these supernatural events is especially appropriate, given the Dionysiac cult’s traditional association with miracles (e.  g. E. Bacch. 704–11)”. On Bromia’s name meaning Bacchant, see also Slater 2001, 197.



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Jupiter’s miraculous intervention in Amphitruo’s family life stimulates fear. Hercules’ birth, vividly described by Bromia (in V.i), is acknowledged by both Amphitruo (1105 nimia mira memoras – “You’re telling an absolutely astonishing tale”) and Bromia (1107 magis iam faxo mira dices – “I’ll make you call it stranger still”) as a wonder. Bromia’s narration of the destruction of the snakes by baby Hercules (1115–1116) generates further fear to Amphitruo40 (1117–1118):41 AMPH mira memoras, nimis formidolosum facinus praedicas; nam mihi horror membra misero percipit dictis tuis. “AMPH You’re telling me astonishing things, you’re speaking of an absolutely horrifying event: fright seizes my limbs at your very words, poor me.”

His fear is culminated by the experience of Jupiter’s thunder (1130 quam ualide tonuit. di, opsecro uostram fidem  – “How strong that thunder was. O gods, I implore your mercy”). The tragic tone of Bromia’s narration on Hercules’ miraculous birth (especially lines 1053–1071) and Amphitruo’s reactions have been interpreted as a generic game by the comic playwright.42 Yet, the miraculous in the Amphitruo is further associated with characterization, since Sosia’s and Amphitruo’s reactions are significant in revealing aspects of their personalities, as well as with the denouement of the play.43 The revelation of Jupiter’s miraculous intervention convinces all characters – including the most skeptical one, Amphitruo, eventually igniting fear. As we shall see below, both a) the wonders’ central position in the development of characterization, as well as b) the comic characters’ reactions to the experience of wonders, follow a similar pattern in the other two comedies under examination, the Mostellaria and the Miles Gloriosus. Whereas in the Amphitruo we deal with supposedly real astonishing incidents, in the Mostellaria we have a constructed story that evokes wonder. Nevertheless, both incidents are based on the typical doctrines which govern the iden40 Interestingly, this reaction of Amphitruo seems to survive as a prominent scene of the myth. For instance, Christenson 2000, 313 ad 1109 notes that “the fear and shock of Amphitryon” is evident in a wall picture found at the House of Vettii, in which Amphitruo is presented as witnessing Hercules grasping the snakes. 41 Christenson 2000, 313 ad 1117 notes that the repetition of m in lines 1117–1118 amplifies “the sense of absolute wonder”. 42 On instances in which the play’s tragic tone is overthrown by comic elements, see Moore 1998, 118–124. 43 Christenson 2000, 30–31 succinctly refers to the end as a “fitting closure to a drama permeated by magic and miracles, which constantly challenges normative assumptions about appearance and reality”.

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tification of such events, namely, the emotional reactions they arouse and their final acknowledgement through autopsy.44 According to the slave Tranio’s report to his master Theopropides, their house has been possessed by the ghost of an old, murdered guest. The ghost of the haunting dead man has supposedly appeared in Theopropides’ son’s dream (490 ait uenisse illum in somnis ad se mortuom – “He said that the dead man had come to him in his sleep”) and Theopropides’ demand for confirmation (493 in somnis? – “In his sleep?”) provides Tranio with the opportunity to stress that this is a common occurrence in such instances, and the slave even accuses his master for asking a stupid question (493–495). Tranio’s argumentation is, seemingly, based on ‘logical’ facts, aiming at attacking Theopropides’ possible objections. The narration of the ghost’s supposed words (496– 504) concludes by explicitly noting that terrifying and supernatural events are taking place (505 quae hic monstra fiunt – “what apparitions take place here”),45 through the use of a term strictly associated with the origin of the play’s title.46 As in the Amphitruo, the experience of the supernatural event causes fear (in 508– 509, when the door makes noise, Theopropides expresses his terror). Tranio even exploits the noises coming out from the house to pretend that he is in contact with the ghost.47As a result Theopropides is immediately convinced of his slave’s claims and leaves the house, while invoking Hercules (528).48 The success of Tranio’s scheme is largely based upon his exploitation of beliefs commonly found in ghost stories,49 since he creates an atmosphere which is closely associated with relevant practices: Tranio argues that Theopropides’ 44 On the emphasis on witnessing and observation by reporters of astonishing events, see Scheppens/Delcroix 1996, 382–383. For a philosophical perspective, see Matravers 2013: wonder is defined by the reactions / thoughts it causes; however, its experience is firmly linked to the recipients’ understanding and beliefs. 45 See OLD 2012 s.  v. monstrum 1: “An unnatural thing or event regarded as an omen, a portent, prodigy, sign”. 46 Mantzilas 2014, 463 points to the central position of this term, firmly associated with the title of the play. 47 On Tranio’s ability to improvise and exploit the noises, see also Katsouris 1978, 66. 48 Katsouris 1978, 66 points to the importance of the dream in regard to the construction of the plot, as it constitutes the central intrigue of the play, and the characterisation of the slave and the old man. Tranio’s story of a murdered host includes a number of tragic elements, thus possibly revealing its prototype; see Felton 1999, 52–54 (on parallels with Euripides’ Hecuba and Plautus’ use of Pacuvius’ Iliona). 49 On Tranio’s traditional background and the similarities of his story with other sources, see Ogden 2002, 157, who points out that “Tranio’s tale gives a useful insight into the sort of sequence of events that might be imagined to have produced a haunting ghost”. Felton 1999, 50 stresses that Tranio’s tale is the first extant story of a haunted house and adds that the audience must have been familiar with similar stories in order for Plautus’ plot to be successful.



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act of touching the house demands purification (465), and he orders Theopropides’ slaves to touch the earth (468–469).50 Yet, although Theopropides is portrayed by Tranio as a naïve character, Tranio’s ghost story, as Felton convincingly demonstrates, is in fact full of inconsistencies, due to the fact that it makes use of sequences that would not normally appear in traditional tales of that kind. For instance, ghosts that haunt a house do not normally appear in dreams; hence, it is strange that Diapontius, the murdered guest, appears both in person and during sleep.51 Even though the slave seems great in improvising, and this is probably one of the reasons for such inconsistencies,52 Tranio’s success largely results from Theopropides’ own stupidity. As a result, the end of the comedy celebrates the naivety of the duped character rather than the success of the clever slave.53 Furthermore, although Theopropides believes the story about the ghost, and Tranio earns some time, nevertheless, the amazing incident does not serve its final purpose, since truth is eventually revealed. This is significant in terms of our interpretation of the way Plautus treats this particular wondrous story: Theopropides’ reactions, lacking reasoning and investigation, accentuate the failure of uncritical belief. A constructed story of wonder is also noted in the plot of the Miles Gloriosus. Palaestrio, in order to convince his fellow-slave Sceledrus that the girl he saw is in fact Philocomasium’s twin sister, uses a fictional dream that supposedly foresaw the arrival of that girl to Ephesus. The architectus doli seems confident that his victim would accept it as a supernatural message and finally believe Philocomasium’s claims.54 The prophetic power of dreams is in fact acknowledged also in other instances in the Plautine corpus. In the Mercator, Demipho narrates his prophetic dream, which he identifies with the gods’ ‘wondrous’ manners (225–226): DEM miris modis di ludos faciunt hominibus mirisque exemplis somnia in somnis danunt. “DEM The gods make fools of men in wondrous ways and give them dreams in their sleep in strange ways.”

50 On “touching” being a vital part of a traditional ghost story, see Ogden 2002, 157. 51 Felton 1999, 55–61. 52 Felton 1999, 60. 53 Felton 1999, 58 argues that in “using such a distorted story, then, Plautus intended to create humorous suspense for the audience” as well as that “[t]he success of Tranio’s story, in fact, depends not so much on his own cleverness as on Theopropides’ gullibility and superstitious nature” (p. 61). 54 Maurice 2007, 424–425 stresses that the contrast between reality and illusion is central in the play: Sceledrus is eventually convinced to reject his experience and be persuaded by an illusion.

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Shortly after, he stresses the effect of wonder / astonishment caused by the content of the dream (240 mi illud uideri mirum – “it seemed strange to me”). In the Rudens, Daemones refers to his dream in exactly the same manner (593–594; he continues in 597, where he again identifies his dream as mirum).55 It has been noted that in these two cases Plautus makes use of a motif commonly found in tragedies, and also that these two dreams, in fact, mirror subsequent events.56 Yet, while Plautus stresses the marvelous character of the two cases (cf. the use of mirum, in connection with gods), his use of dreams in Rudens and Mercator is merely a reference to a well-known literary mechanism which, apart from being a reflection of the outcome of the action, does not hold an important place in the development of the plot.57 On the contrary, as in the Mostellaria (cf. Tranio’s reference to the dream that Theopropides’ son supposedly had), similarly, in the Miles Gloriosus, the prophetic dream is intended to play a central role in the construction of the protagonists’ intrigue. Palaestrio thus stresses its validity (393–394):58 PAL satin eadem uigilanti expetunt quae in somnis uisa memoras? eu hercle praesens somnium! abi intro et comprecare. “PAL Are really the same things occurring now that you’re awake which you say seemed to do so in your sleep? Goodness, there is your dream come true! Go in and pray.”

In this context, the narration of the fake dream confuses further Sceledrus, who now seems to doubt his experiences (402–403 and 407): SCE nescio quid credam egomet mihi iam, ita quod uidisse credo me id iam non uidisse arbitror.

55 Interestingly, Daemones, although not being able to interpret the dream from the beginning, recalls it at several points throughout the play: in 611–612, while not being able to understand it, he accepts that it is prophetic / symbolic, and in 771–773 he says that he now understands that Labrax stands for the ape he saw in his dream. What is more, the divine dream is appropriately presented within a religious context: in 1194 Daemones is thanking the gods, claiming that they always favour the pii and he is himself characterized as pius by Gripus in 1234. 56 On the resemblance of the dreams with those in tragedy, see Katsouris 1978, 67; on how Daemones’ dream corresponds to the action, see p. 68. 57 Katsouris 1978, 69 notes that in the case of Mercator, if the dream is omitted, the plot remains the same. 58 Guastella 2003, 55–56 notes the importance of the dream in terms of the play’s structure. He interprets the use of the dream as a reflection of the reality constructed by Palaestrio. Plautus uses a symbolic dream in order to create the correspondence of dream and reality (with dreams in this case being divine messengers that foresee future events). On how the dream corresponds to points of the plot, see also Katsouris 1978, 64–65.



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“SCE I don’t know what I should believe any longer: I don’t any longer think I’ve seen what I believe I’ve seen.” SCE nil habeo certi quid loquar: non uidi eam, etsi uidi. “SCE I don’t have anything definite to say: I didn’t see her, even if I did.”

However, in contrast to Theopropides, the sole narration of the dream is not enough to convince him. His total deception is only achieved with his own experience. When Philocomasium enters in 411, pretending to be her fictional twin sister, Sceledrus’ first thought  – although having heard about Philocomasium’s supposed dream – is that this girl is Philocomasium herself (416–7). However, despite Sceledrus’ resistance, the trickster Palaestrio manipulates his victim dexterously: he agrees with him,59 while, simultaneously, he evokes doubts (417–419):60 PAL                                                                                                                                                                                       hercle opinor, ea uidetur. sed facinus mirum est quo modo haec hinc huc transire potuit, si quidem ea est. SCE                          an dubium tibi est eam esse hanc? PAL                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       ea uidetur. “PAL I think she is, she seems to be her. But it’s strange how she could have got across from here to here, if indeed it’s her. SCE You’re not in doubt that it’s her, are you? PAL It seems to be her.”

Through his fictional surprise, Palaestrio creates an astonishing event, essentially becoming a creator of wonders: he stresses his role as a witness to convince his victim, likewise to Tranio in the Mostellaria. Both tricksters are in fact pretending61 and, simultaneously, taking pains to prove that their victims’ objections are illogical; what is more, they follow a principle which suggests that, in order for an incident to be acknowledged as an extraordinary event, it has to be first identified and witnessed.62 59 Duckworth 1994, 171 praises Palaestrio’s method which eventually convinces Sceledrus that he is not the only one mistaken; he includes this case in those instances in which “the slaves employ a clever admixture of truth and falsehood.” 60 On Palaestrio stressing their uncertainty, as a means to enhance Sceledrus’ conviction, see also Guastella 2003, 52 (but with no mention to Palaestrio’s reference to mirum). 61 Mantzilas 2014, 474, on Mostellaria 519, points to Tranio’s fictitious tone of surprise, aiming to convince Theopropides that something unusual is occurring. 62 See Scheppens/Delcroix 1996, 382–383 on the paradoxographers’ emphasis that a wonder did indeed exist and it was witnessed.

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As in the case of Amphitruo and Tranio, the experience of an extraordinary event ignites fear to Sceledrus (cf. Sceledrus’ reactions when he realizes that Philocomasium cannot recognize him: 428 metuo maxume  – “I’m terribly afraid”). However, Sceledrus still needs his own visual experience to be ultimately convinced: he is finally deceived only when he sees the ‘twins’ in both houses (in II.vi), since Philocomasium manages to move from one house to the other through a secret passage that connects the two places. Although Palaestrio and Periplectomenus frequently stress Sceledrus’ stupidity, Sceledrus is, nevertheless, deceived solely because he is convinced by what he saw. Despite the fact that the schemers have created an illusionary image, which is presented before Sceledrus’ eyes and, as such, has replaced his previous visual experience, Sceledrus’ insistence on finding evidence accentuates the importance of reasoning and personal experience. Although the dream functions as a mechanism that enforces Sceledrus’ deception, nevertheless, the victim’s insistence on his visual experience stresses the power of autopsy. In other words, although the presentation of the prophetic dream is firmly connected with the play’s structural motifs,63 its real contribution towards the success of the intrigue is of minimal importance. In fact, autopsy and evidence are equally important for Sosia in the Amphitruo: in I.i, when he encounters his double, i.  e. the transformed Mercury, the slave asks from the god to prove that he is Sosia indeed, by revealing some of Sosia’s personal experiences. Evidently, both comic slaves pursue a further investigation: Sosia is asking for identity evidence when he encounters his double, and, analogously, Sceledrus is finally convinced only when he witnesses Philocomasium’s ‘sister’ next door.

IV Plautine wonders: a synopsis The analysis of the above instances demonstrates that, through the exploitation of the characters’ reactions when confronted with the marvelous, Plautus eventually favours the victory of evidence and logical argumentation over superficial impression and uncritical faithfulness. The Amphitruo is the most representative example: in a play governed by the gods’ presence, divine power and miraculous intervention are only acknowledged in combination with personal experience, mostly visual perception. In a comedy with gods, Plautus, while being careful in manipulating the divine and stressing the dominance of its power, highlights the

63 See the synopsis by Papaioannou 2009, 437.



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prevalence of experience: the understanding and acceptance of the miraculous is only achieved with investigation and autopsy, and, at the end, not only through an indirect report but also through Jupiter’s personal intervention. The emphasis on autopsy is further bolstered by the frequent references to the power of sight, which is eventually identified with firm knowledge, in contrast to dubious experience, as depicted in references to ‘dreaming’ and ‘sleeping’. For instance, in the Amphitruo, according to Amphitruo’s understanding, the “strange” things that Sosia narrates should have been part of a dream, not reality (620–621);64 however, Sosia insists that he was awake when he saw the “other” Sosia (622–624) by emphatically using the present participle uigilans – “awake” – five times and the indicative of uideo two.65 The same notion is noted in Amphitruo’s dialogue with Alcumena (696–698, with references to somnio and uigilo).66 What is more, Blepharo bears a name clearly associated with sight,67 emphasizing further the importance of visual evidence for the identification of a miraculous event. Similarly, Theopropides’ name in the Mostellaria is also significant: the old man is to become a witness of an ‘astonishing’ (yet fake) event.68 The contrast between ‘dreaming / sleeping’ on the one hand and ‘seeing  / being awake’ on the other, as a metaphor of ‘not knowing’ and ‘knowing’ respectively, is also central in the Miles Gloriosus; the power of sight is particularly stressed in this comedy because Palaestrio’s goal is to ‘replace’ his victim’s visual experience.69 Faithful to the motif, Sceledrus, when he ultimately becomes con-

64 On this passage, see also Slater 2001, 193–194. Hunter 1987, 295 acutely observes that Hermes’ divine characteristics are related to the play’s frequent references to dreams, sleep etc. 65 Christenson 2000, 248 ad 623–624 notes that “Sosia makes his point most emphatically through the repetition of the participle of uigilo (five times) and the additional alliteration with uidi… uideo.” 66 Christenson 2000, 260 ad 697 interestingly observes that Sosia’s use of edormiscat (from edormire / edormiscere, i.  e. “sleeping off a hangover”), connects two main motifs of the play, sleeping and drinking, and essentially implies that “Alcumena is a bacchante”. On sleep, drunkenness and insanity indicating a distortion of reality and awakeness, sobriety and sanity indicating a true state, see also Forehand 1971, 644–646, who considers this contrast as contributing to the ironic tone of the play. 67 Christenson 2000, 301 ad 1035–1036 traces an ironic tone in the name of the character, who “named after the Greek word for ‘eye’ (βλέφαρον) is seeing double”. 68 Interestingly, it seems that the origin of his victim’s name, Theopropides’, is related with the old man’s role as a ‘spectator’; for various interpretations about this name, see Mantzilas 2014, 98–99. 69 Cf. Palaestrio’s plans in 147–149; his aim is (149) ut quod uiderit non uiderit – “that he didn’t see what he did see”, repeated in 199, id uisum ut ne uisum siet – “so that what’s been seen won’t have been seen”; also, Periplectomenus’ orders to Palaestrio in 215, uigila, ne somno stude – “stay awake, stop going to sleep”, and in 218, uigila inquam, expergiscere inquam, lucet hoc inquam –

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fused, refers to his inability to see clearly (405 nunc demum experior mi ob oculos caliginem opstitisse – “Now at last I realize that a mist had come over my eyes”). As in the Amphitruo and the Miles Gloriosus, similarly in the Mostellaria, the experience of an extraordinary situation is ascribed to the world of illusion, ostracized from the world of reality.70 While such identifications, in certain cases, reflect the reaction to the wondrous (e.  g. Amphitruo’s identification of the miraculous with dreaming bears negative connotations), the link with the motif of sight, though not being directly treated as an evaluative tool of the marvelous by the playwright, certainly reveals a strong commitment to evidence, against speculation and doubt. As seen above, in all three comedies, the power of evidence prevails: Sosia is convinced by Mercury’s undoubtable evidence; Amphitruo’s belief is ‘secured’ only by the experience of the miraculous events; Sceledrus is eventually deceived by what he sees; Tranio’s plan, based upon an erroneous story, was a failure, but, at the same time, the naïve blocking character, not particularly eager to search for further evidence, is easily deceived. Following this systematization, the question that arises then is to what extent Plautus reveals a certain stance towards the acceptance of and belief in wonders. For instance, his manifold treatment of the dream-motif can be seen as a reflection of various contemporary stances towards the significance and truthfulness of dreams. Appreciation or rejection of dreams is indeed attested in literary sources of this period.71 As we have seen above, our playwright presents dreams as divine messengers that cause astonishment (in Rudens and Mercator), while at the same time he implies that a not so clever – and possibly superstitious – person would be affected by them (see the use of the dream for Sceledrus’ deception).72 On a linguistic level, Plautus’ use of a verb which denotes the act of dreaming, somniare, in the sense of “daydream” or “to have delusions”73 reveals a certain degree

“Wake up, I tell you, get up, I tell you, it’s getting light, I tell you!”, and his reminding of their goal: 227 quae hic sunt uisa ut uisa ne sint  – “so that what has been seen here has not been seen”. 70 Cf. Simo’s references to Theopropides’ impressions in 757 and 1013 (quid ergo somniauit? – “What’s he dreamed about then?”, and quid somnias? – “What are you dreaming about?”) as well as the efforts of Delphium and Philolaches to warn Callidamates about the upcoming danger in 373–374 and 383, through the uses of the imperative of uigilo. 71 See Harris 2003, 25–26 on Ennius’ use of dreams and a statement in one of his plays that not all dreams are true, Accius’ similarly variable stances towards dreams, as well as Lucilius’ skepticism towards the truthfulness of dreams and their appeal to superstitious persons. 72 Cf. Theophrastus’ reference to the belief in dreams in the portrayal of a superstitious character (Char. 16.11). 73 OLD (2012) s.  v. somnio 3.



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of suspicion towards the credibility of dreams.74 Plautus’ exploitation of divine dreams is also traced in Curculio. In his first appearance in the play (in II.i), the pimp Cappadox exits Aesculapius’ temple, where he was lying, waiting for god’s miraculous cure and complaining that the god does not care about him (216–222). Cappadox asks Palinurus, the servus of the play and one of his enemies, to interpret the dream (245–247) in which the god was standing away from him (260–263). Whereas the slave Palinurus boasts of his ability to interpret divine dreams (248– 250), he is in fact lying and, eventually, Cappadox’s dream is interpreted by the cook, who is introduced by Palinurus as being superior in dream interpretations.75 The cook gives an obvious and simplistic interpretation (265–267): it seems that the god does not intend to help the pimp, hence, he should seek Aesculapius’ forgiveness (270–272). What we get is in fact a humorous treatment of the practice of incubation. As has been convincingly argued, this episode does not just constitute evidence for the popularity of Aesculapius’ cult in Plautus’ time: both the characters involved and the interpretation of the dream manifest the scene as a parody, perhaps reflecting some spectators’ opinions about this religious practice, which, possibly, was considered as unsuitable for traditional Romans.76 Plautus exploits a religious practice, however, with caution: the god rejects the impious character par excellence, whose final destruction is foreshadowed by the god’s treatment.77 From this perspective, Plautus’ treatment of miraculous events proves manifold, since, as in the other instances examined above, it relates to characterisation (i.  e. the process through which the playwright constructs his characters) as well as, inevitably, to the stereotypes of the comic genre, e.  g. the stock characters’ roles in the plays. Nevertheless, Plautine theatre, despite its conventional characteristics, cannot be extracted from its social context, which will be examined in the final section of this paper.

74 On Plautus’ linguistic references as indicators of criticism towards dreams, see Harris 2003, 21–22. 75 Welsh 2005, 307–308 notes that “Cappadox’s complaint then looks forward to the anticipated resolution of the plot” and examines the humour that derives from Palinurus’ advice to the pimp. The incident is also discussed by Katsouris 1978, 66–67, who draws a parallel with Menander’s Dyskolos, where the dream is also interpreted by a cook. 76 Jeppesen 2013, 72–75. 77 Similarly, the goddess Venus seems to be rejecting the pimp in the Poenulus; see Lycus’ monologue in lines 449–470: the pimp is complaining about not getting a positive omen from Venus and decides to punish her by annulling the sacrifice, sending a warning to all gods.

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V Epilogue: Plautine wonders in context Following the reading of Plautine wonders as mechanisms for dramatic characterisation and plot construction, we shall now attempt to examine them from the perspective of Plautus’ audience. Firstly, it is essential to note that the spectators’ knowledge is superior to that of the dramatic characters.78 The failures of the dupes can certainly serve as a cause of laughter,79 while the audience’s awareness can simultaneously function as a means of rationalising wonders: behind every astonishing event an explanation can be found (especially in the cases of fake wonders). In this context, the spectators cannot share the characters’ feelings of wonder; they rather approach both the presentation of the events and the characters’ actions from a critical perspective. Nevertheless, the audience’s prior knowledge and emotional detachment does not necessarily presuppose a lack of sympathy for some characters. For instance, Sosia’s and Amphitruo’s diverse reactions can be treated as two different possible approaches to the wondrous, presumably reflecting various stances by Plautus’ contemporary audience, on events that do not have logical explanations. It is nowadays well-known that Plautus’ exploitation of social and religious matters is manifold, mirroring the variety of attitudes expressed by members of his contemporary audience.80 Plautus’ time is defined by a strong debate on religious and social aspects, with Romans encountering various oriental customs and beliefs and the upper class often trying to fight and eliminate this outer influence (cf. the senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus in 186 BC echoed in the Plau-

78 See Manuwald 1999, 196, on the audience of Jupiter’s actions in the Amphitruo. On comic irony in the Amphitruo and the spectators’ knowledge, see also Forehand 1971, esp. 634–635. 79 We might recall here the so called “superiority theory” of laughter; for an overview, see Morreall 2009, 4–9. On its application in Roman comedy, see Duckworth 1994, 314–317. 80 See the excellent study by Gruen 2014. In this context, Plautus’ echoes of philosophical moralism are frequently found (e.  g. Pansiéri 1997, 285–288; on Plautus’ references to moral issues, see also Duckworth 1994, 300–304). Duckworth 1994, 295–300, in his overview of references to gods in Plautus, rejects the opinion that Plautus ridicules gods and religion (p. 298, with reference to the Amphitruo) and remarkably notes that the playwright “brings to his spectators a preoccupation with religious matters which could not fail to appeal to the audiences of his day” (p. 296). Indeed, Plautus (and his audience) seems aware of more complicated philosophical discussions. See for instance Dutsch 2014, 11 on Plautus’ references to philosophers and hence the plausibility that the playwright’s audience would be familiar with such figures. Papaioannou 2012, 185, in a reading of the Menaechmi, points to Plautus’ echoes of specialised mathematical knowledge. On the diversity of Plautus’ audience, see also Manuwald 2011, 98–103 and Gunderson 2015, 74.



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tine oeuvre).81 Yet, the subversive character of Plautus’ comedy is by no means synonymous with the rejection of traditional ideas. For instance, parody seems to serve as the connecting point between Plautus’ performances and their religious festivals’ framework.82 In the festive atmosphere of the ludi scaenici, Plautus’ exploitation of traditional norms and ideas does not necessarily indicate a rejection; the playwright rather offers points for further consideration.83 Similarly, our playwright’s careful treatment of mira, although not rejecting the subversive character of his comedy, seems to find a sophisticated balance between humour and traditional beliefs. As seen above (section II), Plautus’ treatment of the divine in the Amphitruo sparked a long discussion on the extent to which the playwright praises or parodies divine power. The juxtaposition of the play with the presentation of wonders in other comedies suggests that the miraculous is discussed by Plautus not so much in regard to the divine power per se but mostly on the way a wonder is approached by its witnesses. Thus, given the comic context of Plautus’ work, the question does not seem to be whether the playwright adheres to or rejects religious beliefs, but rather how he evaluates the various approaches towards the divine and, in this case, particularly the miraculous. As shown above, reactions to wonders are related to dramatic plotting and characterisation (e.  g. in the case of incubation in the Curculio). In this context, when the comic – or even parodistic  – treatment of a religious practice (e.  g. of a prophetic dream) is associated with a not so clever character, the emphasis is not so much on the practice itself but on the respective reactions. In other words, the emphasis on autopsy and 81 Christenson 2000, 3 notes that Alcumena’s presentation as a Bacchante by Sosia, in line 703, probably points to the date of the Amphitruo being close to the consultum. See also Jeppesen 2013, 42–43, on Plautus’ time facing changes in Roman religion with the emergence of new cults. On ‘Bacchic’ references in Plautus’ work and various evaluations of the playwright’s stance on this contemporary debate, see Pansiéri 1997, 578–594. 82 Jeppesen 2013, passim. For a summary of his argument, see p. 17. See esp. 18–24 on the connection of Plautus’ religious references with their comic context and 47–50 on parody being at the core of both the comedies and the rituals in which the plays where performed. On the connection of Roman comedy with Roman religious festivals, see also Dunsch 2014, 634–638; Manuwald 2011, 54–55; Sharrock 2009, 56–63. 83 See Jeppesen 2013, 57. Similarly, Dunsch 2014, 641, indicates that comic assimilations to gods are not to be taken as criticism but as references to well-known mythological and religious matters. On the other hand, Slater 2011, 299 gives examples of Plautine characters criticising those believing in gods. However, see also Gruen 2014, 607, who points to the complexity of Plautus’ treatment of the representation of gods, as for instance when taking into account the contrast of Miles Gloriosus 725–735 (a wish for gods’ benevolent intervention) and Miles Gloriosus 736–737 (the acceptance of the superiority of divine wishes), which reveals a manifold understanding of religious matters.

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evidence, traced in the above analysis, suggests that Plautus does not criticize the validity of wonders but rather the automatous acceptance of a story of wonders. In fact, a close reading of the plays shows that there is often a twofold interpretation of the characters’ reactions and that behind Plautus’ subversive tendency there is a more sophisticated approach. What is more, a closer look suggests that Plautus’ presentation of wonder stories might correspond with various contemporary discussions. For instance, as Caston has recently demonstrated,84 Sosia’s wavering over the possibility of his duplication seems to find parallels in philosophical debates (e.  g. between the Stoics and the Academics):85 “Sosia, like the philosophical sage, wants to be sure not to be mistaken and tries to avoid being precipitous”.86 The slave’s acceptance of duplication has been even read as a parallel to the possibility of bilocation, as expressed in the Pythagorean tradition.87 Sosia’s characterisation is thus constructed upon two levels: at first sight, he is presented as a naïve, easily deceived character, as Amphitruo’s constant accusations suggest; yet, a closer look at his reactions reveals a character eager to examine all possibilities. In this context, the plausibility of such philosophical echoes, traced in the characters’ reactions, manifests Plautus’ wonder intrigues not just as plot mechanisms but also as reflections of ongoing ideological discussions. Caston acutely sets the context for philosophical echoes in Roman comedy to be examined:88 while explicit influences cannot be identified, nevertheless, parallels between comedy and philosophy indicate that comic and philosophical works of this period share similar interests. In this context, she further traces parallels to Epicurean philosophy in the contest between Sosia and Mercury over their identity, in the Amphitruo.89 Although any sort of relationship between Plautus and Epicureanism is not definite, nor we can determine the exact time that Stoic and Epicurean teaching become popular in Rome,90 it seems that Plautus’ time was very close to the Romans’ initial contact with Hellenistic philosophical schools. In fact, Palaestrio’s deception of Sceledrus has been also read

84 Caston 2014, 45–53. 85 Caston 2014, 47–49. 86 Caston 2014, 49, with references to philosophical treatises. On Sosia’s investigation (esp. 403–409 and 441–445) assimilated to a philosophical questioning, see also Bettini 2011, 177–180. 87 Caston 2014, 53. On Pythagorean echoes elsewhere in Plautus, see Dutsch 2014, 14. 88 Caston 2014, 60. 89 Caston 2014, 49–51. 90 Gratwick 1982, 130–131, in the context of the discussion of Alcumena’s virtus, suggests that both schools seem to be known in Rome “from at least the 180’s” (p. 131), with tragedy playing an important role in spreading philosophical ideas among Roman populace.



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in light of the Epicurean idea that faithful visual perceptions do not always correspond to accurate mind perceptions; Palaestrio’s aim is to convince Sceledrus that what he saw was an optical illusion.91 Despite that Epicurean philosophy seems to consider sense perceptions as central in our gaining of knowledge, at the same time, the reliability of the experience, which derives from our senses and, consequently, of the knowledge acquired through them, is placed into doubt.92 Epicureanism in fact defends the validity of a perception, which is however significant only if it corresponds with reality; in other words, a valid perception does not always result in a valid belief.93 The emphasis on the senses, in this case on visual experience, seems to prevail in Plautus; as we have seen above, the playwright justifies one’s experience only when it is cross-examined and based on the right grounds (e.  g. Sceledrus’ arguments are based on valid visual experiences). At the same time, Epicureanism rejects any sort of prophetic value in dreams, which it considers as mere reflections of our daily experience.94 Plautus’ emphasis on personal experience (cf. Sceledrus’ insistence on visual evidence) and the parodistic stance towards divine dreams (cf. the incubation scene in Curculio), places his treatment of wonder stories, if not directly into a manifestation of the Epicurean context, at least into one that confirms that such ongoing discussions interested Plautus’ Roman spectators. Even if Plautus’ comedies, with all their stereotyped literary characteristics, cannot be considered as straightforward social commentaries, our playwright would certainly address some of his audience’s interests.95 On the other hand, we should also bear in mind that Plautus’ works are products of the Hellenistic tradition and thought, which demonstrate a strong interest in tales of wonder and paradoxography, and whose influence should have been visible in Rome’s cultural life.96 In this context, Plautus’ comedies, while reflecting ideas of their

91 Lev Kenaan 2001, 162–163. 92 Striker 1996, 77–91. 93 See Vogt 2016, who discusses the Epicurean concept of the difference between perception and belief. 94 Holowchak 2001, 53–58, on the Lucretian account on dreams. 95 Manuwald 2011, 301, summarising the thesis that Roman drama discusses matters of interest for the Romans. Cf. Slater 2000b, where, with reference to the figure of soothsayer, he shows that Plautus’ comedy reflects a contemporary religious debate, pointing out that Plautus’ work, in spite of being set in a Greek context, “is by no means free from contemporary social and ideological struggles” (p. 345). 96 Hardie 2009, 15 notes that such stories “formed part of the Hellenistic culture of Rome”. Admiranda are noted to have been included even in Cato Maior’s work; see Scheppens/Delcroix 1996, 428.

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Greek originals, at the same time, correspond to his society’s interests and ideological debates. Given the limited sources about Roman life during the first decades of Latin literature production, Plautus’ testimony, as evident in his treatment of wonders, is invaluable in illuminating certain interests and features of the playwright’s audience and, consequently, of contemporary Roman populace in general. The above analysis hopefully confirms that Plautus’ treatment of wonders, while being consistent with his compositional and characterisation intentions, at the same time corresponds, at least to a certain extent, to ongoing religious and philosophical discussions. Simultaneously, in all cases examined above, the outcomes from the contact with the wondrous inevitably accentuate the character of the genre: the emphasis on human affairs, domesticity and reality. Thus, Plautus’ rationalization of the wondrous proves consistent with the conventions of the genre he serves. All in all, Plautus’ treatment of wonders places them within the comic context of New Comedy.97

Bibliography Bettini, M. (2011), The Ears of Hermes: Communication, Images, and Identity in the Classical World (transl. by W. M. Short), Columbus. Caston, R. R. (2014), “The Divided Self: Plautus and Terence on Identity and Impersonation”, in: I. N. Perysinakis/E. Karakasis (eds.), Plautine Trends: Studies in Plautine Comedy and its Reception, Trends in Classics 29, Berlin–Boston, 43–61. Christenson, D. (ed., comm.) (2000), Plautus: Amphitruo, Cambridge. De Melo, W. (ed., transl.) (2011–2013), Plautus (5 vols.), Cambridge, Mass. Duckworth, G. E. (1994), The Nature of Roman Comedy: A Study in Popular Entertainment (2nd ed.), Oklahoma. Dumont, J. C. (1998), “Amphitryon et le genre comique”, REL 76, 116–125. Dunsch, B. (2014), “Religion in Roman Comedy”, in: M. Fontaine/A. C. Scafuro (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford–New York, 634–652. Dupont, F. (2001), “The Theatrical Significance of Duplication in Plautus’ Amphitruo”, in: E. Segal (ed.), Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus, and Terence, Oxford, 176–188.

97 Although we have traces of supernatural events in other New Comedy plays, as for instance in plays of Menander, in which an extraordinary event proves a misunderstanding or belongs to a deception (e.  g. a hidden girl first thought to be an apparition in the Phasma or the girl of the title possibly pretending that she is possessed by divine spirit in Theophoroumene), the plays’ fragmentary state does not allow for any certain conclusions; thus, Plautus remains the most important New Comedy testimony of the use of a wondrous event within the context of a playwithin-the-play.



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Dutsch, D. (2014), “Paucis Philosophari: Philosophy and Archaic Roman Literature”, in: M. Garani/D. Konstan (eds.), The Philosophizing Muse. The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry, Newcastle upon Tyne, 1–24. Feeney, D. (1998), Literature and Religion at Rome: Cultures, Contexts, and Beliefs, New York. Felton, D. (1999), Haunted Greece and Rome: Ghost Stories from Classical Antiquity, Austin. Fontaine, M. (2014), “Between two Paradigms: Plautus”, in: M. Fontaine/A. C. Scafuro (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford–New York, 516–537. Forehand, W. E. (1971), “Irony in Plautus’ Amphitruo”, AJPh 92 (4), 633–651. Frangoulidis, S. (1994), “Palaestrio as Playwright: Plautus, Miles Gloriosus 209–212”, in: C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History VII, Collection Latomus 227, Brussels, 72–86. Frangoulidis, S. (1997), Handlung und Nebenhandlung: Theater, Metatheater und Gattungs­ bewußtsein in der römischen Komödie, Stuttgart. García-Hernández, B. (2003), “Paradoxes in the Argumentation of the Comic Double and Classemic Contradiction”, Argumentation 17 (1), 99–111. Gratwick, A. S. (1982), “Drama”, in: W. V. Clausen/E. J. Kenney (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature vol. II: Latin Literature, Cambridge, 77–137. Green, J. R. (2015), “Pictures of Pictures of Comedy. Campanian Santia, Athenian Amphitryon, and Plautine Amphitruo”, in: R. Green/M. Edwards (eds.), Images and Texts. Papers in Honour of Professor Eric Handley CBE FBA, BICS Suppl. 129, London, 45–80. Gruen, E. (2014), “Roman Comedy and the Social Scene”, in: M. Fontaine/A. C. Scafuro (eds.), The Oxford Handbook on Greek and Roman Comedy, Oxford–New York, 601–614. Guastella, G. (2003), “Non vidi eam… etsi vidi: sogni e menzogne nel Miles Gloriosus”, Dioniso 2, 45–60. Gunderson, E. (2015), Laughing Awry. Plautus and Tragicomedy, Oxford. Hanson, J. A. (1959), “Plautus as a Sourcebook for Roman Religion”, TAPhA 90, 48–101. Hardie, P. (2009), “Introduction: Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture”, in: P. Hardie (ed.), Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture, Oxford–New York, 1–18. Harris, W. V. (2003), “Roman Opinions about the Truthfulness of Dreams”, JRS 93, 18–34. Holowchak, M. (2001), Ancient Science and Dreams: Oneirology in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Lanham MD. Hunter, R. L. (1987), “Middle Comedy and the Amphitruo of Plautus”, Dioniso 57, 281–298. Jeppesen, S. A. (2013), Performing Religious Parody in Plautine Comedy, Diss. University of California Santa Barbara. Katsouris, A. (1978), “Notes on Dreams and Dream-like Visions”, Dodone 7, 43–86. Konstantakos, I. M. (2002), “Towards a Literary History of Comic Love”, Classica et Mediaevalia 53, 141–171. – (2014), “Από τον μύθο στο γέλιο: Θαυμαστά μοτίβα και κωμικές στρατηγικές στη μυθολογική κωμωδία”, in: M. Tamiolaki (ed.), Κωμικός στέφανος: Νέες τάσεις στην έρευνα της αρχαίας ελληνικής κωμωδίας, Rethymnon, 75–102. Lev Kenaan, V. (2001), “Truth and Appearance in Roman Comedy: Readings in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus”, in: E. Tylawsky/C. Weiss (eds.), Essays in Honor of Gordon Williams: Twenty-five Years at Yale, New Haven, 147–168. Mantzilas, D. (ed., trans., comm.) (2014), Τίτου Μάκκιου Πλαύτου, Το «στοιχειωμένο» σπίτι = Mostellaria, Ioannina.

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Manuwald, G. (1999), “Tragödienelemente in Plautus’ Amphitruo – Zeichen von Tragödien­ parodie oder Tragikomödie?”, in: T. Baier (ed.), Studien zu Plautus’ Amphitruo, Tübingen, 177–202. – (2011), Roman Republican Theatre, Cambridge–New York. Matravers, D. (2013), “Wonder and Cognition”, in: S. Vasalou (ed.), Practices of Wonder: Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives, Cambridge, 166–178. Maurice, L. (2007), “Structure and Stagecraft in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus”, Mnemosyne 60 (3), 407–426. Moore, T. (1998), The Theater of Plautus, Austin. Morreall, J. (2009), Comic Relief. A Comprehensive Philosophy of Humor, Malden MA. Ogden, D. (2002), Magic, Witchcraft, and Ghosts in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Oxford–New York. OLD (2012): P, Glare (ed.), Oxford Latin Dictionary (2nd ed.), vol. 1–2, Oxford. Owens, W. (2001), “Plautus’ Satire of Roman Ideals in Rudens, Amphitruo, and Mostellaria”, in: E. Tylawsky/C. Weiss (eds.), Essays in Honor of Gordon Williams: Twenty-five Years at Yale, New Haven, 213–227. Pansiéri, C. (1997), Plaute et Rome, ou les Ambiguités d’un Marginal, Collection Latomus 236, Brussels. Papaioannou, S. P. (2009), Πλαύτος: Ο Καυχησιάρης Στρατιώτης – Miles Gloriosus, Athens. – (2012), “Cylindrus and the Rational Circularity of Error in the Menaechmi”, Logeion 2, 167–185. Segal, E. (1987), Roman Laughter: The Comedy of Plautus (2nd ed.), New York. Scheppens, G./K. Delcroix (1996), “Ancient Paradoxography: Origin, Evolution, Production and Reception”, in: O. Pecere/A. Stramaglia (eds.), La letteratura di consumo nel mondo graco-latino. Atti del convento internationale (Cassino, 14–17 settembre 1994), Cassino, 375–460. Sharrock, A. (2009), Reading Roman Comedy. Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence, Cambridge. Slater, N. W. (2000a), Plautus in Performance. The Theater of the Mind (2nd ed.), Amsterdam. – (2000b), “The Market in Sooth: Supernatural Discourse in Plautus”, in: E. Lefèvre/E. Stärk /G. Vogt-Spira (eds.), Dramatische Wäldchen: Festschrift für Eckard Lefèvre zum 65. Geburtstag, Spudasmata 80, Hildesheim–New York, 345–361. – (2001), “Amphitruo, Bacchae, and Metatheatre”, in: E. Segal (ed.), Oxford Readings in Menander, Plautus, and Terence, Oxford–New York, 189–204. – (2011), “Plautus the Theologician”, in: A. Lardinois/J. Blok/M. G. M. van der Poel (eds.), Sacred Words: Orality, Literacy, and Religion, Leiden, 297–310. Striker, G. (1996), Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics, Cambridge. Vogt, K. M. (2016), “All Sense-Perceptions are True: Epicurean Responses to Skepticism and Relativism”, in: J. Lezra/L. Blake (eds.), Lucretius and Modernity, New York, 145–159. Welsh, J. T. (2005), “The Splenetic Leno: Plautus, Curculio 216–45”, CQ 55 (1), 306–309.

Margot Neger

Telling Tales of Wonder: Mirabilia in the Letters of Pliny the Younger1 Abstract: Several letters in the epistolary oeuvre of Pliny the Younger deal with various wondrous occurrences. We can distinguish between accounts of dreams and supernatural experiences on the one hand and descriptions of marvels of nature on the other hand – both types of mirabilia seem to have been deliberately arranged by Pliny in letter-cycles. The cycle on dreams and visions (Epist. 1.18; 3.5; 5.5; 7.27; 9.13), reaching from the first to the last book of the collection, links important phases of Pliny’s biography and is part of a larger political narrative which stages crucial moments of Pliny’s life under and after Domitian. In the cycle on marvels of nature (4.30; 6.16; 6.20; 8.8; 8.17; 8.20; 9.33) we can observe an alternation between the depiction of loci amoeni and narratives about the destructive power of nature. Most of the letters belonging to this cycle are set in the sphere of otium and can be read as implicit reflections on Pliny’s role as a writer. Through these texts he competes both with the elder Pliny and his contemporaries such as Tacitus and Caninius Rufus. Pliny’s skills in creating enargeia turn the absent addressees (and general readers) into beholders and witnesses by enabling them to gaze at the marvels of nature with their mind’s eye.

Introduction Pliny the Younger’s epistolary oeuvre, which covers a wide range of topics, also contains several letters on various wondrous occurrences. Most of these texts, such as the famous ghost-letter 7.27 or the dolphin-story in 9.33, have traditionally been read as self-contained units irrespective of their position and function within the collection as a whole.2 Recent scholarship, however, has demonstrated how carefully Pliny arranged his books and imitated the principles of

1 I am indebted to Roy Gibson for valuable advice and to the organizers and participants of the “Miracles and Wonders” conference at the University of Cyprus in 2014 for a stimulating discussion of the paper. I also thank the anonymous reviewer of this paper for many important suggestions. 2 On Epist. 7.27 cf. Römer 1987; Felton 1999; Buisel 2006; Fitzgerald 2007, 205–208; Lorenz 2011; Baraz 2012; on Epist. 9.33 cf. Niemann 2007; Citroni-Marchetti 2008; Stevens 2009; Hindermann 2011. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-011

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composition which are familiar from Hellenistic and Augustan poetry-books.3 Thus, every letter fulfils a certain function within the larger context of the collection and adds information to the picture Pliny wants to paint of himself and his social interactions. For what purpose, then, did Pliny include descriptions of miracles and wonders in his epistolary autobiography?4 In the Letters we can distinguish two kinds of phenomena which may be classified as mirabilia: To the one category belong Pliny’s accounts of dreams and supernatural experiences and to the second the descriptions of marvels of nature. Pliny uses the Latin term miraculum itself only in texts which deal with marvels of nature, such as the intermittent spring at Lake Como (4.30.11: tantum miraculum), the eruption of Vesuvius (6.16.5: miraculum illud), the lacus Vadimo/ Lago di Bassano (8.20.2: miraculorum…terra) and the friendship between a boy and a dolphin in Hippo (9.33.1: varia miracula; 5: tamquam miraculum).5 For dreams and supernatural experiences, on the other hand, Pliny uses terms such as somnium/somniari (1.18; 3.5.4), videri/imaginari/imago (5.5.5; 9.13.25) and phantasmata (7.27.1). In what follows I would like to discuss how Pliny integrates the tradition of mirabilia and paradoxographical literature6 into an epistolary frame, how the respective letters interact with each other (and other letters), and how they contribute to Pliny’s larger project of self-fashioning. Already a first look at the distribution of the texts in question can be revealing: Dreams and visions are told of in the uneven books 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9, whereas wonders of nature are described in the even Books 4, 6, 8 and also the uneven Book 9  – thus, in the last book both types of mirabilia converge. Furthermore, these two types can be connected through the choice of addressee: Both letters 4.30 on the intermittent spring in Como and 7.27 on encounters with ghosts are written to Pliny’s friend Licinius Sura7 who is asked to give a scientific explanation for the phenomena described. Whereas accounts of dreams and visions

3 Merwald 1964; Ludolph 1997; Marchesi 2008; Gibson/Morello 2012; Whitton 2012; Whitton 2013b; Marchesi 2015. 4 Pliny’s letters, of course, cannot be equated with autobiography in a modern sense (a genre which per se did not exist in antiquity), for they are not arranged chronologically and only focus on a limited time span of Pliny’s life (especially the years of Domitian’s, Nerva’s and Trajan’s reign); nevertheless, self-portrayal is one of the main goals of the collection; cf. Shelton 1987; Ludolph 1997; Radicke 1997; Tzounakas 2007; Gibson/Morello 2012, 13–19. 5 Other than in Books 1–9, descriptions of nature in Book 10 are not distinguished by an aesthetical viewpoint; instead, Pliny focuses on pragmatic aspects, such as in Epist. 10.41; cf. Radice 1962, 168; Ludolph 1997, 50–51. 6 On mirabilia in Nervan, Trajanic and Hadrianic Literature, see Shannon 2013. 7 For Licinius Sura as “the right-hand man” of the emperor Trajan, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 309–10.



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are part of a larger political narrative, descriptions of miracles of nature, which belong to the sphere of otium, give Pliny the opportunity to reflect upon his role as a writer.

Dreams, ghosts and supernatural visions – shaping Pliny’s political persona Let us first have a look at Pliny’s narrative of dreams and visions:8 In Book 1 Pliny responds to a letter of Suetonius, who is said to have had a bad dream and therefore be worried about the outcome of an impending lawsuit (1.18.1): Scribis te perterritum somnio vereri, ne quid adversi in actione patiaris; rogas, ut dilationem petam et pauculos dies, certe proximum, excusem. So you have had an alarming dream which makes you fear that the case which is coming on may go against you; and you want me to apply for an adjournment to get you off for a few days, or one day at least…9

After having repeated Suetonius’ words Pliny starts a discussion of possibilities of dream-interpretation by referring to his own example (1.18.3–5): Susceperam causam Iuni Pastoris, cum mihi quiescenti visa est socrus mea advoluta genibus, ne agerem, obsecrare  …eram contra potentissimos civitatis atque etiam Caesaris amicos; quae singula excutere mentem mihi post tam triste somnium poterant. Egi tamen λογισάμενος illud εἷς οἰωνὸς ἄριστος ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης… … prospere cessit, atque adeo illa actio mihi aures hominum, illa ianuam famae patefecit. proinde dispice, an tu quoque sub hoc exemplo somnium istud in bonum vertas. I had undertaken to act on behalf of Junius Pastor when I dreamed that my mother-in-law came and begged me on her knees to give up the case… I was about to plead against men of great political influence, some of them also friends of the Emperor; any one of these considerations could have shaken my resolve after such a depressing dream, but I carried on, believing that “The best and only omen is to fight for your country”… I won my case, and it was that speech which drew attention to me and set me on the threshold of a successful career. See then if you can follow my example, and give a happy interpretation to your dream.

8 For the literary tradition of dreams in classical antiquity, cf. Walde 2001; Harris 2009. 9 Translations of Pliny are by Radice 1969.

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When he was as a young man pleading the case of a certain Iunius Pastor, his mother in law appeared to him in a dream (3: mihi quiescenti visa est socrus mea) and implored Pliny not to act before the Centumviral Court contra potentissimos civitatis atque etiam Caesaris amicos (3).10 Nevertheless, Pliny ignored the warning by recalling the Homeric line εἷς οἰωνὸς ἄριστος ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης (Il. 12.243)11 and had great success (4). He concludes the letter by inviting Suetonius to follow his example (5). In this letter Pliny varies the motif of dreams which indicate the outcome of an imminent event such as e.  g. a battle ‒ stories of dreaming generals are frequent in Plutarch’s biographies, for instance.12 Thus Pliny’s appearance at court is given a heroic touch. Moreover, Pliny’s courageous behaviour stands in contrast to what Plutarch in his contemporary essay de superstitione (Mor. 164e–171  f )13 has to say about superstitious peoples’ reactions to their dreams (Mor. 165f–166a): εἶτ᾽ ἐξαναστάντες οὐ κατεφρόνησαν οὐδὲ κατεγέλασαν, οὐδ᾽ ᾔσθοντο ὅτι τῶν ταραξάντων οὐδὲν ἦν ἀληθινόν, ἀλλὰ σκιὰν φεύγοντες ἀπάτης οὐδὲν κακὸν ἐχούσης ὕπαρ ἐξαπατῶσιν ἑαυτοὺς καὶ δαπανῶσι καὶ ταράττουσιν, εἰς ἀγύρτας καὶ γόητας ἐμπεσόντες… When, later, such persons arise from their beds, they do not contemn nor ridicule these things, nor realize that not one of the things that agitated them was really true, but, trying to escape the shadow of a delusion that has nothing bad at the bottom, during their waking hours they delude and waste and agitate themselves, putting themselves into the hands of conjurors and impostors…14

Other than the people criticised by Plutarch, Pliny cannot be frightened by dreadful dreams such as the one of his mother in law. I think that this letter, in which the possibilities of interpreting dreams are discussed, serves as a kind of exordium to a series of further letters, where the reactions of various characters to their dreams and supernatural visions are narrated. Letter 3.5 is written to Baebius Macer15 who had asked Pliny for a comprehensive bibliography of the elder Pliny’s work. The list Pliny offers also contains the Bellorum Germaniae libri viginti (4): 10 Gibson/Morello 2012, 24 argue that the mentioned Caesar is Domitian; for Titus cf. SherwinWhite 1966, 128. 11 Also cited by Cicero in Att. 2.3.4: this letter serves as a “window” through which the Homeric pretext is alluded to; cf. Schenk 1999, 127–128; Baraz 2012, 107–112; Schwerdtner 2015, 196–207. 12 Cf. Brenk 1977 and 1998. 13 For the dating into the late first cent. AD cf. Bowden 2008, 60; on Plutarch’s view on dreams, cf. Harris 2009, 192–194. 14 Transl. by Babbitt 1928. 15 On his identity, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 215–216.



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‘Bellorum Germaniae viginti’; quibus omnia quae cum Germanis gessimus bella collegit. Incohavit cum in Germania militaret, somnio monitus: adstitit ei quiescenti Drusi Neronis effigies, qui Germaniae latissime victor ibi periit, commendabat memoriam suam orabatque ut se ab iniuria oblivionis adsereret. ‘The German Wars’  – twenty volumes, covering all the wars we have ever had with the Germans. He began this during his military service in Germany, as the result of a dream; in his sleep he saw standing over him the ghost of Drusus Nero, who had triumphed far and wide in Germany and died there. He committed his memory to my uncle’s care, begging him to save him from the injustice of oblivion.

Here we learn that the nocturnal effigies of Drusus prompted the elder Pliny to begin his literary work (incohavit) on the German wars; it has been suggested by Sallmann that the younger Pliny is recapitulating a dream-story which had been narrated in the proem of the elder Pliny’s Bella Germaniae and was a variation of the poetical topos of the Dichterweihe within a historical work.16 It is striking though that in this letter the dream’s trustworthiness17 is not questioned at all after this problem appeared so prominently in Epist. 1.18 where Pliny the Younger ignored his own dream and also encouraged Suetonius to do so.18 Pliny the Elder himself at the end of Book 10 of his Natural History (10.211) discusses the question whether there are any cases of prior knowledge which someone experiences in his sleep or such dreams can be regarded as matter of coincidence; if one tried to find instances at both sides, he states, they would certainly come out equal (si exemplis agatur, profecto paria fiant). Here the elder Pliny “seems to lean slightly towards scepticism”,19 but he does not maintain an explicitly sceptical attitude throughout the rest of his work where accounts on dreams are provided.20 Pliny the Younger’s account of his dreaming uncle stands in conspicuous contrast to the next letter which contains another narrative of a dream, but where the (untimely) end of literary production is the topic: In Epist. 5.5 Pliny writes to

16 Sallmann 1984 calls it a “Berufungstraum” or “Legitimationstraum” (580); a different view is expressed by Bütler 1970, 19, who thinks that the younger Pliny added the dream-story to his uncle’s bibliography, for the elder Pliny would never have used such an account (“der aufgeklärte Forscher … hätte diese Legende kaum geduldet”). For the topos of the Dichterweihe, see Kambylis 1965. 17 Harris 2009, 123–228 discusses the ancient opinions about the truthfulness of dreams. 18 Cf. Harris 2009, 206–207: “When he recounts his uncle’s dream about Drusus, he gives no hint that the former might have been well-advised to make up his own mind before embarking on writing a twenty-book history”. 19 Harris 2009, 187. 20 Cf. Harris 2009, 187 with further passages.

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Novius Maximus21 about the recent death of the historiographer C. Fannius22 who had left an unfinished work on the victims of the emperor Nero. Fannius, however, had already anticipated his fate because of a dream (5.5.5–7): Gaius quidem Fannius, quod accidit, multo ante praesensit. Visus est sibi per nocturnam quietem iacere in lectulo suo compositus in habitum studentis, habere ante se scrinium (ita solebat): mox imaginatus est venisse Neronem, in toro resedisse, prompsisse primum librum quem de sceleribus eius ediderat, eumque ad extremum revolvisse; idem in secundo ac tertio fecisse, tunc abisse. Expavit et sic interpretatus est, tamquam idem sibi futurus esset scribendi finis, qui fuisset illi legendi: et fuit idem … occursant animo mea mortalitas, mea scripta … Fannius had in fact had a premonition long ago of what has now happened. He dreamed in his sleep one night that he was lying on his couch, dressed and ready for work, and with his desk in front of him, just as usual; then he fancied that Nero appeared, sat down on the end of the bed, took up the first volume Fannius had published about his crimes, and read it through to the end; then he did the same to the second and third volumes, after which he departed. Fannius was horrified, and inferred that his writing would end at the point where Nero stopped reading; and so it did…I think of my own mortality and what I have written…

Having written about Nero’s victims, Fannius himself more or less fell victim to Nero’s nocturnal appearance; the vision of the dead emperor both foretells the end of Fannius’ life and literary production.23 Similar to Suetonius in Epist. 1.18.1 (perterritus), Fannius is also depicted as showing fear (expavit),24 and on a sty­ listic level a scary atmosphere is created acoustically by the alliteration of double-s in the perfect infinitives which describe the encounter with Nero (venisse… resedisse…prompsisse…revolvisse…fecisse…abisse). Pliny and his uncle, on the contrary, do not seem to be frightened by their dreams – they are even encouraged to juridical and literary action.25 Like in Epist. 3.5 on Pliny the Elder also the account of Fannius’ dream does not contain any explicit reflections on the dream’s trustworthiness. Furthermore, the motif of predicting death and the description of the encounter between Fannius and Nero connect letter 5.5 with

21 On his identity, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 297 ad 4.20. 22 For his possible connections to P. Fannius Thrasea Paetus, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 320. 23 On Fannius’ dream, cf. Harris 2009, 109. Pliny’s account shares some similarities with Plutarch’s narrative of Sulla’s death in Sull. 37.1–2: Sulla is said to have stopped writing the twenty second book of his Memoires two days before his death, which had been predicted to him by the Chaldeans and through a dream of his dead son. 24 Cf. Baraz 2012, 114. 25 The elder Pliny’s fearlessness is also highlighted in letter 6.16: solutus metu (10)…ʽfortes’ inquit ‘fortuna iuvat’ (11)…utque timorem eius sua securitate leniret (12)…quievit verissimo quidem somno (13).



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letter 7.27, the famous ghost-story. There, Pliny writes to Licinius Sura and asks him to evaluate whether ghosts exist or not (1–2): Et mihi discendi et tibi docendi facultatem otium praebet. Igitur perquam velim scire, esse phantasmata et habere propriam figuram numenque aliquod putes an inania et vana ex metu nostro imaginem accipere. Ego ut esse credam in primis eo ducor, quod audio accidisse Curtio Rufo… Or leisure gives me the chance to learn and you to teach me; so I should very much like to know whether you think that ghosts exist, and have a form of their own and some sort of supernatural power, or whether they lack substance and reality and take shape only from our fears. I personally am encouraged to believe in their existence largely from what I have heard of the experience of Curtius Rufus…

After these introductory reflections on reality and illusion26 Pliny continues by narrating three different ghost-stories: The first one is set in Africa where Curtius Rufus had a vision of the personification of Africa who predicted his future and death to him  – and it all happened as she foretold.27 After a linear reading we are invited to recall the letter about C. Fannius. Then, there follows the longest story of the philosopher Athenodorus,28 who had bought a haunted house in Athens and had to release the poor soul of the ghost which was causing some trouble there by terrifying the inhabitants.29 The vivid description of the encounter between Athenodorus and the ghost is very similar to that between Fannius and Nero (7.27.7–9): Venit Athenas philosophus Athenodorus…Ubi coepit advesperascere, iubet sterni sibi in prima domus parte, poscit pugillares stilum lumen, suos omnes in interiora dimittit; ipse ad scribendum animum oculos manum intendit, ne vacua mens audita simulacra et inanes sibi metus fingeret. Initio, quale ubique, silentium noctis, dein concuti ferrum, vincula moveri. Ille non tollere oculos, non remittere stilum, sed offirmare animum auribusque praetendere. Tum crebrescere fragor, adventare et iam ut in limine, iam ut intra limen audiri. Respicit, videt agnoscitque narratam sibi effigiem. Stabat innuebatque digito similis vocanti. Hic contra ut paulum exspectaret manu significat rursusque ceris et stilo incumbit. Illa scribentis capiti catenis insonabat. Respicit rursus idem quod prius innuentem, nec moratus tollit lumen et sequitur.

26 The Greek word phantasmata and the antithesis of propria figura and ex metu nostro imago are reminiscent of philosophical discussions: cf. Plato Soph. 236c, where φάντασμα and εἰκών are opposed to each other (τὴν δὴ φάντασμα ἀλλ’ οὐκ εἰκόνα ἀπεργαζομένην τέχνην ἆρ’ οὐ φανταστικὴν ὀρθότατ’ ἂν προσαγορεύοιμεν;), and Aristot. An. 428a, who distinguishes φαντασία (“imagination”) from αἴσθησις, δόξα, ἐπιστήμη and νοῦς; cf. Scheiter 2012. 27 Cf. Tac. Ann. 11.21. 28 On him, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 436. 29 A similar story is told in Lucian’s Philops. 31, where the Pythagorean philosopher Arignotus encounters a ghost in a house in Corinth; cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 436.

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The philosopher Athenodorus came to Athens…When darkness fell he gave orders that a couch was to be made up for him in the front part of the house, and asked for his notebooks, pen, and a lamp. He sent all his servants to the inner rooms, and concentrated his thoughts, eyes and hand on his writing, so that his mind would be occupied and not conjure up the phantom he had heard about nor other imaginary fears. At first there was nothing but the general silence of night; then came the clanking of iron and dragging of chains. He did not look up nor stop writing, but steeled his mind to shut out the sounds. Then the noise grew louder, came nearer, was heard in the doorway, and then inside the room. He looked round, saw and recognized the ghost described to him. It stood and beckoned, as if summoning him. Athenodorus in his turn signed to it to wait a little, and again bent over his notes and pen, while it stood rattling its chains over his head as he wrote. He looked round again and saw it beckoning as before, so without further delay he picked up his lamp and followed…

Both Athenodorus and Fannius are depicted as studying while they experience their supernatural encounters (7.27.7: poscit pugillares … ad scribendum animum … intendit; cf. 5.5.5: compositus in habitum studentis, habere ante se scrinium). But Fannius’ fearful reaction to the sight of Nero’s imago is very different to that of Athenodorus, who keeps calm and carries on with writing. Moreover, we are probably expected to create a link between Athenodorus and Pliny himself, who during the eruption of Vesuvius continued to study Livy (6.20.5): Dubito, constantiam vocare an imprudentiam debeam (agebam enim duodevicensimum annum): posco librum Titi Livi, et quasi per otium lego atque etiam ut coeperam excerpo. Ecce amicus avunculi, qui nuper ad eum ex Hispania venerat, ut me et matrem sedentes, me vero etiam legentem videt, illius patientiam securitatem meam corripit. Nihilo segnius ego intentus in librum. I don’t know whether I should call this courage or folly on my part (I was only seventeen at the time) but I called for a volume of Livy and went on reading as if I had nothing else to do. I even went on with the extracts I had been making. Up came a friend of my uncle’s who had just come from Spain to join him. When he saw us sitting there and me actually reading, he scolded us both – me for my foolhardiness and my mother for allowing it. Nevertheless, I remained absorbed in my book.

Both Pliny and Athenodorus are depicted as focused on their studies (6.20.5: posco librum Titi Livi … ut coeperam excerpo … ego intentus in librum) and being unimpressed by the surrounding noise, be it the rattling of a ghost’s chains or the eruption of a volcano and the friend from Spain who scolded Pliny and his mother. Moreover, Athenodorus’ scientific curiosity is a characteristic trait which he shares with the elder Pliny:30 Just as Athenodorus wants to explore the haunted house (cf. 7.27.6: deserta inde et damnata solitudine domus totaque illi 30 On Athenodorus’ curiosity, see Lorenz 2011, 250; On Pliny the Elder’s curiosity in the Naturalis Historia, see Beagon 2011.



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monstro relicta), the elder Pliny is eager to explore the cloud coming out of the Vesuvius (6.16.5;7;10): Usus ille sole, mox frigida, gustaverat iacens studebatque; poscit soleas, ascendit locum ex quo maxime miraculum illud conspici poterat. Nubes – incertum procul intuentibus ex quo monte (Vesuvium fuisse postea cognitum est) – oriebatur […] Magnum propiusque noscendum ut eruditissimo viro visum. Iubet liburnicam aptari; mihi si venire una vellem facit copiam; respondi studere me malle, et forte ipse quod scriberem dederat […] properat illuc, unde alii fugiunt. He had been out in the sun, had taken a cold bath, and lunched while lying down, and was then working at his books. He called for his shoes and climbed up to a place which would give him the best view of the phenomenon. It was not clear at that distance from which mountain the cloud was rising (it was afterwards known to be Vesuvius)… My uncle’s scholarly acumen saw at once that it was important enough for a closer inspection, and he ordered a fast boat to be made ready, telling me I could come with him if I wished. I replied that I preferred to go on with my studies, and as it happened he had himself given me some writing to do…He hurried to the place which everyone else was hastily leaving…

As we have seen, Pliny provides a very vivid description of Athenodorus’ encounter with the ghost. It is tempting to entertain the idea whether the Greek term phantasmata, which programmatically opens the letter (7.27.1) may also bear a metaliterary connotation and direct the learned reader’s attention to the rhetorical theory of phantasia and enargeia which is, for example, discussed by Quintilian in Inst. 6.2.29:31 Quas φαντασίας Graeci vocant (nos sane visiones appellemus), per quas imagines rerum absentium ita repraesentantur animo ut eas cernere oculis ac praesentes habere videamur, has quisquis bene ceperit is erit in adfectibus potentissimus. The person who will show the greatest power in the expression of emotions will be the person who has properly formed what the Greeks call phantasiai (let us call them “visions”), by which the images of absent things are presented to the mind in such a way that we seem actually to see them with our eyes and have them physically present to us.32

Is it possible that Pliny, in accordance with Quintilian’s instructions, on the one hand tells an entertaining and vivid story of a ghost (phantasma) in letter 7.27, and on the other hand, through his rhetorical technique,33 makes the readers believe 31 On this passage, cf. Webb 2009, 95–96. 32 Translations of Quintilian are by Russell 2001. 33 In the account of Athenodorus and the ghost Pliny uses dramatic present and historical infinitive and includes a lot of acoustical and visual details; on achieving enargeia through details, cf. Webb 2009, 90–3.

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that they experience the encounter with the ghost themselves?34 Thus the letter would not only be about illusion, but also generate an illusion in the reader’s mind – “the letter’s the thing”, as William Fitzgerald has put it.35 Whereas the stories of Curtius Rufus and Athenodorus are said to have been told to Pliny by others (7.27.2: audio accidisse; 4: exponam, ut accepi), he is able to attest the last story himself (12: illud adfirmare aliis possum): Two of Pliny’s slaves have dreamt of phantoms who came to their bedrooms and cut their hair; and really, when they woke up their hair was cut. Pliny comments the event as follows (14): Nihil notabile secutum, nisi forte quod non fui reus, futurus, si Domitianus sub quo haec acciderunt diutius vixisset. Nam in scrinio eius datus a Caro de me libellus inventus est; ex quo coniectari potest, quia reis moris est summittere capillum, recisos meorum capillos depulsi quod imminebat periculi signum fuisse. Nothing remarkable followed, except perhaps the fact that I was not brought to trial, as I should have been if Domitian (under whom all this happened) had lived longer. For among the papers in his desk was found information laid against me by Carus; from which, in view of the custom for accused persons to let their hair grow long, one may interpret the cutting of my slaves’ hair as a sign that the danger threatening me was averted.

Similar to Epist. 1.18 Pliny adopts the role of the interpreter (coniectari) of a dream. The nocturnal appearance of the “barber-ghost” is explained as an omen for Domitian’s imminent death. Scholars usually agree that this final story, where Pliny insinuates that he almost fell victim to the regime of Domitian, is the actual culmination of the letter.36 This part of Pliny’s biography is artfully woven into the narrative of the text as a whole: its formal design as a scientific question to Licinius Sura, who happened to be Trajan’s most important counsellor,37 the first two entertaining stories and the phrase nihil notabile secutum, nisi forte quod (14) concluding the third story altogether detract the reader from Pliny’s actual goal of depicting himself as a man who was in danger to become one of Domitian’s victims.

34 Cf. Quint. Inst. 6.2.29: imagines rerum absentium…repraesentantur animo and Plin. Epist. 7.27.1: imaginem accipere. 35 Fitzgerald 2007. 36 Römer 1987; Fitzgerald 2007, 206–208; Lorenz 2011, 246–255. 37 It is hardly a coincidence that Pliny chose him as the addressee of a letter about Domitian’s reign: Licinius Sura is also depicted together with the emperor on Trajan’s column in Rome; cf. Römer 1987, 27; Eck 1999.



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In the last letter on dreams and visions Pliny himself appears as a haunting ghost: Letter 9.13 is written to Ummidius Quadratus38 who had read Pliny’s speech De Helvidi ultione and now requests further information about the historical circumstances. After Domitian’s death, Pliny decided to attack Publicius Certus, the accuser of the younger Helvidius Priscus under the last Flavian emperor. After Pliny had held this speech and published it, Publicius Certus fell ill and died (24–25): Accidit fortuitum, sed non tamquam fortuitum, quod editis libris Certus intra paucissimos dies implicitus morbo decessit. Audivi referentes hanc imaginem menti eius hanc oculis oberrasse, tamquam videret me sibi cum ferro imminere. Verane haec, adfirmare non ausim; interest tamen exempli, ut vera videantur. By coincidence, though it seemed no mere coincidence, a few days after the speech was published Certus fell ill and died. I have heard it said that always in his mind’s eye he had a vision of me threatening him with a sword. Whether this is true I shouldn’t like to say, but it helps to point a moral if it is accepted as true.

As it becomes clear, the letters in question are not only to be read as self-contained texts which reveal Pliny’s skills as a narrator but also interact with each other and gain further meaning when they are read together. A linear reading of Pliny’s letter corpus reveals how the epistolographer links important phases of his biography through the motif of visions and dreaming. The letter-cycle on dreams, reaching from the first to the last book of the collection, is part of a larger political narrative39 and stages crucial moments of Pliny’s life under and after Domitian:40 In 1.18 the correct interpretation of a dream leads to the beginning of Pliny’s career as a lawyer (who does not shy away from attacking the emperor’s friends), and in 7.27 the nocturnal visions of Pliny’s freedmen and slaves show their owner as a possible victim of Domitian; in 9.13 Pliny has even turned into an avenger of Domitian’s victims and haunts his enemies not only in court, but even in their dreams. Moreover, a second reading of Epist. 5.5 reveals that C. Fannius serves as a kind of Neronian foil for Pliny’s curriculum vitae under and after the last Flavian emperor. If we consider the problem of a dream’s trustworthiness or truthfulness, we can observe that this question is mainly raised in letters where Pliny himself is involved in the story: In Epist. 1.18 he appears as having a dream

38 On his identity, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 431. 39 In all of the letters an emperor or a member of the imperial family plays an important role: Domitian in 1.18, 7.27 and 9.13, Nero in 5.5 and Drusus Nero, the father of Claudius, in 3.5. 40 On Pliny’s past under Domitian and his endeavours to portray himself as sympathising with the stoic opposition, cf. Beutel 2000, 175–237.

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himself, in Epist. 7.27 to Licinius Sura he asks his addressee about his opinion whether phantasmata exist or not (1) and then provides an account of his slaves’ nocturnal experiences (12–14). Finally, in Epist. 9.13 Pliny himself appears as a nocturnal epiphany to the dreaming Publicius Certus before he dies (24–25) – at least this is what people tell, but whether it is true or not Pliny does not want to decide; anyway, what really counts is the story’s value as an example (25: interest tamen exempli, ut vera videantur).

Making the absent present – Pliny’s descriptions of miracles of nature Let us now turn to letters about miracles of nature.41 Also here Pliny seems to have distributed the texts deliberately, for we can observe an alternation between the depiction of a locus amoenus in 4.30 (spring at Como), 8.8 (fons Clitumnus) and 8.20 (lacus Vadimonis) and narratives about the destructive power of nature in 6.16, 6.20 (eruption of Vesuvius) and 8.17 (flooding of the Tiber).42 Letter 9.33 combines the motifs of amenity and destruction by first depicting the cheerful playing of dolphin and boy (2–8) and by then mentioning that the inhabitants of Hippo decided to kill the dolphin, because the place had lost its quiet character due to masses of tourists who wanted to see the miraculous spectacle (9–10). Whereas the letters on dreams and visions discussed before inter alia shed light on Pliny’s political persona, his descriptions of marvels of nature are set in the sphere of otium and can be read as implicit reflections on Pliny’s role as a writer. It has already been argued by Benjamin Stevens that the famous dolphin-story in Epist. 9.33 presents itself as an elaborate piece of “prose poetry”:43 Not only does Pliny engage himself with his uncle’s account of various dolphin-miracles in Nat. 9.8.25–28 by composing a much more artful narration of the miracle in his letter. He also deals with his addressee’s (and his own) role as a writer: Similar

41 On 4.30, 8.8 and 8.20, cf. Lefèvre 1988; on 8.8, cf. Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012. 42 The two letters on rivers in Book 8 are symmetrically arranged: Epist. 8.8 on the Clitumnus and 8.17 on the flooding of Tiber and Anio are each separated from the beginning respectively the end of Book 8 by seven letters in between; cf. Gibson 2015, 212–213; Morello 2015, 171; Rocchi 2015. Pliny’s letters on mirabilia may serve a purpose similar to the marvels described in his uncle’s Naturalis Historia: As Beagon 1992, 156 states, they “illustrate different facets of Natura: her power, majesty, untamed wildness, even her cruelty”. 43 Stevens 2009. On Letter 9.33, cf. Cova 2001; Niemann 2007; Citroni/Marchetti 2008; Hindermann 2011.



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to the Vesuvius-letters to Tacitus, Pliny wants us to believe that Epist. 9.33 is only providing raw material for a much more elaborate adaption by Caninius Rufus (1;11): Incidi in materiam veram sed simillimam fictae dignamque isto laetissimo altissimo planeque poetico ingenio; incidi autem, dum super cenam varia miracula hinc inde referuntur. Magna auctori fides: tametsi quid poetae cum fide? Is tamen auctor, cui bene vel historiam scripturus credidisses […] Haec tu qua miseratione, qua copia deflebis ornabis attolles! Quamquam non est opus adfingas aliquid aut adstruas; sufficit ne ea quae sunt vera minuantur. Vale. I have come across a true story which sounds very like fable, and so ought to be a suitable subject for your abundant talent to raise to the heights of poetry. I heard it over the dinner table when various marvellous tales were being circulated, and I had it on good authority – though I know that doesn’t really interest poets. However, it was one which even a historian might well have trusted … … I can imagine how sadly you will lament this ending and how eloquently you will enrich and adorn this tale – though there is no need for you to add any fictitious details; it will be enough if the truth is told in full.

The artful composition of the letter, however, suggests that Caninius doesn’t actually have to write a poem anymore – Pliny, albeit in prose, has already done the job.44 Both the name of the addressee and other verbal echoes link the letter with Epist. 8.4, where Pliny praises Caninius for his plan to write an epic poem on Trajan’s Dacian war (8.4.1):45 Optime facis, quod bellum Dacicum scribere paras. Nam quae tam recens tam copiosa tam elata, quae denique tam poetica et quamquam in verissimis rebus tam fabulosa materia? It is an excellent idea of yours to write about the Dacian war. There is no subject, which offers such scope and such a wealth of original material, no subject so poetic and almost legendary although its facts are true.

As Pliny states, both the dolphin-story and Caninius’ poem on the Dacian war are based on true facts (9.33.1: materiam veram; 11: vera; cf. 8.4.1: in verissimis rebus), but nevertheless the events described touch the realm of fiction (9.33.1: simillimam fictae; cf. 8.4.1: fabulosa materia). Despite Pliny’s rhetoric of modesty at the beginning and ending of letter 9.33, the sequential reader is supposed to notice that as a writer of epistolary mirabilia Pliny is able to compete with Canin-

44 Stevens 2009, 174. 45 The second Dacian war ended in autumn 106 AD; cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 450–451. On Letter 8.4, cf. Morello 2015, 156–157.

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ius Rufus and his literary products, such as the epic poem on Trajan’s Dacian War.46 Therefore, it is probably no coincidence that letter 9.33 is placed near the end of the epistolary collection. Other letters on miracles of nature seem to be deliberately placed too. Whereas the dolphin-story is located outside Italy and has been told to Pliny at a dinner-party, the other letters on miracles of nature are situated in Italy and share the motif of autopsy: Pliny has seen the miracles himself47 and describes them to his absent addressees, thereby presenting himself as an authority. The first instance, letter 4.30 on the intermittent spring at Lake Como,48 programmatically concludes Book 4 and in a kind of ring-composition points back to the opening letter 4.1, where Pliny had announced to his prosocer Calpurnius Fabatus that he wanted to visit him in Comum as soon as possible (4.1).49 The last letter of book 4, however, suggests that this visit has already happened,50 for the description of the spring is presented as a munusculum from Pliny’s homeland for Licinius Sura (4.30.1–4):51 Attuli tibi ex patria mea pro munusculo quaestionem altissima ista eruditione dignissimam. Fons oritur in monte…Huius mira natura: ter in die statis auctibus ac diminutionibus crescit decrescitque. Cernitur id palam et cum summa voluptate deprenditur… Si diutius observes, utrumque iterum ac tertio videas. I have brought you a small present from my native place – a problem fully worthy of your great learning. There is a spring which has its source in a mountain…This is its remarkable feature: three times a day it fills and empties with a regular increase and decrease of water, and this can be seen quite clearly and is a great pleasure to watch…If you watch long enough you can see the process repeated a second and third time.

The motif of viewing plays an important role here: Pliny himself insinuates that he has witnessed the rise and fall of the spring (cernitur), and in the course of describing the miracle he also involves his addressee into the act of viewing (4: si diutius observes, utrumque iterum ac tertio videas). Autopsy and visual perception

46 Cf. Stevens 2009, 175  f. Caninius wants to write his poem Graecis versibus (8.4.3), whereas Pliny’s account is in Latin. 47 Cf. Servius ad Aen. 1.44 on Virgil’s curiositas: totius autem Italiae curiosissimum fuisse Vergilium multifariam apparet. 48 The Elder Pliny gives only a short account of the spring (Plin. Nat. 2.232): in Comensi iuxta Larium lacum fons largus horis singulis semper intumescit ac residit. 49 On Calpurnius Fabatus, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 264–265. 50 Cf. Epist. 4.13.3: proxime cum in patria mea fui; Sherwin-White 1966, 309. 51 On Letter 4.30, cf. Lefèvre 1988; Hindermann 2011.



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are also highlighted in letter 8.8 to Voconius Romanus,52 which describes the fons Clitumnus53 and starts with a polyptoton of the verb videre (8.8.1):54 Vidistine aliquando Clitumnum fontem? Si nondum (et puto nondum: alioqui narrasses mihi), vide; quem ego (paenitet tarditatis) proxime vidi. Have you ever seen the source of the Clitumnus? If not (and I fancy not, or you would have told me) do visit it as I did the other day. I am only sorry I put off seeing it so long.

Pliny opens the letter with the message that he visited the spring a short time ago (proxime) and thus creates the impression that he is sharing the “latest news” with his addressee. He continues with a description of the spring’s location (2–3), its widening into a broad and limpid river (3–5), the sanctuaries for Clitumnus and other deities (5) and the adjacent public bath which is maintained by the people of Hispellum (6). Apart from autopsy, Pliny probably also knew the Clitumnus from literary sources, for it “was almost a commonplace in Latin literature”55 mentioned by Virgil (G. 2.146–8), Propertius (2.19.25–6; 3.22.23–4), Statius (Silv. 1.4.128–9) and Silius Italicus (4.545–5).56 Different from Pliny, these poets only superficially give attention to the region’s amenities and instead focus on the famous white oxen as a typical feature of the Clitumnus; Pliny, however, ignores these animals completely. It is another peculiarity of the place which arouses his interest (8.8.7): In summa nihil erit, ex quo non capias voluptatem. Nam studebis quoque: leges multa multorum omnibus columnis omnibus parietibus inscripta, quibus fons ille deusque celebratur. Plura laudabis, non nulla ridebis; quamquam tu vero, quae tua humanitas, nulla ridebis. Everything in fact will delight you, and you can also find something to read: you can study the numerous inscriptions in honour of the spring and the god which many hands have written on every pillar and wall. Most of them you will admire, but some will make you laugh – though I know you are really too charitable to laugh at any of them.

52 He is probably an equestrian and the addressee of several letters: 1.5, 2.1, 3.13, 6.15, 6.33, 9 7, 9.28; cf. 2.13; Sherwin-White 1966, 93; Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012, 235–238; Gibson/Morello 2012, 149–154. 53 The fons was located in Umbria between Trevi and Spoleto; cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 456–458; Lefèvre 1988; Albanesi/Picuti 2009; Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012. 54 Cf. Morello 2015, 163. 55 Sherwin-White 1966, 456. 56 Cf. Suet. Cal. 43.1; Iuv. 12 13–7; Claud. VI cons. Hon. 500–14; Sherwin-White 1966, 456; Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012, 225.

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From the motif of viewing which was emphasised at the beginning of the letter we now have turned to reading (studebis…leges).57 At the end of the letter Pliny describes the inscriptions which visitors wrote on the sanctuary’s walls and pillars in order to celebrate the deity and its spring. Pliny recommends the entertaining character of these graffiti58 and thus presents his correspondence with Voconius Romanus as an interaction of friends likewise committed to studia.59 Moreover, within the narrative of the letter we may read this account of religious communication as a mise en abyme mirroring Pliny’s epistolary praise of the fons Clitumnus.60 Whereas the writers of the sub-literary inscriptions in the templum stay anonymous, Pliny steps out as an individual who composes his texts for posterity.61 Similar to Epist. 8.8, in letter 8.20 on the Lacus Vadimo62 the motif of viewing also plays a prominent role (8.20.1–3): Ad quae noscenda iter ingredi, transmittere mare solemus, ea sub oculis posita neglegimus, seu quia ita natura comparatum, ut proximorum incuriosi longinqua sectemur, seu quod omnium rerum cupido languescit, cum facilis occasio, seu quod differimus tamquam saepe visuri, quod datur videre quotiens velis cernere. Quacumque de causa permulta in urbe nostra iuxtaque urbem non oculis modo sed ne auribus quidem novimus, quae si tulisset Achaia Aegyptos Asia aliave quaelibet miraculorum ferax commendatrixque terra, audita perlecta lustrata haberemus. Ipse certe nuper, quod nec audieram ante nec videram, audivi pariter et vidi. We are always ready to make a journey and cross the sea in search of things we fail to notice in front of our eyes, whether it is that we are naturally indifferent to anything close at hand while pursuing distant objects, or that every desire fades when it can easily be granted, or that we postpone a visit with the idea that we shall often be seeing what is there to be seen whenever we feel inclined. Whatever the reason, there are a great many things in Rome and near by which we have never seen nor even heard of, though if they were to be found in Greece, Egypt or Asia, or any other country which advertises its wealth of marvels, we should have heard and read about them and seen them for ourselves. I am a case in point. I have just heard of something (and seen it, too) which I had neither seen nor heard of before …

57 Cf. Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012, 220. 58 On the nature of these inscriptions, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 458. 59 For Voconius Romanus’ literary and epistolary activities, cf. Epist. 2.13.7 and 9.28. 60 Egelhaaf-Gaiser 2012, 228 argues that through his letter Pliny inscribes himself into the sacral landscape. 61 Pliny repeatedly expresses his hope for gloria and immortalitas: cf. Epist. 9.3 with Sherwin-White 1966, 483. 62 Cf. Sen. Nat. 3.25.8–9; Plin. Nat. 2.209; on letter 8.20, cf. Saylor 1982; Lefèvre 1988; Hindermann 2011; Morello 2015, 174. Letter 8.20 is written to Gallus, who also received the ecphrastic letter 2.17; cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 471; Whitton 2013a, 222–223.



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Here Pliny discusses the paradoxical situation that though in Italy wonders of nature are to be found before someone’s very face (sub oculis posita) his contemporaries prefer travelling to marvels in foreign countries (iter ingredi, transmittere mare…Achaia Aegyptos Asia aliave…miraculorum ferax…terra).63 Pliny himself had seen the Lacus Vadimo for the first time during a stay in Ameria, where his wife’s grandfather possessed an estate (3).64 Pliny’s inspection of the lake was accompanied with incredible stories people told him (3: simul quaedam incredibilia narrantur); we do not learn who the narrators were or what kind of stories they told, but we may also read narrantur as an ‘Alexandrine footnote’ which leads us back to Seneca’s and Pliny the Elder’s scientific discussions of the miraculous place (Sen. Nat. 3.23.8–9; Plin. Nat. 2.209).65 From such accounts Pliny sets himself apart by reporting what he saw himself (4: perveni ad ipsum): First he highlights the admirable symmetry of the lake which looks like the work of an artist (4: in similitudinem iacentis rotae circumscriptus…undique aequalis…omnia dimensa, paria et quasi artificis manu … excisa)66 ‒ hence what we encounter here is both an ekphrasis of a topos and a work of art.67 The motif of aequalitas and artistry creates a link to letter 2.5,68 where Pliny uses the comparison in another context (2.5.11–12): Etenim, si avulsum statuae caput aut membrum aliquod inspiceres, non tu quidem ex illo posses congruentiam aequalitatemque deprendere, posses tamen iudicare, an id ipsum satis elegans esset; nec alia ex causa principiorum libri circumferuntur, quam quia existimatur pars aliqua etiam sine ceteris esse perfecta. You could not judge whether the head or a limb of a statue is in proportion and harmonizes with the whole if you examine it detached from the trunk, but you could still decide if it was well formed in itself; and the only reason why books of selected extracts are circulated is because some passages are thought to be complete apart from their context.

63 Also in Pliny the Elder’s Naturalis Historia the Roman mirabilia surpass those of the world; cf. Naas 2011, 57: “Mirabilia are also a means of imperialism…Rome is shown to be the centre of a dominated world, where the centre absorbs and replaces the periphery.” 64 The reference to Pliny’s prosocer Calpurnius Fabatus from Comum creates a link to Epist. 4.30 on the spring at the Lacus Larius. 65 In Seneca’s discussion autopsy is emphasized too (Nat. 3.25.8): Ipse ad Cutilias natantem insulam vidi, et alia in Vadimonis lacu vehitur (lacus in Statoniensi est). 66 Pliny starts the description from a bird’s eye view, cf. Lefèvre 1988, 249. 67 On the various subjects of ekphrasis listed in the Progymnasmata and rhetorical treatises, cf. Webb 2009, 61–86. 68 On this letter, cf. Whitton 2013a, 110–120 and 2015, 131–138.

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In this letter Pliny uses the image of a statue dismembered into single parts in order to convince his addressee69 to read and emend a speech which is yet unfinished. As Pliny states, even without knowing the texture of the whole speech (congruentiam aequalitatemque) one is still able to evaluate the quality of single passages (10). Apart from the motif of equability70 and visual arts also the content of the speech mentioned in letter 2.5 connect it with letter 8.20: Pliny delivered an encomium of his homeland (3: dum ornare patriam et amplificare gaudemus) which he enriched with decriptiones locorum (5): nam descriptiones locorum, quae in hoc libro frequentiores erunt, non historice tantum sed prope poetice prosequi fas est. For example, descriptions of places (which are fairly frequent in this speech) may surely introduce a touch of poetry into narrative prose.

As Christopher Whitton has recently argued, letter 2.5 contains thoughts on fragmentation (11–12) and variety (7) we may not only refer to oratory but also read as meta-epistolary comments ‒ thus the letter functions as a delayed proem to the collection.71 It may be added that letter 2.5 also introduces the letter-cycle especially concerned with descriptiones locorum in Italy: As has been discussed above, this cycle starts with a laus patriae in Epist. 4.30 on the spring at Comum, continues with 8.8 on the Clitumnus and ends with 8.20 on the lacus Vadimo. Moreover, the dolphin-letter 9.33, being topographically situated outside Italy, serves as a kind of coda to this cycle insofar as it repeats thoughts on true facts converging with fiction (cf. 2.5.5). In other words, what Pliny in Epist. 2.5 has to say about his yet unfinished speech also applies to a linear reading of his collection of letters. Let us turn back to letter 8.20 again: In the introduction Pliny criticises his contemporaries for travelling oversea, which in the letter’s ecphrastic part (4–9) is mirrored by another voyage: According to Pliny boat-trips are prohibited on the sacred water of the lacus Vadimo, but one can observe miraculous equivalents: The swimming islands of the lake look like little boats (7: velut cumbulae onerariis) and sometimes they even carry passengers (8): Constat pecora herbas secuta sic in insulas illas ut in extremam ripam procedere solere nec prius intellegere mobile solum quam litori abrepta quasi inlata et imposita circumfusum

69 The letter is written to a Lupercus, for whom, cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 150; Whitton 2013a, 111. 70 Cf. Mart. 7.90, where the problem of aequalitas in a book of epigrams is discussed (4): aequalis liber est, Cretice, qui malus est. 71 Whitton 2015, 131–138.



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undique lacum paveant; mox quo tulerit ventus egressa, non magis se descendisse sentire, quam senserint ascendisse. Cattle are often known to walk on to the islands while grazing, taking them for the edge of the lake, and only realize that they are on moving ground when carried off from the shore as if forcibly put on board ship, and are terrified to find themselves surrounded by water; then, when they land where the wind has carried them, they are no more conscious of having ended their voyage than they were of embarking on it.

Without being conscious of their surroundings cattle happen to float from one shore to the other on these swimming islands. The scene is not without a humorous touch, and again we may draw a connection to the letter’s opening: The unperceptive animals in some way mirror Pliny’s negligent contemporaries who do not notice what is happening before their very eyes and prefer to travel far away instead of giving any attention to domestic marvels.72 Furthermore, the motif of travelling to countries such as Greece (2: Achaia) anticipates the closure of Book 8: In 8.24 Pliny writes a letter to a certain Maximus who is about to leave to Achaea in order to take office as an imperial legate.73 The image of travelling on sea also recalls the beginning of Book 8, where Pliny in the already discussed letter 8.4 praises the poet Caninius and in this context uses sailing as a metaphor for the act of writing (8.4.5): immitte rudentes, pande vela ac, si quando alias, toto ingenio vehere (“slacken your sheets, spread sail, and now, if ever, let the full tide of your genius carry you along”).74 Letter 8.4 and 8.20 are in a more or less symmetrical position to the beginning and ending of Book 8 (with three and resp. four letters in between), and thus the reader is invited to create a link between them. Caninius is about to describe Trajan’s adventures in Dacia and among other things he will sing about how Dacians and Romans changed the natural landscape according to their military interests (8.4.2: dices immissa terris nova flumina, novos pontes fluminibus iniectos, insessa castris montium abrupta).75 The image of human beings taking a hand in nature corresponds with the artifex who designed the lake in Epist. 8.20.4. We

72 Cf. Saylor 1982. The motif of travelling abroad to visit foreign miracula connects letter 8.20 with 9.33, where Pliny tells about visitors who came to see the dolphin in Hippo (10): confluebant omnes ad spectaculum magistratus, quorum adventu et mora modica res publica novis sumptibus atterebatur. 73 Cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 477–480. Zucker 1929 hints at Cic. Quint. 1 1 as an important model for Pliny’s letter; cf. Leach 2006. 74 On the tradition of poetological metaphors, cf. Asper 1997. 75 Cf. Dio 68.6–15; Pliny probably alludes to Decebalus diverting the River Sargetia in order to hide his treasure and to the stone bridge over the Danube; cf. Sherwin-White 1966, 450–451.

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may assume that Caninius’ poem will also contain descriptions of the places conquered by Trajan, and Pliny’s letter 8.20 offers a more peaceful counterpart of such epic ekphraseis.76 Pliny asks Caninius to send him unfinished drafts of the poem and already anticipates his friend’s objection (7): respondebis non posse perinde carptim ut contexta, perinde incohata placere ut effecta (“You will object that a collection of incomplete fragments cannot give the same pleasure as the finished whole”). Caninius the writer repeats the words of Lupercus the reader in Epist. 2.5.10 (dices te non posse satis diligenter id facere, nisi prius totam actionem cognoveris), and the earlier letter’s communicative constellation is now reversed: By picking up the vocabulary of letter 2.5 (11: membrum aliquod; 12: principiorum libri), Pliny from a writer has turned into the reader of an unfinished work (8.4.7): Itaque et a me aestimabuntur ut coepta, spectabuntur ut membra (“I shall judge them only as a beginning, examine them as parts of a whole”). After Pliny had summoned Caninius to start his poetic journey (8.4.5) he adds the question cur enim non ego quoque poetice cum poeta (“Why shouldn’t I be poetical with a poet?”), thereby picking up the phrase descriptiones locorum…poetice prosequi fas est of 2.5.5. Pliny, as it turns out, considers himself to be a master of prose-poetry; maybe we are also supposed to read the journeys mentioned in letter 8.20 on a meta-literary level: Pliny’s programmatic praise of Italian marvels of nature and their vivid descriptions on the one hand aspire to rival poetic accounts, and on the other hand they serve as possible substitutes for a long journey to foreign countries. Through his narrative skills Pliny is able to recreate with words the marvels in the mind’s eye of his readers.77 This idea is even explicitly expressed in one of the villa-letters, where reading the letter replaces a walk through Pliny’s Tuscan estate (5.6.41):78 Vitassem iam dudum ne viderer argutior, nisi proposuissem omnes angulos tecum epistula circumire. Neque enim verebar ne laboriosum esset legenti tibi, quod visenti non fuisset, praesertim cum interquiescere, si liberet, depositaque epistula quasi residere saepius posses. I should have been trying long ago not to say too much, had I not suggested that this letter should take you into every corner of the place. I don’t imagine you will find it tiresome to read about a spot which could hardly tire you on a visit, especially as you have more opportunities if you want an occasional rest, and can take a seat, so to speak, by putting down the letter.

76 Cf. Epist. 5.6.43–4, where Pliny compares his villa-ekphrasis with descriptions in Homer’s, Virgil’s and Aratus’ poems. 77 Cf. Shannon 2013, 9. 78 Cf. Chinn 2007, 268–269.



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Furthermore, Pliny’s art of creating enargeia within the description of marvels is in accordance with what Quintilian has to say about enargeia (Inst. 8.3.62; 9.2.40; 44):79 Magna virtus res, de quibus loquimur, clare atque, ut cerni videantur, enuntiare. Non enim satis efficit neque, ut debet, plene dominatur oratio si usque ad aures valet, atque ea sibi iudex de quibus cognoscit narrari credit, non exprimi et oculis mentis ostendi. […] Illa vero, ut ait Cicero, sub oculos subiectio tum fieri solet cum res non gesta indicatur sed ut sit gesta ostenditur, nec universa sed per partis: quem locum proximo libro subiecimus evidentiae…ab aliis ὑποτύπωσις dicitur, proposita quaedam forma rerum ita expressa verbis, ut cerni potius videantur quam audiri. […] Locorum quoque dilucida et et significans descriptio eidem virtuti adsignatur a quibusdam, alii τοπογραφίαν dicunt. It is a great virtue to express our subject clearly and in such a way that it seems to be actually seen. A speech does not adequately fulfil its purpose or attain the total domination it should have if it goes no further than the ears, and the judge feels that he is merely being told the story of the matters he has to decide, without their being brought out and displayed to his mind’s eye. […] As for what Cicero calls “putting something before our eyes,” this happens when, instead of stating that an event took place, we show how it took place, and that not as a whole, but in detail. In the last book I classified this under evidentia…others prefer hypotyposis, that is, the expression in words of a given situation in such a way that it seems to be a matter of seeing rather than of hearing. […] Clear and vivid descriptions of places are by some assigned to this excellence; others call it topographia.

As a Latin translation of the Greek terms enargeia or hypotyposis Quintilian offers evidentia and sub oculos subiectio, and he mentions the locorum descriptio or topographia as a part of this rhetorical quality. In the opening of his letter on Lake Vadimon Pliny states that his contemporaries usually neglect ea sub oculis posita (8.20.1):80 Thereby, he probably not only refers to real marvels of nature in Italy, but a rhetorically educated reader might also notice that the epistolographer on a meta-literary level announces a locorum descriptio in his letter.81 Pliny,

79 On Quintilian’s discussion of phantasia and enargeia, see Watson 1994, 4774–4777; Otto 2009, 108–127; Webb 2009, 87–106. 80 Cf. Arist. Rhet. 1411 b 24  ff. on the art of πρὸ ὀμμάτων ποιεῖν. 81 A similar strategy can be observed in letter 5.6, as Chinn 2007 argues.

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who asserts to have seen the place himself (8.20.3 audivi partier et vidi), through his narrative skills turns his readers into eyewitnesses too.

Conclusion Apart from providing their addressees with entertaining stories, letters on miracles and wonders play an important role within Pliny’s larger project of self-fashioning. As I hope to have shown, these texts are deliberately arranged within the books and help to characterize Pliny’s political, scientific and literary persona: Accounts of dreams are part of a larger political narrative and show us a Pliny who almost became a victim of Domitian’s regime (7.27), as a young man neither feared the emperor’s powerful friends (1.18) nor could be discouraged by a dreadful dream and after Domitian’s death turned into an avenger of the regime’s victims and a nightmare for Domitian’s henchmen. Apart from political issues, Pliny emphasises his scientific curiosity (especially in the correspondence with Licinius Sura) when he asks for explanations both for dreams (7.27) and miracles of nature (4.30). In this context anxious individuals such as Suetonius (1.18) and Fannius (5.5) on the one hand and fearless characters such as the elder Pliny (3.5 and 6.16) or Athenodorus (7.27), who show a more rational attitude, on the other hand seem to serve as foils for Pliny’s self-depiction as a rationalist. It is at the very end of the cycle dealing with dreams and visions (9.13) where we learn that instead of the question whether a dream is truthful or not it is the exemplary potential of a dream-narrative which is important. Regarding the topography of miracles and wonders it is striking that phenomena which one might consider as extraordinary, incredible or even irrational are situated outside Rome and Italy in more remote regions: Curtius Rufus experiences his supernatural vision in Africa, Athenodorus encounters the uncanny ghost in Athens and the dolphin-miracle is located in Africa too (7.27; 9.33).82 Thus Pliny creates a distance between himself and such occurences and also reinforces the impression of remoteness through the emphasis on hearsay in the respective letters (7.27.2: audio accedisse; 4: exponam, ut accepi; 9.33.1: dum super cenam varia miracula hinc inde referuntur). Besides, descriptions of miracles of nature also shed light on Pliny’s self-awareness as a writer: Through these texts he competes both with his uncle and other contemporaries such as Tacitus and 82 Cf. Naas 2011, 63: “Usually, mirabilia are located far from the centre, which is part of their status; what is far away can be unknown or vague and the confrontation with it arouses surprise and wonderment.”



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Caninius Rufus:83 While letters 6.16, 6.20 and 9.33 pretend to provide only raw material for more elaborate accounts they actually can be read as literary masterpieces themselves. Finally, the ekphraseis of mirabilia give Pliny the opportunity to display his skills in creating enargeia; thereby he turns the absent addressees (and general readers) into beholders and witnesses by enabling them to gaze at the marvels of nature with their mind’s eye.

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83 And of course he also competes with canonical writers: Letters 6 16 and 6.20, for example, are full of allusions to Virgil’s Aeneid and provide a kind of epistolary Troiae halosis; cf. Marchesi 2008, 171–189.

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Rocchi, S. (2015), “Plinius, Brief 8,17: Eine Überschwemmung des Tiber und des Aniene – Text, Textkritik und Intertextualität”, Gymnasium 122, 389–402. Römer, F. (1987), “Vom Spuk zur Politik. Der Gespensterbrief des Jüngeren Plinius”, WHB 29, 26–36. Russell, D. A. (2001), Quintilian, The Orator’s Education, Cambridge, Mass.–London. Sallmann, K. (1984), “Der Traum des Historikers: Zu den ʽBella Germaniaeʼ des Plinius und zur julisch-claudischen Geschichtsschreibung”, ANRW II 32.1, 578–601. Saylor, C. (1982), “Overlooking Lake Vadimon: Pliny on Tourism (Epist. 8.20)”, CPh 77 (2), 139–144. Scheiter, K. (2012), “Images, Appearances, and Phantasia in Aristotle”, Phronesis 57, 251–278. Schenk, P. (1999), “Formen von Intertextualität im Briefkorpus des jüngeren Plinius”, Philologus 143, 114–134. Schwerdtner, K. (2015), Plinius und seine Klassiker. Studien zur literarischen Zitation in den Pliniusbriefen, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 340, Berlin–Boston. Shannon, K. E. (2013), “Authenticating the Marvellous: Mirabilia in Pliny the Younger, Tacitus and Suetonius”, Working Papers in Nervan, Trajanic and Hadrianic Literature 1.9 (6/6/13). Shelton, J.-A. (1987), “Pliny’s Letter 3.11: Rhetoric and Autobiography”, C&M 38, 121–139. Sherwin-White, A. N. (1966), The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford. Stevens, B. (2009), “Pliny and the Dolphin – or a Story about Storytelling”, Arethusa 42, 161–179. Tzounakas, S. (2007), “Neque enim historiam componebam: Pliny’s first Epistle and his Attitude towards Historiography”, MH 64, 42–54. Walde, C. (2001), Die Traumdarstellungen in der griechisch-römischen Dichtung, Munich. Watson, G. (1994), “The Concept of ‘Phantasia’ from the Late Hellenistic Period to Early Neoplatonism”, ANRW II.36.7, 4765–4810. Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice, Farnham–Burlington (= 2012). Whitton, C. (2012), “‘Let us tread our path together’: Tacitus and the Younger Pliny” in: V. E. Pagán (ed.), A Companion to Tacitus, Malden, Mass., 345–368. – (2013a), Pliny the Younger, Epistles Book 2, Cambridge. – (2013b), “Trapdoors: The Falsity of Closure in Pliny’s Epistles”, in: F. F. Grewing/B. AcostaHughes/A. Kirichenko (eds.), The Door Ajar: False Closure in Greek and Roman Literature and Art, Heidelberg, 43–61. – (2015), “Grand Designs/Unrolling Epistles 2”, in: Marchesi (2015), 109–143. Zucker, F. (1929), “Plin. ep. VIII 24. Ein Denkmal antiker Humanität”, Philologus 84, 209–232.

Charles Delattre

Paradoxographic discourse on sources and fountains: deconstructing paradoxes Abstract: I will focus on paradoxographic descriptions in order to define these as a literary construct in which the persona of the author – the way he asserts himself as a provider of information – is at least as important as the extraordinary nature of what he describes. I will furthermore deny that “marvelous” (thaumaston) or “strange” (paradoxon) can be understood directly as a theme, topic or fact. In my view, the paradoxographic quality of the text will be the result of how the description is accomplished, not of what is described. Using the special case of sources and fountains, we will see how their peculiarities, as well as their implication in some rituals, create a topos that is both referential (it is precisely located in some part of the world) and rhetorical (it obeys certain features that cannot be explained by referentiality). The author of a paradoxographic text will be prominent in this analysis: he is the one who creates the conditions under which we are supposed to react, as we say, “this is indeed paradoxon.”

Introduction* Much work has been done since Westermann’s seminal edition of the Paradoxagraphoi in 1839, particularly in recent years. Detailed studies on wonders in Herodotus have been offered by Rosaria Vignolo Munson1 and Rosalind Thomas,2 and on thauma by Christine Hunzinger.3 Thematic links between what is new and what is an object of awe or wonder have been recently highlighted by D’Angour, who also pointed out4 the importance of the visual experience in the definition of what is thaumastos: thauma could be called, in the wording of Anti-

* It is my pleasure to thank Alexander Brock, who revised the English version of this text for the final publication. 1 Vignolo Munson 2001. 2 Thomas 2000, 135–167. 3 Hunzinger 1993; Hunzinger 1995; Hunzinger 2005. 4 D’Angour 2011, 148–149. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-012

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pater of Thessalonica, a “new vision brought by accident” (καινὸν ὅραμα τύχης).5 The recent study of the whole corpus by Irene Pajón Leyra6 has demonstrated in an exemplary manner how tempting it is to define paradoxography as a genre and how difficult it can be to restrict complex sets of practices to this modern concept.7 I will therefore adopt a very large definition of paradoxography and will treat it as a discursive practice embedded in an extensive corpus.8 Such a definition will allow me to characterize paradoxographic descriptions as a literary construct in which the persona of the author – the way he asserts himself as a provider of information – is at least as important as the extraordinary nature of what he describes. I will furthermore deny that “marvellous” (thaumaston) or “strange” (paradoxon) can be understood directly as a theme, topic or fact. In my view, the paradoxographic quality of the text will be the result of how the description is accomplished: something is a wonder not because of what it is, but as a result of how it is described. We will see, in the particular case of sources and fountains, how the peculiarities of these, as well as their implication in some rituals, create a topos that is both referential (it is precisely located in some part of the world) and rhetorical (it obeys certain features that cannot be explained by referentiality). The author of a paradoxographical text will be prominent in this analysis: he is the one who creates the conditions under which we are supposed to react, as we say, “this is indeed paradoxon.”

Thauma and phusis Thauma (“wonder”) and paradoxon (“extraordinary”) are used by moderns as criteria to define a paradoxographic statement: they qualify an object, a plant, a

5 I adopt here Jacobs’ correction to the κοινόν of the manuscript tradition, as do P. Waltz and alii in the French Budé edition, or H. Beckby at Heimeran. The correction is not accepted in the Loeb edition by W. R. Paton. 6 See Pajón Leyra 2011. 7 The diversity of paradoxographic enunciates is an obstacle in defining a unified paradoxographic corpus, from which we could infer the existence of a paradoxographic genre. Following Rosenmeyer 2006, 426–437, I consider that what we regard as a literary genre, i. e. an abstract systematization of narratologic and thematic characteristics, was not defined as such in Antiquity. Paradoxographic texts develop through imitation of previous writers and reformulation, not through adaptation of an ideal model. This helps us to understand that rhetoric of paradoxon and thauma can be found outside of the canonical paradoxographic corpus. 8 Hardie 2009 is an example of how far you can stretch the paradoxographic corpus, in this case to Augustan poetry.

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stone, a place that can be found in the real world or an event that really happened. The verb thaumazō, for which I know no good translation in modern western languages,9 expresses the feeling of someone who finds the object or place. Paradoxography is therefore the result of a surprise felt by the author himself in front of reality, a surprise he wants to share with his readers. I would like slightly to modify this definition by stressing the importance of thauma and paradoxon as words and as elements in a rhetorical strategy. They are not only themes that we can apply to a description or object, they are also part of the paradoxographical text, whether explicitly or by suggestion. The paradoxographer can be defined primarily as the one who says, “this is paradoxon,” the one who designates an event or a place as thauma. This means that the writer defines himself as the one who is able to distinguish between what is usually expected and what is extraordinary, as the one who judges what belongs to doxa (“common law”) and what does not. Through his evaluation, the writer thus constructs an authoritative figure who imposes his perceptions and definitions on his readers. Finally, the writer furthermore creates a temporary auctorial figure who interacts of course with paradoxographers and mythographers,10 as well as with botanists, geographers, and historians. Defining thauma as “marvelous” therefore poses a problem: what is the precise relationship between paradoxography and ancient studies on nature? Is there a link between paradoxon, “extraordinary”, and para phusin, “unnatural” or “supernatural”? Is paradoxography a form of writing about what exceeds the boundaries of phusis? Quite the contrary, in my opinion. We will see that thauma does not imply the sudden presence of supernatural forces, and therefore is in no way equivalent to “miracle” in ancient texts. Although our paradoxographers may have had philosophical knowledge, their texts lack a profound investigation of philosophical themes. Their phusis is not usually the one explored, for example, by the Presocratics, who discussed three related notions embedded within this concept: origin, development and result.11 When a paradoxographer mentions phusis, he refers to a set of common 9 “To wonder” or “to marvel” seem to me of less frequent use than θαυμάζω. The best equivalent would be “for me this is thauma!”, with the feeling expressed by the exclamation mark. 10 A. Westermann played a fundamental role in distinguishing and defining in a very clearcut way paradoxographers and mythographers with his editions of 1839 and 1843 (about which, see briefly Delattre 2013, 93): the corpus he established has been substantially modified only in recent times by Pajón Leyra 2011 and by the European Polymnia project (http://polymnia. recherche.univ-lille3.fr/). 11 See for example Naddaf 2005, who identifies Anaximander as the one who first wrote a historia peri phuseōs. For the importance of the archē theme in discussions about the world and the gods, see, for example, Epicharmus, 23B1 Diels & Kranz = Fr 275 Kassel & Austin, commented by D’Angour 2011, 119.

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knowledge, to something considered as acceptable without discussion. Phusis is the result of a process, but more than that, it is something that is not refutable. It is both a thematic concept – the order of things, akin to kosmos – and a discursive one – something a reader accepts without reservations. From a rhetorical point of view, it is similar to expressions such as eikos esti (“in all likelihood”), whose goal is to create a community of expectations between author and reader. Yet, even if phusis, “what nature offers to us”, and doxa, “what we know of nature”, define common expectations, the two notions differ precisely in the paradoxographic text: the paradoxographer points out elements of the world that belong to phusis, but are contrary to doxa.12 While paradoxon and its correlate thaumaston define the paradoxographer’s point of view, the expression para phusin never occurs in the paradoxographic texts. A paradoxographer denies the fact that what he describes is apiston, “unbelievable” – he challenges in fact the mere idea of apiston. His text is tailored to transform what some would precisely think to be apiston into piston, “trustworthy”, giving credit and faith to the writer: what is there to see actually belongs to phusis.13 Plutarch nicely encapsulates the whole author/reader paradoxographic complex in a sentence that includes thauma, vision, piston and authority. As he says,14 one should feel no mere surprise (thauma) when confronted with spiders’ webs. (…) You have really to see and watch (opsis, thea) the thing every day to believe it (piston). Otherwise you would think it is only an unfounded tale (muthos).

12 This is something that is alluded to by Krevans 2011, 125, if I understand her well. In the same page, she defines as “basic principles of paradoxography,” the fact that “marvels are natural” and that they are “supposedly unnatural phenomenon.” Her “supposedly” could implicitly give room to the complex dialogue between the author and his reader on what is nature and what is not. 13 A similar definition of phusis is the one used by some mythographers who explicitly define themselves as those who can reduce what is para phusin in the old tales and bring these to what is at the same time truth, origin and kata phusin. A well known example is Palaiphatos, whose preface is analyzed by Santoni 1998–1999; Trachsel 2005; Hawes 2014, 39–48. Para phusin is also explicit in the title of Heraclitus’ work, usually known as De incredibilibus; see the unpublished edition by Ramón García 2009. A similar stance is adopted by Pausanias (8.2.6–7) and by Strabo, who proclaims the importance of athaumastia, a form of resistance to credulity (I,3,16 = C57; I,3,21=C61, with reference to Democritus and the philosophers; see also Stobaeus, II, 7, 19, 60–65 Wachsmuth/Hense). There is an echo of antique athaumastia in C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces, 1956, chap. 22: the Queen wants to see a “natural hot spring,” “a curious work of nature.” But it happens that the hot spring (like all such rarities) was only “food for stupid wonder.” 14 Plutarch, De sollertia animalium, 966E & 967A: τὰ δ᾿ ἀράχνης ἔργα, κοινὸν ἱστῶν γυναιξὶ καὶ θήρας σαγηνευταῖς ἀρχέτυπον, οὐ καθ᾿ ἓν ἄν τις θαυμάσειε. (…) τῇ καθ᾿ ἡμέραν ὄψει καὶ θέᾳ τοῦ γιγνομένου πιστὸν ἔσχε τὸν λόγον, ἄλλως δ᾿ ἂν ἐδόκει μῦθος.

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Pausanias is a good guide in explaining these features.15 Although his Periegesis is not a paradoxographical catalogue or text, he adopts in some instances the auctorial posture of a paradoxographer: he certainly talks about wonders, and, more importantly, his assertive utterance creates the conditions under which something can be defined as thaumaston or not. As A. Jacquemin says, “geography by Pausanias is often a paradoxography.”16 Indeed, the word phusis is barely mentioned in his work, only appearing seven times. In four instances phusis refers basically to human nature.17 A fifth occurrence of phusis is to be found in Book V in an interesting discussion on animal teeth and horns: Pausanias asserts that “by nature, a tooth refuses to yield to fire; but fire turns the horns of oxen and elephants from round to flat, and also into other shapes.”18 We should note as a first point that the phusis of the teeth (and of the horns) here is clearly the result of a process: this is indicated twice in the surrounding text by the verb anaphuomai, “to grow”, based on the same root as phusis. And two more verbs with a similar sense occur in the same text: ekblastanō (“grow again”) and pareimi (“to be there”):19 horns drop off animals each year and grow again; the deer and the antelope undergo this experience, and so likewise does the elephant. But a tooth will never be found to grow again, at least after the animal is full-grown. So if the projections through the mouth were teeth and not horns, how could they grow up again? (…) However, the hippopotamus and the boar have tusks growing out of the lower jaw, but we do not see horns growing out of jaws.

15 Preztler 2007 is a brilliant introduction to Pausanias. For a bibliographical update, see the article by L. Langerwerf in this volume. 16 Jacquemin 1991, 123. 17 The expression ἀνθρωπίνη φύσις occurs in ΙV,4,7 (concerning what drives men to wrongdoing). See also ΙΙ,18,2 (concerning wicked men, with the example of Agamemnon and Aegisthus); VIII,27,12 (concerning ambition); Χ,22,4 (concerning men devoid of pity or love). Similar examples can be found in ps.-Aristot., De mirabilium auscultationibus, 830a and 831b, on animal nature. 18 V,12,2: οὐ μὴν οὐδὲ εἴκειν πυρὶ ἔχουσιν ὀδόντες φύσιν · κέρατα δὲ καὶ βοῶν καὶ ἐλεφάντων ἐς ὁμαλές τε ἐκ περιφεροῦς καὶ ἐς ἄλλα ὑπὸ πυρὸς ἄγεται σχήματα (transl. W. H. S. Jones/ H. A. Ormerod). 19 V,12,2: κέρατα γὰρ κατὰ ἐτῶν περίοδον ἀπογίνεται καὶ αὖθις ἐκβλαστάνει ζῴοις, καὶ τοῦτο ἔλαφοί τε καὶ δορκάδες, ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ οἱ ἐλέφαντες πεπόνθασιν. ὀδοὺς δὲ οὐκ ἔστιν ὅτῳ δεύτερα παρέσται ζῴῳ τῶν γε ἤδη τελείων  · εἰ δὲ ὀδόντες τὰ διὰ στόματος ἐξίσχοντα καὶ μὴ κέρατα ἦσαν, πῶς ἂν καὶ ἀνεφύοντο αὖθις ; (…) ποταμίοις γε μὴν ἵπποις καὶ ὑσὶν ἡ κάτωθεν γένυς τοὺς χαυλιόδοντας φέρει, κέρατα δὲ ἀναφυόμενα <οὐχ> ὁρῶμεν ἐκ γενύων. The translation by W. H. S. Jones and H. A. Ormerod has been slightly modified.

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My second point would be that the material structure of a tooth or horn is defined as given, just as ambition or cruelty in a man: there is no room for dissent. The phusin at the end of the sentence in Greek has special strength, and it is rightfully translated by W. H. S. Jones and H. A. Ormerod at the beginning of the English sentence: “by nature” (φύσιν) appears in the context of an almost gnomic expression, of an appeal to common knowledge. But phusis can also be used by Pausanias to pinpoint a special feature of something: “the Alpheius,” for instance, “differs from other rivers in exhibiting this natural peculiarity: it often disappears beneath the earth to reappear again.”20 In this case, there is no major surprise and this should not be mistaken for a strong paradoxographic example, as this feature of the Alpheius is “well known” or “evident” (phainetai). In addition, Pausanias has no difficulty describing its course, from Phylace to the Tegean plain, then from Asea to the stream Eurotas. The integration of the Alpheius into a precise landscape, where places are named without apparent embarrassment or discomfort, emphasizes the fact that the phusis of the river, albeit exceptional, is neither amazing nor unheard of. We might have the feeling that Pausanias generally downplays the paradoxographic part of his work, preferring to avoid the flamboyant posture of historians such as Ctesias. Pausanias explicitly defines his Periegesis at the end of his first book as a suggraphē, a “written composition” that combines selected elements. These elements were chosen because they are already well known (gnorimōtata) or perhaps should be famous.21 The author does not claim to be one who discovers new realms and wondrous features: he is merely the one who exposes that which, in his own opinion, deserves to be part of memory. The use of the noun phusis can be understood in two ways: either the readers already share with Pausanias the knowledge of what is to be seen in the Greek world and revel in a common memory, or they learn thanks to his Periegesis what there is to be seen and what should be recorded. Either way, the suggraphē is fundamental: the text designates and collects what can be said and what can be seen in the world, whether this be men’s works or landscapes. This is explicit in the definition of the Ionia region: Ionia has other things to record besides its sanctuaries and its climate. There is, for instance, in the land of the Ephesians the river Cenchrius, the nature of the mountain of Pion and the spring Halitaea. The land of Miletus has the spring Biblis, of whose love the poets have

20 VIII,54,2: φαίνεται δὲ ὁ Ἀλφειὸς παρὰ τοὺς ἄλλους ποταμοὺς φύσιν τινὰ ἰδίαν παρεχόμενος τοιάνδε · ἀφανίζεσθαί τε γὰρ κατὰ γῆς ἐθέλει πολλάκις καὶ αὖθις ἀναφαίνεσθαι. 21 Pausanias, I, 39, 3: τοσαῦτα κατὰ γνώμην τὴν ἐμὴν Ἀθηναίοις γνωριμώτατα ἦν ἔν τε λόγοις καὶ θεωρήμασιν, ἀπέκρινε δὲ ἀπὸ τῶν πολλῶν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὁ λόγος μοι τὰ ἐς συγγραφὴν ἀνήκοντα.



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sung. In the land of Colophon is the grove of Apollo, of ash-trees, and not far from the grove is the river Ales, the coldest river in Ionia.22

The river Ales should be mentioned because it is slightly exceptional, being the coldest in Iona, and the mountain of Pion has a special “nature” (phusis) that explains its inclusion in the Periegesis. But its appropriateness does not exclude it from what could be expected: it is Pausanias’ decision to mention it in the catalogue of what we should remember of Ionia that makes it special.

Authorship and authority, from vision to knowledge What happens therefore when Pausanias mentions something that explicitly exceeds what belongs to common knowledge or customary expectations? How does he describe what should be clearly understood by his readers as memorable and thaumaston? Do we have at last an example of what could be labeled as para phusin? Once again, we shall see that Pausanias relies on rhetorical procedures that allow him to state that what he describes is at the same time paradoxon and within the boundaries of phusis. In his description of the city of Mothone (Μοθόνη) in Messenia, the periegetes provides us with a very clear example of a paradoxographical catalogue.23 He first alludes to a sanctuary dedicated to Artemis and to a well where you can find water mixed with pitch (πίσση),24 similar in its aspect to myrrhon from Cyzica. Then he lists several examples where water is peculiar, whether by its colour or by its smell (χρόα καὶ ὀσμή): at the Thermopylai, water is of a particular shade of blue-grey (γλαυκότατον),25 and almost red like blood (ξανθὸν, οὐδέν τι ἀποδέον

22 VII,5,10: ἡ δὲ Ἰωνία παρὲξ τῶν τε ἱερῶν καὶ τῆς τοῦ ἀέρος κράσεως παρέχεται καὶ ἄλλα ἐς συγγραφήν, ἡ μέν γε Ἐφεσία χώρα τόν τε Κέγχριον ποταμὸν καὶ τοῦ Πίονος τοῦ ὄρους τὴν φύσιν καὶ πηγὴν τὴν Ἁλιταίαν · ἐν δὲ τῇ Μιλησίᾳ πηγή τέ ἐστι Βιβλὶς καὶ ὅσα ἐς τῆς Βιβλίδος τὸν ἔρωτα ᾄδουσιν  · ἐν δὲ τῇ Κολοφωνίων ἄλσος τε τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος, δένδρα μελίαι, καὶ οὐ πόρρω τοῦ ἄλσους Ἄλης ποταμὸς ψυχρότατος τῶν ἐν Ἰωνίᾳ (transl. W. H. S. Jones/H. A. Ormerod). 23 Paus. IV,35,8–9. 24 καὶ Ἀρτέμιδος δ᾿ ἱερόν ἐστιν ἐνταῦθα καὶ ὕδωρ ἐν φρέατι κεκραμένον πίσσῃ, Κυζικηνῷ μύρῳ μάλιστα ἰδεῖν ἐμφερές. 25 See Hdt. VII,176. The kolumbethra is probably the one paid for by Herodes Atticus (Philostr., VS, II, l, 9) and built on more ancient structures (see the commentary by J. Bousquet to the Corpus des Inscriptions de Delphes, II, n.43, 52–68).

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τὴν χρόαν αἵματος) in Ioppe in Judaea,26 black (μέλαν) in Astyra, in front of Lesbos island, and white (λευκόν) in Tivoli in Latium.27 Pausanias emphasizes the fact that he must be believed: he personally saw the water at the Thermopylai (οἶδα ὕδωρ θεασάμενος τὸ ἐν Θερμοπύλαις) and in Astyra (ὕδωρ ἰδὼν οἶδα ἐν Ἀστύροις). He probably also witnessed the peculiarities of the spring in Albunea, but does not need to dwell upon that. Remarkably, he declares that his list is complete, because he saw all springs that can be qualified as thauma (καὶ ὅσαις μὲν πηγαῖς θαῦμα ἰδεῖν κατ’ ἴδιόν τι, τοσαύτας θεασάμενος οἶδα).28 This is of course preposterous and cannot be taken at face value. Incidentally, it confirms links between vision and thauma: the sentence artfully combines knowledge and eye witness (θεασάμενος οἶδα) and stresses it by an old pun (ἰδεῖν / οἶδα) that happens also to be a correct etymology. Primarily, it must be understood – and I am sure his audience understood it in this way – as an authoritative gesture that confirms the validity of what was previously said. In addition, Pausanias ends his digression with two more strategic tools to assert his authoritative figure. First, he excludes minor examples that do not need to be told, because they are less impressive (τὰς γὰρ δὴ ἐλάσσονος θαύματος ἐπιστάμενος παρίημι). One can note the special allusion to the author’s authority, with the use of ἐπιστάμενος, “I know”. Second, he closes his list with two final examples that exceed the limits he first defined (they are ἀλλοῖα, “of a different kind”): near Daskylon, there is a spring with water “sweeter than milk” (πιεῖν καὶ γάλακτος ἥδιον);29 in Pozzuoli, you can find water that is both hot and acidic (θερμόν, ὀξύ).30 Modern commentaries tend to emphasize how natural these springs are, and seek to establish equivalents between antique designations and contemporary understandings of the laws of physics. Such is not the posture adopted by Pausanias here, but neither does he say explicitly that these springs exceed the boundaries of phusis. On the one hand, the peculiarities that Pausanias highlights (hot springs, exceedingly salty water, etc.) identify the springs as wonders and apparently motivate their inclusion in Pausanias’ discussion. On the other hand, sources and fountains in this paradoxographical description  – or better said, qualification – can be considered as very ordinary: the elements that define them are remarkable only because they appear seldomly, not because they are

26 See Plin. HN V,69; Jos. Ant. Iud. III,9,3; Str. XVI,2,28 = C 759. 27 See Martial, I,13,1; Str. V,3,1 = C 238; Vitr. De arch. VIII,3,2 Plin. HN XXXI,10. 28 There is a philological problem here, as the V manuscript has καὶ ἰδόντι and the FP manuscripts καὶ ἰδόν τι. We follow here the Budé edition by M. Casevitz, with translation and commentaries by J. Auberger. 29 See also Ath. II,43a. 30 See also Varro, Ling. V,25; Plin. HN XXI,4; Str. V,4,5 = C 245.



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impossible. Wondrous sources and fountains seem to be extraordinary, but they are not supernatural and they still operate within the limits of the known world. They are statistically exceptional, but they are not contrary to physical logic. Therefore a paradoxographical catalogue can be said to be itself a paradoxon, at least from our point of view: what is “wondrous” (thauma) should not be labeled here as “incredible” (apiston) or “against nature” (para phusin).31 Paradoxography is not literature about miracles. The definition of the springs’ characteristics confirms this point. When Pausanias talks of extraordinary springs, he qualifies them as having something in excess in comparison with normal water. They are either too sweet or too acidic, too hot or too cold, or black, red or blue. Normal water – at least what statistics help us to define as normal water  – shares none of these physical properties. Neither acidic nor sweet, neither hot nor cold, neither black, red, or blue, water defines an aurea mediocritas: it is tepid, colorless, odourless and tasteless. A consequence of this is that water that is not thauma is almost completely neutral, or impossible to describe through positive rhetorical tools. Texts generally do not mention it, because there is nothing to say about it, and because there are no words to qualify or describe it positively. It belongs to a communal and shared experience, to the background, and never comes to the forefront. To sum up the preceding discussion, Pausanias uses rhetorical devices, as all paradoxographers do, to impose the idea that the elements of his catalogue are worth seeing and remembering. He is the one who selects, and is the one who qualifies what he mentions in order to create the idea that his reader should consider these elements as thaumasta. But he does not transform the extraordinary into the supernatural: his paradoxographical definitions combine elements that are characteristics of phusis. It is well known that many monsters in antique descriptions of iconography result from a combination, from the unification in one body of body parts originating in various animals, or in animals and men.32 The wondrous qualities of springs either result from a similar combination (the water can be hot and acidic) or maximise the expression of a natural property (hot, cold, etc.). This means that wondrous springs are “monstrous”, being at the same time hybrids, worthy of mention and deserving of memory.33 Nonetheless, as all monsters do, they belong to the physical world. 31 For a similar position, see Aristot. Mete. 338a–339a, with the commentary by Pajón Leyra 2011, 244–245: kata phusin is explicitly used in the text. 32 For an innovative interpretation of monsters as hybrids, both in text and iconography, see Govers-Hopman 2012 on Scylla. For non hybrid, abnormal and deformed monsters, see Lenfant 1999 and Gevaert/Laes 2013. 33 On the semantics of monstrum as “what is to be shown”, see for example Moussy 1977.

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Describing oracular springs Sources which are not wondrous per se are also included in paradoxographical lists, if they are the locus of rituals that seem to exceed the limits of the day-to-day world: this is particularly true of oracular sources which could be seen, as with the crossroads, as “liminal points or transitional gaps between defined, bounded areas.”34 The paradox developed by the writer results therefore in a wording which is at least threefold: we have the designation of the spring, with characteristics that can be either normal or extraordinary, the description of the rituals that take place there and the qualification of the complex set of data as paradoxon and thauma. In some cases, the spring is by itself extraordinary and its peculiarities explain the ritual action that takes place there, or at least give their shape to it. We can take for example what the pseudo-Aristotelian De mirabilium auscultationibus says about a spring in Tyana.35 The text can be divided into three components. First occurs a description of the spring: the water is both cold (ψυχρά) and boiling (παφλάζει), “as with a cauldron” (ὥσπερ οἱ λέβητες),36 which means that this spring is by itself remarkable and can be labeled as thauma. Second, the oracular ritual that is linked to the spring distinguishes between valid oath and perjury: the water is “sweet and favorable” (ἡδύ τε καὶ ἵλεων) to those whose oaths are true, but “falls on the eyes, the hands and the feet” (ἀποσκήπτει γὰρ καὶ εἰς ὀφθαλμοὺς καὶ εἰς χεῖρας καὶ εἰς πόδας) of those committing perjury. Third, the corporal punishment for perjurers is by itself a paradox: the water of the spring causes at the same time water retention (ὕδερος), and consumption (φθόη), as if by fire. Both qualities of the water, coldness and boiling, determine therefore the nature of the punishment.37 The paradoxographical text, which aims at creating the feeling that the spring and its ritual are worth recording, is based first of all on a polarized description.38 In our case, the hybrid nature of the spring, both cold and boiling, resolves itself into two possibilities for those who take an oath there. The spring’s qualities, the ritual action and the destiny of those who are submitted to the oracle obey polarized features that are either spectacularly united or emphatically opposed.

34 Johnston 1991, 217. 35 Ps.-Aristot. De Mirabilium auscultationibus 152 (= 845b–846a); see Philostr. VA I,6. 36 See also Plin. HN XXXI,23: Amnis Olcas… uelut flammam urentem. 37 There is to perjury  another consequence that is not linked to the water’s nature: people who commit this crime are not able anymore to leave the spring and simply stay there (αὐτόθι ἔχονται), as a new Tantalus. 38 See Lloyd 1966, even if he ascribed the polarity phenomenon to “thought” rather than to “rhetoric.”



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What is thaumaston in this description is the combination of spring and ritual: the oracular procedure that takes place here clearly reflects the nature of the spring. It is therefore tempting to understand the ritual as a consequence of the spring’s characteristics, to interpret the features of the spring as realistic and to try to identify this fountain, leaving aside what would seem impossible in the ritual or rationalizing the uncomfortable details of the punishment. But I would like to avoid such a path and rather embrace the possibility that the ritual is as real as the spring, or, better said, that the paradoxographical text is a rhetorical device whose link with reality cannot be established according to rationalistic principles. Once again, we cannot neglect the authoritative utterance of the paradoxographer who organizes his text to promote himself as he who says “this is paradoxon”: the consequences of the ritual are clearly mimetic of the qualities of the spring. The three parts of the description cannot be isolated; they reflect each other and, once combined, are evidently based on a similar rhetorical device. The paradoxographic text does not describe the whole reality, but rather creates a memorable locus by obeying the laws of ancient rhetoric, not of scientific or ethnographic description. It is first and foremost an ekphrasis. As Ruth Webb reminds us in a recent book,39 ancient ekphrasis is not modern description. First of all, it is not specialized in the description of an object: for Theon, events (pragmata), persons (prosopa), places (topoi), times (chronoi) and the manner in which something is done (tropos) are possible subjects for ekphrasis.40 The combination of topos and pragmata helps us to understand the relationship between spring and ritual in the paradoxographical passage: the description of the spring can be achieved effectively through the description of the ritual that takes place at the spring. If the ritual mirrors the spring, and the spring the ritual, both ritual and spring stand as a possible exemplification of the holistic complex involved in the paradoxon. Second of all, ekphrasis is not defined in ancient grammatical theories by its subject, but by its effect: it is “a descriptive utterance that brings the subject matter vividly before the eyes,” as Theon puts it.41 This means that accuracy, a precise mapping of the place and an exact rendering of the ritual logic are not that in which the writer and his audience are interested.42 According to ancient rhetorical theory, an ekphrasis of an oracular spring would create a mental image that represents holistically the 39 Webb 2009. 40 Webb 2009, 55–56 and Appendix B, 213–214. 41 Theon, Progymnasmata 118, l.7: ἔκφρασις ἐστὶ λόγος περιηγηματικὸς ἐναργῶς ὑπ᾿ ὄψιν ἄγων τὸ δηλούμενον. 42 It is now well known that the modern notion of “ritual” does not have an equivalent in the ancient Greek language. See for example Calame 1991, 196–203.

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complex combination of place and ritual, with the aim of conveying interest and specifically the kind of emotion apt to be expressed by the witness of a thauma. The surprise experienced by the audience is a consequence of the paradoxon described by the author – but we could also say the opposite: that the surprise achieved through rhetorical devices (polarity, authority) guarantees that the text is paradoxographical. The paradoxographical quality of the description is a result of the emotion built by the writer and experienced by the audience. Another important point that should be stressed is that descriptions of oracular springs and their rituals are based on a small set of rhetorical tools and features. As we will see, the organisation of the ritual action as a whole and the use of the spring as locus for the ritual seem to impose on the description a basic structure, beyond any differences between specific rituals. Even if the details of the concerned rituals change from place to place, we will be able to identify in the texts we have selected for our study a common schema, an archetypal model. This means that if we leave aside what really took place at the springs and what specific shape they had in order to focus on the discursive definition of oracular fountains, the paradoxographical descriptions show them to be ideal literary constructs. The spring at Tyana has been defined as a place where ritual practitioners undergo a punishment or a reward that is in some way mimetic of the place where the ritual has been practiced. It belongs to a corpus where circles and axes, boundaries and polarities between up and down organize the description of the ritual action, give shape to the place and create a well-ordered space not dissimilar to, one could say, the geography of Plato’s Atlantis, or of Tolkien’s descriptions.43

Polarity and geometrical space We saw how marvelous springs, in some instances, combine physical characteristics such as “hot” and “acidic” and therefore unify what is usually distinguished or even on opposite sides of a spectrum. Indeed, we have indicated that the defi43 For Plato’s Atlantis, see Vidal-Naquet 1981, 316; for geographical structure in Tolkien, see for example Delattre 2007, 305–306 about Númenor. The harmonious and geometrical features of Atlantis’ landscape are interpreted by Gill 1977, 296–297, in his discussion on the story’s status (or “genre”, as he calls it): they help to define the tale as a “politico-philosophical myth constructed out of historical ingredients.” The spatial characteristics of Atlantis are not included in Fredericks 1978, whose attempt to point to earlier New Eastern myths is less than convincing. More on the Atlantis’ status can be found in Gill 1979, to be compared with Morgan 1998’s insistence on fourth-century ideology.



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nition of a polarized spectrum is a discursive strategy that aims at defining what is normal  – springs that possess only one of the polarized qualities, such has “reasonably hot” or “cold”, “neutral” or “acidic”  – and what is extraordinary, either by excess (“very hot”) or by combination (“hot” and “acidic”). In the case of springs that are not wondrous per se, but only because of what takes place in their surroundings, such rhetorical devices cannot be used by the paradoxographer: the spring cannot be remarkable because of what or how it is, but because of what takes place there. Therefore the polarized spectrum will not be applied to the spring’s nature, but to the spring’s shape. Geometrical polarity defined by the ritual – as described by the text – will transform an oracular spring into a thauma. A remarkable example can be found in the Life of Isidorus by the philosopher Damascius,44 in the early sixth century AD: there is in Arabia a spring whose water might come from the Styx. The description of the spring focuses not on the combination of water and fire, but of high and low: there is a “chasm that leads to the abysses” (χάσμα εἰς ἄβυθον), but also a way down (κάθοδος), a long descent of fifteen stadia, that leads to a friendly plain (ἐν τῷ διαδεχομένῳ αὐλῶνι). The spring seems to start at the summit (τὸ ἄκρον) and releases water into the chasm; the water falls down from a great height (διὰ τὴν ἀπὸ πολλοῦ ὕψους), then rebounds up high (εἶτα αὖ πάλιν εἰς τὸ κάτω συμπηγνυμένων) before finally collecting again down below (πάλιν εἰς τὸ κάτω). Both the flow of the water and the dimensions of the chasm are defined by the writer as something worth seeing (θέαμα) that induces in the witness awe and terror (ἔργον σεμνὸν καὶ φρικῶδες): Damascius defines with these words what he intends to convey, a mental image whose effect on the audience is more important than the precise mapping of the place. Then takes place the description of the ritual, which reenacts the elements used for the creation of the mental image of the spring. People throw offerings into the water and take an oath, and certain consequences follow. On the one hand, when the gods look favorably upon dedicators (εὐμενῶς), the offerings sink straight to the bottom (καταδύεται εἰς ἄβυθον), even if they are light (ἐλαφρά). On the other hand, offerings are rejected and float on the water (ἐπιπολάζει καὶ εἰς τὸ ἐκτὸς ἀποπτύεται) when the gods do not accept them, even if they are heavy (βαρύτατα). It is evident that the ritual and what follows, acceptance or punishment, are based on the polarity high/low and are therefore mimetic of the description of the place, as is the case with the Tyana spring. Once again,

44 Damascius, Life of Isidorus, 135B Athanassiadi = 199 Henry (Photius, Bibl., [Cod. 242], 347b–348a).



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Those offerings that are accepted go deep into the waters until they reach the bottom. Offerings that are denied by the gods are thrown and follow the same path, and then go back along this path in reverse, rebounding finally on the surface. This is exactly what Pausanias45 writes about a small lake in Laconia, in the vicinity of Epidauros Limera: people throw, on the occasion of the festival of Ino,46 “barley cakes” (ἀλφίτων μάζας) into the water. If the lake keeps the offering, it is a good omen, but woe to him whose offering “is returned” (ἀναπέμψαιτο): “this is indeed a bad sign for him” (πονηρὸν κέκριται σημεῖον). Another famous example is provided by the Palici in Sicily, as described by the pseudo-Aristotelian De mirabilium auscultationibus:47 There is also a form of oath, which is considered to be sacred there; whatever oaths a man swears he writes on a little tablet, and throws into the water. If therefore he swears truly, the tablet floats on the top; but if he swears falsely, they say that the tablet grows heavy and disappears, while the man is burnt. Wherefore the priest takes security from him that some one shall purify the temple.

A case study: a ritual at Patras We are now equipped with better tools to understand a peculiar description of an oracular spring, specialized for sick people, that Pausanias found near a sanctuary of Demeter at Patras.48 As in the previous cases, we should not qualify the text as “description”, but as ekphrasis: the geographer gives only selected details in order to provide us with a mental image, almost abstract, which gives us an idea of the ritual but prevents us from reenacting it. Pausanias first distinguishes between outside and inside the temenos of the spring: a “wall made of stones” (λίθων αἱμασιά), which belongs to the spring,

45 Paus. III,23,8. 46 Ino is honoured in several Peloponnesian sanctuaries: see Paus. III,24,4; 26,1; 26,4; 19,3. 47 Ps.-Aristot. De Mirabilium auscultationibus 57 (= 834b) = Steph. Byz. 496–497, s. v. Παλική: ἔστι δὲ καὶ ὅρκος, ὃς ἅγιος αὐτόθι δοκεῖ εἶναι· ὅσα γὰρ ὄμνυσί τις, γράψας εἰς πινακίδιον ἐμβάλλει εἰς τὸ ὕδωρ. ἐὰν μὲν οὖν εὐορκῇ, ἐπιπολάζει τὸ πινακίδιον· ἐὰν δὲ μὴ εὐορκῇ, τὸ μὲν πινακίδιον βαρὺ γενόμενον ἀφανίζεσθαί φασι, τὸν δ᾿  ἄνθρωπον πίμπρασθαι. διὸ δὴ λαμβάνειν τὸν ἱερέα παρ᾿ αὐτοῦ ἐγγύας ὑπὲρ τοῦ καθαίρειν τινὰ τὸ ἱερόν. There are other versions of the ritual and its consequences, among them an interesting one given by Polemon, FHG, III, Fr 83 (Macrob. V,19,26–29). 48 Paus. VII,21,12–13. The spring seems identical to the modern St. Andreas spring that can be found in an underground room in the southwest of Patras.

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separates it from the sanctuary of Demeter. The wall is a border and a channel, as it allows a path “from the outside” (κατὰ τὸ ἐκτὸς) to “come down” (κάθοδος) to the spring. The place is cut away from the everyday world and at the same time allows people to access it. Some oracular sources, Pausanias says, reveal to the inquirer an image on their surface: such is the case in Lycia near Cyanea, with the oracle of Apollo Thyrxeus who “gives to him who looks into it all the images that he wants.”49 We might add as well that one of the magical papyri edited by K. Preisendanz (PGM, IV, 222–242) gives a recipe to create your own oracular basin or pool: just take a pan or a cup, pour some water (sea water, river water or spring water, according to the gods you invoke), add some olive oil and say a prayer. The god will reveal itself as a vision in the water and will answer your questions.50 The ritual applied in Patras is more complicated, because it operates through a mirror (κάτοπτρον). When the ritual ends, after some prayers to Demeter and the burning of incense, the mirror shows the image of the sick pilgrim, dead or alive, and gives therefore a definite answer to the patient. What is paradoxon relies in the capacity of the mirror to reflect something else than what is presented to it: the eidolon reveals the true destiny – or nature – of he who looks into the mirror, as it defines him as a walking dead or as a perfectly living person. In order to achieve this remarkable feat, the mirror must come into contact with the spring itself, but with special care: it is attached to a small rope (καλῳδίῳ), then is let down until it reaches the surface. But the mirror is not immersed, “it does not sink into the spring” (μὴ πρόσω καθικέσθαι τῆς πηγῆς): the water is allowed “to touch only the edge of the mirror” (ὅσον ἐπιψαῦσαι τοῦ ὕδατος τῷ κύκλῳ τοῦ κατόπτρου). The ritual has been defined as catoptromantic, and some scholars have provided us with similar examples.51 But to define it as a religious category misses the point of Pausanias’ text. The details he has selected do not convey the complete religious procedure, nor can they be understood as a recipe similar to what 49 Paus. ibid.: παρέχεται δὲ ὕδωρ τὸ πρὸς ταῖς Κυανέαις ἔσω ἐνιδόντα τινὰ ἐς τὴν πηγὴν ὁμοίως πάντα ὁπόσα θέλει θεάσασθαι. Apollo Thyrxeus is the Greek adaptation of the theonym Turaxssa(d)i Natri: Tituli Asiae Minoris, 44 c, 47–48. 50 σκέψις · ἐπειδάν ποτε βούλει σκέψασθαι περὶ πραγμάτων, λαβὼν ἄγγος χαλκοῦν, ἢ λεκάνην ἢ φιάλην, οἵαν ἐὰν βούλῃ, βάλε ὕδωρ – ἐὰν μὲν τοὺς ἐπουρανίους θεοὺς κλῄζῃ, ζήνιον, ἐὰν δὲ τοὺς ἐπιγείους, θαλάσσιον, ἐὰν δὲ Ὄσιριν ἢ τὸν Σάραπιν, ποτάμιον, ἐὰν δὲ νέκυας, πηγαῖον – κατέχων ἐπὶ τοῖς γόνασι σκεῦος, ἐπιβαλὼν ἔλαιον ὀμφάκινον καὶ σὺ αὐτὸς ἐπικύπτων ἐν τῷ σκεύει λέγε τὸν λόγον τὸν ὑποκείμενον καὶ προσκαλοῦ, ὃν βούλει θεόν, καὶ ἐπερώτα, περὶ οὗ θέλεις, καὶ ἀποκριθήσεταί σοι καὶ ἐρεῖ σοι περὶ πάντων. ἐὰν δὲ εἴπῃ, ἀπόλυε αὐτὸν τῇ ἀπολύσει, ὃς τῷδε αὐτῷ λόγῳ χρώμενος θαυμάσεις. 51 Delatte 1932, 135–138 and 167–169; Frontisi-Ducroux/Vernant 1997, 194–195.



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is provided by the magical papyrus previously mentioned. The contact between the mirror and the water is the focus of the text: whereas offerings sink into the water or rebound, the mirror stays on the surface. The wording here is very important: the mirror is a circle (κύκλος) whose surface cannot touch the surface of the water, which itself is repeatedly compared to a circle too. The ritual, as understood by Pausanias, realizes a difficult balance with two circles (surface and mirror), which are poised with minimal contact and thus without any possibility of merging into each other. The visual effect the text achieves is one where geometric lines intersect to achieve a moment of suspension.

Tolkien’s readers will remember a similar device when Frodo is about to consult Galadriel’s Mirror, the elven oracle. The Queen-Sorceress repeatedly advises him not to touch the water that is kept in a spatial frame defined by the accumulation of concentric circles.52 To go back to Antiquity, we can now suggest a nuanced definition of paradoxography as a literary construct. The paradoxographical text seems to be defined not only by its topic or its subject, but by an authoritative gesture and by rhetorical tools. The emphasis we put on ekphrasis allowed us to characterize it as a structuring discourse: 1. Paradoxography uses an encoding system based on polarity (high/low, hot/cold) to present what is statistically exceptional (at least in the experience of the author), albeit enclosed within the boundaries of phusis. This encoding

52 Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, II, 7, “The Mirror of Galadriel”, with the commentary of Delattre 2004, 74–81 and 84–86.

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system can be translated into a basic image, a schematic drawing that focuses on the points perceived by the audience. 2. Paradoxographical discourse, particularly in the case of ekphrasis, does not provide the audience with a realistic image of the thauma described, and nor with information. It conveys rather a feeling of surprise that can be expressed by the schematic drawing that the encoding system allows to construct. 3. If there is any information in the paradoxographical discourse, it does not lie in the details of the description, but instead in its relationship with the encoding system and with the schematic drawing. That means that a paradoxographical text resonates with the entire paradoxographical corpus, as well as with the geographical, botanical, and scientific corpuses. 4. In this sense the paradoxographical author is both an individual identity, the result of an authoritative gesture that defines an ego, and the expression of the paradoxographical corpus itself. As he adopts the rhetorical tools and the structuration imposed by the paradoxographical utterance, he merges into a community: the community of those who claim to distinguish between “what is expected” (eikos) and “what is not expected” (thauma), of those who transform apista, “unbelievable”, into pista, “knowledge imposed by an authority”. 5. In a similar way, the audience is invited to participate, as people create schematized images based on the text they read or to which they listen. These images are supposed to mimic the image the author had in his own mind. In this sense paradoxographical discourse is a communal speech. Given the social conditions of literacy and erudition in Antiquity, especially in imperial times,53 it is, more precisely, an elite common speech.

Bibliography Calame, C. (1991), “Mythe et rite en Grèce: des catégories indigènes?”, Kernos 4, 179–204. D’Angour, A. (2011), The Greeks and the New. Novelty in Ancient Greek Imagination and Experience, Cambridge–New York. Delatte, A. (1932), La catoptromancie grecque et ses dérivés, Bibliothèque de la Faculté de philosophie et lettres de l’Université de Liège 48, Liège–Paris. Delattre, C. (2004), “Du Cycle de l’Anneau au Seigneur des Anneaux”, in: V. Ferré (ed.), Tolkien, trente ans après (1973–2003), Paris, 75–102. – (2007), “Númenor et l’Atlantide: une écriture en héritage”, RLC 323, 303–322. – (2013), “Pentaméron mythographique. Les Grecs ont-ils écrit leurs mythes?” Lalies 33, 77–170.

53 See for example Johnson 2012.

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Fredericks, S. C. (1978), “Plato’s Atlantis. A mythologist looks at myth”, in: E. S. Ramage (ed.), Atlantis. Fact or Fiction?, Bloomington (IN), 82–99. Frontisi-Ducroux, F./J.-P. Vernant (1997), Dans l’œil du miroir, Paris. Gevaert, B./C. Laes (2013), “What’s in a monster? Pliny the Elder, teratology and bodily disability”, in: C. Laes/C. F. Goodey/M. Lynn Rose (eds.), Disabilities in Roman Antiquity: Disparate Bodies “A Capite ad Calcem”, Mnemosyne Suppl. 356, Leiden–Boston, 211–230. Gill, C. (1977), “The Genre of the Atlantis Story”, CPh 72, Chicago, 287–304. – (1979), “Plato’s Atlantis story and the birth of fiction”, Philosophy and Literature 3, 64–78. Govers-Hopman, M. (2012), Scylla: myth, metaphor, paradox, Cambridge. Hardie, P. (ed.) (2009), Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture, Oxford. Hunzinger, C. (1993), “L’étonnement et l’émerveillement chez Homère: les mots de la famille de thauma”, REG 106, xvii–xix. – (1995), “Le θῶμα chez Hérodote”, Ktema 20, 47–70. – (2005), “La perception du merveilleux: thaumazô et théèomai”, in: L. Villard (ed.), Études sur la vision dans l’Antiquité classique, Rouen, 29–38. Jacquemin, A. (1991), “Les curiosités naturelles chez Pausanias”, Ktema 16, 123–130. Johnson, W. A. (2012), Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire. A Study of Elite Communities, Classical culture and society, Oxford–New York. Johnston, S. I. (1991), “Crossroads”, ZPE 88, 217–224. Lenfant, D. (1999), “Monsters in Greek Ethnography and Society in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC”, in: R. Buxton (ed.), From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Oxford, 197–214. Lloyd, G. E. R. (1966), Polarity and Analogy. Two types of argumentation in early Greek thought, Cambridge. Morgan, K. A. (1998), “Designer History. Plato’s Atlantis Story and Fourth-Century Ideology”, JHS 118, 101–118. Moussy, C. (1977), “Esquisse de l’histoire de monstrum”, REL 55, 345–369. Naddaf, G. (2005), The Greek Concept of Nature, Albany (NY). Pajón Leyra, I. (2011), Entre ciencia y maravilla: el género literario de la paradoxografía griega, Monografías de filología griega 21, Zaragoza. Pretzler, M. (2007), Pausanias: Travel Writing in Ancient Greece, Classical Literature and Society, London. Ramón García, D. (2009), Heraclit el Mitògraf. Edició crítica, traducció i comentari, Diss. Barcelona. Rosenmeyer, T. G. (2009), “Ancient literary genres. A mirage?”, in: A. Laird (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Ancient literary criticism, Oxford, 421–439. Santoni, A. (1998–1999), “Sulla prefazione del Περὶ ἀπίστων di Palefato”, Kleos 2/3, 9–18 Thomas, R. (2000), Herodotus in Context. Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Trachsel, A. (2005), “L’explication mythologique de Palaïphatos. Une stratégie particulière”, Maia 57, 543–556. Vidal-Naquet, P. (1981), “Étude d’une ambiguïté: les artisans dans la cité platonicienne”, in: P. Vidal-Naquet, Le chasseur noir, Paris, 289–316. Vignolo Munson, R. (2001), Telling Wonders. Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, imagination and persuasion in ancient rhetorical theory and practice, Farnham, Ashgate.

Karen ní Mheallaigh

Lucian’s Alexander: technoprophecy, thaumatology and the poetics of wonder ‘Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!’ The wizard of Oz (dir. R. Thorpe, 1939)* Abstract: This paper focuses on Lucian’s critique of the wonder-working of the second century CE prophet of Asclepius, Alexander of Abonouteichos, in Alexander or the False Prophet. It explores meta-literary depths of the essay which have not been scrutinized before. The analysis unfolds in three sections. In the first, Alexander emerges from an intertextual reading with Hippolytus’ polemic against magic (Ref. 4.28–42) as a creative innovator of the common magician’s repertoire, making his magic a cypher for Lucian’s own literary techniques. In the second section, I argue that Alexander’s ‘autophone’ oracles dramatize Lucian’s poetics in a particularly pointed way, embroiling author and subject in a dialogue of mutual exposure. Overlaps emerge between Lucian’s technoprophet and the discourse of Orakelkritik, which sharpen and lend nuance to Lucian’s attack, whilst comparison with Hero of Alexander’s mechanical wonders opens up a more ambivalent interpretation of the professed scepticism of both Lucian and his readers. Having examined the ways in which Lucian implicates himself in Alexander’s fraud, connections are explored with other Lucianic works-of-wonder such as Lover of lies, True Stories and the prolaliai, showing that magic and religious fraud are deeply connected with fiction in Lucian’s oeuvre. This lends uniquely rich complexity to Lucian’s thaumatology, since he meditates not only on the nature of wonders, but on the nature of reading about wonders as well.

Introduction Lucian is a thaumatologist, not just in the sense of one who discusses the nature of marvels, but in a deeper sense as a writer for whom wonder itself is a defining * I would like to express my warmest thanks to Maria Gerolemou for inviting me to contribute to this volume, and to Daniel Ogden for his expert advice on magical matters in particular. Translations throughout the article are my own, unless otherwise stated. This article was written whilst I was a Marie Curie research fellow at the Aarhus Institute of Advanced Studies, and I gratefully acknowledge both the funding and the resources of AIAS and Aarhus University https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-013

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characteristic. The thaumatological themes of credulity, illusion and deception permeate Lucian’s work.1 He is fascinated by wonder as a social phenomenon, especially in the form of the ‘holy man’ and magical charlatan (e.  g. Alexander, Death of Peregrinus), and as a literary phenomenon as well (e.  g. his satire and parody of Wundererzählungen in Lover of lies and True Stories respectively).2 Thaumatology acquires a programmatic meta-literary turn in the paradoxographical narratives of his prolaliai, which explore different responses to the marvellous. This paper focuses on Lucian’s critique of the magical practices and wonder-working of the second century CE prophet of Asclepius, Alexander of Abonouteichos, in Alexander or the False Prophet. Lucian’s essay has been scrutinized in its historical context, as a social satire, and as a source on ancient cult and religious behaviour.3 It has also been treated as a rhetorical showpiece, whose grounding in other texts and genres outweighs its basis in historical reality.4 My approach here will be different: rather than attempt to sort the ‘fact’ from the fiction (a trap which Lucian sets for the reader by inscribing his own name into the text), we must reckon with an interplay of the two.5 I wish to emphasize the meta-literary dimensions of Alexander which have not, to my knowledge,

1 ní Mheallaigh 2014 contextualizes Lucian explicitly within the strongly spectacular Wunderkultur of the imperial period, but does not treat Alex. in detail. 2 Ramelli 2015, focusing on Death of Peregrinus, explores the significant absence in Lucian’s work of the polarity between ‘holy man’ and ‘charlatan’ that is a central concern for apologetic writers. (I am very grateful to the author for sharing this article in advance of publication). On Lucian’s satire of religious charlatanry (including Alexander’s), see Hall 1981, 194–220. On the satire of wonder-narratives in Lover of lies, see Nesselrath 2013 and Bowie (2017), who identifies specific targets for Lucian’s parody. On the discourse of wonder in True Stories and his prolaliai, see discussion in Section 2 (ii) below. 3 The allusion to the death of Marcus Aurelius (Alex. 48) tells us that it was composed after 180 CE. Jones 1986, 133–148 provides socio-cultural contextualization of Lucian’s essay, though the date of Lucian’s visit to the shrine at Abonouteichos has since been revised to the late summer of 161 CE (Flinterman 1997). On the Glycon-cult, see Robert 1980, 393–421; Robert 1981; Lane Fox 1986, 241–50; Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 14–41; and, on serpent-cults in general in antiquity, Ogden 2013. For critical appraisal of Lucian’s depiction of popular religion, epiphany and divinatory practices in Alex., see Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 60–66; Dickie 2004 and Rostad 2011 respectively. Kent 2007 examines Lucian’s depiction of Alexander within the modern framework of narcissistic psychopathy. 4 Bompaire 1958, 614–621: parody of aretalogies of Pythagorean ‘holy man’ and Alexander the Great; Branham 1984: Alex. as parodic biography and 1989, 181–210: Alex. as parody of Epicurean attacks on religion. 5 In this, I follow the excellent model of Rostad 2011, who explores the ‘interplay of historicity and comical literary illusions’ (p. 207) in Lucian’s representation of Alexander’s divinatory ritual.

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been scrutinized in depth before. My analysis will suggest that there is a profound connection in Lucian’s work between real-life and literary practices, and that Lucian’s exposure of Alexander provokes us to think about that. The ‘Alexander’ of whom I speak, therefore, is resolutely the product of Lucian’s pen. Although I will suggest ways in which we might understand (Lucian’s depiction of) his activities, I make no attempt to map Alexander onto the historical person.6 Instead, I am interested precisely in what the representation can tell us about Lucian’s agenda. Exploring parallels between Lucian’s Alexander and his own authorial persona will uncover a new dimension to this satire: one that is not just directed outward at Alexander and his dupes, but rebounds on the author, reader and text. The article consists of three sections. In the first, I will explore overlaps between Lucian’s critique of Alexander’s wondrous feats and the critique of magicians generally by the heresiologist Hippolytus of Rome. Through this intertextual reading, I will show that Alexander (as represented by Lucian) emerges as a creative innovator of the common magician’s repertoire, which makes his magic a cypher for Lucian’s own literary techniques.7 In the second section, I examine the ‘autophone’ oracles (Alexander’s speciality), showing how they dramatize both Lucian’s poetics and the reader’s encounter with his work. Overlaps between Lucian’s technoprophet and the near-contemporary discourses of Orakelkritik and automated wonders sharpen and lend nuance to Lucian’s attack. However, comparison with Hero of Alexander’s mechanical wonders also opens up a more ambivalent interpretation of the professed scepticism of both Lucian and his readers. Finally, having examined the ways in which Lucian implicates himself in Alexander’s fraud, I will link Alexander with other Lucianic works-ofwonder such as Lover of lies, True Stories and the prolaliai, and argue that the social phenomena of magic and religious fraud are deeply connected with fiction in Lucian’s oeuvre. These connections, both within Lucian’s writings and with other works of the period, lend uniquely rich complexity to this author’s thaumatology.

6 Lucian is our principal source on Alexander, but the degree of historical veracity in the work is much debated. Victor 1997, 8–26 is too generous, in my view, in ascribing maximal historical reliability to Lucian’s account (albeit not to his judgements). The fact that several details have been verified by epigraphical and other material evidence suggests that Lucian’s sources were ‘genuine enough’ (Jones 1986, 136), but his portrayal of Alexander himself shows strong literary colouring: see Branham 1984 and Elm von der Ost 2006 inter alios. 7 Chaniotis 2002 offers a valuable account of Alexander’s adaptation and transformation of established religious traditions.

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Alexander the master-magician: eclecticism and innovation The early chapters of Lucian’s work provide an account of how Alexander orchestrated his meteoric rise to fame. His origins, according to Lucian, were humble: he was born in the backwater town of Abonouteichos in Paphlagonia on the Black Sea, to parents who were ‘obscure and low-born’ (Alex. 11). As a youth, however, he combined striking good looks with unusual intellectual acuity, powers of retention and an ability to ingratiate himself by feigning the appearance of probity (Alex. 3–4). Working first as a prostitute, he encountered a benefactor in the shape of a travelling doctor-and-magician, a former associate of the holy man Apollonius of Tyana, who took Alexander on as his accomplice.8 After his death, Alexander entered the life of a peripatetic magic-worker, along with a poet from Byzantium known by the nickname Cocconas. For financial support, the pair quickly latched onto a wealthy but fading beauty, whom they followed to Pella. There they purchased the snake that would later play the starring role in their religious fraud.9 Soon Alexander and Cocconas hit upon the plan to establish an oracle in Alexander’s home town of Abonouteichos, in the hope of exploiting people’s hopes and fears for financial gain.10 To do so, they would first need to whip up a storm of religious fervour and convince people that Alexander had prophetic powers. Their religious fiction needed a convincing authenticating strategy; to create one, they devised a tripartite ruse:11 1. They forecast the arrival in Abonouteichos of the healer-god Asclepius, along with his prophet Alexander, in a text that was miraculously ‘discovered’, in the foundations of the temple of Apollo in Chalcedon (Alex. 10) 2. Alexander feigned divine possession by making a sensational appearance in public, raving and foaming at the mouth.

8 Jones 1986, 135 is perhaps too dismissive about this section of Lucian’s narrative, since it rings true with accounts of the early careers of other peripatetic magicians. A good parallel example is Thrasyllus, a Greek mantis from the island of Siphnos of the fourth century BCE, whose career is recorded by Isocrates Orat. 19.5–9; for discussion, see Dickie 2001, 67–73. 9 Alex. 6–8. As Dickie 2001, 222 observes, Lucian’s remark about Maketis’ fading looks and desire for admiration suggests Alexander might have been employed to use magic to attract lovers to her. Ogden 2009, 290 reads this Macedonian visit as a mere ploy to construct a thematic link with Alexander the Great. 10 Alex. 8. 11 On miracles as an authenticating-strategy for religious ‘missionaries’ in antiquity, see Kelhoffer 2000.

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3. Alexander staged the epiphany of the god Asclepius at the site of the new temple in Abonouteichos, through a trick involving a baby snake in an egg.

(i) How to become a prophet This activity illustrates Alexander’s showmanship and shrewdness, especially at manipulating local religious traditions. For the pseudo-documentary trick, Alexander and Cocconas manufactured an oracular text, inscribed on tablets of bronze, and buried it under the walls of the ancient temple of Apollo in Chalcedon. Their ploy exploited a story-pattern that was commonly associated with religious innovation in Near Eastern cultures, where such ‘discoveries’ of oracular texts, especially in temple-walls, were used by kings to legitimize innovations such as cultic reform.12 Alexander’s purpose was precisely to make the public receptive to the establishment of a new cult of Asclepius, which he presented (and legitimized) as an off-shoot of the more ancient Apolline cult. Lucian’s remark that Chalcedon with its famous temple ‘apparently had some usefulness’ for the pair hints at such a scheme.13 The Chalcedonians’ reputation for ‘blindness’ might have abetted the charlatans: the very materiality of the tablets (bronze, khalkos) appears to have been selected as a nod to the name Chalkedon itself, and it also gave the text a monumental and antique air.14 The ruse was a success: right on cue, the people of Abonouteichos eagerly set about building a new temple to welcome Asclepius into their midst. Alexander’s next challenge was to convince them that he was a genuine prophet. To do so, he took fits and foamed at the mouth. To the simple and unsuspecting onlookers, this seemed indicative of ‘something divine and awe-inspiring’ (Alex. 12), but Lucian reveals that it was accomplished by chewing the root of soap-wort (strouthion), a plant that was used for dying cloth. Once again, Alexander had precedents for this sort of trickery. Similar strategies had been employed by other charismatic leaders, for example Eunus, a Syrian slave who had led the slave uprising in the First Servile War on Sicily (132–4 BCE). According to Diodorus Siculus, Eunus had feigned possession and used a trick to breathe flames in order to convince the public of his prophetic powers:

12 See Na’aman 2011 on King Josiah’s discovery of the ‘book of the law’ in the temple-foundations in the Old Testament (2 Kings 22–3), with Egyptian and Mesopotamian parallels. For parallels from the Greek world, see Chaniotis 2002, 70. Speyer 1970, 70 and 123 examines Alexander’s fraud within the Graeco-Roman context of text-discoveries. 13 Alex. 10: χρήσιμον γάρ τι … ἡ πόλις αὐτοῖς ἔχειν ἔδοξε. 14 On the ‘blindness’ of the Chalcedonians, see Herodotus 4.144; Strabo 7.6.2. For bronze’s association with great antiquity, see ní Mheallaigh 2008, 420 with further references.

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Eventually, using a certain trick, he emitted fire and flame from his mouth, together with signs of possession, and in this way he foretold the future. For he would put fire, along with the fuel to sustain it, into a nut – or something similar – that had been bored through on either side; then, having placed it in his mouth and breathing onto it, he made sparks and sometimes flame blaze forth.15

Similarly, Bar Kochba, leader of the Bar Kokhba revolt in Judaea in (132–6 CE), breathed fire from a smouldering straw concealed in his mouth.16 To stage the climactic epiphany of Asclepius, Alexander exploited the god’s long-time association with serpents.17 He had already purchased a large pet snake at Pella, which was being tended quietly at his home, biding its time, as Lucian says, until it could take centre stage in the drama.18 Now he acquired a goose-egg and a baby snake. Having blown out the contents of the egg, he sequestered the baby snake inside, re-sealed the egg with a paste of wax and white lead, then concealed it in the foundation-trench of the new temple. On the following morning, he made a frenzied appearance in the market-place in Abonouteichos to announce the epiphany. The excited crowd followed him to the temple-site, whereupon he exhumed the egg, cracked it, and out wriggled the baby snake – ostensibly ‘Asclepius’ – to the Abonouteichans’ astonishment and applause.19 Alexander was probably drawing on his experience, as a magician, of performing tricks with eggs. We learn from the heresiographer Hippolytus – about whom I shall have more to say presently – that the trick of producing ‘eggs of different colours’ was a common part of the magician’s repertoire. It involved blowing out the eggs’ contents, immersing and filling them with different substances, then regluing the shell-fragment with fig-juice, so that the egg appeared sealed afresh.20 Alexander’s use of wax for this purpose also finds parallel in 15 Diodorus Siculus 34/5.2.6–7. Diodorus’ source is Posidonius of Apameia (FGrH 87 F 108c): τελευταῖον διά τινος μηχανῆς πῦρ᾽ μετά τινος ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ φλόγα διὰ τοῦ στόματος ἠφίει καὶ οὔτω τὰ μέλλοντα ἀπεφοίβαζεν. εἰς γὰρ κάρυον ἤ τι τοιοῦτο τετρημένον ἐξ ἐκατέρου μέρους ἐνετίθει πῦρ καὶ τὴν συνέχειν αὐτὸ δυναμένην ὔλην· εἶτα ἐντιθεὶς τῶι στόματι καὶ προσπνέων ποτὲ μὲν σπινθῆρας ποτὲ δὲ φλόγα ἐξέκαεν. 16 Jerome, Against Rufinus 3.31: ‘ille Bar-Chochabas, auctor seditionis Judaicae, stipulam in ore succensam anhelitu uentilabat, ut flammas euomere putaretur.’ On fire-tricks as part of the magician’s performance, see Athenaeus 1.19e. 17 On the association of snakes with healing-cults in antiquity, see Ogden 2013, 310–346 (pp. 310–7 on Asclepius). Kelhoffer 2000, 340–416, esp. 372–373 notes the similar act of snake-handling in Mark 16:18a (another second century CE text), and deduces that the act of manipulating snakes played an active role in the spread of religion in antiquity. 18 Alex. 12. 19 Alex. 13–4. 20 Ref. 4.29.

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magicians’ use of wax for making fake skulls, a practice to which Hippolytus attests as well.21 A few days later, Alexander invited visitors to consult him as Asclepius’ prophet, garbed as a priest with the fully-grown snake from Pella draped around him. This too looks as if it was a shrewd appropriation of established religious signs, for as Daniel Ogden points out, there is a strong similarity between Alexander’s pose, as described by Lucian, and the iconography of the healing-deity Salus, who is commonly depicted with a serpent draped around her shoulders on coins throughout the Roman Empire. This, he suggests, probably ‘implies that … the historical Alexander knowingly saluted the established iconography of healing deities, as well he might.’22 Alexander’s entire preparatory ruse is therefore an elaborate cross-fertilization of magician’s tricks with religious knowledge, and matched with an astute manipulation of crowd-psychology and showmanship.

(ii) Technoprophecy The chamber where Alexander receives visitors is a small, dimly lit room (Alex. 16). As Lucian leads readers over the threshold, we enter into the dark heart of Alexander’s religious fantasy, where illusion overtakes reality. Upon entering the room, visitors were amazed, first of all, to see that the baby snake of only a few days ago had apparently matured  – at a miraculously accelerated rate  – into the gigantic serpent now before their eyes. They were awe-struck, too, by the creature’s tame air, and by the strangely humanoid features of its face, though it was hard to discern anything accurately in the dim light.23 It was certainly a real snake, for Alexander permitted visitors to touch its tail and back (Alex. 17). However, he kept the creature’s head carefully tucked away under his arm. In its place was displayed a fake, puppet-head: They had previously constructed and prepared a snake-head in linen, somewhat human in its appearance, painted in a very lifelike way. It opened and closed its mouth again by means of horse-hairs, and a black tongue, which was forked like a snake’s, darted out when it too was pulled by hairs.24

21 Hippolytus, Ref. 4.41. The parallel is noted by Caster 1938, 27. 22 Ogden 2013, 328–329. 23 Ogden 2013, 328 notes how surviving images of Glycon complement and supplement Lucian’s description. For images of the marble statue of Glycon from Tomis, see Robert 1980, 398 and Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 16. 24 Alex. 12: ἐπεποίητο δὲ αὐτοῖς πάλαι καὶ κατεσκεύαστο κεφαλὴ δράκοντος ὀθονίνη ἀνθρωπόμορφόν τι ἐπιφαίνουσα, κατάγραφος, πάνυ εἰκασμένη, ὑπὸ θριξὶν ἱππείαις ἀνοίγουσά

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Initially, the snake has a passive role in Alexander’s show. As prophet, Alexander delivered the oracular responses which were supposedly inspired by the god. ‘Glycon’ – for that was the name given to the snake-god – truly came into his own in the performance of the extra-ordinary ‘autophone oracles’, which Alexander reserved for the wealthiest paying visitors.25 On these occasions, the ‘god’ himself delivered responses propria voce, rather than through his proxy. To accomplish this miracle, Alexander constructed a speaking-tube by joining several crane-windpipes together to form a lengthy tube, and feeding this into the puppet-head. The tube was connected at the other end to a secret apartment, where one of the accomplices, hidden from view, delivered the response. In this way, it appeared in the main chamber as if a divine voice emanated directly from Glycon himself.26 Alexander’s device was (once again) an innovation of what appears to have been a common magician’s strategy, for we find a very similar account in the work of Hippolytus, a Christian writer of a slightly later date than Lucian (170–235 CE). Hippolytus’ master-work of heresiology, Refutation of all heresies, incorporates, as part of his wider exhortation against false (i.  e. non-Christian) beliefs, a passage of polemic against magicians which overlaps strikingly with Lucian’s critique of Alexander’s methods.27 Among the magician’s tricks, he describes an elaborate ruse involving a boy-medium (Ref. 4.28), which relies on techniques similar to those used by the Abonouteichan prophet.28 According to Hippolytus, the magician first orders the inquirer to write his/ her question on a piece of papyrus. He then ostentatiously erases the papyrus and hands it to his boy-assistant to burn, so that the smoke will carry the query to

τε καὶ αὖθις ἐπικλείουσα τὸ στόμα, καὶ γλῶττα οἵα δράκοντος διττὴ μέλαινα προέκυπτεν, ὑπὸ τριχῶν καὶ αὐτὴ ἑλκομένη. 25 On the typical ‘syllable + -ōn’ pattern of the names that were attached to mythical serpents in antiquity, see Ogden 2013, 151–155. For other ways in which Glycon’s name is significant, see n. 71. 26 Alex. 26: εἶτα οὐ χαλεπῶς γεράνων ἀρτηρίας συνάψας καὶ διὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς ἐκείνης τῆς μεμηχανημένης πρὸς ὁμοιότητα διείρας, ἄλλου τινὸς ἔξωθεν ἐμβοῶντος, ἀπεκρίνετο πρὸς τὰς ἐρωτήσεις, τῆς φωνῆς διὰ τοῦ ὀθονίνου ἐκείνου Ἀσκληπιοῦ προπιπτούσης. Then, without too much difficulty, he bound together crane-windpipes and passed them through that head which had been constructed in a life-like fashion, so that when someone else bellowed into it from outside, it delivered responses to the questions as the voice penetrated that canvas Asclepius. 27 Ref. 4.28–42. Kelhoffer 2007 finds multiple correspondences between Hippolytus’ account and the Greek Magical Papyri, which suggests that Hippolytus was using actual magical texts among his sources. Thee 1984, 394 notes that Hippolytus’ emphasis on the concept of magic as fraud is distinctive among later Christian authors; it is a concept which he shares with Lucian. 28 These overlaps are discussed in Caster 1938 and Ogden 2009, 284–286 who links Alexander’s tricks with the work known as Democritus’ Paignia as well.

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the daimones. Egyptian incense is then burned, and the boy appears to become possessed and rushes into an inner room, shouting incomprehensibly. The magician follows the boy into the back-room, and an interval passes, during which he is busily occupied away from public view. Hippolytus reveals that he uses these furtive moments to retrieve the papyrus and sprinkle it with a chemical mixture which renders the erased text visible again. By these means, he discovers the visitor’s question and can prepare a response. Now prepared, after a discreet interval, he invites everyone to enter the inner room, where they observe the magician cast the ‘possessed’ boy onto a mattress face-down and utter spells to invoke the daimōn to deliver a response. The visitors themselves have their part to play by waving laurel-branches and shouting to invoke the god Rē. At this point, the magician carefully places the fragments of papyrus on either side of the boy’s head, and announces that he will place some inside the boy’s ears as well. In fact, this allows him to attach speaking-tubes into the boy’s ears, through which he can communicate with the boy, emitting strange noises to frighten him, and finally whispering to him the ‘oracular’ answer that he wants his ‘medium’ to reveal. When the boy finally speaks to the hushed audience, it appears as if he is delivering a message direct from the daimones.29 The deception works, Hippolytus explains, firstly, because the audience is predisposed to be gullible; secondly, because their frenetic activity during the ceremony distracts them from noticing what the magician is doing; and thirdly, because the darkness obscures his actions.30 Lucian does not mention Alexander’s use of boys to deliver prophetic responses like this, but we may reasonably infer that this was the role that Alexander himself had performed for the magician who trained him in his youth, for he is certainly familiar with many of the procedures that Hippolytus describes. Both authors describe the business of opening and reading sealed prayer-scrolls as the bedrock of the magician’s success, and describe in detail different methods for accomplishing this. According to Lucian, one could pass a heated needle under the wax seal, warming the wax just enough to release it, then do the same again in order to re-fix the seal after the scroll had been read. Alternatively, one could duplicate the seal by making an impression using special compounds of plaster or glue.31 Hippolytus supplies equally detailed instructions for producing counterfeit seals, using permutations of the same ingredients as Lucian enumerated.32

29 Ref. 4.28.8. 30 Ref. 4.28.6–7. 31 Alex. 21, a similarity noted also by Caster 1938, 38–40. See Speyer 1971, 56–59 for discussion in the broader context of ancient forgeries. 32 Ref. 4.34.

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Both authors describe the apparatus of telephonic tubes in identical terms. Lucian tells us that Alexander joined crane-windpipes together (Alex. 26). Hippolytus describes a device made out of the windpipes of long-necked birds like cranes or storks, and adds alternative options, such as the use of bronze pipes, leather that has been shaped into a tube, or scrolls.33 Even Alexander’s puppet-head finds its analogy in Hippolytus’ account, albeit in the context of a different trick involving a ‘speaking skull’. In his description, Hippolytus in fact cross-references the use of speaking-tubes with the boy-medium: A skull, placed on the ground, is made to appear to speak in the following manner. The object itself is constructed out of ox-omentum mixed with Tyrrhenian wax and gypsum which has been made up in advance. When it is draped with the caul it reveals the appearance of a skull. It appears to speak through the action of the instrument whose operation we described in the section about boys: the accomplice, taking the windpipe of a crane or some long-necked animal, and attaching it to the skull, says what he wants.34

The artificially-constructed head, the use of concealed speaking-tubes, and the role of an accomplice are exactly the same as the methods deployed by Alexander in his autophone oracles. Daniel Ogden deduces that both Lucian and Hippolytus ‘seem to derive from a common tradition of fraud-exposure or at any rate conjuring-trick explanation,’ but he is puzzled about the meaning of the trick: ‘Has Lucian foisted the trick upon Alexander to enhance his portrayal of the prophet’s fraudulence? Or did Alexander indeed employ such a trick by way of a sacred effect?’35 I have suggested some answers to these questions below. For the moment, however, we may note, once again, Alexander’s skill in combining several individual tricks, which are described piecemeal elsewhere, into one smoothly choreographed illusion in Lucian’s text.

33 Ref. 4.28.9–10. 34 Ref. 4.41: Κρανίον δὲ λαλ<εῖν δοκ>οῦν ἐπὶ γῆς θέντες ἐπιτελοῦσι τούτῳ τῷ τρόπῳ· αὐτὸ μὲν πεποίηται ἐπιπλόου βοείου, <ὃ> πεπλασμένον κηρῷ Τυρρηνικῷ καὶ γύψῳ ἀναπεποιημένῃ, περιτεθέντος τοῦ ὑμένος ἔμφασιν κρανίου ἐνδείκνυται. ὃ πᾶσι λαλεῖν δοκεῖ ἐνεργοῦντος τοῦ ὀργάνου, καθ’  ὃν τρόπον καὶ ἐπὶ τοῖς παισὶ διηγησάμεθα· γεράνου <γὰρ> ἤ τινος τοιούτου μακροτραχήλου ζῴου φάρυγγα σκευάσας, προσθεὶς τῷ κρανίῳ λεληθότως ὁ συμπαίκτης, ἃ θέλει φθέγγεται. 35 See Ogden 2013, 329–330 (quoted from p. 330); also Caster 1938, 46–49 who notes as a historical parallel the talking wooden head whose polyglot prophetic powers astonished the court of King Charles II in 17th century England, until the hoax was exposed.

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(iii) Moon-illusions The powerful ability to combine and innovate is typical of Alexander’s technique. We see it again in Lucian’s description of the mysteries which he established in Glycon’s honour. This annual celebration, which was modelled after the Eleusinian mysteries, took place over the course of three days. On the first day, they staged the birth of Apollo, followed by his union with Coronis and the birth of Asclepius. The second day re-enacted the birth of Glycon, and the third – which was known as the ‘Day of Torches’ – replayed the conception and birth of Alexander, who was mythologized as the son of Podalirius and therefore a direct descendant of Asclepius and Apollo. The Day of Torches culminated in a re-enactment of Alexander’s marital union with the Moon-goddess Selene and the birth of their daughter, who had been given in marriage to the Roman Senator Rutilianus, one of Alexander’s most influential sponsors.36 According to Lucian, Selene’s part was acted by a pretty woman called Rutilia who, in a bizarre reprisal of the myth of Selene and Endymion, climbed down from the roof into Alexander’s arms.37 It is Lucian as narrator who connects the marriage of Alexander and ‘Selene’ with the myth of Selene and Endymion; we have no evidence that Alexander himself exploited this connection, though given the widespread fame of the myth and its connections with Asia Minor in particular, that is an obvious – even unavoidable – inference to make.38 But there was another source of inspiration available to him too. His staging of Selene’s descent from the sky also evoked the well-known magical feat of ‘drawing down the Moon’, for which Thessalian witches were particularly famous.39 At Ref. 4.37–8, Hippolytus deconstructs several celestial illusions which were commonly practised by magicians. These included methods for making the Moon appear with the use of lamps, mirrors or (if outdoors) a translucent drum, and methods for drawing the Moon down to Earth, using a lamp and a crane. ‘Stars’ could also be made to appear indoors by gluing fish-scales to the ceiling and shining light up on them to produce the illusion of a star-spangled sky. As

36 Alex. 38–9 and 35. 37 As Jones 1986, 143 points out, this woman’s name suggests a client of the family of Rutilianus. 38 As Dickie 2001, 222 observes, Lucian’s account suggests that Alexander was reasonably well educated, for he was literate, could evidently compose hexameters, and innovated mythology by installing himself in the genealogy of Asclepius. Ogden 2009, 288–296 argues that Alexander actively assimilated himself to Alexander the Great as well. Alexander is presented as sufficiently savvy to exploit the Moon’s mythological and even eschatological connections, on which, see Caster 1938, 58. 39 The evidence is amassed and evaluated in Hill 1973.

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Hill remarks, Hippolytus’ account indicates very literal expectations on the audience’s part.40 In staging his own hieros gamos with Selene during the mysteries of Glycon, it is likely that Alexander combined mythology with such Moon-illusions which, to judge from Hippolytus’ account (as well as frequent allusions in other sources) were a standard part of the magician’s repertoire. The prominence of torches on this particular day of the mysteries might therefore have played a more active part in the magical dramaturgy than has previously been suspected, enhancing (we may imagine) the illusion of Selene’s ‘epiphany’ and perhaps even representing the stars as they burned around the celestial lovers. In his mythical adaptation of the Thessalian illusion, Alexander once again proves himself to be a creative innovator of the ordinary bag of tricks. Lucian’s depiction of Alexander’s eclectic and innovative abilities resonates with his account of his own literary success. Like Alexander, he too came from the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire, his success was based on skilful hybridization of traditional genres, and the discourse of wonder was central both to his poetics and authorial persona.41 These similarities will be important to bear in mind, as we turn now to consider the detailed ways in Alexander’s wizardry interlocks with Lucian’s own.

The wizard behind the curtain Lucian’s essay is full of strange doublings that act as mirrors in the text, triggering the impetus to read the exposé self-reflexively. The most striking of these occurs at Alex. 55–7, where Lucian himself appears as an actor in the play. His confrontation with Alexander is an exposé within the exposé, and one of the more obvious self-reflexive turns within the work. As Diskin Clay has argued, it should authenticate Lucian’s account because Lucian presents himself as an eye-witness in his own text. Paradoxically, however, his presence destabilizes its authority: ‘The literary fraud of Lucian’s exposure of fraud is to be located in his fiction of the narrator as actor in the dramas he narrates. Lucian, we cannot forget, was the author of “The True History” …’42 This is absolutely right – though as I will argue here, the signs of Lucian’s literary fraud are, in fact, far more copious.

40 Hill 1973, 225. 41 ní Mheallaigh 2014, 1–27. 42 Clay 1992, 3448; on Lucian’s authenticating doubling, see Clay 1992, 3445–3446.

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There is an analogy between the visitor’s encounter with Alexander and Glycon  – especially during the autophone oracles  – and the reader’s encounter with Lucian’s Alexander itself. Lucian’s description of the autophone oracles features three prominent cues which highlight the meta-literary quality of these scenes, namely: the edifice itself, in which Alexander and his accomplices work; the hybrid snake Glycon, which is part-puppet, part animal; and the technology of the puppet-head and speaking-tubes, which is used to project persuasive but deceptive voices to a captivated audience. On the strength of these cues, I will argue that Lucian, through his exposé of Alexander’s fraud, colludes with the reader about the more slippery aspects of his own wonder-work, in a form of authorial self-exposure.

(i) Alexander’s apartments In novelistic fictions of the imperial period, architectural structures are frequently used as metaphors for the narrative and/or text. These spaces embody themes central to the narrative, and could also reflect the narrative’s structure. Tim Whitmarsh explores the rich symbolism of Hippias’ house in Leucippe and Clitophon by Lucian’s contemporary Achilles Tatius, for example, reading it as a ‘site of conflict between the dominant patriarchal ideology of the father and the subversive intent of the young lovers,’ whilst its structure also reflects the narrative’s deferral of its reader’s desires.43 Trimalchio’s labyrinthine house in Petronius’ Satyrica has also been shown to mirror the complex structure of the banquet-narrative itself.44 Moreover, the labile architecture of the dining room with its collapsing walls and ceilings, as well as the technological surprises and trompe l’oeil effects of the decoration and food within it, encapsulates the disorientating effects of Petronius’ fiction, which is itself a site of receding authority, fragmentation, alienation and delusion.45

43 Whitmarsh 2010, quote from p. 327. 44 Bodel 1994, 239 argues that Petronius exploits the connection between labyrinths, tombs and the underworld to suggest that Trimalchio’s house is a world of the dead. Rimell 2007 examines the structural significance of the multiple portals leading into the triclinium of Trimalchio’s house. Albeit not domestic spaces, the labyrinthine locations of cave and reed-beds in Heliodorus’ novel have been interpreted in a similar way as a ‘cypher for the novel itself, whose multiple narrations are like concentric mazes’ (Morgan 1989, 111). 45 These aspects of Petronius’ narrative are well-known e.  g. Conte 1996; Zeitlin 1999. However, the ways in which they are embodied in Trimalchio’s house is rather less well-studied; see brief discussion in Rosati 1999, esp. 96–98 and ní Mheallaigh 2014, 276–277. Hales’ discussions 2003, 139–143 and 2009, 174–178 reveal Trimalchio’s house to be a freedman’s fantasy world.

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Lucian exploits this architectural trope in his own work as well. In his essay On the hall, he uses the lavish interior space of the lecture-hall to theorize (inter alia) the proper response to visual beauty, and to demonstrate how wonder (thauma) can disable the critical faculties.46 One of the speakers asserts that the wondrous surroundings of the hall will distract the audience from the performance – which in fact turns out to be the case.47 This resonates with Zeuxis (a work which I will discuss presently), where Lucian similarly fears that the wondrous appeal of his work will deflect his audience’s attention from his technical achievement. Read intertextually with Zeuxis, On the hall is absorbed into Lucian’s poetics, and the imagined interior space of the building becomes a metaphor for the conflicting qualities within the author’s own work.48 In a similar way, the wondrous bath-building that is described in Hippias or the Bath, read within the framework of Lucian’s literary manifesto, becomes a meta-literary showcase of Lucian’s artistic skill.49 Closer in atmosphere to Alexander’s darkened room, however, is Eucrates’ house in Lover of lies, a work which focuses on narratives of wonder and a crisis of belief. This house is the stage for the exchange of tales of the supernatural. The narrator Tychiades visits briefly, but soon leaves in disgust, feeling that he has been psychically altered and infected by the contagion of the philosophers’ lies within.50 Two embedded haunted house-stories reinforce the role of the domestic space as a site for encounters with the uncanny and the fantastic. I have argued at greater length elsewhere that this house serves as a metaphor for the dialogue: like Tychiades, the reader enters the book  – a haunted space – and cannot fail to be contaminated by the wonder-stories (s)he finds there, no matter how aloof (s)he strives to remain. Tychiades’ experience in Eucrates’ house confronts the reader with his/her own paradoxical appetite for the irrational.51

46 On Lucian’s theorization of modes of viewing in this work, see Goldhill 2001, 154–194; Newby 2002. 47 On the hall 14–21. 48 In fact, in On the hall it is specifically the paintings on the hall’s ceiling which distract the audience (21). This aligns it more precisely with Zeuxis. 49 As argued by Race 2017. Dispute over Lucian’s authorship of Hippias is unwarranted in Race’s view. Thomas 2007, 221–235 offers literal reconstructions of Lucian’s architectural descriptions in both Hippias or the Bath and On the hall, but is not unaware of their rhetorical and self-reflexive nature. 50 Philops. 39–40. 51 ní Mheallaigh 2014, 83–94. Von Möllendorff 2006, 188–194 reads the gathering within Eucrates’ house as an inverted microcosm of contemporary élite literary culture, and argues that the confines of the house mark, in Bakhtinian terms, the chronotopic boundaries of the fantastic exchange.

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The precise nature of the oracular chamber in Alexander is debated. There is some suggestion that it might have been a subterranean space, after the model of other oracles which Alexander emulated.52 Underground or not, it has a murky atmosphere which disorientates visitors, who find it difficult to distinguish between what is real and what is not  – for example between the real parts of Glycon’s body and his prosthetic head. It is not only the darkness which disorientates them but, as Lucian explains, their own state of psychological excitement, combined with the speed at which they must pass through: Now imagine, if you will, a little room – not very bright, not getting sufficient daylight – and flooding it, a crowd of people all excited and already in a state of frenzy with their hopes raised high. It probably seemed a miracle to them, from the moment they entered in, to see that the serpent had grown to such a size from the erstwhile tiny creature it had been only a few days before, and had become a human-like and tame creature, at that. But they were immediately hustled towards the exit, and before getting a clear look at anything they were driven out by those who were pouring in all the time; for another door had been driven through the wall opposite the entrance to provide an exit.53

This disorientation and excitement, as we shall presently see, can also be mapped onto the reader of Lucian’s text. Alexander’s quarters become a more complex space with the addition of a second, secret room. This is the nerve-centre of the fraudulent activity, which includes illicit reading, the composition of false texts, and the projection of misleading voices, activities which represent the atomized experience of reading Lucian’s work. I will defer, for the moment, discussion of the meta-literary significance of the fraudulent writing and the misleading voices that echo through Alexander’s rooms, and explore first how the illicit reading of prayer-scrolls in the hidden room evokes the unsavoury nature of Lucian’s text. Lucian’s professed reluctance to record the details of Alexander’s life on the grounds that it does not merit attention converts his essay into quasi-illicit reading-material.54 This is a rhetorical protest to be sure, but its effect is to introduce

52 Jones 1986, 139 with further references; Rostad 2011 compares Alexander’s divinatory practices with what we know of practices in other oracular centres. 53 Alex. 16: Εἶτά μοι ἐπινόησον οἰκίσκον οὐ πάνυ φαιδρὸν οὐδὲ εἰς κόρον τοῦ φωτὸς δεχόμενον καὶ πλῆθος ἀνθρώπων συγκλύδων, τεταραγμένων καὶ προεκπεπληγμένων καὶ ταῖς ἐλπίσιν ἐπαιωρουμένων, οἷς εἰσελθοῦσι τεράστιον ὡς εἰκὸς τὸ πρᾶγμα ἐφαίνετο, ἐκ τοῦ τέως μικροῦ ἑρπετοῦ ἐντὸς ἡμερῶν ὀλίγων τοσοῦτον δράκοντα πεφηνέναι, ἀνθρωπόμορφον καὶ ταῦτα καὶ τιθασόν. ἠπείγοντο δὲ αὐτίκα πρὸς τὴν ἔξοδον, καὶ πρὶν ἀκριβῶς ἰδεῖν, ἐξηλαύνοντο ὑπὸ τῶν ἀεὶ ἐπεισιόντων· ἐτετρύπητο δὲ κατὰ τὸ ἀντίθυρον ἄλλη ἔξοδος. Translation after Ogden 2009, 290, who notes the similarity with the procession past the deathbed of Alexander the Great. 54 Alex. 2.

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Alexander’s life as a topic that one should not want to read about. Lucian begins, not with a declaration of pride and the merit of his topic, but with an assertion of shame on behalf of his reader Celsus and himself.55 Alexander, he says, is not material for history, but a mere fairground attraction: he is not a man whose life deserves to be read by educated people (pepaideumenoi); he deserves, rather, to be ripped apart by apes or foxes in the largest public amphitheatre there is.56 This assertion creates a division between two types of consumer of wonders: the élite reader of histories and biographies (such as those of Alexander the Great, the antithesis of his namesake), and the masses who throng public entertainments. By the end of the essay, it is no longer clear that the gap between these two is quite so wide – for both groups are motivated by a lurid fascination for the bizarre – but for the moment, Lucian equates his subject with the ‘unspeakable quantities of dung’ that Heracles had to clear out of the Augean Stables.57 And yet, Celsus has requested it, and Lucian acquiesces to his reader’s desire, much against his better judgement (rhetorically, at least). It is notable that Hippolytus expresses similar qualms about dealing with magicians in his heresiology, and even fears that his work might fall in into the wrong hands and be used as an instruction-manual for malpractice.58 These interventions generate an air of profound ambivalence about the work at hand: this is dangerous – and seductive – readingmaterial.

(ii) Alexander’s toupée and Glycon the wonder-serpent The second major meta-literary cue is Glycon, who is a hybrid creature: part-organic, part-artificial. In this respect, the creature is not unlike Alexander himself who, according to Lucian, wore a wig: The hair on his head was partly his own (idian), partly prosthetic (prostheton), but it was very realistic (eu mala eikasmenēn), and many people did not know it was not his own (allotria).59

55 Alex. 2: Αἰδοῦμαι μὲν οὖν ὑπὲρ ἀμφοῖν, ὑπέρ τε σοῦ καὶ ἐμαυτοῦ. 56 Alex. 2:  … οὐκ ἀναγιγνώσκεσθαι πρὸς τῶν πεπαιδευμένων ἦν ἄξιον, ἀλλ’ ἐν πανδήμῳ τινὶ μεγίστῳ θεάτρῳ ὁρᾶσθαι ὑπὸ πιθήκων ἢ ἀλωπέκων σπαραττόμενον. 57 Alex.1. 58 Ref. 4. 34. 59 Alex. 3: κόμην τὴν μὲν ἰδίαν, τὴν δὲ καὶ πρόσθετον ἐπικείμενος εὖ μάλα εἰκασμένην καὶ τοὺς πολλοὺς ὅτι ἦν ἀλλοτρία λεληθυῖαν. Elm von Osten 2006, 152 remarks on the theatricality of Alexander’s disguise. On the theatrical motifs of Alex. more generally, see Clay 1992, 3414–3420.

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Lucian emphasizes the active deceptiveness of Alexander’s appearance here and presents Alexander as a disjunctive identity: it is unclear where the boundaries of ‘self’ and ‘other’ lie, for they are so artfully mingled that it is only on his deathbed that physicians discover the truth – that he was bald.60 The description is reminiscent of Glycon’s prosthetic head, which was also ‘very realistic’ (panu eikasmenē).61 Glycon is a composite of different animal-parts including serpent, avian windpipes, horse-hairs and the humanoid features of its prosthetic head. In this way, Alexander converts an ordinary snake into an object of wonder which becomes the hallmark of his cult.62 As such, Glycon evokes the freakish creatures  – the centaur, the tragelaph, the hippocamp and (especially pertinent in this case) the dipsad snake – that Lucian uses repeatedly elsewhere as metaphors for both his own authorial persona, for the hybrid genre of the comic dialogue which he had invented, and for his ambivalent interactions with his audience.63 In You are a literary Prometheus, he describes his comic dialogue as a ‘freakish hybrid’ like a hippocentaur, and likens it to other hybrid creatures, such as hippocamps and tragelaphs.64 In a similar vein in Zeuxis, he describes the eponymous Greek painter’s disappointment in people’s response to his painting of a centaur family. Rather than comment on the masterly execution of the painting as he had hoped, they are thoroughly distracted by its exotic theme. Lucian draws an analogy between Zeuxis’ painting and his own work: he had invented a new genre, the comic dialogue, which – like Zeuxis’ centaurs – was a hybrid of incongruous elements from comedy and philosophy. Like Zeuxis, he too is anxious that his audience only appreciates his work for its exoticism – its ‘strange monsters’ (xena mormolykeia) and ‘magic tricks’ (thaumatopoiia), its novelty and unconventionality (kainon kai terastion).65 If Alexander’s performance is enhanced by the wonders that blind the audience to his deployment of practical skills, Lucian’s is endangered by the very magic which threatens to eclipse the technical infrastructure of his work. Both Lucian and Alexander are wonder-workers, but Lucian must tread a more delicate path and, without spoiling the magic of the experience, make sure that his audience is aware of the wizard behind the curtain. The dramatization in Alexander of the interplay between the audience’s immer-

60 Alex. 59. 61 Alex. 12, passage quoted earlier on p. 5. 62 Mayor 2000, 235 includes Glycon in her exploration of artificial wonders in antiquity. 63 See ní Mheallaigh 2014, 2–6, with further bibliography. Popescu 2013 and 2014 are indispensable. 64 Prom. es 5 and 7. 65 Zeux. 12; see Popescu 2013, 74–6; ní Mheallaigh 2014, 2–8.

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sive pleasure and the narrator’s searing exposé aligns this work with Lucian’s self-scrutiny in Zeuxis and elsewhere.66 Lucian draws frequently on the discourse of wonder to talk about the crowdpleasing aspects of his marvellous new genre. In the ironic Amber or Swans, he tells a tale about his own naivety and disillusionment. Having heard stories about the wondrous amber-shedding trees along the River Po and the marvellous singing swans there, he recalls how he made the journey to experience these wonders for himself  – only to find that there was no truth to the tales, and to become a laughing-stock for the locals who mocked his credulity. Lucian then presents his own fame as a parallel Wundererzählung, and hopes that his audience will not be equally disappointed. In these works, Lucian appears at pains to distance himself from the debased popular appeal which had evidently accrued to him, but it is a stance that cannot be taken at face value. In her sophisticated analysis of Lucian’s paradoxographical discourse, Valentina Popescu unfolds the hidden ironies of his prolaliai. Although Lucian uses the story of pseudo-paradoxa in Amber in order to correct his audience’s perceptions of him, Popescu shows that the new self-image which he projects is, in fact, equally deceiving: ‘the author becomes the paradoxon here, defying the doxa that his audience has of him … by claiming to disenchant his audience, he enchants them even more.’67 Lucian, then, becomes a substitute paradoxon, one that is more accessible to his audience than the remote wonders that have proved disappointingly false.68 Presumably, he expected the more educated among his audience to appreciate the ironic capture of this self-exposé, but sophistic performances were a form of public entertainment, and he had to appeal to a more eclectic crowd as well. His disavowal of wonders is not just a nod to the pepaideumenoi; it is also a means of smuggling tales of marvels into his text precisely in order to satisfy the audience’s appetite for thrills. Amber therefore interlocks with Alexander in a revelatory way: its narrator is the antithesis of the radical sceptic in Alexander, but its ironies unveil the duplicity of Lucian’s exposé. In both Alexander and Amber, Lucian exposes other people’s fraud in a way that also appeals to the reader’s fascination with the very subject which he repudiates. Dipsads gets to the heart of this paradox. Here Lucian describes one of the macabre wonders of the Libyan desert: the dipsad snake, whose bite induces a

66 See also Newby 2002 on Lucian’s theorization in On the hall of immersion and critical detachment as the response of the idiōtēs and pepaideumenos respectively to visual beauty. 67 Popescu 2013, see pp. 67–74 on Amber (quoted at p. 72). 68 Popescu 2013, 73.

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horrifying death from unquenchable thirst. He likens this deadly thirst to his own appetite for the audience’s applause and affirmation. In a paradoxical twist, this is a repulsive marvel – one which people would strive at all costs to avoid – yet Lucian prays that his version of the thirst may never fully be satisfied.69 He has been bitten with a paradoxical ‘bite most pleasant and healthful,’ which has become the engine for his career.70 This combination of allure and repulsion reflects the incongruity of Lucian’s literary mixis, and communicates the tension between disdain and desire that characterizes his relationship with his audience. We should beware of the rhetoric of polemic in the hands of this literary wizard. Dipsads, with its serpentine wonder, brings us back to Alexander’s room. Of course, the docile Glycon wrapped around Alexander is very far from a lethal Libyan snake, but his hybridity draws him into the orbit of the strange animals in Lucian’s meta-literary menagerie. Moreover, his very name, which evokes sweetness (gluku) in a way that seems incongruous for a snake, hints at the central paradox of Dipsads – the bittersweet thirst for fame. It may even recall the imagery of Alcibiades’ speech in Plato’s Symposium – an exposé of another charismatic ‘wizard’, Socrates  – where the enchantment of Socrates’ personality is compared with the madness that is induced by a snake-bite.71 Seen in this light, it is a touch of poetic justice that Cocconas, Alexander’s accomplice in deception, should have died – of a snake-bite.72 Within the context of these serpentine metaphors, as well as Lucian’s prolaliai more broadly, Glycon gives Alexander’s oracle emphatic meta-literary bite.

69 Dips. 9: ἡδίστῳ … καὶ ὑγιεινοτάτῳ … δήγματι. 70 Popescu 2013, 67: ‘The sweet poisonous snake is arguably the unresolved metaphor for literary fame. Just as the dipsas bites its victim, inflicting thirst for water, the desire for fame drives Lucian to perform before the élite again and again.’ 71 Symp. 217e6–218b5. At Alex. 25, Lucian describes the effects of Alexander’s religious fantasy in terms of intoxication (methē, ‘drunkenness’); cf. n. 103. This related sympotic image occurs also in Philops. 39 where Lucian describes the power of philosophers’ lies. The specific word Lucian uses in that instance  – gleukos, meaning ‘new wine,’ on which, see Bowie 2017, esp. 178–9. – evokes the name ‘Glycon’. On the name ‘Glycon’, which he translates as ‘Sweetie’, see Ogden 2013, 328, who argues, however, that it is particularly appropriate: ‘it accords perfectly with the most traditional name-shape for a great male drakōn … And in saluting sweetness, it makes appeal directly to the honey-cakes that were traditionally given to sacred snakes … and indirectly to the gentle and easily propitiated nature of a serpent god.’ Victor 1997, 144, following Caster 1938, 35) links γλυκύς (‘sweet’) with ἤπιος (‘gentle, kind’), and argues that the names Glykon and Asklēpios are semantically connected. 72 Alex. 10. Robert 1980, 420 is sceptical about the truth of this claim.

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(iii) Ventriloquism and mechanical wonders Thirdly, there is an affinity between Alexander’s snake-puppet and the mechanical wonders which featured in the spheres of entertainment and religious life in the imperial period, a connection that reinforces the metafictional nature of Alexander’s device. The presence of this technology inscribes into the scene the interplay between artifice and authenticity that is central both to ancient technological entertainment and thaumatology itself, evoking the conflict that exists in the reader’s mind between the desire to experience Alexander’s illusions (albeit vicariously, in a manner that neutralizes their harmful effect), and the desire to dismantle them entirely. Alexander’s device, with its projection of a voice which is ostensibly that of the god (but actually that of an accomplice) is an elaboration of the practice of engastrimythia (‘belly-speaking’ or ‘ventriloquism’), an ancient form of prophetic utterance which is attested in the Greek tradition as early as the fifth century BCE, and probably much earlier.73 Practitioners of this art, known as engastrimythoi, claimed to have a possessing demon in their bellies that spoke through their mouths. The infamous necromantic episode in the Old Testament involving the so-called ‘Witch of Endor’ was thought in antiquity to refer to this practice, and was the subject of profound theological controversy in antiquity.74 As Steven Connor shows, the strenuous attempts to justify the necromancy in the works of Origen and Eustathius are bound up with questions such as where to assign voices in the text, and how to determine the authenticity of one voice from another – problems that are played out precisely in the act of engastrimythia itself. I shall

73 Dickie 2001, 238–239. Crudden 2001, 124–125 suggests that the infant Hermes’ ‘brazen gastric messenger’ (see H.Hymn Herm. 294–6) is a parodic engastrimythia, which would push our earliest attestation to the practice into the archaic period, probably the second half of the 6th century BCE: for discussion, see Vergados 2013, 439–441 (on the passage) and 130–147 (date of composition). However, Katz/Volk 2000, esp. 124–127 make a convincing case for understanding the Muse’s insulting address to the poet at Theog. 26 (‘mere bellies’) in terms of engastrimythia, which links the ideas of mantic and poetic inspiration in the Greek tradition as early as the 8th–7th century BCE. 74 1 Sam. 28.3–25. The Hebrew expression describes the witch as ‘a woman possessing a spirit’, variations of which occur several times in the Old Testament (e.  g. Lv. 1931; Dt. 1811; 2 K 216; 1 Ch 1013). The Hebrew itself does not evoke engastrimythia; however, engastrimythic associations were imported early by the Greek authors of the Septuagint (as well as Josephus, AJ 6.327–42), who translated the expression with variations of the term engastrimythos (e.  g. γυναῖκα ἐγγαστρίμυθον, ἐγγαστρίμυθος etc.), and this tradition was subsequently taken over by patristic authors. For the ancient Christian/Rabbinic exegetical tradition on the Witch of Endor, see Smelik 1979; for discussion of the etymology of the Hebrew noun ‫אֹוב‬, meaning ‘spirit’, see Katz/Volk 2000, 125–127.

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argue presently that Alexander’s technomantic device raises similar questions, which are centrally relevant to – indeed, characteristic of – Lucian’s work.75 In the Greek tradition, the hosts of the prophetic belly-voice – or sometimes the belly-demon itself  – were called after a famous engastrimyth Eurycles. In Plato’s Sophist, the Eleatic stranger likens people who make self-contradicting arguments to ‘those who carry around the bizarre Eurycles’.76 Aristophanes gives the practice an explicitly meta-poetic turn by using it as an analogy for his clandestine projection of his own voice and ideas into the work of other poets, ‘sneaking into the bellies of others in imitation of Eurycles’ divinatory strategy, and causing an outpour of comedy.’77 In both these examples, engastrimythia is aligned with other practices that are conceived, vividly, in schizophrenic and schizophonic terms, such as self-contradiction (Plato) and the jostling of alien voices in poetry (Aristophanes). In Charon 7–8, Lucian concretizes these ‘alien voices’ vividly in the form of verses which the seasick Homer vomits up, and which Charon diligently collects for later citation. It has been suggested that Lucian’s image of the belly as the repository of phrases – which is found also in Lexiphanes 21 – plays on the practice of engastrimythia.78 The engastrimythic undertones of Alexander’s snake-puppet are far from inert in the context of Lucian’s work, since he is an author who revels in paradoxes of ideology and identity, and repeatedly challenges the fictional unity of the author’s voice. Alexander’s pseudo-divinatory voice-play evokes both the polyphony of Lucian’s hybrid and mimetic work, and the duplicity of his authorial voice which may seem to emanate from the ‘real’ author Lucian, but is always routed through an intermediate mask or persona.79 This identity paradox is at its most tantalizing here and in True Stories where, instead of employing an allonym, Lucian has raised the stakes by inscribing his authentic name ‘Loukianos’ into the text – a text, moreover, which plays some scintillating onomastic games.80 When we watch this ‘Loukianos’ disingenuously taking on the role of a 75 Connor 2000. 76 Plato, Sophist 252c: ὥσπερ τὸν ἄτοπον Εὐρυκλέα περιφέροντες (transl. after Ogden 2002, 31). The Greek adjective atopos – translated here as ‘bizarre’ – literally means ‘out of place’, which highlights the sense of vocal dislocation. 77 Aristophanes Wasps 1019–20. Passages on the topic of engastrimythia are collated in Ogden 2002, 30–32. 78 Katz/Volk 2000, 126. 79 On the mixture of biography, Orakelkritik, historiography and comedy in Alex., see Branham 1984; Elm von der Osten 2006. On Lucian’s parodic genre-play more generally, see Branham 1989. On the disjunctivity between the author and his various personae in the text, see Goldhill 2002, 60–69. 80 VH 2.28; Alex. 55; see ní Mheallaigh 2014, 171–181 which does not, however, discuss Alexan-

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worshipper of Glycon in order to infiltrate Alexander’s hoax – by perpetrating a fraud of his own (Alex. 53–4) – we are reminded just how slippery this character really is.81 This queasy realization is exacerbated by Lucian’s own philosophical hoax in real life, when he forged a treatise by ‘ventriloquizing’ the voice of Heraclitus – a philosopher who was himself famous both for exposing other thinkers as ‘frauds’ and for the cryptic, ‘oracular’ style of his pronouncements.82 The boundaries separating Alexander from Lucian, fraud from critic, and representation from reality, are more blurred than they first appear. The snake-puppet with its speaking-tubes also evokes key imagery in the literature of Orakelkritik which was a hot topic for intellectual debate in the imperial period. Dorothee Elm von der Ost has shown that Alexander reiterates two of the central criticisms in this discourse: (1) the complaint about the ambivalence and obscurity of oracles; and (2) the accusation that oracles were not produced through authentic divine inspiration, but devised by artificial means.83 In this literature, ventriloquism, pipes (auloi) and instruments (organa) are used as scathing analogies for the role of the prophet’s body during mantic possession. Plutarch, for example, evokes ventriloquism to pour scorn on the notion that a god actually animates the prophet’s body during divination: For it is thoroughly naive and childish to think that the divinity itself, having entered into the prophets’ bodies, produces its secret utterance using their mouths and voices like instruments (organa), just like the ventriloquists who were called ‘Eurycleses’ in old days and are nowadays called ‘Pythones.’84

der. Lucian’s name-play incorporates e.  g. the nickname ‘Cocconas’ (Alex. 6); the isopsephic oracle which evokes Alexander’s name (Alex. 11); Glycon (cf. n. 71); the transparent name Sacerdos (‘priest’? Alex. 43); the re-naming of Abonouteichos as Ionopolis (Alex.58); and the anonymity of characters such as Alexander’s mysterious lover and tutor in magic (Alex. 5). This onomastic riddling, with its repeated suggestions of hidden names, should warn us not to take ‘Loukianos’ at face value, either. 81 As noted by Elm von der Ost 2006, 154 and Ogden 2009, 282–284 (emphasizing the Epicurean air of these activities). On the confused Epicurean/Cynic identities of Lucian’s persona in the essay, see Branham 1984, 159–162. 82 On Lucian’s Heraclitean hoax, see Strohmaier 1976; Macleod 1979; Hall 1981, 4–6 and 436– 440; ní Mheallaigh 2014, 124. For Heraclitus’ excoriation of Pythagoras and poets, see DK 22 B40, 42, 56–57, 81, 106, 129; on the ambiguity and oracular nature of his sayings, see Aristotle, Rhet. 1407b11–25 and DK 22 B93. 83 Elm von der Osten 2006 contextualizes Alex. against Plutarch’s Delphic dialogues and the Exposure of Magicians by the Cynic Oenomaus of Gadara. On the discourse of Orakelkritik in imperial literature and Lucian’s contribution to it, see Bendlin 2006. For Alexander’s spurious or obscure oracles, see Alex. 22–54. Karavas 2008–2009 surveys Lucian’s treatment of oracles throughout his work. 84 Plutarch, de def. or. 414e: εὔηθες γάρ ἐστι καὶ παιδικὸν κομιδῇ τὸ οἴεσθαι τὸν θεὸν αὐτὸν

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Porphyry, on the other hand, uses this imagery to describe a mystical process where the stream of the god’s breath does indeed enter the prophet’s body; it then comes ‘bubbling back up through his stomach in an upward gush; and so from the human pipe it begat its own voice’ (αὐλοῦ δ’ ἐκ βροτέοιο φίλην ἐτεκνώσατο φωνήν).85 Alexander’s divinatory technology reifies these metaphors of the prophet-as-instrument. The device also evokes technical wonders of another sort: the wondrous automata that are described by Hero of Alexandria. Alexander’s puppet is not a mechanical automaton, but a marionette: the snake-head has moving parts (the jaws and tongue) which are manipulated through pulling on horse-hairs by the puppet-master or ‘string-puller’ (neurospastēs).86 Nevertheless, this basic sort of puppetry underlay the more sophisticated automated versions which are described in the work of the mechanical author Hero of Alexandria, who attests to a flourishing tradition of such entertainment in the imperial period. Hero’s treatise On Automata, which dates to the first century CE,87 describes how to construct two types of mechanical theatre: a ‘moving’ theatre that involves mechanical figures that are fully realised in the round, and a ‘static’ one (ta stata automata) which brings us closer to Alexander’s device, since the puppets in this case are not free-standing figures, but – like the snake-head – composites of paintings on canvas with individual moving parts such as eyes and limbs.88 According to Hero, this form of theatre had a more ancient ancestry than its moving counterpart.89 In addition to describing how to construct the figurines themselves, Hero provides instructions for producing sound-effects to accompany his shows. It is interesting that both types of mechanical theatre recreate the illusion of divine epiphany (of Athena and Dionysus) just as Alexander’s autophone oracles are meant to instantiate the presence of Asclepius. At one point, Hero recommends rolling

ὥσπερ τοὺς ἐγγαστριμύθους Εὐρυκλέας πάλαι νυνὶ δὲ Πύθωνας προσαγορευομένους ἐνδυόμενον εἰς τὰ σώματα τῶν προφητῶν ὑποφθέγγεσθαι τοῖς ἐκείνων στόμασι καὶ  φωναῖς χρώμενον ὀργάνοις. Cf. similar imagery (of the soul animating the body) at Plutarch, de Pyth. or. 404b8–c5. 85 Eusebius Praep. Ev. 5.8 11–12; cf. Plutarch, De def. orac. 414e. For discussion of these passages and the practice of ventriloquism itself, see Hopfner 1990, 461–464. 86 Puppetry does not leave much of an impression on the literary record, but we can glean some idea of its popularity from isolated references; we hear, for example, of Potheinos the neurospastēs, who performed successfully in the theatre at Athens in the fifth century BCE (Athenaeus Deipn. 1.19e). 87 On Hero’s date, see Drachmann 1948. See Murphy 1995 for a translation with exegetical notes (mainly on technical aspects) of On automata. 88 On automata 22.1–3. 89 The stationary theatre is described in On automata 24–30. Hero expresses his debt on the subject to his predecessor Philo of Alexandria (3rd century BCE) at On automata 20.1 and 3.

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balls of lead onto a skin which has been drawn tight like a drum in order to simulate the noise of thunder to accompany the epiphanies.90 Hippolytus includes a similar explanation of how a magician can ‘generate’ thunder by rolling stones over sheets of metal.91 These overlaps in theme and technique point to underlying connections between the practice of magicians and mechanical artists, which converge around Lucian’s figure of Alexander. Like Alexander’s snake, Hero’s mechanical theatres provoke wonder from their audiences which, by extension, enhances the wonder of the mechanical arts themselves. This is vital for Hero, who seeks to elevate mechanics from the level of banausic skill to that of a theoretical discipline such as philosophy, as Karin Tybjerg has shown.92 In an analogous way, wonder is the bedrock of Alexander’s success, and central to the appeal of Lucian’s work; readers flock to Lucian’s essay with the same awe and curiosity that attracted visitors to Alexander’s shrine.93 The discourse of novelty is just as crucial to all three. We have already seen that novelty is central to Lucian’s poetics. Hero insists on it too, asserting the ‘need to move away from the shows of our predecessors of old to make the mechanism appear more original,’ and emphasizing his own innovations with regard to the static theatre particularly: ‘I wish to write something more innovative on the subject of the static automata.’94 Given Alexander’s skills as an innovator of the magical repertoire, a clear overlap emerges between Lucian’s poetics and the ‘poetics of performance’ of Hero and Alexander, both of whom construct shows that are built around the use of artificial puppets, albeit in different forms and contexts. All three – Lucian, Hero and Alexander – are traffickers in illusion. Alexander is arguably the most straightforward, for his purpose is to deceive his audience and to create a mythology in which they can believe; indeed, his livelihood depends entirely on his success at doing so. Hero’s end-game is also the creation of wondrous illusions, but as a mechanical writer, it is his business to explain too how these illusions are created – not unlike the writer of the exposé who reveals how apparently miraculous feats are accomplished. The reader of Hero’s trea90 For the epiphany of Athena in the static theatre, see On automata 22.5. The epiphany of Dionysus in the moving theatre is described in On automata 3–4. 91 Ref. 4.32. 92 See Tybjerg 2003, who examines Hero’s use of the philosophical concept of wonder to invest his mechanics with epistemological complexity and raise technological expertise to the status of philosophy. 93 For Alexander and his oracle as a source of awe, see Alex. 16, 20, 26 (the autophone oracles), 30, 50. 94 On automata 2.12: δεῖ δὲ καὶ τὰς τῶν ἀρχαίων ἐκφυγεῖν διαθέσεις, ὅπως καινότερον τὸ κατασκεύασμα φαίνηται· On automata 20.1: περὶ δὲ τῶν στατῶν αὐτομάτων βουλόμεθα γράφειν καινότερόν τι·

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tise must, therefore, be able to envisage the full effects of the illusion and understand the technical craft that underlies it. Interestingly, the response which Hero expects from his audience is equally complex. He instructs, for example, that his mechanical figurines should be sizeable, but not too large, lest the audience suspect the presence of a puppet-master inside them, because the audience is always suspicious.95 Evidently, it was a crucial part of Hero’s entertainment that the show should be genuinely mechanical, that the figurines should move and interact without any direct human manipulation, and that the audience should see this. The illusion, therefore, should be wondrous, but the audience should also know how it is achieved, for that knowledge will enhance their pleasure and also their appreciation of the mechanical artist’s skill.96 Thaumatological writers like Lucian and Hippolytus appear, prima facie, to be the polar opposites of Alexander, inasmuch as it is their professed aim to dismantle the illusions which magicians work so hard to create. Their aim is more destructive than Hero’s, since Hero is invested in making illusions work, albeit without any intention to deceive, or even any expectation that he will do so, for his audience is an accomplice in his mechanical wizardry, not the dupe of it. But exposés of magic, as I shall presently argue, are not quite as straightforward as they initially appear, either, for beneath the author’s rhetoric of destruction lurks the awareness of the allure of the occult, as well as the suspicion that, by monumentalizing and even ‘teaching’ the magician’s feats, the exposer’s text itself becomes an accomplice in the fraud. Together with Alexander’s innovative artistry, the clustering of meta-literary signals in his head-quarters converts his fraudulent wonders into a cypher for Lucian’s own work. This version of the trope of author-as-magician collapses the gap that initially seemed to separate the deceptive wonder-worker from the honest author.97 In the remainder of this paper, I will tease out the subversive implications of this self-implicating strategy.

95 On automata 4.4. 96 Although it does not focus on Hero, Johnson 2013 is a fascinating analysis of the liminal position which is occupied by automata more generally in the topography of the credible in the ancient thought-world. 97 On the author as magician, see Morgan 2009, 130 on the books of the Egyptian wizard Paapis in Antonius Diogenes’ novel The incredible things beyond Thule: ‘Paapis’ magic books inscribe the author’s own power to control his fictional world and make “unbelievable” things happen, so correlating the powers of magician and novelist to shift the paradigms of normality.’

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The author/reader behind the text The dupes who throng Alexander’s chamber  – the ‘thick-headed dolts’ and ‘fools’ of Paphlagonia and Pontus98 – represent the anti-reader of Lucian’s text. Lucian’s ideal reader is a staunch rationalist who would never succumb to the smoke-and-mirrors act: Then again, to tell the truth, dear Celsus, we should make allowances for those people of Paphlagonia and Pontus for being deceived – thick-headed and uneducated folk that they are – both when they touched the serpent (for Alexander allowed anyone who wished to do this), and when they saw its head in the murky light, opening and closing its mouth. What this contrivance really needed was a Democritus, or Epicurus himself, or Metrodorus or someone else who had wits of steel against this sort of thing, so as to withhold belief and guess the reality, and even if he could not detect the method behind it, have his mind made up in advance that the method of the trick simply eluded him, and that the thing itself was a total sham and impossibility.99

The ideal reader is aligned with Lucian and his addressee Celsus, both of whom are educated critics of magic impervious to Alexander’s wiles: For a man like you and (if it is not crass to say) for a man like myself as well, this trick was obvious and easy to recognise. But to the drivelling idiots (tois idiōtais), it seemed amazing and very nearly incredible.100

98 Alex. 9: ἀνθρώπων … παχέων καὶ ἠλιθίων ‘thick-headed, foolish people’; Alex. 6: τοὺς παχεῖς τῶν ἀνθρώπων ‘thick-headed people’. 99 Alex. 17: Ἐνταῦθα, ὦ φίλε Κέλσε, εἰ δεῖ τἀληθῆ λέγειν, συγγνώμην χρὴ ἀπονέμειν τοῖς Παφλαγόσι καὶ Ποντικοῖς ἐκείνοις, παχέσι καὶ ἀπαιδεύτοις ἀνθρώποις, εἰ ἐξηπατήθησαν ἁπτόμενοι τοῦ δράκοντος – καὶ γὰρ τοῦτο παρεῖχεν τοῖς βουλομένοις ὁ Ἀλέξανδρος – ὁρῶντές τε ἐν ἀμυδρῷ τῷ φωτὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν δῆθεν αὐτοῦ ἀνοίγουσάν τε καὶ συγκλείουσαν τὸ στόμα, ὥστε πάνυ τὸ μηχάνημα ἐδεῖτο Δημοκρίτου τινὸς ἢ καὶ αὐτοῦ Ἐπικούρου ἢ Μητροδώρου ἤ τινος ἄλλου ἀδαμαντίνην πρὸς τὰ τοιαῦτα τὴν γνώμην ἔχοντος, ὡς ἀπιστῆσαι καὶ ὅπερ ἦν εἰκάσαι, καὶ εἰ μὴ εὑρεῖν τὸν τρόπον ἐδύνατο, ἐκεῖνο γοῦν προπεπεισμένου, ὅτι λέληθεν αὐτὸν ὁ τρόπος τῆς μαγγανείας, τὸ δ’ οὖν πᾶν ψεῦδός ἐστι καὶ γενέσθαι ἀδύνατον. Cf. another reference to Democritus in Alex. 50. 100 Alex. 20: Ἦν δὲ τὸ μηχάνημα τοῦτο ἀνδρὶ μὲν οἵῳ σοί, εἰ δὲ μὴ φορτικὸν εἰπεῖν, καὶ οἵῳ ἐμοί, πρόδηλον καὶ γνῶναι ῥᾴδιον, τοῖς δὲ ἰδιώταις καὶ κορύζης μεστοῖς τὴν ῥῖνα τεράστιον καὶ πάνυ ἀπίστῳ ὅμοιον. (Translation after Harmon, Loeb series). Lucian tells us that his addressee is the author of a pamphlet ‘Against the magicians’ (Alex. 21). The identity of this figure is disputed; see Caster 1938, 3–5 and Clay 1992, 3440–3441. Although it goes against prevailing wisdom, I see no decisive reason not to identify him with the contemporary author of the True Doctrine, who is the eponymous target of Origen’s heresiology Against Celsus. This identification is usually ruled out

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Lucian’s separation of the ‘idiots’ from the sophisticated reader is redolent of the prologue to True Stories. There, he flatters his readers by contrasting them favourably with the Phaeacians who were deceived by Odysseus’ lies, and whom he describes with exactly the same terms idiōtai – ‘unsophisticated, illiterate, laymen,’ the opposite of those who possess paideia.101 In Alexander, Lucian further polarises his readers along a stark spatial axis: the ‘idiots’ belong ‘over there’ in far-flung, cultural wastelands like Paphlagonia and Pontus, whilst sophisticated readers are identified with the normative centre, the city of Rome. But there are problems with these neat polarities, as Alexia Petsalis-Diomidis points out in her perceptive dismantling of the ambiguities in Lucian’s narrative.102 For one thing, many Roman elites are presented in Lucian’s essay as ‘undiscerning, naive, and lacking in true Greek paideia,’ and they fall for Alexander’s ruse. The wilfully gullible Roman senator Rutilianus is a spectacular example of such people who operate at the centre, but are nevertheless infected by ‘the Paphlagonian folly.’103 The disease spreads even to the Emperor, who is persuaded both to rebrand Abonouteichos in Alexander’s honour with the loftier Greek name ‘Ionopolis’, and to mint new coins bearing the image of Glycon and his prophet.104 For another thing, Lucian himself, as a travelling sophist, is a mobile performer like Alexander. He may identify with the centre now that he has fought his way into the ranks of the pepaideumenoi, but he originated ‘out there’ in Samosata, which was more remote than Abonouteichos.105 Alexander even includes a narrative of his travels from Rome (where he advises Rutilianus) to Abonouteichos (where he

on the strength of the Platonic persuasions of Origen’s Celsus, in contrast with the Epicureanism of Lucian’s. However, as Hoffmann 1987, 30–33 points out, Lucian’s Celsus need not have been any more literally an Epicurean than Lucian himself, and Origen’s Celsus shows eclectic philosophical knowledge as well. 101 VH 1.3. 102 Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 60–66 analyses these ambiguities in terms of conflicting models of elite and popular religion. 103 Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 65; on the ‘Paphlagonian folly’, see Alex. 45: τῆς Παφλαγόνων μωρίας, where those infected are described as ‘mad’ (μεμηνόσιν). Lucian describes this religious fervour in terms of a ‘disease’ at Alex. 30; cf. also n. 71. On Rutilianus, see Alex. 30–35, with Caster 1938, 52–56 and Jones 1986, 141. 104 See Alex. 58, with Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 65 for insights on the role which religion played in both individual and civic strategies of self-promotion within the Roman Empire. On the copious and widespread attestations to the Glycon-cult in the ancient material record (with images), see Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 14–41. 105 See Lane Fox 1986, 241–250, who describes the satire as ‘the work of one arriviste deeply despising another’ (p. 249).

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confronts Alexander) and farther afield.106 All of this undermines the ideological polarity between centre and periphery.107 As a consequence, Lucian’s readers are not quite as securely removed from the Paphlagonian ‘idiots’ as they might like to think. They may congratulate themselves on their immunity to Alexander’s thaumata, but the very need for a text like this essay to refute the fraud and restore ‘correct thinking’ is a reminder of their vulnerability.108 Moreover, by reading Lucian’s Alexander, even sophisticated readers are caught up in the subtler snares of thaumatologia, which appeals to the desire to pry into magic under the pretext of contempt.109 For all their fervid excoriation of Alexander’s methods, both narrator and reader are as fascinated with them as the visitors who flock to his shrine, even if it is for different reasons. Alexander therefore gives social heft to Lucian’s analyses of fiction in texts like Lover of lies and the prologue of True Stories. There Lucian tells us that we read fiction because there is an innate pleasure in entertaining the illusion of things that we know are not true; and it is this knowledge and pleasure which separates fiction from the lie.110 In Alexander, he raises the stakes because he is no longer dealing with tales of wonder, but with the sordid phenomenon of religious fraud. The inter-play in Alexander is not between two levels of reader (as in Lover of lies and True Stories), but between real-life victims on the one hand, and the readers of their experiences on the other: between life and literature. Lucian shows how uneducated or gullible people court wonder-workers, prophets and magicians because they are driven by hope and fear to lend credence to things that stretch the normal boundaries of belief.111 But the educated reader who believes him/herself impervious to such drives is far from immune to the allure of such things. By denying the reader the ability to remove him/herself from this

106 Alex. 55–57. 107 See Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 65: ‘Lucian’s exposure of the “fraud” of Abonouteichos should be seen against the background of the dynamic use of cults for civic promotion within the imperial framework. This process is presented in the text as an aggressive attack by the uncultured periphery on Rome. Lucian’s Syrian origin again sits uncomfortably with this theme.’ 108 Alex. 61: οἶμαι δὲ ὅτι καὶ τοῖς ἐντυχοῦσι χρήσιμόν τι ἔχειν δόξει ἡ γραφή, τὰ μὲν διεξελέγχουσα, τὰ δὲ ἐν ταῖς τῶν εὖ φρονούντων γνώμαις βεβαιοῦσα. I believe my writing will prove useful for readers in some measure as well, through its refutation of some things and its confirmation of others in the minds of a people of sense. At Alex. 2, Lucian describes the encroachment of Glycon’s cult as a form of dangerous ‘brigandage’ (λῃστεία) which has over-run the Roman Empire. 109 On wonder-tales as a guilty readerly pleasure, see ní Mheallaigh 2014, 85–88 and 129–135. 110 Philops. 1–4; ní Mheallaigh 2014, 73–83. 111 Alex. 8, a view which is, of course, to be interpreted with caution: see Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 60–66.

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drama of belief, Alexander raises questions, implicitly, about the desires which motivate us to immerse ourselves as readers in the ‘Augean dung’.

Conclusion In Alexander’s darkened room, Lucian confronts the reader not only with the signs of his duplicity as author, but with the reader’s own hypocrisy as well. His exposé of Alexander’s technoprophecy is entwined with the desire for recognition of the techniques by which he himself performs his own literary magic. In this way, he reveals thaumatology to be a sublimated experience of the debased, miraculous acts which are repudiated in the text. Lucian’s essay links Alexander’s performance as magician-cum-holy-man at the edges of the empire with that of the mechanical artist and the sophist at its centre, and shows a deep understanding for the ways in which the paradoxes of fiction permeate apparently unconnected aspects of life. Lucian knows that fiction lies at the heart of imperial culture. What makes this contribution to Wunderkritik especially rich is that it ponders not only the psychological allure of thaumata themselves, but of reading about thaumata as well. By drawing back the curtain on wizard, author and reader alike, he has produced an exposé – of the exposé.

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Rosati, G. (1999), “Trimalchio on stage”, in: S. Harrison (ed.), Oxford readings in the Roman novel, Oxford, 85–104. Rostad, A. (2011), “The magician in the temple: historicity and parody in Lucian’s Alexander”, Classica et Mediaevalia 62, 207–230. Smelik, K. A. D. (1979), “The Witch of Endor 1 Samuel 28 in Rabbinic and Christian exegesis till 800 A. D.”, Vigiliae Christianae 33, 160–179. Speyer, W. (1970), Bücherfunde in der Glaubenswerbung der Antike, Hypomnemata 24, Göttingen. – (1971), Die literarische Fälschung im heidnischen und christlichen Altertum: ein Versuch ihrer Deutung, Munich. Strohmaier, G. (1976), “Übersehenes zur Biographie Lukians”, Philologus 120, 117–122. Thee, F. C. R. (1984), Julius Africanus and the early Christian view of magic, Tübingen. Thomas, E. (2007), “The architectural descriptions of Lucian of Samosata”, in: E. Thomas, Monumentality and the Roman Empire: architecture in the Antonine age, Oxford, 221–235. Tybjerg, K. (2003), “Wonder-making and philosophical wonder in Hero of Alexandria”, Studies in history and philosophy of science 34 (3), 443–466. Vergados, A. (2013), The Homeric hymn to Hermes: introduction, text and commentary, Berlin– Boston. Victor, U. (1997), Lukian von Samosata. Alexander oder der Lügenprophet. Eingeleitet, herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt von Ulrich Victor, Leiden. Whitmarsh, T. (2001), Greek literature and the Roman Empire: the politics of imitation, Oxford. – (2010), “Domestic poetics: Hippias’ house in Achilles Tatius”, ClAnt 29 (2), 327–348. Zeitlin, F. I. (1999), “Petronius as paradox: anarchy and artistic integrity”, in: S. Harrison (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel, Oxford, 1–49.

Christine Hunzinger

Perceiving Thauma in Archaic Greek Epic Abstract: The representation of thauma in archaic Greek epic generally develops down two paths that bear on the appropriateness of this experience, between astonishment as a vehicle of inquiry, and blind stupidity: is it legitimate to wonder? and at what object? Whereas some descriptions often stage a thauma unburdened by suspicion, other instances develop a tendency to warn against a thauma clearly disclosed as deceitfulness, apaté or dolos. This negative or positive value of thauma is closely linked to the status of sight, on one hand conceived of as a vehicle of illusion, on the other as a faculty of intelligent observation.

In search of Archaic wonder: methodological issues When confronted with the notion of wonder in Greek literature, we are faced with methodological issues which may be categorized as three. First, there is the gap between real experience and literary representation, which prevents us directly accessing a history of mentalities and historical attitudes toward wonder behind these literary texts. As the medieval historian Carolyne W. Bynum wrote: “Finding wonder-words is easy; finding wonder is far more complicated.”1 Each literary work or corpus of texts develops a representation of the wonderful according to the demands of its own poetics. This literary filter ultimately distances us from ancient experience of wonder, when attempting to grasp historical beliefs and Archaic Greek attitudes toward the marvelous, or track changing attitudes toward wonders, or ponder evidence for ‘real’ individual experience of marveling in Archaic Greece. Conversely, what we the modern readers perceive as wonders are not necessarily characterised as such in the text. Secondly, an investigation of wonder in Archaic Greek, when based on the occurrences of one of these ‘wonder-words’ (θαῦμα and its derivatives), confirms the broad assumption that conceptual distinctions in Ancient and contemporary languages do not necessarily overlap.2 When dealing with θαῦμα-words, we are

1 Bynum 1997, 15. 2 As Lateiner 2014 observes about the necessity to “avoid facile comparisons between ancient https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-014

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first and foremost confronted with a discrepancy between our modern conception and the ancient: the division of conceptual fields does not correspond to ours. Θαῦμα subsumes a certain number of categories, which modern languages distinguish: wonder, admiration, amazement, perplexity, astonishment, etc., and these nuances do not exhaust all aspects of a word which signifies primarily an experience of the extraordinary. These emotional reactions align themselves between two extremes, the one euphoric, the encounter with the object of a desire, and the other dysphoric, when the extraordinary phenomenon thwarts the expectations of the subject, and when surprise borders on the sentiment of revolt and scandal. The wonder-reaction in Archaic poetry ranges from fear, anger or indignation, to admiration, hermeneutic astonishment or true delight. However, the mingling of emotions which are distinguished in modern language is not the only difficulty the concept presents, as it is a concept without a fixed field of reference. The third issue concerns the nebulousness of this essentially protean notion. For the referential extension of θαῦμα is infinite. This concept lacks an essential property, that of being delimited within a determined field  – to quote Pindar, θαύματα πολλά “wonders are many” (Olympian Odes I.28). There are no fixed categories of θαύματα: we find in texts a multiplicity of spectacles equally considered θαύματα, yet as diverse as the splendid chariot of Hera (Iliad 5.725), the monster Typhoeus (Theogony 834), a paradox (Odyssey 4.655), or a thousand other phenomena touched with a startling or marvelous quality. In this diversity of spectacles apt to provoke wonder, one can identify what could be called ‘collections’, ‘series’ (and also ‘repositories’) of θαύματα affected with recurring qualities – accessory and contingent characters conducive to a cartography of wonderful phenomena. Works of art, special artifacts such as automata, distinctive human beings, hybrids, monsters, giants, phenomena such as apparitions and disappearances, petrifactions, and metamorphoses may constitute some samples of these series, with their own ‘ingredients’ or recurring qualities (to use the expression of Richard Neer: ‘key ingredients of Greek wonder’).3 However, this catalogue or ‘cartography’ of marvels constitutes an unstable ensemble, always open to variation between authors and works. Despite the protean nature of the concept one can still say that in most Archaic occurrences of the word, θαῦμα is something seen and inherent in and contemporary ‘feelings’”: “the collection of this delicate data on ancient perceptions must avoid facile assumptions of co-extensive equivalents.” 3 Neer 2010, 61. Recent works of Neer assign θαῦμα a central place in the history of archaic and classical art. Τhe development of Greek sculpture is analysed as the quest for an effect of wonder, with fundamental characteristics, namely, brilliance, dazzle, and the object’s paradoxical duality and otherness.

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sensory appearances. The gaze which it provokes implies a particular modality of visual perception, that I will try to show in the first part of this paper. Then I will expound two opposite facets of wonder in the Homeric and Hesiodic corpus. Whereas some descriptions of wonder-reaction stage a θαῦμα unburdened by suspicion, other instances develop a tendency to warn against a θαῦμα clearly disclosed as deceitfulness, ἀπάτη or δόλος. Now, this negative or positive value of θαῦμα seems to be closely linked to the status of sight.

Θαυμάζειν: a modality of looking The word θαῦμα in Ancient Greek blurs the distinction between subject and object as it applies both to the feeling experienced by the subject and to the object which excites the feeling – as in English ‘wonder’, but not as in French, where two different words are used, ‘merveille’ for the thing, and ‘émerveillement’ for the emotional reaction (‘wonderment’). But the substantive θαῦμα in Archaic Greek epic rarely refers to the feeling of wonder – and never in the Iliad.4 What is designated as θαῦμα is first and foremost defined as spectacle:5 in Homer, especially in the Iliad, the astonishing and the marvelous are essentially there to be seen, whether it is a spectacle which a character says he has seen (ὢ πόποι ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ᾿ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι)6 or an object which the narrator or one of the characters presents as a marvel to be seen: θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι.7 The verb θαυμάζω is usually accompanied by a verb denoting visual perception in a circumstantial clause, a relative clause or in the form of an circumstancial participle8 specifying the modalities of the marveling process.9

4 The ‘sentiment’ sense occurs only very rarely in ancient epic: Odyssey 10.326; Theogony 588; Hesiod fr. 278.1 M-W. 5 For an analysis of the entanglement of sight and wonder, see Mette 1961; Prier 1989, 81–97. On the semantic field of θηέομαι, see also Dillery 2004 and 2007–2008. 6 Iliad 13.99; 15.286; 20.344; 21.54. 7 Iliad 5.725; 10.439; 18.83; 18.377. The only instance of the substantive θαῦμα without a seeing verb is Iliad 18.549 (the detail of images of the ploughed earth on the shield of Achilles: a fundamentally visual object). 8 Iliad 10.11–12; 18.466–467; 24.391–394. 9 The formula θαύματ’ ἀκοῦσαι is more recent (Theogony 834) as is the purely auditory θαῦμα (Hymn to Hermes 440, 443, 455). Hearing as a source of wonder seems to be secondary in relation to sight: in Iliad 10.12–13; 24.631–632; Hymn to Apollo 156, expressions relating to hearing are accompaniments of a visual spectacle.

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It even appears that the verb θαυμάζω may in some Iliadic contexts be assimilated to a verb of visual perception, much like the verb θηέομαι.10 By way of an example one can cite the beginning of Iliad Book 13, where Poseidon chooses a raised position from which to contemplate the hostilities at his leisure (13.11: καὶ γὰρ ὃ θαυμάζων ἧστο πτόλεμόν τε μάχην τε): the god neither wonders at the battle nor is astonished by it – above all, he wants to know its outcome, and so he watches the spectacle anxiously. Repetition of the verb φαίνετο in lines 13–14 stresses the perceivable aspect of the god’s field of vision. The concern in the god’s look is brought out by the litotes in line 10: Οὐδ᾿ ἀλαοσκοπιὴν εἶχε κρείων ἐνοσίχθων “the mighty earth-shaker was not blind on watch”, and it contrasts with the indifference of Zeus described in lines 1–9. The attitude implied by the verb θαυμάζω seems like the opposite of this indifference,11 and the participle θαυμάζων describes the position of an impassioned onlooker.12 In this case, the blurred boundary between emotional awareness and vision makes it difficult to translate the verb. Other iliadic contexts show the confrontation of a collective, immobile public with a spectacular, captivating action: Iliad 2.320, where the Achaeans observe the prodigy of Aulis; 5.601 and 24.394, Hector in battle constitutes a spectacle for the troops; 18.496, women contemplate marriage ceremonies on the shield of Achilles. Θαυμάζω, much like the verb θηέομαι, characterizes in all these instances the gaze of a spectator observing some performance and absorbed in contemplation. The look which a θαῦμα arouses involves a particular modality of visual perception. In a study devoted to the verbs which express the idea of seeing in Indo-European languages, Joseph Vendryes has distinguished two forms of process: an active apprehension, a voluntary act, the initiative for which originates in the subject as agent (I look); and a passive perception in which an external event is imposed upon the subject (I see).13 As if dealing with a table 10 On verbs of sight in Greek, see Prévot 1935; Mugler 1964; De Boel 1987. 11 As Janko 1994, 44 writes: “Whereas Zeus gazes ever further away, Poseidon focuses with increasing precision on Ida, Troy and the ships; like Zeus, his emotions are stirred by what he sees, but to contrary effect.” 12 On the centrality of this position of spectator for the poetics of the Iliad, see Griffin 1980, 179–204; Slatkin 2007; Clay 2011, 2–8; Lovatt 2013b. As the french writer Michel Butor writes 1991, 11: “Les dieux décident de presque tout, mais ils s’ennuieraient sans le jeu que leur procurent les hommes. Ils ont besoin d’être nourris non seulement par notre sang, relayé par celui de nos bêtes, mais aussi par notre spectacle. (…) Ainsi les dieux élèvent des hommes, souvent à l’insu de ceux-ci, comme des animaux de concours.” 13 Vendryes 1952, 116. Prévot 1935 as well begins his study with this distinction between: “verbes exprimant une activité du sujet”, and verbs with “un sens réceptif”. On ‛Agentive’ verbs

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comprising two columns and two lines, this initial distinction can be completed with the distinction between a lasting vision and a fleeting perception. Joseph Vendryes remarks that Greek ignores the case of a lasting passive perception – a paradoxical case per se, according to him: if perception continues, that very act includes an intention. He writes: “It is hard to understand how a language would use a durative form expressing vision as ‘perception’.”14 However, this is exactly the value taken by the verb θαυμάζω in certain of its ancient instances:15 a contemplation which lasts, accompanied by a fascination for the spectacle which captivates the subject and more or less temporarily puts him in a situation of receptor – immobile and silent.16 The verb θαυμάζω thus seems to occupy this theoretically ‘impossible’ position of lasting, non-intentional perception. Indeed θαυμάζω, in the Iliad, and in most ancient instances, is not used in the aorist.17

The subject’s reaction Θαυμάζειν never implies a neutral gaze: this process of sensory perception is accompanied by an emotive reaction of the subject, without the two phenomena being dissociated. As we noted in the introduction, this emotional reaction may have various facets, but there is a third element, an intellectual and cognitive one. This perception implies the simultaneous consciousness of two antitheti-

and ‘non–Agentive’ verbs, see Gruber 1967, 943 and De Boel 1987. These are linguistic modern categories which are only operative as tools for analysing verbs of sight. They evidently do not coincide with ancient optical conceptions, as Greek optical science tends to blur the distinction between active and passive vision. On ancient theories of visual perception, see Mugler 1960; Simon 1988, and for recent summaries with important bibliography, see Bartsch 2006, 58–67; Lovatt 2013b, 17–21. 14 Vendryes 1952, 118: “On comprend mal l’usage que pourrait faire une langue d’une forme durative exprimant la vision en tant que ‘perception.’” 15 As De Boel 1987, 26 puts it: “Il va de soi que le caractère inactif de la perception est le plus net quand celle-ci est momentanée (…). Mais de là, il ne faut pas conclure à l’impossibilité d’une forme durative exprimant la vision en tant que perception (…). On trouve des exemples incontestables de cette valeur-là chez θαυμάζω”. 16 This description of θεᾶσθαι by Snell 1975, 15 would equally apply to certain instances of θαυμάζειν: “θεᾶσθαι etwa ist gewissermaßen sehen und dabei den Mund aufsperren (wie “gaffen”)” [to look with one’s mouth wide open, i.  e. ‘to gape’ or ‘stare’]. 17 Only two uses of θαυμάζω in the aorist are found in the whole of ancient epic: Odyssey 6.49 (in the form ἀποθαυμάζω, where the prefix to the verb can indicate completion of the action), Hymn to Hermes 414.

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cal phenomena (what Richard Neer calls the ‘perception of a synaptic joint’),18 of a distance between two poles, of a paradoxical duality, whether implicitly or explicitly exposed. Wonder is born of perception’s dual and contradictory character, of the tension provoked by what partakes of oxymoron, the conjoining in one object of antitheses. This polarity is necessary and consubstantial in all θαύματα. Therefore, despite the referential diversity, the unity of the notion is to be found in the awareness of a paradox and the acknowledgement of a gap: be it purely quantitative or qualitative, or intellectual, in relation to an expectation, to a norm. As a true epiphany of the impossible, the θαῦμα rips a hole in the banal or expected tissue of phenomena and thus covers the entire area of the ‘extra-ordinary’. As a result of the conjunction of an object being looked at and the gaze which the subject trains upon this object, θαῦμα is neither an objective quality of the world nor a sentiment separable, for the subject, from the perception of an ‘outside’.19 Object of subjective emotion marking “the advent or the event of the other” (as Luce Irigaray writes, commenting on Les Passions de l’âme of Descartes: “l’avènement ou l’événement de l’autre”)20 and the “mourning for the self as an independent entity” (“le deuil de soi comme unité autarcique”), θαῦμα is located in this ‘in-between’ which is equally external to the being perceiving it and constructed by this being’s subjective perception. We may notice that Prier, extending Snell’s perspectives,21 replaces this distinction between subject and object – the fruit, according to him, of an erroneous anachronistic displacement for the Archaic Greek conception  – with the phenomenological experience of two poles, the “this” and the “other/that”.22 In carrying on the analyses of Snell, Prier invites a reconsideration of the phenomenology of Archaic perception while eschewing the Cartesian distinction between subject and object. As Richard Neer puts it: “To wonder, in Greek, is to be poised between two possible modes of existence, to shimmer between what we might be tempted to call subject and object.”23 I will maintain this distinction, but we may note that the notion of wonder, θαῦμα, is particularly exposed to such blurring.

18 Neer 2010, 66 and 57–69 for a detailed analysis of wonder as twofold. 19 As Ferlampin-Acher 2003, 44 writes: “Le merveilleux se compose de deux pans indissociables, car il résulte de la conjonction d’un objet regardé et d’un regard porté sur celui-ci.” 20 Irigaray 1984, 75. Her commentary on Descartes is especially devoted to wonder. 21 As developed in Snell 1975. 22 Prier 1989, 19. 23 Neer 2010, 68.

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Between acceptance and suspicion: two responses to θαῦμα Born of this ‘in-betweeness’, of the meeting of a perceived object and the consciousness perceiving it as a wonder, wonder pertains to sensorial perception, intellectual judgement and emotion. Questioning the relevance of this emotion continually recurs in ancient texts, which dissociate a legitimate, intelligent wonder from a credulous and deceitful bedazzlement, in which emotion deprives the individual of his resources.24 The ambiguity inherent in θαῦμα reaches its paroxysm in Platonic thinking, in which θαυμάζειν is not only designated as the point of origin and the very principle (ἀρχή) which completely subtends philosophical thinking (Plato, Theaetetus 155d3 – cf. Aristotle, Metaphysics 982b12), but also as the open-mouthed bedazzlement before θαυματοποιοί, sophistic charlatans, who engage in tricks of rhetorical prestidigitation and manipulate ideas as if they were mere marionettes (Sophist 268d). The representation of θαῦμα in Greek literature generally develops down two paths that bear on the pertinence of this emotion, between amazement, as a vector of questioning, and stupid blindness: is it legitimate to feel wonder? And for what object? It is particularly the temporality of θαυμάζειν that is at the heart of this questioning of the pertinence of the emotion, the fugacity of which can be a sign of intelligence, when the θαῦμα is abolished with the understanding of the phenomenon. After the shorter or longer period in which the conscience is seized with wonder, either questioning arises, which resolves the paradox, or habit does, which dispels the initial sense of something extraordinary. As Jacques Le Goff writes: “One of the marks of the marvelous is its instability, like a dream; one awakens from the marvelous because its cognitive function dissolves it in a puff.”25 But at the other extreme one can posit a long and lasting wonder, a legitimate admiration which does not diminish once the novelty of the phenomenon has stopped surprising.26 Representations of θαῦμα in Archaic Greek epic tend, through an identical movement, to operate a parallel sharing between two types of reception. Whereas

24 This duality is not specific to the Greek θαυμάζειν, it is at the centre of the philosophical debate on wonder: Hepburn 1980 discusses the “problematic aspects” of wonder. 25 Le Goff 1978, 84: “L’une des caractéristiques du merveilleux est son instabilité, comme le rêve; on s’éveille du merveilleux, parce que sa fonction cognitive le dissout en fumée.” 26 For an analysis of the double temporality of platonic θαυμάζειν, at the beginning and at the end of the philosophical quest (philosophy altogether begins and culminates in wonder), see Nightingale 2004, 253–268.

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in some descriptions, wonder-reaction is positively represented as an experience conducive to an intelligent evaluation of outstanding and intriguing phenomena, others, especially in the Hesiodic corpus, stage a θαῦμα clearly denounced as deceitfulness, ἀπάτη or δόλος. The wondering gaze oscillates between the two opposite poles of analytic fertility and sheer blindness. It is impossible, within the scope of this paper, to discuss each occurrence and to explore these two facets of wonder in the Homeric and Hesiodic corpus. But I would just like to stress that, as Patrizia Pinotti noticed about Platonic wonder, this negative or positive value of θαῦμα is closely linked to the status of the vision, conceived as either a vector of illusion or an intelligent faculty of observation.27 I have therefore chosen some extreme examples to illustrate the contrast between the two facets of wonder. I begin with Hesiod, and the creation of the first woman in the Theogony, 570–89. There, the narrative characters’ acceptance of the made up illusion is denounced as blindness to the real nature of the object, the function of which is to deceive. The gaze of the wonder-struck eye is a blind gaze, captive to the figurative illusion. This account doubly assimilates Pandora to a figurative object,28 through her status as an object modelled from earth and through the finery she wears: the veil embroidered by Athena qualified as ‘a wonder to behold’ (575: θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι), and the diadem forged by Hephaestus, also described as a wonder, decorated with a thousand ‘wonderful’ motifs (578: θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι; 584: θαυμάσια). Significantly, the description of these wonders substitutes for that of the creature herself, as a commentary on Pandora’s nature, pure, captivating externality yet as threatening as her diadem’s savage beasts (582).29 The object only offers to the eye this cascade of wonderful ornaments, a shimmering eye-catching surface. In fact, the assimilation to a figurative object confers upon this being the duality which is an essential characteristic of woman in the Hesiodic corpus, qualified as καλὸν κακόν (beautiful evil) at Theogony 585, as well as being provided in the

27 As Pinotti 1989, 31 writes: “Là dove la visione si qualifica come regime dell’illusione, dell’inganno e della fascinazione (ἀπατᾶν, ψυχαγωγεῖν), sia nell’esperienza, sia nel linguaggio che la media, la meraviglia è associata al soggetto disposto a lasciarsi ingannare dalle immagini che i dispositivi ottici, figurativi, poetici e retorici utilizzano e sanno evocare. Là dove, invece, la visione oculare diviene, sia nell’esperienza sia nell linguaggio che l’assume a metafora fondante, la facoltà dell’osservazione, della verifica e dell’autenticazione (θεωρεῖν), la meraviglia s’insinua nella teoria come erudità dei meccanismi della percezione e come paradosso necessario alla conoscenza.” 28 On this ekphrasis, see Becker 1993 and 1995. 29 As discussed by Clay 2003, 120–124. On Pandora as pure externality, see Loraux 1981, 49. On Hesiod’s Pandora as a “visual icon”, see Lev Kenaan 2008, 32–44.

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Works and Days with a clear dichotomy between a seductive exterior and the interior of “a bitch” (77–78). The diadem and the creature moulded from earth both appear as double objects in which the spectator perceives things other than their pure materiality: the figuring is assimilated to a trap. The play on genders in the description is meaningful. The paradoxical object, defined by the oxymoron καλὸν κακόν, stays neuter throughout its fabrication and disguising (570: κακόν, 572: ἴκελον, 585: καλὸν κακόν). The feminine gender only occurs when spectators look, at the exact moment when admirers see in this thing a sexual being (587: ἀγαλλομένην). The creature is feminized the minute the snare of fabrication comes into play, which the θαῦμα of the viewers validates. It is this ability to work illusions on the sight of others that makes the object described as θαῦμα the privileged instrument of deceit.30 A crafty creature uses this trompe-l’oeil effect to exercise its power over the spectator. Indeed, the wonder felt by Pandora’s first beholders consecrates the efficiency of the trap (588–589): θαῦμα δ’ ἔχ’ ἀθανάτους τε θεοὺς θνητούς τ’ ἀνθρώπους / ὡς εἶδον δόλον αἰπύν, ἀμήχανον ἀνθρώποισιν “Wonder gripped the immortal gods and the mortal human beings when they saw the steep deception, intractable for human beings.”31 This dense and significant expression attributes to the verb to see a direct object which actually designates what men do not see in Pandora: the δόλον αἰπύν, the abrupt and inescapable ruse. In the grasp of θαῦμα, the gaze becomes blind. Before Pandora, the wondering contemplation restricts itself to the beauty of the veil.32 And wonder throws a veil over intelligence. Here is the θαῦμα’s ability to entrap,33 which deprives the spectator of any critical distancing. In this instance, the beauty of the wonder is a snare: sign of defeat, mark of ignorance and of a lack of acuteness, the wondering contemplation is presented as a state which dispossesses the individual of his resources and reduces the human to his fragile condition as dupe. The disempowering effects of θαῦμα on human eyes are in this case the exact counterweight of the overwhelming power of Zeus.34 And vision is a frail faculty, exposed to dullness and 30 See Bergren 1983, 75, on woman as the ambiguous source of truth and falsehood. 31 Most 2006 for this translation. 32 As Nelson 1998, 66, writes: “We fall for the trick because we, like Epimetheus, don’t see the need to look beyond the surface.” 33 This capacity is brillantly illustrated by the wonderful tricks of the young god Hermes in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes: see the analyses of θαῦμα in this hymn by Kahn 1978. She analyses the disempowering effects of wonder 1978, 129: “Cette valeur d’attrape des constructions vient de ce que l’objet, loin d’être décomposé dans son principe, n’est perçu que dans ses effets: cette perception est elle-même thauma.” 34 On θαῦμα and the power of the encoder of the σήματα, Zeus, in the Theogony, see Holmberg 1997.

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bluntness, as Helen Lovatt writes: “Vision in Hesiod is often suspect, not to be relied on.”35 In other instances, on the contrary, the wonder-struck look prompts a cognitive movement. Response to wonder is a move towards explanation and access to knowledge derives from the evidence of seeing and wondering. Visible appearances are interpreted as signs, the vectors of a message. In these contexts not only can the spectacle perceived, θαῦμα, be interpreted as σῆμα, a sign, but the astonished perception of the spectacle sets the interpretative movement in train. Θαῦμα acts as a hinge. Ιn Iliad 2.301  ff. Ulysses reminds the army, which is ready to quit Troy and the field of battle, of a spectacular scene at Aulis which the soothsayer Calchas interpreted as the harbinger of the Greeks’ ultimate victory at Troy, at the end of ten years fighting: during a sacrifice a serpent had sprung from the altar and had swallowed up eight sparrows and their mother in a nearby plane tree. In line 308, this θαῦμα is retrospectively characterised as σῆμα (ἔνθ᾿ ἐφάνη μέγα σῆμα): Ulysses recalls that it was interpreted as a message from Zeus to the Greeks. In fact, while the soldiers were silently assessing the phenomenon (320: ἡμεῖς δ᾿ ἑσταότες θαυμάζομεν οἷον ἐτύχθη), Calchas quickly offered an explanation of it (322: Κάλχας δ᾿ αὐτίκ᾿ ἔπειτα θεοπροπέων ἀγόρευε) which consisted not only in decoding the message (the serpent’s nine victims represent nine years warfare in Troy before the victory of the Greeks in the tenth year), but also and more fundamentally in acknowledging and revealing the status of the sign amid the endless flood of visual impressions which normally elude this kind of interpretation. As Deborah Steiner writes in the study of the term σῆμα which opens her book The Tyrant’s Writ: What is crucial about semata is that they be acknowledged as message carriers. An individual who fails to recognize that a set of entrails, a lightning flash, or a chance remark (kledon) is significant will not think to search out the meaning. (…) So recognizing an object or event as significant is the first of the tasks performed by the receiver of a sema, whereas discovering the meaning of the communication is the second.36

Here it is precisely the extraordinary nature of the spectacle which prompts interpretation: the θαῦμα draws the attention of the spectators to the presence of a σῆμα. While the wonder of the soldiers moves them to the first step (acknowl-

35 Lovatt 2013a, 159. 36 Steiner 1994, 11. See also Scodel 2002 on signs in Homer.

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edging the special status of the phenomenon),37 Calchas, as a seer, is already decoding the message. In this case the vision is invoked as the vector of infallible knowledge.38 The key word in Ulysses’ discourse is μάρτυροι, witnesses, in line 302: the visual evidence comes in support of knowledge (302–303: εὖ γὰρ δὴ τόδε ἴδμεν ἐνὶ φρεσίν, ἐστὲ δὲ πάντες / μάρτυροι). This autopsy authenticates the veracity of the whole interpretative process. Likewise, in Odyssey 3.371–379, in the presence of Nestor, Telemachus and the Pylians, Athena the goddess whom all took to be Mentor, disappears from the witnesses’ field of view. In contrast with the sudden stupor of the witnesses (θάμβος δ᾿ ἕλε πάντας Ἀχαιούς) is Nestor’s long wonderment, which is accompanied by an assessment of the phenomenon (373: θαύμαζεν δ᾿ ὁ γεραιός, ὅπως ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι). The stupor does not prompt any suspension of the interpretative activity in Nestor, and he soon formulates an explanation of the mystery (377– 379): Athena had come with Telemachus. What Nestor wonders at is not so much the divine manifestation as the confirmation of the actual presence of Athena with the son of Ulysses, as the scholia observe (Scholies E M Q ad 372): Οἱ μὲν γὰρ Πύλιοι ἐξεπλάγησαν, Νέστωρ δὲ οὐ τοῦτο θαυμάζει, ἅτε δὴ πολλὰς ἐπιφανείας ἑωρακώς, ἀλλ’ ὅτι νεωτέρῳ τῷ Τηλεμάχῳ συνηκολούθησεν Ἀθηνᾶ. The Pylians were struck with astonishment: Nestor however is not amazed by that as he had seen many divine epiphanies, but he does wonder that Athena had accompanied Telemachus, the young man.

Nestor finds it marvelous to discover that Athena watched not only over the father but also the son, the ‘oldest’ and the ‘youngest’, νεωτέρῳ. For against all expectation this spectacle fulfils the old man’s wishes. It is above all the visual confirmation of the reality of a presentiment that excites θαῦμα. Nestor’s wonder triggers the recognition of the signification of the divine manifestation. For, in the preceding conversation with Telemachus, Nestor had in fact recalled Athena’s fondness for Ulysses and expressed the wish that the goddess would equally take care of Ulysses’s son (lines 221–224). So Nestor marvels because he has seen confirmation of Athena’s benevolence. The proposition ὅπως ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι explains the exact reasons for this wonderment: he has seen his wish realised with his own eyes. In line 373 the expression ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι echoes that of line 221 where 37 As H. Stockinger 1959, 122, puts it: “Das θαυμάζειν folgt als seelische Reaktion der Um­ste­hen­ den. Der indirekte Fragesatz (320  f ) drückt neben dem Erstaunen auch die aufsteigende Frage nach der Bedeutung aus.” 38 On the epistemic status of sight, see the famous analysis of Snell 1924; on sight as a capacity of the all-knowing Muses, see Kahane 2005, 34, Clay 2011, 2 and 16–18.

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Nestor said he had never seen a god bear so visible an affection for a man: οὐ γάρ πω ἴδον ὧδε θεοὺς ἀναφανδὰ φιλεῦντας. Henceforth the present vision imposes itself on an ancient and long-lost visibility and confirms the truth: Athena’s affection for Telemachus and Ulysses. Here wonder implies a realizing of the real significance of the phenomenon which is perceived. This truth is obvious only to the sensitive viewer, the elderly and experienced Nestor. The old hero is able to build on his past experience to interpret the present evidence and predict a future outcome of events – Nestor in this situation acts as the exact opposite of the νήπιος as defined by Susan Edmunds: “unable to put together inferences from the past or signs that reveal the future and (…) thus trapped in ephemera.”39 Offering the same conjunction of past and present in the thinking of the wondering subject, other instances in the Iliad stage a speaker confronted with what he characterizes as a θαῦμα by the formula: ὢ πόποι ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ᾿ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι.40 The dynamism of θαῦμα already manifests itself in this act of speaking which is a first step towards explanation, as the wondering speaker opens his speech with this statement. He then explains and formulates the elements which break the pattern of expectation in the situation before him. The interpretation of visual evidence triggered by wonder hinges upon the consciousness of a gap between before and after, what he expected and what he now perceives.41 Wonder prompts then an inference process and an active response to the situation. So, whereas the contemplators of Pandora are “trapped in ephemera” like νήπιοι and totally lack, in the grip of wonder, the faculty of sharp perception, ὀξὺ νοεῖν, which is the prerogative of Zeus in the Theogony and permits him to detect tricks and risks (551, 613, 836),42 in other instances wonder can trigger the opposite response: a sharp perception, sometimes described by this verb νοέωῶ,43 which prompts the interpretative movement and leads to the recognition of a σῆμα. 39 Edmunds 1990, 98. See also the characterization of σήματα by Foley 1997, 72, which implies the consciousness of a temporal development: “They signal an emergent reality.” 40 Iliad 13.99; 15.286; 20.344; 21.54. On these θαῦμα-speeches, whereby the speakers ‟attempt to work out an appropriate response”, see Pellicia 1995, 271–273; on the interpretation of visual evidence by the speakers, see Bakker 2005, 97. 41 As Bakker 2005, 97 writes about Achilles’ reaction in Iliad 21.54: “Achilles conveys that the past has become real for him, or more precisely, it has become present in his consciousness, due to his interpretation of visual evidence before him.” 42 On this faculty in Hesiod, see Nelson 1998, 126. 43 See Von Fritz 1943, 88 on the distinction between ἰδεῖν, γιγνώσκειν and νοεῖν (which “signifies a further step in the recognition of the object” and implies a realization of a situation); Prier

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Thus Archaic Epic accommodates two aspects of wonder, hermeneutic fecundity and stupid bedazzlement, according to the status of sight: either a reliable access to truth or a captivating sense which confines the onlooker to contemplating deceitful appearances. There are instances where the gap between seeing and knowing is manifest, as James Lesher observes:44 The attribution to Homer of a simple equivalence of knowledge with sense perception is untenable. Most important are those occasions on which someone is said to see, but not to notice, recognize, or realize. It is in such passages that the gap between perceiving and knowing emerges (…). The gap between the visible and the known, between the obvious appearance and the more subtle reality of the situation, becomes an interval in which human intelligence can either assert itself or come to grief.

Βetween grief and intelligence, πῆμα and σῆμα: θαῦμα as well, in Archaic Greek Epic, oscillates between these two poles, at the cross-roads between totally disempowering or ultimately empowering effects. When artifice begets amazement, the startled regard fastens on the surface of things, θαῦμα turns into ‘pain’ (πῆμα). When the θαῦμα triggers an activity of the intelligence, it becomes a ‘sign’ (σῆμα), inviting interpretation.45 Archaic Epic can be seen as a laboratory where lasting representations of wonder as a twofold experience are developed.

1978 on σῆμα. On noos as the ability not only to encode and decode signs, but to recognize them in the first place, see Nagy 1990, 205: “The verbe noéo conveys simultaneoulsy the noticing of signs and the recognition of what they mean.” See also, on sharp perception implied by νοέω-ῶ, Garcia 2002, 19–20, Bakker 2005, 151. 44 Lesher 1981, 14. 45 The play on the Greek words θαῦμα, σῆμα, πῆμα, permitted by the metrical structure of the hexameter, is quite frequent: Hesiod, Theogony 500 [the stone vomited by Cronus, wonder and sign for humans – see Holmberg 1997], 588 and 592 (Pandora, “wonder” and “pain”). About the Pandora episode, Zeitlin 1996, 65 mentions the possibility of another play on words (μέγα πῶμα, Erga 94 / μέγα πῆμα, Theogony 592). Helen, θαῦμα in the Cyprian Songs (fragment 9, ed. Bernabé), is a “pain,” πῆμα, in Iliad 3.160. The brooch of Odysseus can just as well be interpreted as σῆμα, “sign.” See Steiner 2001, 281–282 for an analysis of the subtle combination of θαῦμα and σῆμα in Odyssey 19.226–231, where the disguised Odysseus describes, in his account of the clothing that he once wore, this brooch which elicited general wonder. On spectacle and wonder as key terms in Homeric poetics, especially the Iliad, see Slatkin 2007; Clay 2011, 1–36; Hesk 2013; more generally on the importance of visuality in ancient Epic, see Lovatt 2013b.

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Bibliography Bakker, E. J. (2005), Pointing to the Past. From Formula to Performance in Homeric Poetics, Cambridge. Bartsch, S. (2006), The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the early Roman Empire, Chicago. Becker, A. S. (1993), “Sculpture and Language in Early Greek Ekphrasis: Lessing’s Laokoon, Burke’s Enquiry, and the Hesiodic Descriptions of Pandora”, Arethusa 26, 277–293. – (1995), The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis, Lanham. Bergren, A. L. T. (1983), “Language and the Female in Early Greek Thought”, Arethusa 16, 69–95. Butor, M. (1991), “On dit qu’Homère était aveugle”, in: F. Mugler, L’Odyssée, Paris. Bynum, C. W. (1997), “Wonder”, AHR 102, 1–26. Clay, J. S. (2003), Hesiod’s Cosmos, Cambridge. – (2011), Homer’s Trojan Theater: Space, Vision, and Memory in the Iliad, Cambridge. De Boel, G. (1987), “La syntaxe des verbes “voir” chez Homère”, Glotta 65, 19–32. Dillery, J. (2004), “The θεατὴς θεῶν: Josephus CAp 1.232 (FGrHist 609 F 10) Reconsidered”, CJ 99, 239–252. – (2007–2008), “The θεατής: more texts, further thoughts”, CJ 103, 243–251. Edmunds, S. T. (1990), Homeric Nepios, New York. Ferlampin-Acher, C. (2003), Merveilles et topique merveilleuse dans les romans médiévaux, Paris. Foley, J. M. (1997), “Traditional Signs and Homeric Art”, in: E. J. Bakker/A. Kahane (eds.), Written Voices, Spoken Signs. Tradition, Performance and the Epic Text, Cambridge, 56–82. Garcia, J. F. (2002), “Symbolic Action in the Homeric Hymns: the Theme of Recognition”, ClAnt 21, 5–39. Griffin, J. (1980), Homer on Life and Death, Oxford. Gruber, J. S. (1967), “Look and See”, Language 43, 937–947. Hepburn, R. W. (1980), “Wonder”, The Aristotelician Society Supplementary Volume 54, 1–23. Hesk, J. (2013), “Seeing in the Dark: Kleos, Tragedy and Perception in Iliad 10”, in: H. Lovatt/ C. Vout (eds.), Epic Visions: Visuality in Greek and Latin Epic and its Reception, Cambridge, 32–59. Holmberg, I. E. (1997), “The Sign of MHTIS”, Arethusa 30, 1–33. Irigaray, L. (1984), Éthique de la différence sexuelle, Paris. Janko, R. (1994), The Iliad, A Commentary, Volume IV: Books 13–16, Cambridge. Kahane, A. (2005), Diachronic Dialogues: Authority and Continuity in Homer and the Homeric Tradition, Lanham. Kahn, L. (1978): Hermès passe ou les ambiguïtés de la communication, Paris. Lateiner, D. (2014), Review of Angelos Chaniotis/P. Ducrey (eds.), Unveiling Emotions II. Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images, Material Culture, Stuttgart, 2013, BMCR 2014.08.26. Le Goff, J. (1978), “Le merveilleux dans l’Occident médiéval”, in: M. Arkoun/J. Le Goff/T. Fahd/M. Rodinson (eds.), L’étrange et le merveilleux dans l’Islam médiéval, Paris, 61–79. Lesher, J. H. (1981), “Perceiving and Knowing in the Iliad and the Odyssey”, Phronesis 26, 2–24. Lev Kenaan, V. (2008), Pandora’s Senses. The Feminine Character of the Ancient Text, Madison. Loraux, N. (1981), Les enfants d’Athéna, Paris.

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Lovatt, H. (2013a), “Hesiod and the Divine Gaze”, Helios 40, 143–166. – (2013b), The Epic Gaze. Vision, Gender and Narrative in Ancient Epic, Cambridge. Mette, H. J. (1961), “‘Schauen’ und ‘Staunen’”, Glotta 39, 49–71. Most, G. W. (2006), Hesiod. The Shield, Catalogue of Women, Other Fragments, Cambridge, Mass. Mugler, C. (1960), “La lumière et la vision dans la poésie grecque”, REG 73, 40–72. – (1964), Dictionnaire historique de la terminologie optique des Grecs. Douze siècles de dialogue avec la lumière, Paris. Nagy, G. (1990), Greek Mythology and Poetics, Ithaca. Neer, R. (2010), The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture, Chicago. Nelson, S. A. (1998), God and the Land. The Metaphysics of Farming in Hesiod and Virgil, Oxford. Nightingale, A. W. (2004), Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy: Theoria in its Cultural Context, Cambridge. Pelliccia, H. (1995), Mind, Body, and Speech in Homer and Pindar, Göttingen. Pinotti, P. (1989), “Aristotele, Platone e la meraviglia del filosofo”, in: D. Lanza/O. Longo (eds.), Il meraviglioso e il verosimile tra antichità e medioevo, Florence, 29–55. Prévot, A. (1935), “Verbes grecs relatifs à la vision et noms de l’oeil”, Revue de Philologie, de Littérature et d’Histoire anciennes 9, 133–160, 233–279. Prier, R. A. (1978), “Σῆμα and the Symbolic Nature of Pre-Socratic Thought”, QUCC 29, 91–101. – (1989), Thauma Idesthai: The Phenomenology of Sight and Appearance in Archaic Greek, Tallahassee. Scodel, R. (2002), “Homeric Signs and Flashbulb Memory”, in: I. Worthington/J. M. Foley (eds.), Epea and Grammata. Oral and Written Communication in Ancient Greece, Leiden, 99–116. Simon, G. (1988), Le Regard, l’être, et l’apparence dans l’optique de l’antiquité, Paris. Slatkin, L. (2007), “Notes on Tragic Visualizing in the Iliad”, in: C. Kraus/S. Goldhill/ H. P. Foley/J. Elsner (eds.), Visualizing the Tragic: Drama, Myth and Ritual in Greek Art and Literature, Oxford, 19–34. Snell, B. (1924), Die Ausdrücke für den Begriff des Wissens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie, Berlin. – (1975), Die Entdeckung des Geistes. Studien zur Entstehung des europäischen Denkens bei den Griechen, Göttingen. Steiner, D. (1994), The Tyrant’s Writ. Myths and Images of Writing in Ancient Greece, Princeton. – (2001), Images in Mind. Statues in Archaic and Classical Greek Literature and Thought, Princeton. Stockinger, H. (1959), Die Vorzeichen im homerischen Epik. Ihre Typik und ihre Bedeutung, St. Ottilien. Vendryes, J. (1952), “Sur les verbes qui expriment l’idée de ‘voir’’, in: J. Vendryes, Choix d’Études Linguistiques et Celtiques, Paris, 115–126. Von Fritz, K. (1943), “Νόος and νοεῖν in the Homeric Poems”, CPh 38, 79–93. Zeitlin, F. I. (1996), “Signifying Difference: The Case of Hesiod’s Pandora”, in: F. I. Zeitlin, Playing the Other, Chicago, 53–86.

Irene Pajón Leyra

Turning Science into Miracle in the Voyage of Alexander the Great Abstract: This paper focuses on two particular anecdotes transmitted by the historiography of Alexander the Great: a lunar eclipse that predicted the Macedonian victory at the battle of Gaugamela and a miraculous ebb that made the sea recede and allowed Alexander’s army to cross the narrow path of Phaselis in southern Turkey, opening to him the way to Asia. In both cases the extraordinary phenomena are presented as proof of the divine blessing that accompanied Alexander during his Oriental campaign. Consequently, they are attributed to the intercession of a deity and/or demand a religious reaction for the part of the king, as e.  g. a sacrifice. However, the description of these miracles and the ritual practices that follow them include details relating to the scientific explanations of eclipses and tides. This paper examines the possible origin of this melange of science and religion, focusing especially on the role played by Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew and Alexander’s earliest historian.

Introduction During the second half of the 20th century, the general perspective on the intellectual history of Ancient Greece underwent deep transformation:1 the idea of a process “from myth to reason”, expressed in its most famous formulation by Wilhelm Nestle in 19402 and widely accepted in the next generations by scholars of the importance and influence of Bruno Snell or William Guthrie, among many others,3 drew a neat division between the field of reason and that of irrationality and described the history of the Greek mentality as that of a progressive victory of the former over the latter, a process in which magical, religious and supernatural explanations of both natural and human phenomena gradually lost ground to the power of logic, empirical observation and objective analysis. However, in the few last decades this vision of the Greek mind has been questioned and pro1 A complete summary of the story of the myth-reason polarity can be found in Buxton 1999, 1–21. 2 In his famous essay Vom Mythos zum Logos, die Selbstentfaltung des griechischen Denkens von Homer bis auf die Sophistik und Sokrates. Also Nestle 1944. 3 See Buxton 1999, 1–4. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-015

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gressively substituted by a much less rigid consideration of the distance between the rational and the irrational4 and by a more or less generalised rejection of the strict opposition between “reason” and “myth”, rather suggesting the existence of a “mythical reason”, a rationality in myth, thus blurring the clear borders between science and religion or magic in the Ancient World, and acknowledging the importance of mythical elements in the rational discourse of early philosophers and scientists.5 Admittedly, there is no neat division between the sphere of reason and that of myth and irrationality, but rather a constant interaction between the rational and the irrational.6 However, the precise details of this interaction in specific cases still need to be examined and analysed in depth. In the context of the reassessment of the relationship between rational and irrational, “miracles” – understood as specific alterations of the normal course of nature due to the intervention of a god who shows his power, manifests his favour or indicates his decision regarding the future events7 – deserve a special place. The pre-, or rather, a-scientific vision of nature, which holds it constantly exposed to modifications caused by conscious supernatural forces, and the rational construction of nature  – that is, its depiction as a set of elements working as a gigantic machine governed by regular and understandable causes with predictable effects – are probably not as mutually exclusive as might seem in principle. The religious/magical approach to extraordinary phenomena and the scientific/rational interpretation of these can co-exist in the same person, author or work, such that the description of a miracle can include scientific elements, while the scientific explanation of a phenomenon will not necessarily exclude religious or magical values.8 This notwith-

4 Of course, the work of Dodds 1951 means a turning point in this process of bringing the irrational back to Greece. 5 On the diverse procedures to overcome the polarity, see Buxton 1999, 6–11. Nuances to the magic-science opposition can also be seen in Lloyd 1979. 6 Buxton 1999, 5, suggests to substitute the “from … to …” model by “a constant to-ing and froing”. 7 The extension of the concept of “miracle” is certainly much wider, affecting diverse kinds of marvellous or astonishing events without clear explanation, either in connection with religious context or simply considered against a background of common sense or experience (see the definition of “miracle” in e.  g. the corresponding entry of the Encyclopaedia Britannica). However, in this study I focus on this particular meaning, referred to as the alteration of nature due to the intervention of a god. 8 Cf. for instance the common vision of divination practices among the Stoics: the task of the seer is to identify some facts the gods have established as happening together in the natural mechanisms of the world, and that can therefore be interpreted as signs of future events. See Colish 1985, 33–34; Hankinson 1988, esp. 153–157; and Johnston 2000, 12–16, on the Stoic interpretation



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standing, the specific details of such a coexistence vary from one case to another and respond to diverse aims and circumstances. Even in the cases when science and magic appear together, they are not necessarily at the same level and can influence each other in very different ways. Indeed, the intentions of the author describing a strange phenomenon – be it literary, political, propagandistic, critical, religious, etc. – with respect to the audience to whom the work is addressed, are normally important factors that determine both the development of the story and the way it is presented and explained to readers: as an entirely miraculous fact, as something that science can explain, or as a mixture of both. Furthermore, ideas such as “education” or “ignorance”, “piety” or “god’s blessing”, as elements in the story of a miracle can play important roles in the building of literary elaborations as vehicles to characterize the actors in the events or to transmit concrete and precise ideas about them. In this work, my aim is to focus on two examples of such an interaction between science and religion in the literary construction of a miracle: two anecdotes transmitted by the historiography of Alexander the Great and preserved in the text of Arrian. Both cases correspond to miraculous facts that happened during his expedition to the East and can relate to royal propaganda, contributing to building an image of the Macedonian king as a man blessed by the gods and predestined to carry out the greatest deeds. However, this propaganda is presented in a complex interaction where science and religion combine in a very peculiar way.

The eclipse before the battle of Gaugamela The first example of this interaction between religion and science can be found in the account of the lunar eclipse that occurred shortly before the famous battle of Gaugamela. In Arrian’s version the story reads: Ἐνταῦθα ἀναπαύει τὸν στρατόν· καὶ τῆς σελήνης τὸ πολὺ ἐκλιπὲς ἐγένετο· καὶ Ἀλέξανδρος ἔθυε τῇ τε Σελήνῃ καὶ τῷ Ἡλίῳ καὶ τῇ Γῇ, ὅτων τὸ ἔργον τοῦτο λόγος εἶναι κατέχει. καὶ ἐδόκει Ἀριστάνδρῳ πρὸς Μακεδόνων καὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου εἶναι τῆς σελήνης τὸ πάθημα καὶ ἐκείνου τοῦ μηνὸς ἔσεσθαι ἡ μάχη, καὶ ἐκ τῶν ἱερῶν νίκην σημαίνεσθαι Ἀλεξάνδρῳ.

of diverse kinds of prophecies in connection to the concepts of sympatheia and pneuma. On the Stoic ideas of fate and necessity, see Rist 1969, 112–132; on Stoic theory of causation, see Bobzien 1999; on sympathy and its implications in Stoic science and divination, Brouwer 2015, 28–30.

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There he (sc. Alexander) gave his army a rest. There too there was an almost total eclipse of the moon. Alexander sacrificed to the Moon, to the Sun and to the Earth, who are all said to be the explanation of the fact. Aristander concluded that the eclipse was favourable to the Macedonians and Alexander, that the battle would take place during that self-same moon, and that the sacrifices portended victory to Alexander.9

This eclipse, which also appears in Assyrian records,10 happened on the night of the 20th to the 21st September 331 BCE, just a few days before the decisive battle that spelled out the end of the Persian Empire.11 However, the aspect of most interest to our present analysis is how the author explains Alexander’s reaction after the eclipse: he offers a sacrifice to the Moon, the Sun and the Earth,12 all three of them being said to be the explanation of this infrequent celestial event. Ancient cultures normally conceded ominous values to such astronomical phenomena.13 Therefore, its construction in Arrian’s text as a sign of future events needing to be interpreted and demanding a religious response, such as the celebration of a sacrifice, is not surprising.14 However, that the king’s choice to sacrifice to Moon, Sun and Earth would require an explanation from the author of the text seems to indicate that such sacrifice is somehow exceptional in the eyes of Arrian or his source.15 The author justifies the king’s decision by stating that these are the elements involved in the astronomical conjunction accounting for the phenomenon. Therefore, in Arrian’s text the eclipse appears as a divine signal, a miraculous fact that requires a cultic

9 Arr. An. III 7.6. Translation by Robson 1967, 245, with slight variations. 10 See Bernard 1990, 515–528, on tablet nr. 330 in Sachs/Hunger 1988, 179 (British Museum 36761 + 36390) as a testimony of the oriental point of view on the famous victory of Alexander. The tablet talks about the fear of the Persian troops before the battle and about the massive desertion of Darius’ soldiers after the defeat. 11 Nine days before the battle, according to Plu. Al. 31.8. Discussion regarding the exact date of the battle in Burn 1952, 84–85; Marsden 1964, 75 and Bernard 1990, 516–517, with bibliography. 12 I use the initial majuscules to refer to the divinised elements, objects of religious cult, and the minuscules when talking about the astronomical bodies without religious interpretation. 13 On this point, see e.  g. Montelle 2011, 54–57, and esp. 147–154. Cf. Xerxes’ consultation with the astrologers after the eclipse of 17th Feburary 478 BCE, as attested by Hdt. IV 37, or Cleombrotus’ withdrawal because the sun darkened when he was offering a sacrifice in the hope of victory against the Persians (Hdt. IX 10). 14 Moreover, the celebration of cult ceremonies at every significant moment of the campaign is a fundamental piece of the image of Alexander’s religion in Plutarch and Arrian, according to Aubriot 2003, 227–228. 15 Indeed, worship of this triad of deities has no clear parallels in Greek literature. See below on the testimony of Polybius VII 9.2.



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reaction. Surprisingly, however, this cultic reaction is shaped in accordance with the rational cause of eclipses. Science can prove that the eclipse was real; therefore, the question arises as to whether the triple sacrifice was real too, or whether its presence in the text may perhaps be due to reasons other than the historical facts.16 In his commentary of Arrian, Bosworth17 considers that worship to this group of deities may have been usual among the Macedonians, and that most likely the story corresponds to a real ceremony. The author backs his opinion with the parallel between Arrian’s text and the treaty between Philip V and Hannibal after the battle of Cannae (216 BCE), as transmitted by Polybius:18 ᾿Εναντίον Διὸς καὶ ῞Ηρας καὶ ᾿Απόλλωνος, ἐναντίον δαίμονος Καρχηδονίων καὶ ῾Ηρακλέους καὶ ᾿Ιολάου, ἐναντίον ῎Αρεως, Τρίτωνος, Ποσειδῶνος, ἐναντίον θεῶν τῶν συστρατευομένων καὶ ῾Ηλίου καὶ Σελήνης καὶ Γῆς, ἐναντίον ποταμῶν καὶ λιμένων καὶ ὑδάτων (…). In the presence of Zeus, Hera and Apollo, in the presence of the Genius of Carthage, Heracles and Iolaus, in the presence of Ares, Triton and Poseidon, in the presence of the Gods who battle for us, and of the Sun, Moon and Earth, in the presence of the Rivers, Lakes and Waters (…).

The text offers a series of triadic groups of deities invoked as witnesses of the alliance between the Macedonians and the Carthaginians. Polybius describes this alliance as an oath of loyalty sworn by the Carthaginian authorities with respect to Philip’s legacy. Not much is known about Macedonian cult customs, but, if we accept that Polybius’ list attests to a group of gods that were usually worshipped together in the Macedonian context, then we can suppose that Arrian is reflecting a real ceremony, a common Macedonian religious practice which, only accidentally, involves the astronomical bodies participating in the eclipse. The explanation for Alexander’s behaviour in connection with the scientific explanation of eclipses would then be a later addition to the story: Arrian, or perhaps his source from the outset, not completely aware of the details of Macedonian cult usages, would have interpreted a posteriori the decision to honour precisely these gods as having been derived from an awareness of the natural mechanism of lunar eclipses.

16 Bowen 2002, 97–99, casts similar doubts about the veracity of the accounts regarding the literary treatment of the eclipse of 168 BCE (see below). 17 Bosworth 1980, 287. 18 Plb. VII 9.2. On the treaty, see Desideri 1992. On this text and the god list it contains, see Xella 1971; Barre 1983; Sollazzo 2009.

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However, serious doubts arise on the idea of a regular worship of Moon, Sun and Earth among the Macedonians. Firstly, regular Macedonian worship of groups of three gods, and specifically this group of astronomical deities, is not further attested.19 Moreover, the relationship of Polybius’ list of gods with Macedonian cults has been a matter of debate, and at present scholars agree that the list reflects rather the pantheon of the Carthaginians,20 who swear their loyalty to Philip V and hence must invoke the names of their own gods. It is then most likely that the gods of the Macedonians are only scarcely represented in the treaty – if at all. Consequently, the interpretation of Alexander’s sacrifice to Moon, Sun and Earth in Arrian’s text as a reflection of a religious Macedonian custom is doubtful.21 Hence, there is no way of being certain that the sacrifice described actually took place, and this is also true regarding its scientific motivation. It cannot be excluded that Alexander actually offered the sacrifice, an exceptional ritual inspired by awareness of the mechanism of the astronomical conjunction. This possibility could imply that Alexander and/or his companions knew how lunar eclipses work. Lunar eclipses were first explained as the result of a conjunction of sun, moon and earth in the Greek world by Anaxagoras of Clazomenae (1st half of the 5th c. BCE), who attributed an “earthy” nature to the moon and considered its light as a reflection of that of the sun, which was sometimes blocked by the earth.22 Such a theory appears to be fully accepted, among others, by Aristotle, who based his demonstration of the spherical shape of the earth precisely on this vision of lunar eclipses.23 It is then possible that perhaps the philosopher taught this to Alexander when he was his pupil, a knowledge that, nevertheless, would have coexisted in him with the magical and superstitious ideas on eclipses common among ancient cultures and peoples. But the inclusion of the scientific echo in the story might also be motivated by other kinds of reasons, not connected to any real historical basis. Arrian’s story is not the only case in Greek historiographical literature when an eclipse is inter19 A summary of the principal features of Macedonian worship can be found in Christesen/ Murray 2010, 428–445. On the principal deities honoured in Macedonia, see id. 430. Helios and Selene are mentioned in the list, but the grouping of the gods in triads is not considered a significant element of Macedonian religious practices. 20 On the list as likely made of only Punic god-names, Barré 1983, 10–12. On the differences with respect to Greek treaties, see id. 17–18. See also Bickerman 1944 and 1952, 2, and esp. 8–10, who convincingly argue that the original text was written in a Semitic language, probably Punic. On the Phoenician gods mentioned in the treaty, see Dussaud 1947, and Ribichini 1991, 25–29. 21 On the other hand, Phoenician religion does not show a special insistence on the worship of astral deities either. 22 Anaxag., D.-K. 46, A, fr. 77, ap. Aet. II 29.6; see Heath 1913, 19, 78–79; Curd 2010, 211. 23 Arist. Cael. 297b 23–30.



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preted as a phenomenon between miracle and science in the moments prior to an important battle:24 Plutarch, in his Life of Paulus Aemilius,25 refers to the fear of the Roman general before the battle of Pydna (which resulted in a great Roman victory over the Macedonians) because of the lunar eclipse that happened on the night of the 21st June 168 BCE: Ἐπεὶ δὲ νὺξ γεγόνει καὶ μετὰ δεῖπνον ἐτράποντο πρὸς ὕπνον καὶ ἀνάπαυσιν, αἰφνίδιον ἡ σελήνη πλήρης οὖσα καὶ μετέωρος ἐμελαίνετο, καὶ τοῦ φωτὸς ἀπολείποντος αὐτὴν χρόας ἀμείψασα παντοδαπὰς ἠφανίσθη. τῶν δὲ Ῥωμαίων, ὥσπερ ἐστὶ νενομισμένον, χαλκοῦ τε πατάγοις ἀνακαλουμένων τὸ φῶς αὐτῆς καὶ πυρὰ πολλὰ δαλοῖς καὶ δᾳσὶν ἀνεχόντων πρὸς τὸν οὐρανόν, οὐδὲν ὅμοιον ἔπραττον οἱ Μακεδόνες, ἀλλὰ φρίκη καὶ θάμβος τὸ στρατόπεδον κατεῖχε, καὶ λόγος ἡσυχῇ διὰ <τῶν> πολλῶν ἐχώρει, βασιλέως τὸ φάσμα σημαίνειν ἔκλειψιν. ὁ δ’ Αἰμίλιος οὐκ ἦν μὲν ἀνήκοος οὐδ’ ἄπειρος παντάπασι τῶν ἐκλειπτικῶν ἀνωμαλιῶν, αἳ τὴν σελήνην περιφερομένην εἰς τὸ σκίασμα τῆς γῆς ἐμβάλλουσι τεταγμέναις περιόδοις καὶ ἀποκρύπτουσιν, ἄχρι οὗ παρελθοῦσα τὴν ἐπισκοτουμένην χώραν πάλιν ἀναλάμψῃ πρὸς τὸν ἥλιον· οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ τῷ θείῳ πολὺ νέμων, καὶ φιλοθύτης ὢν καὶ μαντικός, ὡς εἶδε πρῶτον τὴν σελήνην ἀποκαθαιρομένην, ἕνδεκα μόσχους αὐτῇ κατέθυσεν. ἅμα δ’ ἡμέρᾳ τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ βουθυτῶν οὐκ ἐκαλλιέρει μέχρις εἴκοσι· τῷ δὲ πρώτῳ καὶ εἰκοστῷ παρῆν τὰ σημεῖα, καὶ νίκην ἀμυνομένοις ἔφραζεν. Now, when night had come, and the soldiers, after supper, were betaking themselves to rest and sleep, on a sudden the moon, which was full and high in the heavens, grew dark, lost its light, took on all sorts of colours in succession, and finally disappeared. The Romans, according to their custom, tried to call her light back by the clashing of bronze utensils and by holding up many blazing fire-brands and torches towards the heavens; the Macedonians, however, did nothing of this sort, but amazement and terror possessed their camp, and a rumour quietly spread among many of them that the portent signified an eclipse of a king. Now, Aemilius was not altogether without knowledge and experience of the irregularities of eclipses, which, at fixed periods, carry the moon in her course into the shadow of the earth and conceal her from sight, until she passes beyond the region of shadow and reflects again the light of the sun; however, since he was very devout and given to sacrifices and divination, as soon as he saw the moon beginning to emerge from the shadow, he sacrificed eleven heifers to her. And as soon as it was day, he sacrificed as many as twenty oxen to Hercules without getting favourable omens; but with the twenty-first victim the propitious signs appeared and indicated victory if they stood on the defensive.26

24 Cf. the famous account of Thales’ prediction of a solar eclipse in 585 BCE, during the wars between the Medians and the Lydians in the work of Herodotus (Hdt. I 74). See also Hdt. I 103, VII 37 and IX 10, citing further examples of eclipses playing a role in historical facts. Mosshammer 1981 analyses in depth the fictional elements in these narratives, where the news about the eclipses are artificially combined with some turning points in the development of the Greco-Persian wars for the sake of dramatic effect. 25 Plu. Aem. 17.7–11. Observe that this time the lunar eclipse is not seen as favourable to the Macedonians (as is the case of Q. C. IV 10.2–6, see below). On this passage, see Veyne 1999, 428. 26 Transl. by Perrin 1918, 399–401.

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The biographer describes Aemilius as a religious man who, although a learned person aware of the astronomical phenomenon that explains the darkening of the moon, decided to hold sacrifice as soon as the moonlight came back. Nevertheless, the addressee of the ceremony, which consisted of eleven heifers offered, is only the Moon, with the other bodies involved not even mentioned. Science and religion coexisted in the same person as two different approaches to understanding the eclipse.27 But these approaches seem to belong to separate areas of Aemilius’ mentality: in Plutarch’s text, science does not influence the religious behaviour of the protagonist. One century before Plutarch, the episode is also narrated in Livy.28 His version, however, diverges to a great extent from that of the Greek biographer: here, the narrative does not focus on the figure and role of Paulus Aemilius, but on Caius Sulpicius Gallus, commander of the 2nd legion during the battle, a character the Greek sources do not refer to. Livy insists on Gallus’ awareness of the rational mechanism of lunar eclipses, being able even to predict the darkening of the moon as well as the exact time of its appearance in front of his troops:29 castris permunitis C. Sulpicius Gallus, tribunus militum secundae legionis, qui praetor superiore anno fuerat, consulis permissu ad contionem militibus uocatis pronuntiauit, nocte proxima, ne quis id pro portento acciperet, ab hora secunda usque ad quartam horam noctis lunam defecturam esse. id quia naturali ordine statis temporibus fiat, et sciri ante et praedici posse. itaque quem ad modum, quia certi solis lunaeque et ortus et occasus sint, nunc pleno orbe, nunc senescentem exiguo cornu fulgere lunam non mirarentur, ita ne obscurari quidem, cum condatur umbra terrae, trahere in prodigium debere. nocte, quam pridie nonas Septembres insecuta est dies, edita hora luna cum defecisset, Romanis militibus Galli sapientia prope diuina uideri; Macedonas ut triste prodigium, occasum regni perniciemque gentis portendens, mouit nec aliter uates. clamor ululatusque in castris Macedonum fuit, donec luna in suam lucem emersit. postero die  – tantus utrique ardor exercitui ad concurrendum fuerat, ut et regem et consulem suorum quidam, quod sine proelio discessum esset, accusarent  – (…). consul ad id,

27 On this text, and on Plutarch’s ambiguous attitude towards eclipses and other phenomena as divine signals, see Veyne 1999, 424–428. See Flower 2008, 119, on similar cases of superposition of scientific and religious interpretation of natural phenomena. 28 Liv. XLIV 37.4–13. 29 Bowen 2002, 94, points to the role assigned to Gallus as the key element distinguishing between the Greek and Roman accounts of the famous battle. Plin. II 53 also talks about Gallus’ prediction of the eclipse before Pydna and refers to him as a prestigious astronomer among the Romans. The motive of prediction is also present in Front. Strat. I 12.8. Other accounts, particularly Cic. Resp. I 21–24, as well as Val. Max. VIII 11.1 and Quint. Inst. I 10.46–48 (both probably depending on Cicero; see Bowen 2002, 99), only make reference to Gallus’ explanation of the darkening a posteriori.



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quod pridie praetermisisse pugnandi occasionem uidebatur et locum dedisse hosti, si nocte abire uellet, tunc quoque per speciem immolandi terere uidebatur tempus, cum luce prima ad signum propositum pugnae exeundum in aciem fuisset. After the fortification of the camp was complete, Gaius Sulpicius Gallus, tribune of the soldiers with the second legion, who has been praetor the year before, summoned the soldiers to an assembly, by permission of the consul, and announced that no one should regard it as a bad omen when on the following night an eclipse of the moon would take place from the second to the fourth hour of the night. Since this occurred in the regular order of nature at certain times, said Sulpicius, it could be calculated ahead of time and foretold. Therefore, just as they were not surprised –inasmuch as both the risings and the settings of the sun and moon shining now full, now during its wane with a narrow are–, no more ought they count it a prodigy that the moon is darkened whenever it is hidden in the shadow of the earth. On the night preceding the 4th September, when the moon was eclipsed at the predicted hour, the Roman soldiers regarded the wisdom of Gallus as almost divine; the Macedonians took it as a dire portent, foretelling the downfall of the kingdom and the nation, and no soothsayer shook their conviction. There was uproar and wailing in the Macedonian camp until the moon emerged to shine as usual. On the following day, so great was the eagerness of both armies for battle that some of their followers blamed both the king and the consul for separating without a fight. (…) As for the consul, besides his seeming loss of an opportunity for battle on the previous day and his giving the enemy a chance of withdrawing by night if they wished, he seemed on this day too to be wasting time on the pretext of offering sacrifice, although he should have given the signal at dawn and gone out to battle.30

Gallus’ public prediction had the aim of preventing the soldiers from being frightened by a phenomenon that had nothing to do with supernatural forces (ne quis id pro portento acciperet), in contrast to the terror it caused the Macedonians, who interpreted it as the omen of their imminent defeat and death. Aemilius’ fear does not appear at all, and it is only at the end of the passage that the Consul is censured for having wasted a good opportunity to start the fight by offering sacrifices. The differing perspectives of Livy and Plutarch on the events before the battle of Pydna provide us with an extraordinary example of the role scientific knowledge can play in political propaganda: in contrast to the – only relatively – “more neutral” vision of Plutarch,31 Livy’s text builds an image of the commander of the Roman army as an educated man, moved by reason, in strong contrast to the sim-

30 Transl. by Schlesinger 1951, 215–217. 31 On the relative character of this neutrality, see Bowen 2002, 102–104. The author interprets Plutarch’s version as an answer to Livy’s Roman “chauvinism” and as a literary elaboration with a decidedly “pro-Hellenic” point of view.

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ple-minded Macedonians, terrified by a phenomenon that, in the end, is actually banal, mechanical and predictable.32 A similar propagandistic intention33 can be assumed in the story regarding Alexander’s eclipse. However, here the focus is not on the education of Alexander or his knowledge about natural facts; rather, what concentrates the attention of Arrian, or his source, is the premonition of the great Macedonian victory, the announcement of Alexander’s glorious destiny and his pious feeling, which leads him to acknowledge divine favour with a sacrifice.34 Nevertheless, this sacrifice is not a common one: in the cultic behaviour of Alexander before Gaugamela, religion is in harmony with reason to such an extent that piety is shaped by science.

The passage of Phaselis The second case I would like to analyse is the story of Alexander’s crossing of the path of Phaselis, in the south of Turkey. Arrian transmits the story as follows:35 αὐτὸς δὲ παρὰ τὴν θάλασσαν διὰ τοῦ αἰγιαλοῦ ἦγε τοὺς ἀμφ’ αὑτόν. ἔστι δὲ ταύτῃ ἡ ὁδὸς οὐκ ἄλλως ὅτι μὴ τῶν ἀπ’ ἄρκτου ἀνέμων πνεόντων· εἰ δὲ νότοι κατέχοιεν, ἀπόρως ἔχει διὰ τοῦ αἰγιαλοῦ ὁδοιπορεῖν. τῷ δὲ ἐκ νότων σκληροὶ βορραῖ ἐπιπνεύσαντες, οὐκ ἄνευ τοῦ θείου, ὡς αὐτός τε καὶ οἱ ἀμφ’ αὐτὸν ἐξηγοῦντο, εὐμαρῆ καὶ ταχεῖαν τὴν πάροδον παρέσχον. He himself led his men by the sea along the shore, a route practicable only with north winds blowing; south winds make the passage along the shore impossible. There had been southerlies but a north wind had set in, not without divine interposition, as Alexander and his followers interpreted it, and made the passage easy and swift.36

Between the Mount Climax and the sea, there is only a narrow spit of land, which is covered by water when the south wind blows, but which allows passing if the north wind appears. Changes in the blowing winds to explain the level of water rising and falling appear frequently in ancient Greek scientific tradition.

32 It is worth appreciating that Hdt. I 74 establishes a similar contraposition between the Lydians and Persians, terrified by the solar eclipse of 585 BCE, and the Ionians, to whom the darkening of the sun had been announced by Thales. 33 On the importance of propaganda in the historiography of Alexander, see Gómez Espelosín 2007, and 2014, 329–330. 34 On the literary presentation of historical facts as “foretold” by divine signs and oracles as a commonplace in ancient historiography, see Bowen 2002, 94. 35 Arr. I 26.1–2. 36 Transl. by Robson 1967, 109.



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The earliest example can be found in the testimonies of Thales of Miletus,37 who applied this very principle to the specific regime of the Nile: in his opinion, the anomalous summer flood of the river was a consequence of the annual blowing of etesian winds, i.  e., the seasonal winds of the Mediterranean. During the summer, the etesians blow from the north, hindering the river from emptying into the sea and causing the flood. In winter, however, when the north wind stops, the river flows normally and the water returns to its normal level. Thales’ ideas on the etesian winds and their effect on the Nile probably influenced other thinkers who attest to similar explanations for other parallel phenomena, in particular, the cause of tides. Among them, Aristotle and his school deserve a special mention: Πῶς ἀμπώτιδες καὶ πλήμμυραι γίνονται. Ἀριστοτέλης καὶ Ἡρακλείδης ὑπὸ τοῦ ἡλίου τὰ πλεῖστα τῶν πνευμάτων κινοῦντος καὶ περιφέροντος· ὑφ’ ὧν ἐμβαλλόντων μὲν προωθουμένην ἀνοιδεῖν τὴν Ἀτλαντικὴν θάλασσαν καὶ κατασκευάζειν τὴν πλήμμυραν, καταληγόντων δ’ ἀντιπερισπωμένην ὑποβαίνειν, ὅπερ εἶναι τὴν ἄμπωτιν. How do tides work: Aristotle and Heraclides38 (say that) because the sun moves the most part of the winds and makes them circulate; the Atlantic sea, pushed by these winds which impulse it, is swollen up and causes the flood. But when they stop the sea makes the opposite movement and goes down. This is ebb.39

According to the testimony of Stobaeus, ebb and flow in the Atlantic Ocean are explained by Aristotle and his disciples as a consequence of the rhythm of the winds, which blow and make the sea rise, and then let the water flow back when they stop.40 The same mechanism is also attested among the historians of Alexander: Curtius’ source applies this principle to the rising and lowering of the Caspian Sea, a movement that “looks like a tide”:41 Mare Caspium dulcius ceteris ingentis magnitudinis serpentes alit (…). A septentrione ingens in litus mare incumbit longeque agit fluctus et magna parte exaestuans stagnat. Idem alio caeli statu recipit in se fretum eodemque impetu, quo effusum est, relabens terram naturae suae reddit. Et quidam credidere non clausum mare esse, sed ex India in Hyrcaniam cadere (…).

37 Thales, D.–K. 11 [1] A, fr. 1.145 (D. L. I 37), fr. 16.1 (Hdt. II 20), fr. 16.2 (Aet. IV 1.1). 38 Heraclid. Pont. fr. 117 Wehrli. 39 Stob. I 38.1: Aetii III 17, 1–9 p. 382, 3 Diels. 40 Cf. Arist. Mete. 366a 19 ss.: καὶ αἱ νύκτες δὲ τῶν ἡμερῶν νηνεμώτεραι διὰ τὴν ἀπουσίαν τὴν τοῦ ἡλίου· ὥστ’ ἔσω γίγνεται πάλιν ἡ ῥύσις, ὥσπερ ἄμπωτις, εἰς τοὐναντίον τῆς ἔξω πλημμυρίδος, καὶ πρὸς ὄρθρον μάλιστα. See also id. 367a 13. 41 Q. C. VI 4.18–19.

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The Caspian Sea, which is fresher than others, breeds serpents of huge size (…). Towards the north a great sea rushes upon the shore, drives its waves far, and like a rising tide42 forms a pool of great extent; but in another condition of the weather the sea retires into itself and with the same force with which it poured in, it flows back and restores the land to its natural condition. And some have thought that this is not the Caspian Sea, but that the Ocean makes its way from India into Hyrcania (…).43

Therefore, Arrian’s text on Alexander’s army crossing to Asia through the narrow passage of Phaselis applies to the receding of the sea – an ebb tide or very similar process – with an explanation, the change of the wind, which is recurrently used to clarify all kinds of changes in water level and which particularly supports the rational explanation for tides during the period Alexander’s campaign took place. Over the next generation, Pytheas of Massalia44 realized for the first time the relationship between tides and the moon, an idea that Posidonius of Apamea, later, in the 1st century BCE, would build on to elaborate his complex description of the tidal cycle.45 Arrian’s text thus reflects the ideas on tides that were common in Alexander’s time, and not those current in his own intellectual milieu.46 However, Arrian informs us that, to Alexander and his companions, this change in wind direction was caused by the action of a god.47 In spite of the existence of a rational explanation for the phenomenon, the receding of the flood in Phaselis is still a miracle, 42 On the latin vocabulary to describe tidal sea movements, see Eckenrode 1975, 269. 43 Transl. by Rolfe 1976, 36–37. 44 Pyth. fr. 2 Mette, T. 26 Roseman, fr. 2a Bianchetti, ap. Aet. III 17.3, p. 383 Diels (Stob. Ecl. I 38.3). 45 Posidon. FGH 87, fr. 85, fr. 217 Edelstein-Kidd, ap. Str. III 5.8. On the crucial role of Posidonius in the ancient studies of tides, see Russo 2003, 26, 72–74. However, according to Aetius, the philosopher considered the moon as the origin of the movement of the winds which, for their part, moved the water (cf. Aet. III 17.4, p. 383 Diels, ap. Stob. Ecl. I 38. 4; Posidon. FGH 87, fr. 81, fr. 138 Edelstein-Kidd). Posidonius’ description of tides and their agreement with the rhythm of the moon is still accepted as right by modern science, with only minimal corrections. 46 On Arrian’s acceptance of the lunar theory, see below. Likewise, the abovementioned text of Q. C. VI 4.18–19 reflects an outdated theory with respect to the time of its author. The lunar influence as an explanation for tides appears as fully accepted by Str. Ι 3.11, III 8.5; Plu. De facie in orbe lunae: Moralia 940A; Caes. Gal. IV 29; Cic. Nat. deor. II 19, Div. II 14; Plin. II 212; Manil. II 89–92; with some hesitation, it also appears in Mela III 2.5–3.1. However, it has to be taken into account that Lucan. I 412–416 echoes a certain debate between the lunar explanation and the traditional wind-based theory, attesting there was still a certain validity in the old vision during the 1st cent. CE. On the acceptance of the lunar explanation among Roman authors, see Eckenrode 1975, 273–275. 47 Hammond 1993, 313, comments on this mention of divine intervention as a sign of Arrian’s deep religiosity and faith. However, the miraculous element must already have been present in the story before Arrian, as the reference made by Josephus proves (see below).



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but the working of this miracle relies on natural mechanics as science explains it: instead of simply making the sea flow back, the divine powers who protect and favour Alexander do not act directly on the water blocking the army, but start the mechanism that will naturally open the way for the Macedonians. Since Antiquity the episode of Pamphylia has been compared with the Biblical crossing of the Red Sea, when the Israelites were miraculously saved from the prosecution of the Egyptians. Josephus explicitly refers to this similarity:48 Ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ὡς εὗρον ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς βίβλοις οὕτως ἕκαστον τούτων παραδέδωκα· θαυμάσῃ δὲ μηδεὶς τοῦ λόγου τὸ παράδοξον, εἰ ἀρχαίοις ἀνθρώποις καὶ πονηρίας ἀπείροις εὑρέθη σωτηρίας ὁδὸς καὶ διὰ θαλάσσης εἴτε κατὰ βούλησιν θεοῦ εἴτε κατὰ ταὐτόματον, ὁπότε καὶ τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον τὸν βασιλέα τῆς Μακεδονίας χθὲς καὶ πρῴην γεγονόσιν ὑπεχώρησε τὸ Παμφύλιον πέλαγος καὶ ὁδὸν ἄλλην οὐκ ἔχουσι παρέσχε τὴν δι’ αὐτοῦ καταλῦσαι τὴν Περσῶν ἡγεμονίαν τοῦ θεοῦ θελήσαντος, καὶ τοῦτο πάντες ὁμολογοῦσιν οἱ τὰς Ἀλεξάνδρου πράξεις συγγραψάμενοι. περὶ μὲν οὖν τούτων ὡς ἑκάστῳ δοκεῖ διαλαμβανέτω. For my part, I have recounted each detail here told just as I found it in the sacred books. Nor let anyone marvel at the astonishing nature of the narrative or doubt that it was given to men of old, innocent of crime, to find a road of salvation through the sea itself, whether by the will of God or maybe by accident,49 seeing that the hosts of Alexander king of Macedon, men born but the other day, beheld the Pamphylian Sea retire before them and, when other road there was none, offer a passage through itself, what time it pleased God to overthrow the Persian empire; and on that all are agreed who have recorded Alexander’s exploits. However on these matters everyone is welcome to his own opinion.50

Josephus finds in Alexander’s story an argument in favour of the credibility of the Biblical miracle. Nevertheless, in his text the effect of wind on the water has been completely eliminated, both from the anecdote of the Macedonian army and from the account of the opening of the Red Sea,51 even if the original Hebrew text as well as its Greek translation52 attribute the creation of the path to God’s awakening an extraordinarily strong wind that dried the sea and divided the water, forming two enormous walls on one side and the other. To Josephus, however,

48 Jos. A. I. II 347–348. 49 On the use of the expresion “κατ᾽αὐτόματον” by Josephus, see Bouvier 2004, 179–188. 50 Transl. by Thackeray 1961, 317. 51 Jos. A. I. II 338–339: Τοσαῦτα ἐπιθειάσας τύπτει τῇ βακτηρίᾳ τὴν θάλατταν. ἡ δ’ ὑπὸ τῆς πληγῆς ἀνεκόπη καὶ εἰς αὑτὴν ὑποχωρήσασα γυμνὴν ἀφίησι τὴν γῆν ὁδὸν Ἑβραίοις εἶναι καὶ φυγήν. 52 LXX, Exod. 14.21–22: ἐξέτεινεν δὲ Μωυσῆς τὴν χεῖρα ἐπὶ τὴν θάλασσαν, καὶ ὑπήγαγεν κύριος τὴν θάλασσαν ἐν ἀνέμῳ νότῳ βιαίῳ ὅλην τὴν νύκτα καὶ ἐποίησεν τὴν θάλασσαν ξηράν, καὶ ἐσχίσθη τὸ ὕδωρ. καὶ εἰσῆλθον οἱ υἱοὶ Ἰσραηλ εἰς μέσον τῆς θαλάσσης κατὰ τὸ ξηρόν, καὶ τὸ ὕδωρ αὐτοῖς τεῖχος ἐκ δεξιῶν καὶ τεῖχος ἐξ εὐωνύμων.

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the process started only when Moses struck the water with his staff (τύπτει τῇ βακτηρίᾳ τὴν θάλατταν. ἡ δ’ ὑπὸ τῆς πληγῆς ἀνεκόπη), which caused the immediate division of the sea and the formation of the path between the two liquid walls with no intermediary element between water and divine power. The disappearance of the wind as a decisive factor in the narrative of the crossing of the Red Sea perhaps specifically relates to its traditional importance as an explanation for tides among the Greeks before the popularisation of the lunar theory. Indeed, attributing the opening of the waters to the blowing of the wind may allow for considering it as a tidal phenomenon and not as a real miracle, an idea that is not always welcome among Jewish authors. For instance, Artapanus,53 in the second century BCE, quotes a tradition in Memphis that minimizes the miraculous side of the story and describes Moses as a cunning observer of nature in the region, skilful enough to profit from an ebb and to guide his people through the path it opened:54 Μεμφίτας μὲν οὖν λέγειν ἔμπειρον ὄντα τὸν Μώϋσον τῆς χώρας τὴν ἄμπωτιν τηρήσαντα διὰ ξηρᾶς τῆς θαλάσσης τὸ πλῆθος περαιῶσαι. The Memphites say that the people crossed the sea walking on dry land because Moses knew well the region and had observed the ebb.

However, immediately afterwards55 the author attributes a second tradition to the Heliopolites, by which the miracle happened when Moses’ staff touched the water, with no mention of the wind at all, exactly as it appears in Josephus’ text. One century after Artapanus, Philo of Alexandria brings the wind back to the story and offers us a version where tide- and miracle-interpretation appear side by side, presented to the reader as two different and separate phases of the water division process:56 καταδύντος δ’ ἡλίου, νότος εὐθὺς ἤρξατο κατασκήπτειν βιαιότατος, ὑφ’ οὗ τὸ πέλαγος ἐξανεχώρησεν, εἰωθὸς μὲν ἀμπωτίζειν, τότε δὲ καὶ μᾶλλον ὠθούμενον τὸ πρὸς αἰγιαλοῖς ὑπεσύρη καθάπερ εἰς χαράδραν ἢ χάρυβδιν· ἀστήρ τε προὐφαίνετ’ οὐδείς, ἀλλὰ πυκνὸν καὶ μέλαν νέφος ἅπαντα τὸν οὐρανὸν ἐπεῖχε, γνοφώδους τῆς νυκτὸς οὔσης εἰς κατάπληξιν τῶν διωκόντων. προσταχθεὶς δὲ Μωυσῆς τῇ βακτηρίᾳ παίει τὴν θάλασσαν· ἡ δὲ ῥαγεῖσα διίσταται καὶ τῶν τμημάτων τὰ μὲν πρὸς τῷ ῥαγέντι μέρει μετέωρα πρὸς ὕψος ἐξαίρεται καὶ παγέντα τρόπον τείχους κραταιῶς ἠρέμει καὶ ἡσύχαζε, τὰ δ’ ὀπίσω σταλέντα καὶ χαλινωθέντα τὴν εἰς τὸ πρόσω φορὰν καθάπερ ἡνίαις ἀφανέσιν ἀνεχαίτιζε, τὸ δὲ μεσαίτατον, καθ’ ὃ ἐγένετο ἡ ῥῆξις, ἀναξηρανθὲν ὁδὸς εὐρεῖα καὶ λεωφόρος γίνεται.

53 On Artapanus and his work, Schwartz 1906. 54 FGH 726, fr. 3a, ap. Euseb. P. E. IX 27.35. 55 Euseb. P. E. IX 27.35–37. 56 Phil. Mos. I 176.



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But when the sun had set, immediately a most violent south wind set in and began to blow, under the influence of which the sea retreated; for, as it was accustomed to ebb and flow, on this occasion it was driven back much further towards the shore, and drawn up in a heap as if into a ravine or a whirlpool. And no stars were visible, but a dense and black cloud covered the whole of the heaven, so that the night became totally dark, to the consternation of the pursuers. And Moses, at the command of God, smote the sea with his staff. And it was broken and divided into two parts, and one of the divisions at the part where it was broken off, was raised to a height and mounted up, and being thus consolidated like a strong wall, stood quiet and unshaken; and the portion behind the Hebrews was also contracted and raised in, and prevented from proceeding forwards, as if it were held back by invisible reins. And the intermediate space, where the fracture had taken place, was dried up and became a broad, and level, and easy road.57

In the text of Philo the wind sent by God appears again as a factor that plays a role in the Biblical miracle and causes a first receding of the sea that is compared to a particularly strong ebb. Nevertheless, the real miracle happens just after it, when Moses hits the surface of the sea and originates a new divine intervention, this time acting directly on the water and making it divide. The Biblical opening of the Red Sea, particularly in its Hellenistic interpretations, and Alexander’s crossing of Phaselis, are similar stories, but they contain descriptions of miraculous events that, while similar, happen in a completely different way: in order to avoid interpretation as a tide, the Jewish authors show a tendency to eliminate or minimize the importance of the effect of the wind on the water, and insist on its receding as a consequence of the intervention of their almighty God. Josephus makes Alexander’s anecdote an exact parallel to the Biblical story. However, through Arrian’s testimony we appreciate that in its origin the Greek miracle did not consist of the direct action of a superior power on the water: the divine intervention in favour of the Macedonians does not take the form of the abnormal phenomenon itself – the receding of the tide – but rather, of the physical fact that science had recognized as its cause. Thus, once more, in Alexander’s expedition, we find a miracle that happens in harmony with science, not consisting of an alteration of natural rules, but rather making the mechanism of Nature work in favour of Alexander and his army.

57 Transl. by Yonge 1855, 39–40.

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Science and miracle in the historiography of Alexander At this point, the problem arises as to why science plays a role in these key moments of the story, when the gods manifest their favour to Alexander and foreshadow his glorious destiny. In the case of the Pamphylian Sea, it must be noted that, as said above, the influence of the moon on tides is not mentioned in Arrian’s passage, even if this theory was widely known in his time, and there is also clear testimony pointing out that Arrian himself accepted the lunar theory as an explanation for these movements of the sea.58 The vision of tides in Arrian’s account of the episode does not correspond to the author’s time and mentality, but rather fits the ideas on this phenomenon more common during early Hellenistic times. The old-fashioned character of the tidal mechanism Arrian describes thus suggests that, in his version of the anecdote, the scientific echo was likely not introduced by himself, but most probably comes from his source. At the beginning of his Anabasis of Alexander, Arrian explicitly refers to Ptolemy and Aristobulus as the principal authorities he follows, considering them the most trustworthy among historians of Alexander: in the case of Aristobulus, he has the credibility of the eyewitness, given his presence in the Macedonian expedition. Ptolemy, on his part, offers, apart from direct testimony, the additional authority of being himself king, conferring him a special degree of trustworthiness associated to his royal dignity.59 The attribution of the receding of the sea to the change of wind direction, then, could probably already have been present in the accounts of Alexander’s deeds written by Ptolemy and/or Aristobulus. However, even if not mentioned among Arrian’s sources, the role played by Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, is probably necessary to take into account among the sources that, directly or indirectly, provided Arrian with his information about the Macedonian campaign. The importance of Alexander’s divine blessing as a key element in Callisthenes’ image of the king is well known,60 and

58 Arr. De rebus physicis fr. 2, ap. Prisc. Lyd. Solutiones ad Chosroem VI, p. 69 Bywater: qui autem videntur ex omnibus collegisse talis passionis causas, Stoicus est Posidonius Assyrius (vid. Posidon. T. 71, fr. 219 Edelstein-Kidd) et ei consentientes, quorum et Arrianus approbat sententiam. dicunt enim moveri exteriorem Oceanum ad lunae ambitum compati vero interius mare (…). 59 Arr. An. I preface. On the role of royal dignity as warranty of reliability applied to the case of Ctesias of Cnidus, see Gómez Espelosín 1994, 152–153. However, the judgement of Ptolemy’s reliability is in modern times very different. See Pédech 1984, 237, and Zambrini 2007, 217. 60 See Prentice 1923, 75.



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he is also reputed to have been involved in scientific inquiry,61 which makes him a suitable option to identify the origin of the observed mixture of religion and science. The possibility that contents from Callisthenes could be present in the other historians of Alexander and, through them, in Arrian’s work, has deeply attracted the attention of scholars. The idea of a close dependence on Callisthenes by the other companions of the Macedonian king, and the belief in an “immanence” of Callisthenes in all the preserved historiography on Alexander have been justly criticised, and the autonomy and originality of the other Alexander historians have been upheld. But still, it is widely accepted that his work was a reference point for the writers dealing with Alexander’s deeds after him, and that it exercised a clear influence upon them.62 Therefore, perhaps, the hand of Callisthenes might explain the presence of the scientific echoes in the miracles narrated regarding the campaign of Alexander, or at least, in some of them. However, a famous reference by Eustathius of Thessalonica attributes an account of Alexander’s crossing the passage of Phaselis to Callisthenes, where no trace of scientific intention is visible; in contrast, the miracle appears in its fullness and occupies the whole space:63 ὅπου γε Καλλισθένης τὸ Παμφύλιον πέλαγος Ἀλεξάνδρου παριόντος εἰ καὶ μὴ γηθόσυνον διαστῆναι, ὡς ἐν ὁδοποιίαι, ἀλλ’ ἐξυπαναστῆναι λέγει αἰσθόμενον οἷον τῆς ἐκείνου πορείας καὶ οὐδ’ αὐτὸ ἀγνοῆσαι τὸν ἄνακτα, ἵνα ἐν τῶι ὑποκυρτοῦσθαί πως δοκῆι προσκυνεῖν. So Callisthenes on the Pamphylian Sea: when Alexander approached, even if the sea was not willing to recede, as going to give way but it grew rough, he says that it noticed how Alexander’s march was and did not ignore his king, so that, curving down, the sea seemed to prostrate.

61 See Callisth. Olynth. FGH 124, frs. 19, 20 and 21 (ap. Sen. N. Q. VII 23, VI 26.3 and VII 53–5). Seneca attests to Callisthenes’ awareness of Aristotle’s explanation of earthquakes, as well as his theories on comets. Fr. 19, on a comet and an earthquake in Delos described as “prodigia” foretelling a flood in Helix and Buris could point to the mix between science and religion as a feature of his mentality. However, Prandi 1985, 42–44, argues in favour of a fully scientific approach in Callisthenes’ testimony. 62 On Arrian’s use of Callisthenes, see Devine 1994, 89–102. A vision to the contrary can be found in Hammond 1992. On Callisthenes’ influence on other Alexander historians, see Pearson 1960, 35, 39, 45; Bosworth 1980, 185. Criticism of this vision in Gitti 1956, 39–57, and Prandi 1985, 136–142. On Callisthenes’ importance in the so-called “vulgate”, see Jacoby 1919, 1705 and 1921, 651; Schachermeyr 1973, 152–153. 63 Callisth. Olynth. FGH 124, F. 31: Schol. T. Eust. Hom. Il. N 29.

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The wind and its effect on the water are completely absent from Eustathius’ testimony of Callisthenes. On the contrary, the weather conditions play an essential role in the version of the anecdote we find in Strabo’s Geography:64 περὶ Φασήλιδα δ’ ἐστὶ τὰ κατὰ θάλατταν στενά, δι’ ὧν Ἀλέξανδρος παρήγαγε τὴν στρατιάν. ἔστι δ’ ὄρος Κλῖμαξ καλούμενον, ἐπίκειται δὲ τῷ Παμφυλίῳ πελάγει, στενὴν ἀπολεῖπον πάροδον ἐπὶ τῷ αἰγιαλῷ ταῖς μὲν νηνεμίαις γυμνουμένην ὥστε εἶναι βάσιμον τοῖς ὁδεύουσι, πλημμύροντος δὲ τοῦ πελάγους ὑπὸ τῶν κυμάτων καλυπτομένην ἐπὶ πολύ· ἡ μὲν οὖν διὰ τοῦ ὄρους ὑπέρβασις περίοδον ἔχει καὶ προσάντης ἐστί, τῷ δ’ αἰγιαλῷ χρῶνται κατὰ τὰς εὐδίας. ὁ δὲ Ἀλέξανδρος εἰς χειμέριον ἐμπεσὼν καιρὸν καὶ τὸ πλέον ἐπιτρέπων τῇ τύχῃ πρὶν ἀνεῖναι τὸ κῦμα ὥρμησε, καὶ ὅλην τὴν ἡμέραν ἐν ὕδατι γενέσθαι τὴν πορείαν συνέβη μέχρι ὀμφαλοῦ βαπτιζομένων. Near Phaselis, by the sea, there are defiles, through which Alexander led his army. And here there is a mountain called Climax, which lies near the Pamphylian Sea and leaves a narrow pass on the shore; and in calm weather this pass is free from water, so that it is passable for travellers, but when the sea is at flood-tide it is to a considerable extent hidden by the waves. Now the pass that leads over through the mountain is circuitous and steep, but in fair weather people use the pass along the shore. Alexander, meeting with a stormy season, and being a man who in general trusted to luck, set out before the waves had receded; and the result was that all day long his soldiers marched in water submerged to their navels.65

The geographer offers us a completely different view of the episode. According to him, the narrow path beside Mount Climax is dry and can be crossed when the wind stops, but it is covered by the waves “when the tide rises” (πλημμύροντος δὲ τοῦ πελάγους). When Alexander arrived, the wintry weather had provoked flood tide, but the great impetus of the king and his thirst for conquest impelled him to tackle the marsh before the sea receded, and consequently the soldiers had to make the most part of the way half submerged. It must be noted that, among the various accounts of the anscdote, this is the only one that explicitly defines the change in the level of the Pamphylian Sea as “tide”. Furthermore, as in the case of Arrian, Strabo is completely aware of the theory that explains tidal movements through lunar influence – indeed, he transmits the summary of Posidonius’ description of the tidal mechanism and its connection to the moon.66 Again, the explanation of the wind’s role in Strabo’s account of the episode at Phaselis, as well as the total absence of the influence of the moon on the tidal phenomenon, seems old-fashioned with respect to the geographer’s

64 Str. XIV 3.9. 65 Transl. by Jones 1960, 321. 66 Str. III 5.8. See above. Echoes of the wind-theory appear in Str. XV 1.20 and 1.34, clearly related to the early historiography of Alexander (cf. Onesicritus historicus, FGH 134, frr. 8, 24 and 26).



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time and different from his ideas on tides. Therefore, as in the case of Arrian, this element very likely comes from the source he used. However, the identity of this source is a most heatedly-discussed matter. Bosworth suggests Clitarchus.67 Zahrnt agrees with him,68 but acknowledges the difficulty of the problem. Both quote Schachermeyr,69 who considers Aristobulus as the direct source of the geographer, but also facetiously suggests searching for the ultimate origin of Strabo’s account in a troop soldier who had caught a cold because of the march through the water. Zambianchi,70 however, has recently published a general review of Strabo’s sources regarding Alexander’s history and convincingly sustains the importance of Callisthenes in the Geography, particularly with respect to Alexander’s presence in Asia Minor. The study does not specifically refer to the episode of Phaselis, but her conclusion opens up the possibility that it could precisely have been Callisthenes who “caught the cold”. At first sight, Strabo’s version, much less triumphant than Arrian’s and, in principle, rather anti-heroic, seems incompatible with Eustatius’ sea that bows and kneels when the king arrives. However, some consonances with other testimonies of Callisthenes’ work can perhaps be pointed out: indeed, Alexander’s impetuous eagerness to cross the path despite adverse weather conditions looks very similar to Callisthenes’ description of the king impulsively setting sail even if having the wind against him and later crossing a sandstorm to arrive at the oracle of Ammon:71 ὁ γοῦν Καλλισθένης φησὶ τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον φιλοδοξῆσαι μάλιστα ἀνελθεῖν ἐπὶ τὸ χρηστήριον, ἐπειδὴ καὶ Περσέα ἤκουσε πρότερον ἀναβῆναι καὶ Ἡρακλέα· ὁρμήσαντα δ’ ἐκ Παραιτονίου καίπερ νότων ἐπιπεσόντων βιάσασθαι, πλανώμενον δ’ ὑπὸ τοῦ κονιορτοῦ σωθῆναι γενομένων ὄμβρων καὶ δυεῖν κοράκων ἡγησαμένων τὴν ὁδόν (…). At any rate, Callisthenes says that Alexander conceived a very great ambition to go inland to the oracle, since he had heard that Perseus, as also Heracles, had done so in earlier times; and that he started from Paraetonium, although the south winds had set in and forced his way; and that when he lost his way because of the thick dust, he was saved by rainfalls and by the guidance of two crows (…).72

67 Bosworth 1980, 165–166. 68 Zahrnt 1998, 329. 69 Schachermeyr 1973, 187. 70 Zambianchi 2006. 71 Str. XVII 1.43. Cf. Appian. Bel. Civ. II 149, p. 622, where both episodes – that of Phaselis and the visit to the oracle of Zeus – are mentioned together as testimonies of Alexander’s blessing and fortune. 72 Transl. by Jones 1967, 15.

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With all due caution, the possibility that Callisthenes’ authority is behind Strabo’s version of Alexander’s vicissitudes in Pamphylia deserves attention. Perhaps the image of his narrative that we find in Eustathius, with the sea prostrating itself in the presence of the king, is a partial account that needs to be completed through references transmitted by other sources, from which we could have a better idea of the real complexity of the original text, where heroic courage and the struggle against the elements might have been mingled with the signs of divine favour and blessing. Certainty, however, is impossible. Be it as it may, the coincidence between Strabo and Arrian in mentioning the wind factor as part of the story can best be explained either through a common source shared between them regarding this anecdote, which is all but clear,73 or, more probably, assuming that the wind as cause of the receding flood was mentioned by more than one of the early historians of Alexander, which, on its side, would also point to the existence of a common source for them. And the most likely identification of this common source for the early historians of Alexander must be Callisthenes. Callisthenes’ work can be seen behind the scientific element in the miracle of the Pamphylian Sea. Regarding Alexander’s sacrifice before Gaugamela, however, the question is much more complex, given that distinguishing the elements assimilated by Arrian from his source from those he added to the original story is, in this case, much less clear. Quintus Curtius transmits a version of the anecdote that also presents the eclipse in connection with its scientific explanation:74 Biduo ibi stativa rex habuit; in proximum deinde pronuntiari iussit. Sed prima fere vigilia luna deficiens primum nitorem sideris sui condidit, deinde sanguinis colore suffuso lumen omne foedavit, sollicitisque sub ipsum tanti discriminis casum ingens religio et ex ea formido quaedam incussa est Dis invitis in ultimas terras trahi se querebantur: iam nec flumina posse adiri nec sidera pristinum servare fulgorem, vastas terras, deserta omnia occurrere; in unius hominis iactationem tot milium sanguinem impendi, fastidio esse patriam, abdicari Philip-

73 Indeed, the visible differences in the description of the phenomenon speak, in principle, against the idea of a common source between Strabo and Arrian: the geographer establishes a difference between wintry and calm weather (observe the consistency with the aforementioned testimony of Aristotle in Stob. I 38.1, which also attests to a contraposition between wind and calm weather), whereas Arrian attributes the ebb tide to a change in wind direction, not to the ceasing of the blowing wind. 74 Q. C. IV 10.2–6. Plutarch (Alex. 31.8) and Pliny (II 180) also make reference to the eclipse of 331 BCE, but their texts do not offer us any information about the reaction of Alexander or his troops. Plu. Alex. 31.9 describes Alexander as spending the night before the battle (eleven days after the eclipse) celebrating strange rituals with Aristander, the seer, and sacrificing to Phobos.



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pum patrem, caelum vanis cogitationibus petere. Iam prope seditionem res erat, cum ad omnia interritus duces principesque militum frequentes adesse praetorio iubet Aegyptiosque vates, quos caeli ac siderum peritissimos esse credebat, quid sentirent expromere iubet. At illi, qui satis scirent temporum orbes implere destinatas vices lunamque deficere, cum aut terram subiret aut sole premeretur, rationem quidem ipsis perceptam non edocent vulgus; ceterum adfirmant solem Graecorum, lunam esse Persarum, quotiensque illa deficiat, ruinam stragemque illis gentibus portendi, veteraque exempla percensent Persidis regum, quos adversis dis pugnasse lunae ostendisset defectio. There for two days the king remained in his camp; then he ordered a march to be announced for the following day. But about the first watch the moon, in eclipse, hid at first the brilliance of her heavenly body, then all her light was sullied and suffused with the hue of blood, and those who were already anxious on the very eve of so critical a contest were struck with intense religious awe and from that with a kind of dread. They complained that against the will of the gods they were being dragged to the ends of the earth, no longer could rivers be approached, nor did the heavenly bodies keep their former brilliance, desert lands and solitude everywhere met them, to gratify the vanity of one man the blood of so many soldiers was being spent, their king disdained his native land, disowned his father Philip, and with vainglorious thoughts aspired to heaven. Already the affair was approaching a mutiny, when Alexander, unterrified in the face of everything, ordered the generals and the higher officers of the soldiers to appear in full numbers at the king’s tent, and the Egyptian soothsayers, whom he believed to be most skilled in reading the heavens and the stars, to declare their opinion. But they, although they knew well enough that the heavenly bodies which determine the seasons have their destined changes, and that the moon suffers eclipse either when it goes behind the earth or is covered by the sun, do not teach the common people the knowledge which they themselves possess, but they declared that the sun represented the Greeks and the moon the Persians, and that whenever the moon suffered eclipse, defeat and slaughter was foretold for those nations and they enumerated ancient examples of Persian kings whom an eclipse of the moon showed to have fought without the favour of the gods.75

Arrian’s and Curtius’ versions of the episode deserve comparison: they differ to a great extent from each other, probably as a consequence of the use of different sources, as well as the diverse intentions that lie behind their histories of Alexander: Arrian relies, as mentioned, mainly on Ptolemy and Aristobulus, whereas Curtius seems to have predominantly used Clitarchus.76 Arrian’s admiration to military courage and strategic skill77 contrasts with Curtius’ demystification and

75 Transl. by Rolfe 1971, 253–255. 76 Q. C. IX 5.21, 8.15. See Brown 1950, 152–155, on the moralizing element in Clitarchus’ work, likely the basis of the criticism for the figure of Alexander in later authors, such as Curtius. 77 A feature that was probably already present in Ptolemy. See Zambrini 2007, 218. On Arrian’s military experience and its reflection in his work, see Hammond 1993, 317–318.

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criticism of the figure of the Great King.78 In consequence, the former does not mention at all the fear of the soldiers and the danger of mutiny, rather focusing, as said, on the victorious destiny the celestial phenomenon foretells and on Alexander’s piety and trust in the divine will. Curtius, however, turns the religious interpretation of the eclipse into a strategy to manipulate the simple and uneducated minds of the soldiers and to instil them courage and trust in their general. In Arrian’s text Alexander is implicitly aware of the causes of the eclipse. Curtius, on the other hand, attributes the scientific knowledge only to the Egyptians and not to the king. Arrian describes a portent that happens through the conjunction of some elements that are halfway celestial bodies and divine entities, whereas Curtius explains the supposed miracle as a fiction only possible thanks to the inherent distance between knowledge and ignorance. Still, despite their profound differences, both authors agree in attesting to a conflict between the concept of the eclipse as a physical phenomenon and as a divine portent. Can this coincidence once more suggest a common origin for the scientific element? The question is far from clear: in Curtius’ text, the episode of the eclipse before the battle is apparently constructed through a complex braiding of intertextual references: the association of the Greeks with the sun and the Persians with the moon more than probably echoes that described by Herodotus79 during Xerxes’ expedition: ἐνθαῦτα χειμερίσας ἅμα τῷ ἔαρι παρεσκευασμένος ὁ στρατὸς ἐκ τῶν Σαρδίων ὁρμᾶτο ἐλῶν ἐς Ἄβυδον. Ὁρμημένῳ δέ οἱ ὁ ἥλιος ἐκλιπὼν τὴν ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἕδρην ἀφανὴς ἦν οὔτ’ ἐπινεφέλων ἐόντων αἰθρίης τε τὰ μάλιστα, ἀντὶ ἡμέρης τε νὺξ ἐγένετο. Ἰδόντι δὲ καὶ μαθόντι τοῦτο τῷ Ξέρξῃ ἐπιμελὲς ἐγένετο, καὶ εἴρετο τοὺς μάγους τί θέλει προφαίνειν τὸ φάσμα. Οἱ δὲ ἔφασαν ὡς Ἕλλησι προδεικνύει ὁ θεὸς ἔκλειψιν τῶν πολίων, λέγοντες ἥλιον εἶναι Ἑλλήνων προδέκτορα, σελήνην δὲ σφέων. Ταῦτα πυθόμενος ὁ Ξέρξης περιχαρὴς ἐὼν ἐποιέετο τὴν ἔλασιν. The army then wintered, and at the beginning of spring was ready and set forth from Sardis to march to Abydos. When they had set forth, the sun left his place in the heaven and was unseen, albeit the sky was without clouds and very clear, and the day was turned into night. When Xerxes saw and took note of that, he was moved to think upon it, and asked the Magians what the vision might signify. They declared to him, that the god was showing to the Greeks the desolation of their cities; for the sun (they said) was the prophet of the Greeks, as the moon was theirs. Xerxes rejoiced exceedingly to hear that, and kept on his march.80

78 On Curtius’ moral intention and criticism of Alexander, see e.  g. Cascón Dorado 1990 and Baynham 1998, 22. 79 Hdt. VII 37. Observe that this association is missing from the aforementioned narratives of the lunar eclipse before the battle of Pydna. 80 Transl. by Godley 1922, 351–353.



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Curtius seems to reflect the same association of the destiny of the Greeks with the eclipses of the sun, and that of the Persians with the alterations of the moon, as explained in the Histories. It must be taken into account that references to Herodotus in the historiography of Alexander have been linked to Callisthenes’ influence by some scholars,81 but Herodotus’ direct influence on Curtius cannot be ruled out. On another hand, the narrative most likely is also strongly indebted to Livy’s aforementioned account of the eclipse before Pydna and Sulpicius Gallus’ public prediction of the phenomenon:82 in Livy’s story, Gallus gathered the troops and explained to them the astronomical conjunction that was about to happen. Similarly, in Curtius’ text Alexander calls his officers and gathers them to give a public explanation that will calm the soldiers. Both Gallus and the Egyptian soothsayers know the cause of the phenomenon: the darkening of the moon happens at certain fixed times (Liv.: statis temporibus; Q. C.: destinatas vices) based on the normal rhythms of nature.83 The coincidences between both episodes are thus significant and specific enough to hold Curtius’ account as inspired by Livy’s narrative. However, they diverge in an important detail: whereas Livy’s Roman commander shares his knowledge with the troops, the Egyptians of Curtius are explicitly criticised because they do not communicate the truth to common people (non edocent vulgus). Curtius’ story is thus not an exact imitation of Livy’s episode, but rather can be regarded as a sort of “mirror image” of it. This notwithstanding, the probable main reference for Curtius’ account of the days before Gaugamela is still Livy’s vision of the moments prior to Pydna. But, if his main literary model also included a scientific analysis of eclipses, then it is impossible to establish whether Curtius also knew a further source relating to the early historians of Alexander that might have contained a reference to Alexander’s science-based triple sacrifice. The origin of the scientific echo in Curtius could well be Livy’s text. Regarding Arrian, it is known that the author was a learned man with a solid knowledge of natural science,84 perfectly capable of incorporating the scientific element we

81 See Prandi 1985, 140–142. 82 On Livy’s influence on Curtius, see Fugmann 1995, 237–242 and Baynham 1998, 20. 83 Both authors seem to attribute a cyclic nature to eclipses. On the prediction of lunar and solar eclipses among Babylonians and Egyptians, see Heath 1913, 16–17; on Babylonian knowledge of lunar eclipse cycles of 223 lunar months, Neugebauer 1975, 517–528. Bowen 2002, 83–84, highlights the existence of accounts of eclipse cycles of Babylonian origin that circulated among the Greeks and Romans in Livy’s time. 84 See Roos/Wirth 2002, XXVII–XXVIII. Arrian probably wrote two works on physics problems, dedicated respectively to meteorology and to comets.

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observe in his version of the story. Furthermore, it cannot be forgotten that the common vision of divination practices among the Stoics, a school with which Arrian was deeply connected, relied precisely on the idea of a deep interconnection of facts, which allows men to appreciate the coincidence between certain natural phenomena and the development of human fate.85 Hence, the Stoic ideas of Arrian could also very likely have played a role in his account of the episode. Therefore, it is not possible to guess whether the scientific interpretation of the eclipse was already in the source used – and that maybe then the Stoic ideas of Arrian contributed to its preservation and transmission – or whether it was added by Arrian himself. Only the reference to the soothsayer Aristander, whom scholars have sometimes associated with Callisthenes,86 might perhaps leave the door open to seeing his hand behind the narrative on this occasion as well. But every statement on the problem is doubtful, and caution is needed. Callisthenes, therefore, presents a good option for explaining the origin of these “scientific wonders” in the history of Alexander, at least in the case of the tide of the Pamphylian Sea, and much more doubtfully in that of the eclipse. If this is accepted, at least in the case of Phaselis, the interplay between science and miracle could have been transmitted from Callisthenes by other historians of Alexander, such as Aristobulus, Ptolemy or Clitarchus, who possibly included it in their own texts as well, perhaps introducing variations. On the other hand, scholars have called attention to the presence of a scientific theory in the background of an episode of witchcraft narrated in Apollonius’ Argonautica: in book IV,87 Talos, a giant made of bronze, perishes under Medeas’ evil eye. However, the description of the workings of this evil eye contains what has been identified as a reference to contemporary physical ideas: specifically, the magical process works according to the theory of vision that was common among the Atomist school, as attested in some of the doctrines attributed to Democritus, and that later the Epicureans adopted.88 Apollonius then offers us a case very similar to that observed in the historiography of Alexander: the narrative of a supernatural phenomenon that entails assumption of its rational explana-

85 On this aspect, see above, note 7. 86 See Prentice 1923, 83; Robinson 1929, 196–197; Hammond 1983, 125; Landucci Gattinoni 1993, 131–133. A critical review of the relationship between the testimonies of Aristander and Callisthenes is offered by Prandi 1985, 138–139. On Aristander’s renown, independent from Alexander and his deeds, Nice 2005. 87 A. R. IV 1638–1693. 88 On the influence of Democritus, see Dickie 1990, 272–275, see also Livrea 1973, ad loc. Powers 2002, 88–89, on the other hand, points to a link between Apollonius and the influence of the Epicureans.



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tion, but, this notwithstanding, conserves its magical or miraculous significance. Matthew Dickie and Nathan Powers have studied the interaction between witchcraft and science in Apollonius’ text in detail and, most importantly, the function of the scientific element within the story; that is, the reason that led the author to include it.89 Dickie considered four different answers to this problem: 1) the intent to display erudition; 2) the need to give a “rational explanation” to the magical act; 3) to make Medea’s action look more terrible; and 4) to provide stylistic variety,90 conceding a clear pre-eminence to explanations 1 and 4. Powers,91 however, insists on the importance of the scientific element to help the narrative reach a higher extent of credibility and verisimilitude: connecting the magical procedure of the evil eye with the contemporary physical theories of vision helps to present the story as something that “can happen”, something that, while extraordinary, is not absurd. A similar aim can perhaps be suggested in the case of the scientific elements in the miraculous occurrences transmitted by the early historians of Alexander, particularly in the episode of the Pamphylian sea: as in the case of Apollonius, the author or authors that included the rational explanation of tides in their works as a factor that intervened in the extraordinary phenomenon were probably not totally rationalizing the miracle, but rather adding a sort of connection with the sphere of what “can happen” to the narrative. Dickie dismisses the idea that Apollonius’ display of erudition aimed to “entertain a sophisticated readership”.92 However, the audience and its demands probably did play a role in both the historiography of Alexander and in the Argonautica: the readers of Apollonius’ poem and those of, e.  g., Ptolemy, Aristobulus or Clitarchus, were basically the social, political and cultural elite of Alexandria during the reign of the first Ptolemaic kings: educated people who had witnessed the first steps of the Museum and who perhaps were not ready to accept crass tales of witchcraft or unpolished miracle stories in complete disagreement with contemporary scientific ideas, although they might have been more open and more favourable toward literary works that included these subtle combinations of science and wonder. Something similar can be stated on the audience of Callisthenes, probably consisting of well-educated upper-class Greek and Macedonian readers of the court of Pella who, even while perhaps not reaching the level of enlightenment of the Alexandrian audi-

89 Dickie 1990, 278–286; Powers 2002. 90 Dickie 1990, 278; Powers 2002, 97–98. 91 Powers 2002, 98–100. 92 Dickie 1990, 285.

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ence, most likely also enjoyed a highly refined cultural atmosphere.93 The image of Alexander as a man blessed by the gods is easier to present to such audiences if the gods do not help him against nature, but by making use of nature and its laws. In the historiography of Alexander, miracles are key elements in the development of historical events, but these miracles are not in conflict with science: on the contrary, science rather provides the fulcrum for their work. The gods can still manifest their influence on Nature. However, before helping the Macedonian king and showing their favour to him, they have to study physics. Acknowledgements: I am deeply indebted to Marco Antonio Santamaría, Javier de Hoz and Javier Gómez Espelosín for having read preliminary drafts of this work. Their remarks and advice have greatly contributed to improving the final result. During the editorial process of this volume, Maria Gerolemou made many valuable suggestions and comments. I also thank José Ángel Zamora for his help and bibliographical advice, and Cecilia Avanceña for her careful and detailed correction of the English. The responsibility for any remaining error is entirely my own.

Bibliography Aubriot, D. (2003), “Quelques observations sur la religion d’Alexandre (par rapport à la tradition classique) à partir de Plutarque (« La Vie d’Alexandre ») et d’Arrien (« L’Anabase d’Alexandre »)”, Mètis N. S. 1, 225–249. Baynham, E. (1998), Alexander the Great: The Unique History of Quintus Curtius, Ann Arbor. Barré, M. L. (1983), The God-List in the Treaty between Hannibal and Philip V of Macedonia: A Study in Light of the Ancient Near Eastern Treaty Tradition, Baltimore. Bernard, P. (1990), “Nouvelle contribution de l’épigraphie cunéiforme à l’histoire hellénistique”, BCH 114 (1), 513–541. Bickerman, E. (1944), “An Oath of Hannibal”, TAPhA 75, 87–102. – (1952), “Hannibal’s Covenant”, AJPh 73 (1), 1–23. Bobzien, S. (1999), “Chrysippus’ Theory of Causes”, in: K. Ierodiakonou (ed.), Topics in Stoic Philosophy, Oxford, 196–242. Bosworth, A. B. (1970), “Aristotle and Callisthenes”, Historia19 (4), 407–413. – (1980), A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, Oxford. Bouvier, D. (2004), “Quand Alexandre et Moïse voient la mer s’ouvrir devant eux, ou quand Voltaire lit Flavius Josèphe”, in: P. Mudry/O. Bianchi/O. Thévenaz, (eds.), Mirabilia. Conceptions et représentations de l’extraordinaire dans le monde antique. Actes du colloque international, Lausanne, 20–22 mars 2003, Bern, 171–190.

93 On cultural patronage in Macedonia during the reigns of Perdiccas II and Archelaus, see Roisman 2010, 156–157.



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Bowen, A. C. (2002), “The Art of the Commander and the Emergence of Predictive Astronomy”, in: Ch.J. Tuplin/T. E. Rihill (eds.), Science and Mathematics in Ancient Greek Culture, Oxford, 76–111. Burn, A. R. (1952), “Notes on Alexander’s Campaigns, 332–330”, JHS 72, 81–91. Buxton, R. (1999), “Introduction”, in: R. Buxton (ed.), From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Oxford, 1–21. Cascón Dorado, A. (1990), “La labor desmitificadora de Curcio Rufo en su Historia de Alejandro Magno”, in: J.-M. Croisille (ed.), Neronia, IV: Alejandro Magno, modelo de los emperadores romanos. Actes du IVe Colloque International de la SIEN, Brussels, 254–265. Christesen, P./S. C. Murray (2010), “Macedonian Religion”, in: J. Roisman/I. Worthington (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Macedonia, Oxford, 428–445. Colish, M. L. (1985), The Stoic Tradition from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages. I. Stoicism in Classic Latin Literature, Leiden. Curd, P. (2010), Anaxagoras of Clazomenae: Fragments and Testimonia, Toronto. Desideri, P. (1992), “Il trattato fra Filippo V e Annibale”, in: G. Uggeri (ed.), L’età annibalica e la Puglia. Atti del II Convegno di studi sulla Puglia romana (Mesagne, 24–26 marzo 1988), Museo Archeologico “Ugo Granafei”, Mesagne, 161–177. Devine, A. M. (1994), “Alexander’s Propaganda Machine: Callisthenes as the Ultimate Source for Arrian, Anabasis 1–3”, in: I. Worthington (ed.), Ventures into Greek History, Oxford, 89–102. Dickie, M. W. (1990), “Talos Bewitched: Magic, Atomic Theory and Paradoxography in Apollonius, Argonautica 4.1638–88”, Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar 6, 267–296. Dodds, E. R. (1951), The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley. Eckenrode, T. R. (1975), “The Romans and their Views on the Tides”, RCCM 17, 269–292. Flower, M. A. (2008), The Seer in Ancient Greece, Berkeley. Fugmann, J. (1995), “Zum Problem der Datierung der Historiae Alexandri Magni des Curtius Rufus”, Hermes 123 (2), 233–243. Gitti, A. (1956), “L’unitarietà della tradizione su Alessandro Magno nella ricerca moderna”, Athenaeum 34, 39–57. Godley, A. D. (1922), Herodotus with an English Translation, vol. III: Books V-VII, London–New York. Gómez Espelosín, F. J. (1994), “Estrategias de veracidad en Ctesias de Cnido”, Polis 6, 143–168. – (2007), La leyenda de Alejandro: mito, historiografía y propaganda, Alcalá de Henares. – (2014), “Alejandro y los confines”, in: A. Pérez Jiménez (ed.), Realidad, fantasía, interpretaciones, función y pervivencia del Mito Griego. Estudios en honor del profesor Carlos García Gual, Zaragoza, 329–342. Hammond, N. G. L. (1983), Three Historians of Alexander the Great. The so-called Vulgate authors, Diodorus, Justin and Curtius, Cambridge. – (1992), “Arrian’s Use of Callisthenes?”, CB 68 (2), 89–90. – (1993), Sources for Alexander the Great. An Analysis of Plutarch’s Life and Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandrou, Cambridge. Heath, T. (1913), Aristarchus of Samos, the Ancient Copernicus. A History of Greek Astronomy to Aristarchus, together with Aristarchus’s Treatise on the Sizes and Distances of Sun and Moon, Oxford. Jacoby, F. (1919), “Kallisthenes von Olynth”, RE X.2, 1674–1707. – (1921), “Kleitarchos, 2”, RE XI.1, 622–654.

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Johnston, S. I. (2008), Ancient Greek Divination, Oxford. Jones, H. L. (1960), The Geography of Strabo with an English Translation, Vol. VI, Cambridge, Mass. – (1967), The Geography of Strabo with an English Translation, Vol. VIII, Cambridge, Mass. Landucci Gattinoni, F. (1993), “L’indovino Aristandro e l’eredità dei Telmessii”, in: M. Sordi (ed.), La profezia nel mondo antico, Milano, 123–138. Livrea, E. (1973), Apollonii Rhodii Argonauticon liber IV: Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento, Florence. Lloyd, G. E. R. (1979), Magic, Reason and Experience: Studies in the Origin and Development of Greek Science, Cambridge. Marsden, E. W. (1964), The Campaign of Gaugamela, Liverpool. McKechnie, P. (2001), “Harmonizing the Alexander-Gospels: a Replay to N. G. L. Hammond”, AC 70, 161–168. Montelle, C. (2011), Chasing Shadows: Mathematics, Astronomy, and the Early History of Eclipse Reckoning, Baltimore. Mosshammer, A. A. (1981), “Thales’ eclipse”, TAPhA 111, 145–155. Nice, A. (2005), “The Reputation of the mantis Aristander”, AClass 48, 87–102. Nestle, W. (1940), Vom Mythos zum Logos. Die Selbstentfaltung des griechischen Denkens von Homer bis auf die Sophistik und Sokrates, Stuttgart. – (1944), Griechische Geistesgeschichte von Homer bis Lukian in ihrer Entfaltung vom mythischen zum rationalen Denken dargestellt, Stuttgart. Neugebauer, O. (1975), A History of Ancient Mathematical Astronomy, Part One, Berlin– Heidelberg–New York. Pearson, L. I. C. (1960), The Lost Histories of Alexander the Great, New York. Pédech, P. (1984), Historiens compagnons d’Alexandre. Callisthène, Onésicrite, Néarque, Ptolémée, Aristobule, Paris. Perrin, B. (1918), Plutarch’s Lives with an English Translation, Volume VI: Dion and Brutus, Timoleon and Aemilius Paulus, London–New York. Powers, N. (2002), “Magic, Wonder and Scientific Explanation in Apollonius, Argonautica 4.1638–93”, PCPhS 48, 87–101. Prandi, L. (1985), Callistene. Uno storico tra Aristotele e i re macedoni, Milano. Prentice, W. K. (1923), “Callisthenes, the Original Historian of Alexander”, TAPhA 54, 74–85. Ribichini, S. (1991), “Gli dei di Annibale”, Prometeo 34, 20–29. Rist, J. M. (1969), Stoic Philosophy, Cambridge. Robinson, C. A. (1929), “The Seer Aristander”, AJPh 50 (2), 195–197. Robson, E. I. (1967 = 1929), Arrian: Anabasis Alexandri, Books I-IV (Vol. I), Cambridge, Mass. Roisman, J. (2010), “Classical Macedonia to Perdicas III”, in: J. Roisman/I. Worthington (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Macedonia, Oxford, 145–165. Rolfe, J. C. (1971), Quintus Curtius With an English Translation, Vol I: Books I-V, Cambridge, Mass. – (1976), Quintus Curtius With an English Translation, Vol II: Books VI-X, Cambridge, Mass. Roos, A. G./G. Wirth (2002), Flavius Arrianus Vol. II: Scripta Minora et Fragmenta, Munich– Leipzig. Russo, L. (2003), Flussi e riflussi. Indagine sull’origine di una teoria scientifica, Milano. Sachs, A./H. Hunger (1988), Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylon, Vol. I, Vienna.



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Schachermeyr, F. (1973), Alexander der Grosse: das Problem seiner Persönlichkeit und seines Wirkens, Sitzungsberichte der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-hist. Klasse, CCLXXXV, Vienna. Schlessinger, A. C. (1951), Livy with an English Translation in Fourteen Volumes; Volume XIII: Books XLIII-XLV, Cambridge, Mass. Schwartz, E. (1896), “Artapanos”, RE 2.1, 1306. Sollazzo, C. E. I. (2009), “Qualche considerazione sulle divinità nel giuramento di Annibale”, in: M. Intrieri/S. Ribichini (eds.), Fenici e Italici, Cartagine e la Magna Grecia. Popoli a contatto, culture a confronto. Atti del Convegno internazionale (Cosenza, 27–28 maggio 2008), vol. II [= Rivista di Studi Fenici, 37], Pisa–Rome, 191–212. Thackeray, H.St.J. (1961 = 1930), Josephus IV: Jewish Antiquities, Books I-IV, London– Cambridge, Mass. Veyne, P. (1999), “Prodiges, divination et peur des dieux chez Plutarque”, RHR 216 (4), 387–442. Xella, P. (1971), “A proposito del giuramento annibalico”, OA 10, 189–193. Yonge, C. D. (1855), The Works of Philo Judaeus, the Contemporary of Josephus, Translated from the Greek, vol. III, London. Zahrnt, M. (1998), “Alexander an der Küste Pamphyliens. Zum literarisch-propagandistischen Umgang mit Naturgewalten”, in: E. Olshausen/H. Sonnabend, Naturkatastrophen in der antiken Welt, Stuttgarter Kolloquium zur Historischen Geographie des Altertums, 6, 1996, Geographica Historica 10, Stuttgart. Zambianchi, M. T. (2006), “Strabone e gli storici di Alessandro”, GeogrAnt 14–15, 31–43. Zambrini, A. (2007), “The Historians of Alexander the Great”, in: J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, vol. I, 210–220.

Lydia Langerwerf

‘Many are the wonders in Greece’: Pausanias the wandering philosopher Many are the sights (ἴδοι) to be seen in Greece, and many are the wonders (θαύματος) to be heard; but on nothing does heaven bestow more care than on the Eleusinian rites and the Olympic Games. Pausanias, Periegesis Hellados 5.10.11 Abstract: The second century author Pausanias has been characterised as a historian, a pilgrim and a travel writer. This chapter traces his treatment of the wondrous in his Periegesis Hellados in order to think beyond these modern identifications. His multifaceted and complex treatment of myths, miracles and wonders demonstrates his engagement with classical Greek authors, in particular Herodotus and Aristoteles, and with contemporary treatises on fact and falsehood. We will see that the variety of Pausanias’ response to myth and miracle stories masks a deliberate and consistent concentration on the ambivalent relation between the wondrous and historical or scientific truth. Rather than visiting the sites of miracles and wonders as a pilgrim, Pausanias often pursues this ambivalence as a sceptical pepaideumenos. The resulting narrative is, however, much more than a collection of wonder stories. Attempting to strike a balance between the credible and the wondrous, Pausanias presents himself as a masterly arbitrator, a histor in Homeric and Herodotean sense, in deciding what is true and what is not.

Introduction The 2nd century author Pausanias wrote his Periegesis Hellados (“Description of Greece”) with the express purpose of recounting the sights and wonders to be seen and heard in mainland Greece, and with a special interest in monuments and stories referring to Greek religion and mythology. The nature of his account, however, is less clear than what this deceptively simple statement suggests. Pausanias has been characterised in the past, among other identifications, as a

1 All translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library (tr. W. H. S. Jones) with only minor adaptations. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-016

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travel writer, a pilgrim, and a historian.2 As we shall see in more detail below, such interpretations of his work result from different ideas about the genre of the Periegesis, Pausanias’ attitude towards the miraculous and the wondrous, and his identity as a traveler. Of particular importance in this respect is the extent to which he modelled his Periegesis on Herodotus’ Histories. It is clear that Herodotus is an important source of inspiration for Pausanias as he explicitly positions himself in a long line of Herodotus’ successors. In book 6 for instance he deliberately echoes the famous historian when he remarks: “Now I am obliged to report the statements made by the Greeks, though I am not obliged to believe them all”.3 Like Herodotus, however, Pausanias is not interested in history alone.4 Indeed, the geographical structure of the Periegesis would appear to favour an interpretation of the work as a travel guide, since it literally takes the reader on a journey through mainland Greece, starting from Attica and Corinth, down to the Peloponnese and ending in Phocis. It is only because of the many featured historical and mythical stories, some of which are admittedly of a considerable size, that his journey can be read as an exploration of Panhellenic history. In addition, Pausanias’ respect for the sacred, in particular the Eleusinian rites and the Olympic Games, crops up repeatedly, allowing his story to be read as the account of a pilgrimage, as has been posited by J. Elsner in a seminal article in 1992.5 Starting from these modern receptions of the Periegesis, this chapter will concentrate on Pausanias’ use of the wondrous. The wonders Pausanias relates may refer to Greece’s mythical past, the deeds of men in the classical and later periods, but also to natural rarities and the sacred. As explained by C. Hunzinger in her analysis of Herodotus’ use of the term, θαύματα exist by the grace of the observer and can refer to anything which amazes him or her.6 As has also been noted by Aristotle, amazement caused by a θαῦμα results from either the lack of knowledge of the amazed or the rarity of the amazing, and usually a combination of the two, and may therefore inspire aesthetic pleasure and the desire to learn. Pausanias

2 Travel writer: Habicht 1985a; Pretzler 2007. Pilgrim: Elsner 1992. Historian: Akujärvi 2005; Bingen 1996. 3 Pausanias 6.3.8.; Hdt. 7.152: ‘And I am obliged to say what is said, but I am not at all obliged to believe it, and let this saying hold good for my entire account’. For a discussion of Hdt.7.152., see Harrison 2000, 25–27 with further references. 4 This could perhaps be interpreted as a continuation of the ethnographic tradition from which Herodotus also developed. On the difference between ethnography and history, see Munson 2001, 74. 5 Elsner 1992. 6 Hunzinger 1995.



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adopts a variety of responses to these wonders, from simply stating them without any comment to explaining them in detail and from sceptical dismissal to reverent admiration. This varied response to the wondrous therefore allows us to critically review interpretations of Pausanias as a historian, a traveller and a pilgrim.

Pausanias as a Pilgrim As mentioned above, Jaś Elsner proposed a reading of the Periegesis as the account of a pilgrimage in a seminal article in 1992.7 This chapter’s focus on Pausanias’ interest in wonders might at first be thought to support his theory. We have already seen that Pausanias depicts Greece as a place of sights (ἴδοι) and wonders (θαύματος) and singles out among these the sacred and Panhellenic celebrations of the Eleusinian rites and the Olympic Games.8 This is confirmed by a passage in book 7 reiterating that wonders are for Pausanias among the things most noteworthy (ἀξιολογώτατα). Here Pausanias sums up a range of different sites in Ionia worthy of recording because they are “both wonderful (θαῦμα) and useful (ὠφέλεια)”, and justifies in conclusion his digression from the mainland Greece to Ionia by stating that “Ionia, in fact, is a land of wonders (θαύματα) that are but little inferior to those of Greece.9 An interest in the wondrous does not, however, necessarily qualify Pausanias as a pilgrim. Pausanias is interested in many different kinds of θαῦμα, not just religious ones, and does not clearly categorise wonders either. Moreover, the wondrous features in many different genres in ancient literature.10 Pausanias did not have to identify himself as a pilgrim or even be particularly religious to be tapping into mythology, ethnography or paradoxography, among other traditions. Nevertheless, as we shall see in the second and third section of this chapter, Pausanias’ critical engagement with the wondrous certainly sets him apart from those who, according to Seneca, ‘get praise for their works by relating incredible (incredibilium) stories, and by means of the marvellous (miraculo) arouse a reader’, but are in reality too credulous (creduli) or negligent (neglegentes).11

7 Elsner 1992. 8 Paus. 5.10.1. 9 Paus. 7.5.10–13. 10 Schepens/Delcroix 1996 on paradoxography, but with references to other genres; Hardie 2009 on Augustan literature. 11 Sen. Q Nat. 7.16.

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In contrast, Pausanias is keenly aware of the ambivalent relation between the wondrous and historical or scientific truth and exploits this tension for his own narrative purposes. We will return to Pausanias’ use of the wondrous in the final part of this chapter, but for now we will investigate to what extent the paradox of this critical awareness combined with Pausanias’ constant pursuit of the wondrous on his journey through Greece may be explained through interpreting his travels as part of a pilgrimage. It is important to realise that Elsner considers Pausanias’ pilgrimage to be a nostalgic pilgrimage into Panhellenic identity, and even ‘a form or resistance to the realities of Roman rule’, ‘using myths of the ancient Greek past and the sacred associations of pilgrimage to shield himself from the full implications of being a subject’.12 Whether or not Pausanias was truly so unhappy to live as a Greek subject under the Antonine emperors is actually rather doubtful on the grounds of his many positive references to those rulers,13 and a question to which we will return below. Nevertheless, his interest in the sacred could still mark him as a pilgrim nostalgic for Greece’s lost greatness, albeit a happy one.14 This depiction of him as a pilgrim is particularly apt in consideration of his treatment of mystery cults. Coming across the Mysteries of Eleusis, Pausanias relates how he was fully intent on writing about the content of the sanctuary, but a dream had stopped him.15 A similar reluctance crops up at other places too where Demeter is honoured.16 His silence at these places is partial. He is happy to relate what everybody is able to know,17 but keeps silent about information reserved to the initiates, indicating that he himself is one.18 Even where he is not an initiate, Pausanias respects mysteries. With reference to the θαύματα of Zeus at Mount Lycaeüs, for instance, he notes his reluctance “to pry into the details of the sacrifice; let them be as they are and were from

12 Elsner 1992, 3, 5. 13 He is especially positive about Hadrian: Paus. 1.3.2; 1.18.6–9; 1.20.7; 1.36.3; 8.8.12; 8.10.2. 14 Compare, however, 8.2.27, where Pausanias notes that the time of divine wonders is long past, with 8.16.3–5 and 10.18.6 where he argues that technical progress in his own time has led to greater θαύματα. 15 Paus. 1 14.3. See Elsner 1992, 22–25 on Pausanias’ silence as a ritual act. 16 Paus. 1.37.4; 2.14.1–4; 4.33.5; 8.37.8–10; 8.38.7; 9.25.5–10. 17 For instance Paus. 4.33.5: ‘But my dream did not prevent me from making known to all that the brazen urn, discovered by the Argive general, and the bones of Eurytus the son of Melaneus were kept there’; Paus. 9.25.5: ‘But there is nothing to prevent my declaring to all what the Thebans say was the origin of the ritual’. 18 Paus. 1.37.4: ‘Whoever has been initiated at Eleusis or has read what are called the Orphica knows what I mean’.



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the beginning, he adds”. The potential consequences of disturbing the silence are implicit. The sanctuary of Lycaean Zeus concerns a precinct of death unwarranted entry of which results in death within the year.19 Elsewhere too, Pausanias relates the punishment meted out to the Persians and Macedonians upsetting the sanctuary of Cabeirean Demeter.20 Pausanias is not just silent when his religious conscience or fear demands it, he also takes great pains to confirm miracles performed at sanctuaries. Visiting the grave of the Messenian hero Aristomenes, for example, he explains how he received instructions in the rites performed at the tomb. He goes on to corroborate the Messenian claim that their hero returned from the dead to fight on the Theban and Messenian side against the Spartans at the Battle of Leuctra, by combining this statement with the Theban account and the philosophy of Plato on the immortality of the soul.21 Pausanias also regularly regrets his inability to be present during festivals and rites.22 In Thebes, for instance, he apologizes for not having seen the miracle taking place during sacrifices at the tombs of Oedipus’ children, but he finds it credible as he has witnessed a similar occurrence in Mysia.23 These anecdotes, in addition to his many remarks on other religious sites,24 indicates that Pausanias’ personal involvement in the sacred pervades the Periegesis and was a strong motive for his choice of themes. But Pausanias is not just personally interested in the sacred, he is also affected by it. A detailed description of the procedures at the sanctuary of Trophonius, in the book on Boeotia, illustrates the effects on Pausanias of his participation in sacred rites. Pausanias emphasises his own involvement: What I write is not hearsay; I have myself inquired of Trophonius and seen other inquirers. Those who have descended into the shrine of Trophonius are obliged to dedicate a tablet on which is written all that each has heard and seen.25

Pausanias has at this point already explained that the inquiry can be a traumatic experience from which the supplicant needs several days to recover:

19 Paus. 8.38.6–7. 20 Paus 9.25.5. 21 Paus. 4.32.3–6. 22 Paus. 6.26.2; 9.2.3. 23 Paus. 9.18.3.4. 24 Of particular interest are the passage where Pausanias mentions his own participation in sacred rites: 2.30.4; 4.32.3–6; 9.39.5–14. 25 Paus. 9.39.14.

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After his ascent from Trophonius the inquirer is again taken in hand by the priests, who set him upon a chair called the chair of Memory, which stands not far from the shrine, and they ask of him, when seated there, all he has seen or learned. After gaining this information they then entrust him to his relatives. These lift him, paralysed with terror and unconscious both of himself and of his surroundings, and carry him to the building where he lodged before with Good Fortune and the Good Spirit. Afterwards, however, he will recover all his faculties, and the power to laugh will return to him.26

The ordeal must have certainly left Pausanias a changed man in at least some respects.27 Significantly, such life-changing experiences are the hallmark of the pilgrim. In their famous theory of pilgrimage, Victor and Edith Turner defined pilgrimage as a rite de passage characterized by two important criteria: liminality and communitas. The first relates to the idea that a pilgrim is literally and figuratively in between two worlds. He has left his old self for good, but has not yet entered his new state.28 At the same time, since this experience of being in limbo is often a shared experience, it also creates a sense of communitas. This sense is furthered by the fact that pilgrims often acquire special status.29 As far as we are able to know, Pausanias travelled on his own accord and obtained no such status,30 but his depiction of his own inquiry into Trophonius clearly illustrates how it left him in a limbo. The question of whether or not Pausanias’ pilgrimage presents a rite de passage, or a ‘spiritual turn’, is important as it sets Pausanias’ journey apart from other types of travelling such as tourism.31 In addition, as we shall see in more detail below, although Pausanias clearly has an interest in sacred θαύματα, it is not his primary aim to visit them. He also has a great interest in secular wonders

26 Paus. 9.39.5–40.2 for the whole procedure at Trophonius. 27 Cf. Ogden 2004, 81–82 on the descent into the oracle as a visit to the underworld. 28 Elsner/Rutherford 2005, 4 are therefore right to argue against the objection by Swain 1996, 342 n. 50 that Pausanias does not believe in full. This is certainly neither necessary nor possible since to see Pausanias as a pilgrim is to see him on the road to spiritual renewal. 29 Turner 1974; Turner/Turner 1978. See also the introduction by Badone/Roseman 2004, 3–5 and Kowalzig 2005 on communitas. 30 For this reason Scullion 2005, 121–123 argues against an interpretation of the Periegesis as pilgrimage. 31 Williamson 2005, 220. Smith 1992, 1–17 advocates a distinction between tourism and pilgrimage on the basis of the meaning of the words peregrinus and tornus. Whereas the first is the root of our modern word ‘pilgrim’, and refers in Latin to foreigners, wanderers, exile, travellers, newcomers, strangers, the latter as the root of ‘tourism’ more narrowly refers to someone who makes a circuitous journey and then returns to the starting point. Metaphorically, the first could then be thought of as a traveller who is changed by the experience, and the latter as a traveller who is not. This distinction is, however, untenable.



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as well as monuments and stories which are not in the least bit miraculous or sacred.32 A better argument for interpreting the Periegesis as a pilgrimage, and an opportunity to use this concept productively rather than as a catch-all, is therefore to concentrate on Pausanias’ religious experiences. His experience at the oracle of Trophonius is a good, but also a singular example of this. We should therefore be careful in applying the model of pilgrimage too eagerly in the rare passages describing Pausanias’ experience of travelling. Useful though the concept sometimes is, it has occasionally led to exaggeration and wishful reading. One example of this is Elsner’s connection between pilgrimage and nostalgia, through his depiction of the Periegesis as a pilgrimage into Panhellenic identity. He is right to state that unlike ethnographers, or other travel writers, travelling to new and unfamiliar territories, Pausanias visited the centre of his own world.33 Yet, through his evocation of the mythical and classical past, he is also travelling to a past no longer there. This poses problems for him, as the past is contested. In response, Pausanias often sceptically dismisses local traditions. In relation to a Megarian myth he notes, hesitantly, that ‘such is the account of the Megarians; but although I wish my account to agree with theirs, yet I cannot accept everything they say’.34 Moreover, Pausanias’ critical account of local knowledge often illustrates how the populations of different localities may hold different beliefs according to their own needs.35 His brief disavowal of the Messenians’ belief that Zeus was born and raised in their country fits into this category, as does his comment, ‘that Corinthus was a son of Zeus I have never known anybody say seriously except the majority of the Corinthians’,36 or his remarks on the Athenian version of their defeat at Aegospotami. Having explained how the Athenians believe that their generals had been bribed by Lysander, he concludes with a curt: ‘so much for this belief’.37 In addition, an interpretation of the Periegesis as part of an intellectual resistance aimed at recreating the utopia of Greek unity invites a reading of the text 32 Arafat 1996, 10–11 and n. 22. Rutherford and Elsner 2005, 4–5 admittedly defend their broad definition of pilgrimage against this objection, but their argument is weak, as they hold that such a ‘purist’ take on pilgrimage would disqualify most pilgrims as pilgrims. However, even if they are right in this, this disqualification would hardly be problematic if ‘pilgrimage’ has indeed become such a broad concept as to become meaningless. 33 Although Elsner’s insistence (1992, 7) that he is visiting ‘his own native land’ is not entirely correct since Pausanias was from Lydia: Hutton 2005b, 292. 34 Paus1.41.4–6. 35 Paus. 2.2.1; 2.16.4; 2.26.7; 3.26.2–3; 3.26.6; 4.4.1–3; 4.33.2; 5.23.7; 6.8.2; 6.26.1–2; 10.9.11–12 36 Paus. 2.2.1. 37 Paus. 10.9.11–12.

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as ‘aimed at Greek readers’.38 Pausanias’ depiction of the history, monuments and rituals of classical and Hellenistic Greece was, however, also clearly fashionable in the Hadrianic and Antonine period. Habicht’s interpretation of it as a guidebook for tourists and a collection of short stories for readers sitting at home affirms this interpretation of the Periegesis as of interest to Greeks and Romans alike.39 In this context, Pausanias’ sceptical attitude towards local versions of myths and his purpose of exposing the truth behind stories told about the Greek past, may point into a different direction. It may for instance also reveal a Pausanias who visits the great monuments of Greece not as a pilgrim, but rather as a sceptical pepaideumenos who mocks the eagerness of local guides selling their stories and pilgrims buying them wholesale.40 As mentioned before, the absence of a Panhellenic mission in the Periegesis does not necessarily disqualify Pausanias as a pilgrim. Elsner, however, in his interpretation of Pausanias as a pilgrim too, eagerly recognizes a ‘spiritual turn’ in the author. The experience at the oracle of Trophonius could admittedly refer to such a transformation, but Pausanias himself emphasizes the temporary nature of the change. A passage in book 8 is taken by Elsner as to refer to a longer lasting ‘personal transformation’.41 When I began to write my history I was inclined to count these legends as foolishness (εὐηθίας), but on getting as far as Arcadia I grew to hold a more thoughtful view of them, which is this. In the days of old those Greeks who were considered wise spoke their sayings not straight out but in riddles (δι’ αἰνιγμάτων), and so the legends about Cronus I conjectured to be one sort of Greek wisdom (σοφίαν εἶναί τινα εἴκαζον Ἑλλήνων). In matters of divinity, therefore, I shall adopt the received tradition.42

There is, however, no need to interpret the passage in such a narrow fashion.43 Although Pausanias has learnt not to be so quick in dismissing the unbelievable, he still holds on to the possibility of a rational explanation. To equate legends with riddles is to say that they can ultimately be solved. It does not therefore represent ‘a shift from rationalistic literalism (the secularist’s response to the sacred) to a greater openness towards hidden meanings which might point to religious

38 Elsner 1992, 12. 39 Habicht 1985b; Habicht 1985a, 95–96. See also Spawforth 2001, 390–391; Anderson 1993, Chapter 4; Braund 1998, esp. 22/23. 40 Delattre 2016; Pretzler 2007, 25–27, 36–38. 41 Elsner 1992, 21. See also Elsner 1995, 144 and Veyne 1988, 98–100. 42 Paus. 8.8.2–3. 43 Hutton 2005b, 294–295.



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truth’.44 Instead, I will argue in the final part of this chapter, Pausanias invites us to read myth as a type of metaphor.

Pausanias the historian Although we have noted above that we should not try to define the genre of the Periegesis too rigidly, the interpretations of Pausanias as a historian, a pilgrim and a traveller enable us to draw out the different trends in his approach towards the marvellous. Given Pausanias’ explicit modelling his Periegesis on Herodotus’ Histories, it makes sense to continue the discussion with the historical aspects of the work.45 One obvious reason for this is the prevalence of historical narrative in the Periegesis. In the last two decades, many scholars have responded to the traditional interpretation of the Periegesis as an ancient Baedeker,46 by arguing that stories prevail over sights. Of particular relevance are the contributions by William Hutton and Johanna Akujärvi. Although in many cases Pausanias’ depiction of a particular sight gives rise to an accompanying story, usually begun by a reference to an unspecified ‘they’ as in ‘they say that’,47 they have pointed out that this is by no means a universal rule. Generally, Pausanias begins each book with a history of the region in question containing its genealogy and the wars it has participated in, before moving on to the specific sights. As noted by William Hutton, the relative space devoted to both parts varies greatly. Books III and VIII consist mostly of long lists of kings of Laconia and Arcadia respectively. Books IV on Messenia and VII on Achaea include substantial historical narrative.48 Going beyond this recognition that at least 4 out of 10 books concentrate primarily on stories, not sights, Johanna Akujärvi argued in her 2005 book of her doctoral thesis Researcher, Traveller, Narra-

44 Elsner 1992, 21. 45 Pace Habicht 1985a, 95–96: ‘He is not and does not intend to be a historian, and should not be judged by the standards applied to historians’. 46 Habicht 1985b, 220–224. 47 See Akujärvi 2005, 92 for the interpretation of ‘they say’ as a means to express uncertainty and scepticism on the narrator’s part. 48 Hutton 2010 offers a persuasive argument that Pausanias used a ring-structure with III and VIII and IV and VII mirroring each other. For the purpose of my argument it is not necessary to adopt his theory.

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tor. Studies in Pausanias Periegesis that stories dominate the entire structure of Pausanias’ narrative, often but not always being triggered by sights.49 The question of whether sights or stories matter more for Pausanias ultimately does not concern the author himself, even if he gives an occasional hint that he is mostly guided by the sights encountered on his journey. His main criterion rather seems to be whether they are worth the telling. This, as we have seen, ‘is an excellent rule which I will never violate’,50 and he reiterates this intention by excusing his omissions on the basis of their unimportance.51 His sole sentence on the Boeotian town of Olmones, for example, is that: ‘In Olmones they did not show me anything that was in the least worth seeing’.52 More informative on his selection procedure is his introduction of the statues at Olympia, where he explains that he only mentions statues that are either made distinguished by their winners (i.  e. winners that have won their victories by merit not by chance) or are distinguished in themselves by being better made than others.53 Hence, the aesthetic quality of a sight may make it worth mentioning, but also the story to which a sight refers can induce Pausanias to include it. This concentration on the remarkable and distinguished also features in the express statements of the purpose and content of the Periegesis. At the end of his first book, on Attica, Pausanias summarizes his text by stating that ‘such in my opinion are the most famous legends and sights (λόγοις καὶ θεωρήμασιν) among the Athenians, and from the beginning my narrative has picked out of much material the things that deserve to be recorded (τὰ ἐς συγγραγὴν ἀνήκοντα)’.54 And he refers back to this statement in the third book, on Laconia, adding that ‘from the beginning the plan of my work has been to discard the many trivial stories (λόγος … οὐκ ἀξίων) current among the several communities, and to pick out the things most worthy of mention (ἀξιολογώτατα)’.55 Another reason for interpreting the Periegesis as history is that Pausanias is clearly concerned with telling the truth about the Greek past. As we shall see, in addition to the aesthetic quality of a sight or the notability of the story attached to it, the credibility of such stories is an important criterion for in- or exclusion. Various references to false and true beliefs scattered throughout the Periegesis testify to Pausanias’ educational intention and his trust in a rational study of the

49 Akujärvi 2005, 5–6. 50 Paus. 3.11.1. 51 Paus. 1.3.3; 1.23.4; 1.29.2; 3.18.9; 3.18.10; 4.24.3; 4.35.11; 5.4.5; 6.1.1–2; 9.24.3. 52 Paus. 9.24.3. 53 Paus. 6.1 1–2. 54 Paus. 1.39.3. 55 Paus. 3.11.1.



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past.56 In his book on Phocis, for example, he justifies his digression on Sardinia ‘because it is an island about which the Greeks are very ignorant’.57 The ignorance of the Greeks of their own past crops up at other places too. In the book on Attica, Pausanias remarks that ‘there are many false beliefs current among the mass of mankind, since they are ignorant of historical science and consider trustworthy whatever they have heard from childhood in choruses and tragedies’,58 and in the book on Arcadia he complains that ‘all through the ages, many events that have occurred in the past, and even some that occur today, have been generally discredited because of the lies built up on the foundation of fact’, adding that ‘those who like to listen to the miraculous (μυθολογήμασιν) are themselves apt to add to the marvel, and so they ruin truth by mixing it with falsehood’.59 This tendency in the reception of the Greek past is one that the Periegesis seeks to remedy. Pausanias is therefore concerned with dismissing false beliefs regarding the legends that make up the Greek past through knowledge gathered through travelling. As we have seen in the previous section, however, the experience of travelling was not only essential to Pausanias’ claim of authority, but also impacted on his attitude towards truth and its relation to the marvellous. In particular, we have noted how his attitude towards the wondrous develops throughout the Periegesis, as he notes, in book 8, that ‘on getting as far as Arcadia I grew to hold a more thoughtful view’ on Greek myth, suggesting that this change of attitude is caused by the effect of travelling. It is a pity therefore that despite this suggestive remark, Pausanias is remarkably uninformative on the practicalities of his own travels and the people he meets on his way. As we have seen, locals are primarily invoked through Pausanias’ disagreement with their versions of their history and myths. Nevertheless, Pausanias in true ethnographic tradition, is still very much present in his text as an eyewitness. The act of travelling thereby forms an integral part of his methodology, albeit not necessarily of the structure of the resulting narrative.60 Unusually, however, Pausanias is equally vocal about what he fails to see than what he actually sees. 56 Paus. 1.3.3; 2.2.1; 2.11.5; 2.14.2; 2 16.4; 2.23.6; 3 15.10–11; 3.26.6; 4.4.1–3; 4.33.2; 5.2.3–5; 5.6.2–3; 5.23.7; 6.8.2; 8.2.5–7; 10.17.3–4. 57 Paus. 10.17.13. Moyer 2013 argues that Herodotus adopts a similar justification of his Egyptian logos, although he does not state this as explicitly as Pausanias. 58 Paus. 1.3.3. 59 Paus. 8.2.5–7. 60 Elsner 1992, 11–17; Elsner 2001, 4/5; Spawforth 2001, 390–391. Pretzler 2007, chapter 10 provides an interesting overview of how the Periegesis has influenced travellers in the 17th and 18th century and argues that its popularity in this time is the chief cause for the similarities with modern travel writing. Baedeker is in some ways a modern Periegesis, but the Periegesis is not an ancient Baedeker.

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An interesting example of Pausanias deriving authority from witnessing (or, in this case, not witnessing) a certain phenomenon concerns the ‘dappled’ fish in the river Aroanius discussed in his book on Arcadia: ‘These dappled fish, it is said, utter a cry like that of the thrush. I have seen fish that have been caught, but I never heard their cry, though I waited by the river even until sunset, at which time the fish were said to cry the most’.61 Similarly, Pausanias fails to perceive the miraculous looking at a spring on Taenarum, which used to show harbours and ships to those looking in. Pausanias concludes that ‘these sights in the water were brought to an end for good and all by a woman washing dirty clothes in it’.62 Seeing is believing in the Periegesis; but although this attitude fits Pausanias’ purpose of telling the truth regarding Greek history and myth, and indeed often results in his having to deny the wondrous, the lengths which he is prepared to go to confirm wonders are equally impressive.63 The dirty spring on Taenarum and the lack of crying fish in the Aroanius may have been disillusionments, but in book 4 he happily reports that while most waters are harsh and salty, he has had personal experience of blue, red, white and black springs.64 Even more extraordinary is the list of animals Pausanias has had the pleasure to behold during his travels. Based on this experience, he urges his readers not to be overly sceptical: So everyone should be neither over-hasty in one’s judgments, nor incredulous when considering rarities (οὔτω χρὴ πάντα τινὰ μήτε ἐπίδρομον τὴν γνώμην μήτε ἀπίστως ἔχειν ἐς τὰ σπανιώτερα). For instance, though I have never seen winged snakes I believe (πείθομαι) that they exist, as I believe (πείθομαι) that a Phrygian brought to Ionia a scorpion with wings exactly like those of locusts.65

Interestingly, Pausanias’ list of fantastic animals, ranging from Tritons to a special sort of Celtic elk, clearly cannot derive from personal experience as most of these animals have never been seen since, except in the genre of ancient and medieval bestiaries. In this, and perhaps many more, instances, Pausanias therefore uses the claim of direct experience to strengthen his argument that the wondrous exists without actually having witnessed it. In other words, he is adopting a narrative technique, familiar to him from other ethnographic and historical works, in particular Herodotus.

61 Paus. 8.21.2. 62 Paus. 3.25.7–8. 63 Both testify to his devotion to the truth and his fascination for the wondrous. Cf. Harrison 2000, 13–14 on Herodotus’ scepticism as part of his interest in the miraculous. 64 Paus. 4.35.8–12. 65 Paus 9.21.6



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This fascination for the wondrous is, moreover, problematic in relation to Pausanias’ purpose of telling the truth and ridding Greek history from falsehood. In line with this purpose, he considers things not worth mentioning if they cannot in all rationality be taken seriously. In this context, Pausanias sometimes uses words relating to θαῦμα to explain why he dismisses historical claims. In book 2, for instance, Pausanias cannot accept the genealogy of Myceneus offered by one Acusilaus, because the Spartans would be ‘amazed’ (θαυμάζοιεν) by it.66 The phrase ‘θαῦμα δὴ ποιοῦμαι’ (‘I consider it remarkable’) is similarly ambiguous.67 In these cases, Pausanias does not claim outright that a story is false, but he is certainly hesitant in accepting it as true. Pausanias may then be very interested in θαύματα, but he also refers to something as a θαῦμα in order to suspend judgment.68 In general, Pausanias tends to be highly critical of local versions of Panhellenic myth. Messenia’s claim to have been the birthplace of Zeus he discards by referring to ‘all peoples who claim that Zeus was born and brought up among them’ and concluding with the simple comment that ‘the Messenians too have their share in the story’.69 Similarly, he remarks in relation to the genealogy and history of Theseus, that ‘the Megarians know the true story but conceal it’70 and counts in another passage the idea that legendary king brought democracy to Athens among the ‘many false beliefs current among the mass of mankind’.71 These dismissals of local legends clearly relate to Pausanias’ historical agenda of separating fact from false belief. It is interesting in this respect that he often adopts a sceptical attitude towards Greek mythology. Indeed, the term μῦθος often appears to distinguishing the unbelievable from the ‘real’ θαύματα which Pausanias is happy to share.72 On Medusa, for example, Pausanias remarks ‘I omit the miraculous (μύθου), but give the rational parts of the story about her’. He then continues with celebrating the ‘wondrous’ as a spectacle in a mythical context, when he explains how her enemy Perseus cut off her head after 66 Paus. 2 16.4. 67 Paus 1.13.9. Compare 1.14.6 and 8.33.1 where Pausanias uses the phrase negatively to state that he is not surprised and 8 17.3–4 and 10 14.6 where he accepts the wonder despite initial reservations. 68 Cf. Harrison 2000, 66 on Herodotus’ phrase θῶμα μοι indicating either impossibility or divine intervention. 69 Paus. 4.33.2. 70 Paus 1.41.5–6 71 Paus. 1.3.3. 72 Cf. Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 382–383, noting that ‘an astonishing item can only be termed θαυμαστόν if, indeed, it belongs to the real world, if it is witnessed or reported to have happened or to have been observed’.

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her death because he was ‘amazed’ (θαυμάζοντα) by her beauty. The wondrous also plays a part in an alternative version offered by Procles in which he argues that Medusa might have been one of ‘the incredible monsters (θηρία … οὐ πιστὰ) to be found in the Libyan desert’.73 These latter stories are, unlike the μύθου, included by Pausanias because he finds them credible. We have already seen in the previous section that Pausanias’ sceptical attitude towards local versions of myths complicates Elsner’s interpretation of Pausanias as a pilgrim. Charles Delattre has recently pointed out that Pausanias’ distancing himself in this way from local informants, suggests his participation in ‘un jeu social fait de culture et de rivalité, où la véracité et la precision sont subordonnées à la reconnaissance des pairs’.74 Although we have already recognized, in contrast with Delattre’s argument, Pausanias’ preoccupation with telling the truth, the idea of his engagement in a social game is attractive. In this game, Pausanias usually comes out the winner. An interesting example can be found in his account in book 1 of a discussion with the inhabitants of a Lydian city. Confronted with Pausanias’ superior knowledge they take back their original story and tell him the truth.75 Another opportunity to display his sophistication presents itself at the chest of Cypselus, dedicated at Olympia. Pausanias reports how he received two different interpretations by the local guides and managed to offer his own preferable account.76 Christa Frateantonio similarly emphasised the element of local competition in Pausanias’ Periegesis.77 Pausanias’ sceptical remarks regarding the value of local myth-histories could be read as scathing criticism of the rivalry between local communities, in line with his criticism of Greeks fighting Greeks in his more historical books, but they also show Pausanias engaging in an ongoing debate regarding the Greek past. This debate is simultaneously meaningful and fun, just like the Periegesis itself. Game or not, Pausanias’ statements regarding his selection and the actual content of the Periegesis suggest that his subject matter is twofold and includes both stories and sights.78 Instead of distinguishing between these two types of narrative, historical and geographical, Pausanias attempts, often in vain, to strike a balance between the believable and the remarkable. This dilemma, as we shall

73 Paus. 2.21.5–6. 74 Delattre 2016 75 Paus.1.35.7. 76 Paus. 5.18.6. 77 Frateantonio 2009, 41, 52–57, 116–117. 78 Alcock 1996, 244–246; Habicht 1985a, 20–1, 95–6; Arafat 1996, 32–3.



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see in the next section is universal both in history as an ancient and modern discipline and in pilgrimage as a spiritual journey into one’s own sense of identity. In the final section of this chapter we shall see how Pausanias uses the wondrous to combine these two aspects of his work. Taking into account his interest in distinguishing fact from falsehood, Pausanias’ relation to the wondrous might be described as that of an arbitrator, a histor in the Homeric sense.79 Taking into account different versions of history and mythology and using his own experience, knowledge and common sense, as well as spirituality, he demonstrates his mastery in deciding what is true and what is not.

Pausanias’ use of the wondrous In Homer’s description of Achilles’ shield, a histor appears to judge in a dispute between two men regarding the death of another. This step was necessary since the two could not agree on a blood price.80 Nagy has famously argued that this passage demonstrates the birth of the polis. In order to avoid further bloodshed, the histor steps in to deliver a judgment, having heard the arguments of each party and the advice of the civil society. The histor, then, is both an inquirer and arbitrator.81 According to Rosaria Munson, the same combination of inquiry and arbitration is applicable to Herodotus in his aim to settle the dispute between poleis about their respective contributions to defeating the Persians. As such, the Histories go far beyond preserving the memories of ‘the great and marvellous deeds of both Greeks and foreigners’. The preservation of this history also explicitly aims at conflict resolution in the present and future. The role of θῶμα in this endeavour is important as Herodotus’ presentation of wonders relates directly to his positioning as histor.82 Since Herodotus is such an important example for Pausanias, it is interesting to see what place the wondrous holds in his philosophy of history. We have already seen that θαύματα complicate his examination of what is true and what is false. However, they are more than just a complication, they are often also the starting point of an inquiry into the value of truth and falsehood.

79 Cf. Munson 2001, 7–8 and 210–217 using Nagy 1990, 315–320 on the meaning of the term in Homer, describing Herodotus as a histor. 80 Hom. Il. 497–508. 81 Nagy 1990, 315–320; Nagy 1997. Cf. Connor 1987; Connor 1993. 82 Munson 2001, 7–8, 210–217, 234–242, 264. Cf. Dewald 1987.

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Interestingly, Andrea Nightingale has discussed the development of the term theoria from its original meaning of a pilgrimage, usually undertaken by an especially appointed theoros representing his polis at a religious festival or inquiring on behalf of his polis at an oracular centre. A theoros may, however, also be an individual like Pausanias journeying abroad for his own spiritual or educational needs. This analysis of theoria fits the definition of pilgrimage formulated by Turner and adopted by Elsner since the theoros ‘departed from the social and ideological “space” of his city and entered a Panhellenic “space” in which Greeks were encouraged to rise above their differences and join together as people sharing a common language, religion, and culture’.83 This is particularly interesting with respect to Elsner’s interpretation of Pausanias’ pilgrimage as one into a Panhellenic identity. Although as we have seen that Pausanias actually emphasizes the destructive nature of diversity and conflict, he may, as a histor, have had another contemporary and civic concern in mind while expressing his criticisms. We will get back to this below. From Plato onwards, however, theoria was also used as a term to refer to the activity of philosophizing. Like a pilgrim on a journey to sacred fulfilment, a philosopher is engaged in a metaphysical journey to gain wisdom. Discussing Plato’s Symposion, she points out that he equates the achievement of wisdom with the vision of something θαυμαστόν, which radically transforms the philosopher. This transformation he compares with initiation into the Eleusinian Mysteries.84 The relevance of this for our very own initiate to the Eleusinian Mysteries becomes even clearer when we return to 8.8.2–3: When I began to write my history I was inclined to count these legends as foolishness (εὐηθίας), but on getting as far as Arcadia I grew to hold a more thoughtful view of them, which is this. In the days of old those Greeks who were considered wise spoke their sayings not straight out but in riddles (δι’ αἰνιγμάτων), and so the legends about Cronus I conjectured to be one sort of Greek wisdom (σοφίαν εἶναί τινα εἴκαζον Ἑλλήνων). In matters of divinity, therefore, I shall adopt the received tradition.85

83 Nightingale 2004, 47. See also Nightingale 2005, 158, discussing Elsner 2000. 84 Nightingale 2005, 173–174, discussing Pl. Symp. 210 a–d. The transformation is discussed Plato in 210 e: ‘When a man has been thus far tutored in the lore of love, passing from view to view of beautiful things, in the right and regular ascent, suddenly he will have revealed to him, as he draws to the close of his dealings in love, a wondrous vision, beautiful in its nature (θεώμενος ἐφεξῆς τε καὶ ὀρθῶς τὰ καλά, πρὸς τέλος ἤδη ἰὼν τῶν ἐρωτικῶν ἐξαίφνης κατόψεταί τι θαυμαστὸν τὴν φύσιν καλόν); and this, Socrates, is the final object of all those previous toils’. 85 Paus. 8.8.2–3.



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As I have already argued, this passage does not imply Pausanias acquiring religious beliefs he did not previously hold. It does, however, show him obtaining a certain kind of wisdom. Interpreting myth in this way, Pausanias has developed from a naïve, literal understanding of stories which at first reading are foolish nonsense to recognizing the wisdom revealed by a closer, metaphorical reading. A good example of Pausanias applying this methodology can be found in book 4, where he explains why the Messenians hold on to the legend of their folkhero Aristomenes.86 This heroic leader of the second Messenian revolt against Sparta, was, so the story goes, resurrected from the dead centuries later during the battle of Leuctra, fighting with the Thebans and Messenians against Sparta, thus freeing the Messenians from servitude. Commenting on this story, Pausanias does not actually accept Aristomenes’ alleged physical presence, but combines Plato’s philosophy of the immortality of the soul with the Theban story that their general Epaminondas set up Aristomenes’ shield as a trophy ahead of the battle to explain the root of the legend. This more rational approach, however, does not make the myth any less meaningful: rather, it is a powerful tribute to the enduring hate still inspiring the Messenians in their struggle.87 Pausanias’ inference that the legends of Cronus refer to a ‘sort of Greek wisdom’, also point to the educational purpose of the Periegesis. Aristotle had already pointed out that the use of metaphor makes learning pleasant, since it creates understanding and knowledge.88 Pausanias too offers his readers mythical stories not because he believes in them, but because they contribute to a truthful account of Greek history and its meaning in Pausanias’ own Graeco-Roman world. His critical dismissal of many local versions of myth can be read in the same light, as they highlight the rivalry between Greek poleis which contributed directly to their loss of autonomy in Hellenistic and Roman times. Like Herodotus, Pausanias acts like a histor whose judgment contributes to conflict resolution. Instead of engaging in an intellectual resistance, his account may teach Greeks how to live happily as subjects in the Roman Empire.89 Metaphorical interpretation is, however, only one method of dealing with myths often preserving wonder-stories. As we have already seen, Pausanias is not always quick to deny the literal truth of such stories. In fact, he often with-

86 Pausanias’ use of allegorical and metaphorical readings throughout the Periegesis suggests that the change in attitude Pausanias refers to is not the result of a linear development. 87 Paus. 4.32.3–6, pace the modern conception that the sense of the marvellous cannot survive on a rational basis: Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 390–391, discussing Aristotle. 88 Arist. Rh. 1410b. 89 As such he is still working towards building a Greek community. On community building as an important aspect of theoria, see Kowalzig 2005, 71.

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holds judgment altogether. In general, Pausanias appears willing to believe in wonder stories, but only up to a point. Pausanias believes for instance the story of the Eleans’ recovering the giant shoulder-blade of Pelops, even though he has not seen the bone. He accepts that the bone may have disintegrated over time through the impact of the salty water from which it was recovered.90 Moreover, the time and energy Pausanias puts into attempts at verifying the wondrous also refers to his eagerness in accepting the wondrous and transforming it into certain knowledge. We have already seen him waiting to see the ‘dappled fish’ in the river Aroanius,91 and entering the oracle of Trophonius.92 Such examples testify both to Pausanias’ interest in the wondrous and his sophisticated attitude towards it. Not for him the naïve complaisance of the paradoxographers of his time.93 Reading closely, therefore, Pausanias introduces the reader to a particularly interesting conundrum that every historian, ancient and modern, struggles with: how to offer an explanation of the remarkable and the unique while respecting its particularity. The wondrous, especially how it is dealt with in mythology and poetry, plays a crucial role in Pausanias’ response to this dilemma. Indeed, although he never mentions him,94 Pausanias often uses the wondrous in Aristotelean fashion as a starting point of inquiry. Aristotle argued that wondering (θαυμάζειν) implies the desire to learn, as to wonder is to be confronted by one’s own ignorance. In order to escape this, ‘it was through wonder that men now begin and originally began to philosophize’ (διὰ γὰρ τὸ θαυμάζειν οἱ ἄνθρωποι καὶ νῦν καὶ τὸ πρῶτον ἤρξαντο φιλοσοφεῖν).95 In Pausanias, θαῦμα similarly leads to further reasoning. It is an expression of initial amazement followed by a demonstration of his capacity to use reasoning and inquiry resulting in a probable explanation.96 Wonder, moreover, not only inspires inquiry, but also functions as a narrative device preparing the reader for Pausanias’ inquiries. This connection between

90 Paus. 5.13.4–6 91 Paus. 8.21.2. 92 Paus. 9.39. 93 Although Schepens/Delcroix 1996, 382–389 describe how they too claimed credibility. Unlike the paradoxographers, however, Pausanias is not just confirming the wondrous, he also tries to rationalise it. 94 Apart from a brief mention in 6.4.8 where a statue may or may not represent Aristotle. 95 Arist. Metaph. 982b12–29, Rh. 1371a20–1371b21. 96 Paus. 10.14.5–6: Pausanias notes how it was a marvel to him that the Pythia accepted Persian spoils from everyone except Themistocles. In reflecting upon this question, he does not actually find a definite answer, but reports various explanations. A similar combination of negative daring (τόλμη) and θαῦμα: Paus. 5.21.6. θαῦμα leading to inquiry: Paus. 1.23.4, 1.42.2–3, 2.37, 6.3.10–11, 8.21.1–2, among other examples.



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the wondrous and science, also plays a part in Aristotle’s ideas about poetry, in particular in tragedy. The best plays according to him are those that include the wondrous in such a way that it inspires curiosity. However, poets should avoid irrationality and the inaccessible. The viewers should consider a plot to be amazing, but still possible. If the plot is irrational, however, the effect is not amazement, but ridicule. Such a balancing act also runs through the Periegesis. We have already seen that Pausanias selects his material on the basis of both their credibility and their remarkability. The fact that he uses θᾶυμα in a positive as well as a negative sense results from the historians’ dilemma of marrying these two aspects without devaluing either.

Conclusion Pausanias’ perspective on the wondrous presents an opportunity to go beyond the difficulty of defining the genre of his Periegesis. Of particular interest in this regard is his selection of material, whether sight or story, and the truth-value he attributes to it. Here, we see Pausanias confronted with a classic dilemma, familiar to all historians and pilgrims: how to offer an explanation of the remarkable and the unique while respecting its particularity. The relation between fact and falsehood, science and art, was a hotly debated topic in Pausanias’ time in a range of different genres. My investigation into Pausanias’ appreciation of miracles and wonders therefore started from the premise that boundaries of genre were in fact fluent. Indeed, the difficulty of labelling Pausanias, despite or because of his many references to Herodotus, Homer and the Greek philosophers, illustrates the argument put forth by J. Marincola that ancient authors were keen to innovate.97 Much of the discussion on the place of the wondrous in ancient literature harks back to Aristotle’s theory of the marvellous that, through inspiring the desire to learn, it is the starting point of philosophy and science.98 Pausanias’ approach, whether we recognize in him a pilgrim, a historian or a pepaideumenos, is similar. As a pilgrim he shows a clear and personal engagement with religious θαύματα, but spiritual fulfilment is not necessarily his primary aim. As a historian, Pausanias is concerned with telling the truth about the Greek past, but he includes the unexplained and the wondrous as part of this endeavour.

97 Marincola 1999, 300. 98 Arist. Rh.1371a20–1371b21; Metaph. 982b12–29.

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Finally, although we have not had the opportunity to delve deeper into the historical excurses in the Periegesis, it is notable that he uses them to highlight the elements of discord and competition in Greek history. As such, they run counter the Panhellenic and nostalgic tendencies that have often been considered to define the work. Moreover, Pausanias does not just question Greek unity, he also questions Greek assertions regarding their own history. This is interesting in the context of his ambivalent stance towards myths, miracles and wonders, alternating between skeptical dismissal and pious admiration. It reveals him as a knowledgeable and self-reflexive arbitrator in disagreements arising from the Greek past, who, instead of nostalgically recreating the utopia of a unified Greece, teaches a cheerful lesson of accommodation.

Bibliography Akujärvi, J. (2005), Researcher, Traveller, Narrator: Studies in Pausanias’ Periegesis, Stockholm. Alcock, S. E. (1996), “Landscapes of Memory and the authority of Pausanias”, in: J. Bingen (ed.), Pausanias Historien. Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique XLI, Geneva, 241–267. Anderson, G. (1993), The Second Sophistic. A cultural phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London–New York. Arafat, K. W. (1996), Pausanias’ Greece: Ancient artists and Roman rulers, Cambridge. Badone, E./S. R. Roseman (2004), “Approaches to the Anthropology of Pilgrimage and Tourism”, in: Idem (eds.), Intersecting Journeys. Anthropology of pilgrimage and tourism, Urbana–Chicago, 1–23. Bingen, J. (ed.) (1996), Pausanias Historien. Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique XLI, Geneva. Braund, D. (1998), “Cohors: The governor and his entourage in the self-image of the Roman Republic”, in: R. Laurence/J. Berry (eds.), Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire, London– New York, 10–24. Connor, W. R. (1987), “Tribes, Festivals and Processions: Civic ceremonies and political manipulation in Archaic Greece”, JHS 107, 40–50. – (1993), “The Histor in History”, in: R. M. Rosen/J. Farrell (eds.), Nomodeiktes: Greek studies in honor of Martin Ostwald, Ann Arbor, 127–140. Delattre, C. (2016), “Périégèse et exégèse: l’exemple de Pausanias”, in: J.-F. Cottier/C. Delattre/ S. Kefallonitis/M. Ribreau/J. Soler/E. Valette (eds.), Pragmatique du commentaire. Mondes anciens, mondes lointains, coll. Antiquité et anthropologie, Turnhout, Brepols. Dewald, C. (1987), “Narrative Surface and Authorial Voice in Herodotus’ Histories”, in: D. Boedeker (ed.), Herodotus and the Invention of History. Arethusa 20.1–2, 147–170. Elsner, J. (1992), “Pausanias: A Greek pilgrim in the Roman world”, P & P 135, 3–29. – (1994), “From the Pyramids to Pausanias and Piglit: Monuments, travel and writing”, in: S. Goldhill/R. Osborne (eds.), Art and Text in ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge, 224–254. – (1995), Art and the Roman Viewer. The transformation of Art from the pagan world to Christianity, Cambridge.



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(2000), “Between Mimesis and Divine Power: Visuality in the Graeco-Roman world”, in: R. S. Nelson (ed.), Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance: Seeing as others saw, Cambridge, 45–69. – (2001), “Structuring ‘Greece’. Pausanias’ Periegesis as a literary construct”, in: S. E. Alcock/J. F. Cherry/J. Elsner (eds.), Pausanias. Travel and memory in Roman Greece, Oxford, 3–20. Elsner, J./I.Rutherford (2005), “Introduction”, in: J. E./I. R. (eds.), Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 1–38. Frateantonio, C. (2009), Religion und Städtekonkurrenz: Zum politischen und kulturellen Kontext von Pausanias’ Periegese, Berlin–New York. Galli, M. (2005), “Pilgrimage as Elite Habitus: Educated pilgrims in sacred landscape during the Second Sophistic”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 253–290. Habicht, C. (1985a), Pausanias’ Guide to Ancient Greece, Berkeley. – (1985b), “An ancient Baedeker and his critics: Pausanias’ Guide to Greece”, PAPhS 129 (2), 220–224. Hardie, P. (ed.) (2009), Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature, Oxford. Harrison, T. (2000), Divinity and History. The religion of Herodotus, Oxford. Hartog, F. (1988), Memories of Odysseus. Frontier tales from ancient Greece (transl. by J. Lloyd), Edinburgh. Hunzinger, C. (1995), “La notion de θῶμα chez Hérodote”, Ktema 20, 47–70. Hutton, W. E. (2005), Describing Greece. Landscape and literature in the Periegesis of Pausanias. Greek culture in the Roman world, Cambridge. – (2005b), “The Construction of Religious Space in Pausanias”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 291–317. – (2010), “Pausanias and the Mysteries of Hellas” TAPhA 140, 423–459. Kowalzig, B. (2005), “Mapping out Communitas: Performance of theōria in their sacred and political context”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 41–72. Langerwerf, L. (2016), “The Futility of Revolt: Pausanias on local myths of freedom and rebellion”, in: R. Varga (ed.), Official Power and Local Elites –The inner structures of provincial leadership in the Roman world, Surrey. Marincola, J. (1999), “Genre, Convention, and Innovation in Greco-Roman historiography”, in: C. Shuttleworth Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and narrative in ancient historical texts, Leiden–Boston–Köln, 281–324. Moyer, I. S. (2013), “Herodotus and an Egyptian Mirage: The genealogies of the Theban priests”, in: R. V. Munson (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Herodotus: Volume 2, Oxford, 292–320. Munson, R. V. (2001), Telling Wonders. Ethnographic and political discourse in the work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Nagy, G. (1990), Pindar’s Homer: The lyric possession of an Epic Past, Baltimore. – (1997), “The Shield of Achilles: Ends of the Iliad and beginnings of the polis”, in: S. E. Langdon (ed.), New Light on a Dark Age: Exploring the culture of geometric Greece, Columbia, 194–207. Nightingale, A. W. (2004), Spectacles of Truth in classical Greek Philosophy. Theoria in its cultural context, Cambridge.

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(2005), “The Philosopher at the Festival: Plato’s transformation of traditional theōria”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 151–180. Ogden, D. (2004), Aristomenes of Messene. Legends of Sparta’s nemesis, Swansea. Porter, J. I. (2001), “Ideal and Ruins. Pausanias, Longinus, and the Second Sophistic”, in: S. E. Alcock/J. F. Cherry/J. Elsner, Pausanias. Travel and memory in Roman Greece, Oxford, 63–92. Pretzler, M. (2007), Pausanias. Travel writing in Ancient Greece, London. Schepens, G./K.Delcroix (1996), “Ancient Paradoxography: Origin, evolution, production and reception”, in: O. Pecere/A. Stramaglia (eds.), La Letteratura di Consumo nel Mondo Greco-Latino, Casino, 375–460. Scullion, S. (2005), “‘Pilgrimage’ and Greek Religion: Sacred and secular in the pagan polis’”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 111–130. Smith, V. L. (1992), “Introduction: the Quest in Guest”, in: V. L. S. (ed.), Pilgrimage and Tourism: The Quest in Guest, Special Issue Annals of Tourism Research 19, 1–17. Spawforth, A. (2001), “Shades of Greekness: A Lydian case study”, in: I. Malkin (ed.), Ancient Perceptions of Greek ethnicity, Washington D. C., 275–400. Swain, S. (1996), Hellenism and Empire: Language, classicism, and power in the Greek world, AD 50–250, Oxford. Turner, V. (1974), “Pilgrimage and Social Processes”, in: V. T., Dramas, Fields and Metaphors. Symbolic action in human society, Ithaca–London, 166–230. Turner, V./E. L. B. Turner (1978), Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological perspectives, New York. Veyne, P. (1988), Did the Greeks believe in their Myths?, Chicago. Williamson, G. (2005), “Mucianus and a touch of the Miraculous: Pilgrimage and tourism in Roman Asia Minor”, in: J. Elsner/I. Rutherford, Pilgrimage in GraecosRoman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the gods, Oxford, 219–252. –

Antonis Tsakmakis

Miracles in Greek Biography Abstract: In archaic and classical Greece, stories about the lives of poets and philosophers strongly depended on oral traditions which were shaped according to the standards of folktale legend. Miracles were a customary component of such traditions. They mainly concerned phases of transition such as birth, death, initiation, and confirmed the otherness of the intellectual. Thanks to the antiquarian zeal of most writers of biographies after the creation of biography as a literary genre in the 4th cent. BC, motifs of this kind found access in written biographies. Patterns of the biographical tradition even appear in lives of contemporary and later philosophers such as Plato. In these scholarly oriented works miracles were either rationalized or treated in a way which subordinated the question of their historicity to the aesthetic aspects pertinent to their use in the new context. On the other hand, in historical biography miracle stories corroborate the text’s implicit rhetoric.

Introduction Biography is about humans who have lived in the same world as we live, albeit they may have lived in a remote past. Practically all biographical information about a person ultimately goes back to other people’s experiences of him (or her), or to this person’s own statements. Therefore, we do not expect to find miracles in a biography, unless the possibility of miraculous events is admitted by the cultural community which has produced this information (thus, Lives of Saints are full of miracle stories, which demonstrate the power of God and/or confirm that a person has lived according to Christian standards),1 or the hero of the biography claims him/herself to have been involved in such an event.

1 For the character of miracles in early Christian literature, see the discussion in Dagron 1978, 101–108. The frequency of miracle stories in hagiography is in accord with the prominence of miracles in the religious culture of the Orient (and in the gospels) but also in Greek legend; cf. Swain 1997, 27–37. Healings are the most wide-spread form of miracles in the Greek world; see Herzog 1931; Cotter 1999, 11–72; on the relationship between Greco-Roman biographical literature and the Gospels, Aune 1987, 17–76; Aune 2010, and on the problem of the so–called aretalogies, cf. Smith 1971. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-017

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Nevertheless, miracles are neither rare in Lives of Greek poets and philosophers of the archaic and classical period, nor do they entirely disappear in later biography. The present investigation focuses on the character and function of miracles in Greek non-Christian biography from the beginnings to the Roman period. Apart from hagiography, excluded are biographies of persons who were believed to have been miracle-workers and texts deriving from specific philosophical environments which, like Christianity and other religions, tolerated miracles (e.  g. Neoplatonism). Occasionally, however, such texts may be referred to for the sake of comparison. The first part is devoted to biographical traditions and complete biographies of intellectuals and literary figures (at first place poets and philosophers, secondly orators),2 while the second part deals with historical biography (Lives of political and military leaders, mainly represented by Plutarch’s parallel biographies of Greek and Roman statesmen).3 First, however, some preliminary remarks on the development of Greek biography and on the place of miracles in it are necessary. The Greek terms bios was applied to a variety of prose texts which focused on an outstanding individual who was not in life, with the aim of providing abundant personal information about him (or her). Despite a typological variety (a bios could be a narrative text or not; written with literary ambitions or not; historical or fictional; extending over several books or extremely condensed, as e.  g. an encyclopedic entry, etc.), a connecting factor across all types of Greek bioi is the pragmatic pre-supposition that their content is aligned to an implicit pattern: the prototypical narrative structure of a human life. This cognitive structure, which is fundamental for the generation of the genre (or genres), compensates for any kind of deficiencies: brevity, omissions, lack of coherence, formal disproportions etc.

2 Biographies of rhetors are discussed in Cooper 1992. 3 Following a tradition which goes back to Isocrates’ Euagoras and Xenophon’s Agesilaus, Polybius wrote an encomion of a political leader, Philopoemen in three books (10.21), whose context was largely biographical. His elder contemporary Satyrus included in his collection of Lives biographies of Philip II (explicitly attested), and perhaps of Dionysius II, Alcibiades, Demosthenes, and (probably) Alexander the Great; cf. Schorn 2004, 17. It is uncertain whether Polybius’ decision to write a work rich in biographical material presupposes his acquaintance with Roman traditions, on which, see Sonnabend 2002, 84–98. It has been argued that Plutarch has been influenced by Cornelius Nepos’ work: see Geiger 1985, 117–120. On the influence of Roman Stoicism on Plutarch’s (and Philo’s) Lives, see Niehoff 2012; cf. also Erler 2007, 21–22 on possible Epicurean elements. For a comprehensive overview of scholarship on biographical approaches to political personalities in Greek literature before Hellenism, see Engels 1993, 19–26.



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The first complete biographies in Greek antiquity concerned philosophers – quite understandably, since philosophy was regarded as a way of life – with the philosopher’s life worthy of studying by everybody interested in philosophy. A parallel interest in the lives of poets is also explicable in equal terms: poetry was a source of wisdom, with poets enjoying considerable authority in Greek society. Thus, both poets and eminent thinkers were the object of folktale traditions from an early stage. According to the available evidence, the composition of bioi of philosophers was inaugurated by Aristoxenos of Tarentum (4th ce. BC), who wrote Lives of Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato. As far as the fragmentary evidence allows us to conclude, he did not include miracle stories in his work.4 This standard, however, was not to prevail in the following centuries. For example, Hermippus, the most prolific biographer of Hellenism, seems to have recorded miracle stories about older figures such as Empedocles (apparently, by his time, they had been firmly rooted in tradition),5 though not concerning recent ones, e.  g. Isocrates and his disciples, even if their bioi are full of gossip and anecdotes.6 Hermippus’ approach is to be understood in the context of peripatetic and Hellenistic antiquarianism. Scholars investigating the past meticulously collected and reproduced in an encyclopedic synthesis the totality of evidence on various topics. Questions of historicity sometimes yielded to the desire of completeness

4 See Schorn 2012. Aristoxenos is said to have visited Dionysius II. of Syracuse in Corinth where the tyrant had retreated after 344 B.C. in order to cross check information about Plato. He also used Aristotle as a source for Plato’s unwritten doctrine. Most Hellenistic biographers after him privileged a marvel–free narrative, following a tradition which is better known through the Lives of Aristotle. These Lives do not contain marvelous stories, although some anecdotes and chreiai included in them may have been invented. Aristotle is the first known person whose life was studied with the aid of authentic documents, such as his correspondence and his will. On fictional elements in the Aristotelian Lives (which may go back to Hermippus), see Chroust 1964 who also discusses earlier views on parts of the tradition. 5 Early philosophers were regularly represented as miracle–mongers. Pythagoras, Empedocles, Epimenides and Pherecydes were supposed to have performed healings, to have possessed mantic powers, to have made supernatural appearances, to have been able to communicate with animals, etc. On Hermippos’ antiquarian method, see Bollansée 1999, 123–141, 162–163. 6 A notable example of a critical attitude towards the common trend in biography is Satyrus’ Life of Euripides (1st half of 2nd ce. BC), which was composed in dialog form. Satyrus seems to expose the ‘biographical’ reading of comedy, which was responsible for a series of prejudices on the tragic poet. Cf. Knöbl 2000. On Plutarch’s reservations to use Comedy as a historical source cf. Lenfant 2003. The frequency of first person statements in Greek poetry and the association of the ethos of poetry with the ethos of the poet paved the way for a more systematic search for personal information in works of literature. Chamelaeon is supposed to have been the first to draw conclusions from the work about the character of an author; F 40a Wehrli=Athenaios 428  f.

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and comprehensiveness; historical criticism was rare, while it was more likely to be provoked by striking inconsistencies in the tradition rather than by the legendary character of a transmitted story.7 As expected, fictional stories were a significant part of the material inherited from the past. Such stories were incorporated in antiquarian compositions, side by side with more reliable information, e.  g. biographical data about thinkers and literary figures of the past. In addition, the work of poets and prose writers was searched for allegedly autobiographical statements or allusions.8 As a result, the extant specimens of Hellenistic biographies, together with biographical material which is occasionally preserved in various other texts,9 largely reflect the popular image of poets and philosophers in earlier centuries. Μiracle-stories figure among the recurring topoi of such traditions. As it will be argued, they reveal a consistent perception of the intellectual in the Greek world of the archaic and classical periods.10 In the following section, we focus on the miraculous motives, which stand out in the biographical traditions, about archaic and classical Greek poets and philosophers, and then we proceed to an examination of three case studies of post-classical philosophical biographies: we examine miraculous motives found in traditions and biographies of Plato, which develop

7 Cf. Fairweather 1974. According to Hansen 1996, 9, we can compare this attitude with the parallel development of paradoxography from the early Hellenistic period, where “truth took second place to creating in the reader an enjoyable sensation of awe at the wonders of nature and culture”. 8 This conscious scholarly activity is to be distinguished from the earlier biographical traditions which also depended on the poems, not on information about the poets; see Beecroft 2008, 61–105 on Homer. More specifically, Beecroft examines the “implied poetics” as the primary message conveyed by these traditions (2). 9 These traditions have been thoroughly studied by Lefkowitz 1981, who demonstrates the fictitiousness of most material, and Kivilo 2010, who attempts to trace the origins of both the traditions and their earliest coalescence in biographical accounts. 10 The same features can be found in preserved novelistic biographies which depend on folktale or are indebted to the same literary tradition, such as the Life of Aesop, a text which is preserved in a written form dated to the Roman period (probably 2nd cent. AD); cf. Kurke 2010; on the history of the legend, see West 1984. This Life preserves motifs which go back to a very early stage in the formation of the legend. The same holds for the pseudo–Herodotean On Homer’s Origins, Date, and Life (perhaps 1st–2nd cent. AD; on its origins, see West 1984, 123–126; 2003, 309–314; on the date West 2003, 300–301) and some other versions of Homeric biographies and treatises on Homer (but not in all: they are e.  g. absent from the pseudo–Plutarchean de Homero). Similar qualities are found in the Life of Archilochus which is fragmentary and preserved on stone (3th ce. BC); finally, novelistic biographies from the Roman period which are indebted to the folktale tradition of biographical writing are the anonymous Life of Secundus (for a discussion of its formal elements, see Aune 1988, 110–121) and Philostratus’ Life of Apollonios.



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across many centuries; then, we discuss the transformation of topical motives in Porphyry’s Life of his master Plotinus, an erudite biography of a philosopher composed by a single, contemporary author who wrote as an eye-witness; finally, we briefly comment on the way a scholar interested in the history of philosophy in its entirety, Diogenes Laertius, treats transmitted miracles in his different Lives of eminent philosophers.

Miracles in biographical traditions and Lives of poets and philosophers a) From oral traditions to antiquarian compilations Miraculous motives in biographical traditions about archaic poets and philosophers concentrate on around three stages of life: ancestry and conception, initiation or vocation, and death.11 Poets and philosophers were supposed to be closer to the gods;12 this belief is encoded in traditions about their divine origin. Thus, a gifted mind could be a descendant of a God, a hero, a nymph, a river, or at least of an archetypical, heroized musician such as Orpheus and Linos etc. Such stories were told about Homer, Hesiod, Pythagoras, but also Plato (a tradition which will be discussed later); the recurrent motif of supernatural conception offers a first indication that biographical legends share fundamental characteristics with mythology.13 Although intellectuals, even if they were descendants of Gods, lived a life on earth, divine kinship suggested that divine powers steered their development and could intervene in their lives more readily. Indeed, supernatural agents (gods, heroes, unspecified forces including nature) never disappear entirely from the background of a narrative about outstanding individuals. A poet or philosopher’s most vital contact with the divine during his lifetime is his initiation, the moment he acquires the gift of divine inspiration. The first to recount an experience of initiation was Hesiod, who modelled the poetic scene

11 On miraculous motifs in Lives of poets, see Huzinger 1998 and 2001. 12 See Kimmel–Clauzet 2013, 278–279. 13 Huzinger 1998 argues that the local cult of some poets and the similarities with heroic legends should not lead to a generalizing theory of heroization of poets.

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of the Muses’ epiphany to him in the proem of the Theogony14 in accordance with mythical narratives. Similar stories were part of the tradition about Archilochus, Stesichorus and Aesop. By contrast, in biographies fighting to obtain a certain grade of realism, intellectual achievement was presented as a result of education provided by teachers, of influence by wise interlocutors, of contact with foreigners or of experiences collected in remote countries. The achievements of the young poet or philosopher were sometimes predicted by an oracle15 (his birth and death may have also been the subject of prophecies).16 The belief in the supernatural origin of poetic and philosophical discourse underscores its high estimation among the Greeks; on the other hand, however, it suggests a perception of the intellectual, poet or philosopher, as an extra-worldly being, a fact which also has negative implications. Significantly, a prevailing characteristic of legends about poets and wise men is the ambiguous relation of the group to these persons. On one hand, their excellence was a source of explicit admiration and honor; on the other hand, intellectual charisma separates a thinker or poet from the community, it makes him an outsider. Ambiguity or liminal position of the intellectual in the community is further suggested by the frequent presence of the motif of a physical handicap (intellectuals may by represented as blind, ugly, lame, dumb etc.) and/or lower social status.17 The intellectual’s handicap is explicitly or implicitly compensated by the charisma and can appear or disappear through direct divine intervention. Finally, the death of a poet or philosopher also had to be remarkable and suggestive, full of meaning, related to his oeuvre.18 Although a god was not neces14 Against an autobiographical interpretation, see Stoddard 2004, 1–33 (with further views; cf. also Stein 1990, 6–54). On Hesiod’s initiation as separation cf. Judet de la Combe 1993. 15 Their excellence is further underlined by their ability to solve riddles, to interpret oracles and by their participation and success in poetic contests: Kivilo 2010, 20. On omens and oracles, see Lefkowitz 1981, 93  f. 16 The motifs of travelling (departure, arrival, mediation of alien wisdom) illustrate the position of these persons as moving both within and outside the society; honors and persecution, condemnation and rehabilitation also indicate the simultaneous presence of contrasting emotions: hope and fear, admiration and contempt, attraction and annoyance. The dialectics of closeness and remoteness, appropriation and exclusion, identification and alienation, are also evident in stories about successful or failed communication with common people: misunderstandings, cryptic expressions, oracles, riddles, omens and figurative speech (sometimes the person’s own discourse) play a central role in the extant stories and illustrate the problems of comprehension. 17 Cf. Graziosi 2002, 138–163; Kivilo 2010, 18: “the skill is … gained as a compensation for the loss of something (Homer and Teiresias lost their sight, Archilochus lost a cow)”. 18 Further marvelous elements which could be taken as miracles, in the sense that they include manifestation of supernatural forces and intervention of divine will, are omens and animal– helpers: Kivilo 2010, 34.



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sarily involved, the blissful or violent end of an intellectual became equivalent to a confirmation of his piety or impiety respectively.19 Also, nature honored pious poets through various signs. Furthermore, oracles sometimes ordered heroization and cult, emphasizing thus the prominence of the philosopher within the community.20 Traditions about the lives of philosophers and poets were aimed at bridging the gap between contemporary audiences and inherited wisdom, by ideally contextualizing a poetic or philosophical work for readers by means of their better acquaintance with its creator. The life of eminent intellectuals as imagined by the Greeks acquired a universal significance. As was the case with epic heroes, lessons were to be drawn from their exploits, i.  e. their work, but also from what happened to them. This aim also determined the character of miracles in biographical traditions. These miracles are not primarily expression and confirmation of theological beliefs, intended to solidify ideology or cultic practices. Nor do they answer a need for historically accurate reports about facts pertaining to a person’s life. They rather emerge from the wish to spell out the character of poetry and philosophy as such, but also to provide keys for accessing the meaning of an individual’s work. Miraculous incidents in biographical traditions about poets and philosophers are mostly topic elements which reflect the outstanding character of these persons and suggest the importance of poetic and philosophical discourse for the life of the society. Stories about the major transitions related with human life, namely, birth, the becoming of a poet or philosopher through inspiration (spiritual birth), and death, become typical (though not obligatory) elements of biographical narrative about intellectuals. While rooted in folktale legend, they became part of the discourse about intellectual figures, as they expressed the way a society regarded men (and women) gifted with a special intellectual charisma. This mental construct of the ‘intellectual’ with its recurring constituents also informs antiquarian biography. Antiquarian scholars who admitted anecdotal elements in their works did not necessarily mistake them for historically reliable information. Miracles domesticated in earlier oral tradition maintained their aesthetic qualities in biographies compiled by Hellenistic and later scholars. Scholars were primarily interested in preserving transmitted material; at the same time, however, they undoubtedly regarded such stories as conveying a message which was beyond historical accuracy. To put it differently, the expectation that

19 On violent deaths of poets, see Lefkowitz 1981, 96  f.; see further Grau 2010, 377, who believes that bad death indicates that “the philosopher did not comply with the ideal”. 20 Cf. Kimmel–Clauzet 2013, 276–277.

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the narrative of an author’s life might be profoundly linked with the meaning of his work prevented the question about historicity from being foregrounded.

b) Writing Lives of philosophers While the hitherto discussed biographical material has its origin in oral traditions, things change in the case of men who lived after the emergence of literary biography, in an environment which strongly promoted research based on documentation and empirical evidence. Now biography had the opportunity to adopt the standards of rationalism, as they were already applied in other historical genres;21 as the composition of a philosophers’ biography became almost compulsory for their followers, there was no temporal gap between the biographer and his object, while authors could have access to reliable source material. Thus, it is at first sight surprising that we find miracle stories in the biographies of Plato, a person for whom accurate and abundant biographical details were available to the first authors who wrote about him – and this of course happened immediately after his death. In the biographical tradition about Plato (six extant Lives and numerous references in various authors) Alice Swift Riginos has identified 146 different anecdotes (or motifs) which were related to the whole span of the philosopher’s life. A small number among them are wondrous incidents, and these are mainly associated with Plato’s conception and birth, quite in the same fashion as this happened for archaic poets and philosophers. Thus, the date of Plato’s birth was supposed to be the 7th Thargelion, which was believed to be the same as Apollo’s.22 Likewise, in some versions, Apollo appears as Plato’s father. According to a story which goes back to a source very close to Plato, namely Speusippus, Ariston, Plato’s father, tried in vain to make love with his wife Perictione, who remained a virgin. When he stopped using force, Apollo appeared in a dream and, as a consequence, Ariston abstained from any attempt to approach her until the child was born.23 Although no other source before Olympiodorus (In Alc. 2.21–24) explicitly reports that it was Apollo who impregnated Perictione, the miraculous character of the story is uncontestable. Is Speusippus, Plato’s nephew and successor, to be made responsible for the deliberate fabrication of 21 A critical perspective of folktale traditions could be of course applied in retrospect. Even in later biographies of typical miracle workers, such as Pythagoras by individual authors, also philosophers themselves, such as Porphyry and Iamblichus, legendary motifs may be adopted, interpreted, repelled or modified. 22 The oldest source is Plutarch, Symp. Quest. 717b–d. 23 For a similar story, see Plut. Alex. 2.3–6 and later sources.



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a fictive miracle story? Did the story rely on oral tradition, or was it modelled in compliance with legendary stories on literary persons of the past at the cost of historical accuracy? Diogenes Laertius’ text offers the cues which allow a hypothetical reconstruction of the original context of the anecdote (D.L. 3.2). First, there is a disclaimer ὡς Ἀθήνησιν ἦν λόγος (“as it was said in Athens”), which may reproduce Speusippus’ original formulation: a strategy to repel responsibility for the content of the story.24 Furthermore, Diogenes identifies the source of the story. Ιt is not derived from a biography, but from Speusippus’ “Funeral banquet of Plato” (Πλάτωνος περίδειπνον) – a work of sympotic literature, i.  e. a genre which combines realistic and fictional elements, and, more importantly, gives the floor to various speakers who present their own, personal views. The anecdote about Plato’s father in Speusippus’ Funeral Symposion no doubt was told by one of the participants; moreover, it could have been told without the speaker’s clear commitment to its truth, if the disclaimer ὡς … ἦν λόγος echoes his own words. It follows that Speusippus cannot be blamed for the bizarre assertion about his uncle. On the contrary, he can be credited with a literary invention, which, according to the conventions of biographical fiction, makes Plato appear as no less vital than a number of celebrated thinkers and poets of the past. Wondrous anecdotes25 about Plato may have been partly inspired by the philosopher’s work itself, where Apollo is given a special reverence.26 These anecdotes could be easily reproduced out of context and incorporated in later biographies. The earliest surviving biography of Plato, the Αcademicorum Philosophorum Index Herculanensis of the 1st century BC, does not mention any of these miraculous stories. However, the Latin Live of Apuleius (2nd cent. AD) and Diogenes Laertius (presumably 3rd cent. AD) report them. Later on, neoplatonist biographers like Olympiodorus (6th cent. AD) include the whole series of available anecdotes which stressed Plato’s Apollonian character.27 It seems reasonable

24 Cf. Riginos 1976, 12–13. The story can hardly be derived from “popular belief” as Smith 1978, 33 and 1996, 341 assumes. 25 Other wondrous anecdotes about Plato’s childhood and youth: Bees came and sat or instilled honey on the lips of the infant Plato (the motif is known from the biographical tradition about Homer, Pindar and other poets); in the night before he met Plato, Socrates had dreamed that a cygnet settled in his lap, developed into a full–fledged swan, and flew forth into the open sky uttering a song which charmed all hearers. The swan is connected to Apollo and divination. According to Riginos 1976, 31, “Plato assigns to the philosopher the special relationship traditionally seen between Apollo, the god of music and the poets”. 26 Cf. Phaed. 84e–85e; Riginos 1976, 15–16. 27 This was in agreement with the Neoplatonists’ tendency “to regard their philosophy almost as a religion”, Riginos 1976, 29. Cf. also Smith’s 1971, 181, and 1996, 9, observation on the changes of the intellectual atmosphere from the 2nd cent. AD: “Not until the Antonine age, when ration-

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to suggest that biography became more receptive to legendary material from the second century AD, under the influence of a literary taste which is evident in texts which combine the tradition of Greek biography with novelistic elements, like the Life of Aesop, the Contest of Homer and Hesiod,28 Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius and others (Apuleius’ On Plato also belongs to this milieu). Thus, fact-based biography (in the fashion of Aristoxenus) developed into a hybrid genre, between history and fiction. The miraculous motifs in the biographical tradition about Plato demonstrate the impact of popular elements in the representation of key individuals in ancient Greek culture. Specific narrative patterns determined the formation of miraculous stories which accumulated around important stages of the human life across genres. Characteristically, the tradition about Plato’s miraculous conception does not derive from a biography, but from a genre which enjoyed the freedom to merge the boundaries between reality and fiction for aesthetic purposes. The core meaning of the miraculous story, namely Plato’s association with Apollo, is ultimately consonant with Plato’s work itself. In Neoplatonism, the boundaries between reality and imagination were once more confused; yet now the message conveyed by miracles was not primarily related to the characterization of the person in question, rather than to the metaphysical forces which were believed to be at work. In the light of these observations we can distinguish between miracles which were assumed to respond to a desire for information about the divine as part of the real world (healings of Asclepios, miracles of Jesus in the Gospels, or miracles in some neoplatonic biographies – a characteristic example is Marinus’ Life of Proclus),29 and miracles which had a similar effect to fictional anecdotes; the response to the latter was primarily related to their aesthetic potential, as opposed to the question of the referential value which was supposed to be of primary importance in the case of miracles assumed to be referential in character. The limits between referential and aesthetic function of miracles in biography were floating, like the limits between history and myth. In each text they could be renegotiated. This can be testified in an exceptional text which consciously avoids violations of the natural order and is supposed to excel in objectivity, since it has been written by an eyewitness: Porphyry’s On the Life of Plotinus and the Order of his Treatises. Porphyry was Plotinus’ most influential pupil and the editor of alism was losing its grip, do full–length “lives” of such holy men, by pagan authors of repute, become so popular that copies of them have come down to us”. 28 See West 2003, 297–300; Bassino 2013. 29 The rationalizing of the tradition, as it is manifested in the treatment of some miracles in Porphyrys’ and Jamblichus’ Lives of Pythagoras falls outside the scope of the present investigation.



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his treatises; the Life was written as an introduction to the edition.30 He relies on first-hand evidence, while the idealized image of his master never gives rise to any suspicion that it is fictional. In the description of Plotinus’ end, Porphyry includes a scene which, if found in a different context, might have been read as a miracle. As Plotinus lies in his deathbed, Porphyry reports, he was visited by Eustochius, a doctor, who became the only eyewitness of his last moments (Porphyry himself was absent). And the text goes on: “A snake crawled out of the bed in which he lay and slipped out through an aperture in the wall, and at that moment he breathed out his spirit, being, as Eustochius said, a man of sixty-six years” (2, tr. Edwards, p. 59). For some neoplatonists this incidence could have been solely interpreted as a factual divine sign confirming the magnitude of the sophos. The author’s cautious description of the scene, as he indicates his dependence on a third person, can be paralleled with Speusippus’ introduction of the story about Plato’s birth. The distancing device indicates that the meaning is to be searched beyond the area of factuality.31 At the same time, the story is attributed to a physician, a scientist, and this fact protects this divine moment from being interpreted and rejected as folklore tradition. More importantly, while the event does not force a specific interpretation based on the assumption that Gods constantly intervene in the physical world, it invites the reader to attribute a hidden meaning to the incident. Although the text is supposed to fulfill the requirements of a sober, historical exposition, the wondrous episode enacts the mechanisms which audiences were accustomed to apply to fictional texts. Commentators on the passage have related the episode to two different intertexts.32 The first is a story reported by Diogenes Laertius (5.89–90) about Heraclides Ponticus. Heraclides had a grown snake, which he had reared from its infancy. Diogenes reports: “When his death was approaching, he requested one of his confidants to conceal his body and place the snake in his bed, so that he would seem to have gone to the gods. And as the citizens were in the midst of the procession and blessing the name of Heraclides, the snake, disturbed by 30 On the character of the work, see Kalligas 1991, 4–5. Porphyry, as a disciple makes “a strong claim to reliability”, yet he is writing at the end of his life, thus, at the same time, the mature Porphyry as an author is closer to Plotinus than the young disciple of the narrative; Miles 2010, 62  ff. 31 Also the voice of God (Apollo) in the lengthy oracle in the final part of the work (22) is no more than a citation, and if the author guarantees the historicity of the consultation, he does not anticipate more on the divine origin of the oracle than the reader is willing to believe. Oracles also appear in other texts which in general are miracle–resistant (e.  g. Plutarch’s Lives, esp. Alexander, Proclus’ Life of Homer, etc.). This can be interpreted as a sign that this sort of contact between the divine and mankind was not perceived as violating natural laws. 32 See Edwards 2000, 60–61; for alternative interpretations cf. Kalligas 1991, 93 and the references in Kotzia 2010, 215 n. 84.

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the noise, popped up out of the robes to general consternation. Subsequently, however, the fraud was detected and Heraclides was known not as he made himself appear, but as he was” (tr. Edwards, p. 60). In contrast to Heraclides, who is mocked as he attempts to stage a false miracle, Plotinus, as a true philosopher, is left on his bed, while the snake disappears. According to an alternative, more likely reading, the snake was associated with Asclepius, a chthonic god who was often represented by a serpent and appeared in the dreams of those who came to his temples to seek bodily salvation. Socrates’ last conversation in Plato’s Phaedo is concluded by the philosopher’s hilarious last request: “we owe a cock to Asclepius; let him have it and don’t forget”. As there are many allusions to Plato and especially to Phaedo in the Life of Plotinus some scholars relate the snake to Asclepius, and the whole scene to Socrates’ death. Though belonging to a different genre and to a different setting, both stories convey a similar message: the philosopher is not looking for a healer of his body which he actually rejects. Death is the remedy of the true philosopher, for whom bodily life itself is a disease. It is irrelevant whether the divine was the moving force behind the incident or not. The anecdote functions as a comment on Plotin’s death, in accordance with the habitual narrative structure of biographical texts. In addition, the reader is indirectly notified that historicity is not guaranteed, despite the fact that Porphyry is otherwise supposed to have reported the facts accurately. The biographer exploits the inherited pattern of miraculous occurrences which accompany a philosopher’s death in biographical traditions and uses it as an intertextual device. Thus, the story is not fully intelligible, unless the reader interprets it against the backdrop of Plato, Socrates, the philosophical outlook on death, as it is elaborated in the platonic dialogues. In the final part of this section, we review the way Diogenes Laertius responds to the various traditions about miracles occurred to philosophers he writes about. Diogenes seems to distinguish miracles performed by miracle workers from miracles which marked a certain stage of a philosopher’s life according to the familiar pattern.33 Thus, he explicitly identifies miracles by Pherecydes as such: πολλὰ δὲ καὶ θαυμάσια λέγεται περὶ αὐτοῦ.34 Λέγεται clearly signals that the cata-

33 Cf. also Zhmud 2012, 35, on the character and reception of the legend of Pythagoras: “Neither the miracles of Pythagoras nor his preaching of metempsychosis could alone establish his reputation as a wise man, the less so among people who did not believe in them. From the fifth century we have no evidence that the wonder–workers par excellence, Epimenides, Abaris, or Aristeas of Proconnesus, were called σοφοί, or that wisdom was associated with Orpheus and the Orphics”. 34 The term θαυμάσια is ambiguous; cf. Garland 2011, 75: “In sum, there is no Greek or Latin



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logue of miracles reproduces other sources, Diogenes’ stance (or the stance of his source) is that of an antiquarian encyclopedist. He does not necessarily endorse the content of the story as true, yet he guarantees its accurate transmission from his sources. Contrarily, Diogenes does not label as a miracle a story about the Cretan seer Epimenides, who was supposed to have been sleeping in a cave for fifty-seven years, ever since he was sent by his father to look for a stray overlooking sheep. The story concludes as follows: “After this he got up and went in search of the sheep, thinking he had been asleep only a short time. And when he could not find it, he came to the farm and found everything changed and another owner in possession. Then he went back to the town in utter perplexity; and there, on entering his own house, he fell in with people who wanted to know who he was. At length he found his younger brother, now an old man, and learnt the truth from him. So he became famous throughout Greece, and was believed to be a special favorite of heaven”. (1.109–110; translation Hicks)

The reason Diogenes does not comment on the character of this story might be that an initiation story which included miraculous incidents was no more sensed as ‘abnormal’; readers were ready to classify and evaluate it according to the familiar narrative pattern of the biographical tradition. Yet, the narrative concludes with a scene which involves an internal audience which testifies to the miracle, so that the story concludes with the declaration that Epimenides was henceforth admired by people. This is a technique which is usually found in the gospels and is characteristic of the new miracle-friendly biographic narratives. It also occurs in Plutarch, who will be our focus in the second part of this paper.

Miracles in the world of Plutarch’s Lives Plutarchean biography is indebted both to the Greek biographical tradition  – which is more tolerant towards miracles for the reason we expounded in the previous section (i.  e. it combines the referential function of biography and the aesthetic function of folktale anecdotes) – and to the methodology of Greek political historiography which, unlike other branches of historiography, e.  g. local history, follows rationalistic standards of selection and interpretation. These two

word that differentiates an act, sight or occurrence that is ‘truly’ miraculous from one that is, quite simply, worthy of wonder. In the plainest terms, a goal scored from behind the halfway line could, without hyperbole, have been appropriately deemed ‘miraculous’”.

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traditions collide when referring to the treatment of legendary motifs, such as miracles. In his preface to the Lives of Theseus and Romulus, Plutarch sets rationalistic standards for his biographical work,35 borrowed from historiography: “Just as geographers, …, crowd on to the outer edges of their maps the parts of the earth which elude their knowledge with explanatory notes that ‘What lies beyond is sandy desert without water and full of wild beasts,’ or ‘blind marsh,’ or ‘Scythian cold,’ or ‘frozen sea,’ so in the writing of my Parallel Lives, now that I have traversed those periods of time which are accessible to probable reasoning and which afford basis for a history dealing with facts, I might well say of the earlier periods ‘What lies beyond is full of marvels and unreality (τερατώδη καὶ τραγικά), a land of poets and fabulists, of doubt and obscurity” (Thes. 1.1–3).36

More specifically, in respect to this specific pair of biographies, he finds himself urged to remark: “May I therefore succeed in purifying Fable, making her submit to reason and take on the semblance of History (ἐκκαθαιρόμενον λόγῳ τὸ μυθῶδες… καὶ λαβεῖν ἱστορίας ὄψιν). But where she obstinately disdains to make herself credible, and refuses to admit any element of probability (τοῦ πιθανοῦ περιφρονῇ καὶ μὴ δέχηται τὴν πρὸς τὸ εἰκὸς μῖξιν), I shall pray for kindly readers, and such as receive with indulgence the tales of antiquity” (Thes. 1.5). For Plutarch, departure from rationalism requires an excuse. He regards the marvelous in literature as a result of objective constraints (lacking source material, remoteness – spatial or temporal), or as a property which is dependent on genre conventions. The existence of mythical or legendary heroes like Theseus, Heracles, Lycurgus, Romulus and Numa is not doubted; it is rather the discourse about them that is incredible and improbable. Following a tradition which goes back to Thucydides, Plutarch draws a distinction between truth and lies, facts and fiction, banning the “fabulous” (μυθῶδες) as a deficiency. This having been said, however, the tension between the traditional, legendary discourse and the rationalist requirements of a modern reader does not always vanish. The puzzle is irresolvable, while in some cases mythical discourse is given priority, even at the cost of not being compatible with Plutarch’s standard, namely the “semblance of History”. Although his biographies of political and military leaders rely on historical sources, he admits that his principles could not be universally applied to his work. Thus, the uncharacteristic inclusion of suspicious material needs to be defended in advance. The biographer not only asks for the reader’s indulgence,

35 Cf. Pelling 2002, 171–178. 36 Translations are from Perrin’s Loeb edition.



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but he also seeks to justify and qualify his material. Which is the function of such legendary elements in Plutarch’s biography? At the very beginning of the Life of Theseus he refers to the traditions about Theseus’ and Romulus’ divine origins (a motif which, as we noted, is a recurrent topic of biographical legend) with expressions which signpost his reluctance to commit to their truth: ἄμφω… δόξαν ἔσχον ἐκ θεῶν γεγονέναι (Thes. 2.1), τὴν Πυθίαν ἀνελεῖν λέγουσι τὸν θρυλούμενον χρησμόν (3.5). This strategy allows the author to stay on the safe side; yet, it is rhetorically effective, as it corroborates the idea of the hero’s illustriousness and confirms the admiration of people for him. Similarly, in the Life of Romulus, Plutarch significantly notes that a plague in Rome, which was accompanied by a rain of blood, was interpreted by the people as a divine message. This interpretation is endorsed by two details included in the narrative: a similar disaster, which simultaneously befell Laurentum, convinced everybody that the gods required the purification of both cities, since both had been involved in murderous acts. Secondly, when the murderers were punished, “the mischief visibly abated”. Besides, Plutarch continues, the two cities’ purification by Romulus is “celebrated to this day at the Kerentine gate” (24.2). Again Plutarch focalizes events through the people’s eyes and consciousness. In addition, when he points to the continuity of ritual, the boundaries between the present and the (mythical) past are blurred, while the historicity of the story appears as possible, although the author does not explicitly endorse it. Thucydides was the first to apply a similar technique, in order to increase the rhetorical effect of his expositions. After having argued that the Peloponnesian war was greater than the Persian wars, he enumerates the disasters which befell Greece during the fighting. Yet, against his principles, the catalogue is not restricted to the evils of war; in addition to them, he attaches a list of natural catastrophes which had occurred in the same period and which probably people would have interpreted in a traditional manner as caused by the gods. The inclusion of these events enforces the reader’s feeling that the historian’s verdict about the greatness of the war is valid. The incompatibility of this sort of argument with Thucydides’ own beliefs is mitigated by the careful expression, which may suggest reservation or at least neutrality: οὐκ ἄπιστα κατέστη (1.23.3).37 In the Life of Theseus, Plutarch uses terms such as μυθολόγημα (14.2 on the story of Hecale) and μυθολογία (34.2 on the story of Munychus)38 to undermine the historicity of the stories. Οn the other hand, he explicitly approves specific elements in the story of Hecale. Here again, the mention of the traditional honors

37 See Keyser 2006. 38 Cf. also 15.2 τραγικώτατος μῦθος, 28.1 μύθῳ καὶ πλάσματι.

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paid to the woman serves as validation of the historical nucleus of the legend, which is used onwards as a paradigm of hospitality and altruism. Plutarch also discusses rationalizing attempts by previous authors, who attempt, for instance, to extract historical truth from the story of the Minotaurus. In some cases he distances himself from other versions by labeling them as “peculiar” (ἴδιον), which in turn work in favor of the views which he treats more favorably (8.1; 9.3). More incredible is a rejected legend about Romulus’ birth. After mentioning various opinions which he attributes to different sources and before going on with his favorite version, Plutarch narrates in some length a miraculous story which he explicitly discredits: “And others still rehearse what is altogether fabulous concerning his origin. For instance, they say that Tarchetius, king of the Albans, who was most lawless and cruel, was visited with a strange phantom in his house, namely, a phallus rising out of the hearth and remaining there many days” (Rom. 2–4). Oracles, dreams, and, finally, intercourse between the king’s daughter with the phantom complete the inventory of wondrous motives in this story. Plutarch concludes the story with a further disclaimer: “But the story which has the widest credence and the greatest number of vouchers was first published among the Greeks, in its principal details, by Diocles of Peparethus…” (3.1). While the miracle is explicitly rejected, the account which occupies several lines serves as a foil for Plutarch’s preferred version, which can now be more easily adopted. Correspondences, however, make the common motifs (illicit pregnancy, exposure and feeding by the she-wolf) more credible, even if they have the air of folktale. So, the rejection of an unacceptable version increases Plutarch’s authoritative stance and endorses his overall judgement  – here and elsewhere. Finally, the pleasure of reading a bizarre episode and the idea of the extraordinary as a focalizing device both underline the importance of the figure of Romulus.39 Nevertheless, Plutarch also knows of manipulated miracles. Such is the story of Romulus’ death: “… suddenly strange and unaccountable disorders with incredible changes filled the air; the light of the sun failed, and night came down upon them, not with peace and quiet, but with awful peals of thunder and furious blasts driving rain from every quarter, during which the multitude dispersed and fled, but the nobles gathered closely together; and when the storm had ceased, and the sun shone out, and the multitude, now gathered together again in the same place as before, anxiously sought for their king, the nobles would not suffer them to inquire into his disappearance nor busy themselves about it, but exhorted them all to honour and revere Romulus, since he had been caught up into heaven, and was to

39 On the way Plutarch consciously uses questionable material, cf. Pelling’s observation 1990, 29–30 and 148: “If the propaganda which reviles Cleopatra fits his general picture of the queen, he will use it, then briefly confess it may be false (Ant. 58.4–59.1)”.



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be a benevolent god for them instead of a good king. The multitude, accordingly, believing this and rejoicing in it, went away to worship him with good hopes of his favour; but there were some, it is said, who tested the matter in a bitter and hostile spirit, and confounded the patricians with the accusation of imposing a silly tale upon the people, and of being themselves the murderers of the king”. (Rom. 27.6–9)

Again the people serve as focalizers who suggest the most probable interpretation. But a further tradition about a post mortem appearance of Romulus gives Plutarch the opportunity to explore the mystery of death in more detail. A respected patrician, Julius Proculus claimed that Romulus had appeared to him asking him to establish his cult as Quirinus. This time, the people responded positively: “These things seemed to the Romans worthy of belief, from the character of the man who related them, and from the oath which he had taken; moreover, some influence from heaven also, akin to inspiration, laid hold upon their emotions, for no man contradicted Proculus, but all put aside suspicion and calumny and prayed to Quirinus, and honoured him as a god”. (28)

Having used the people as focalizers again, Plutarch now passes a rather unexpected judgement on their reaction in propria persona. He seems to endorse the people’s opinion, as he attributes it to divine incitement. At the same time, however, he compares Romulus’ appearance to the similar traditions about Aristeas and Cleomedes expressing explicit reservation about their content, as he concludes this series of alleged miracles with a completely mythical incident, concerning Alcmene, the mother of Heracles, who, in the Life of Theseus, has served throughout as a prototype for the Athenian hero: “It is said also that the body of Alcmene disappeared, as they were carrying her forth for burial, and a stone was seen lying on the bier instead. In short, many such fables are told by writers who improbably ascribe divinity to the mortal features in human nature, as well as to the divine. At any rate, to reject entirely the divinity of human virtue, were impious and base; but to mix heaven with earth is foolish”. (28.7)

Plutarch then digresses to a brief exposition on the soul and its separation from the body, which leads to the following statement: “We must not, therefore, violate nature by sending the bodies of good men with their souls to heaven, but implicitly believe that their virtues and their souls, in accordance with nature and divine justice, ascend from men to heroes, from heroes to demi-gods, and from demigods, after they have been made pure and holy, as in the final rites of initiation, and have freed themselves from mortality and sense to gods, not by civic law, but in very truth and according to right reason, thus achieving the fairest and most blessed consummation”. (28.9–10)

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This platonizing philosophical excursus serves as a mediator between the story and the reader’s mental universe. To the reader it suggests a possible way of approaching the story and searching for its meaning. The association of a mythical story to a valid discourse legitimizes it and compensates for its historical impossibility. The story of Romulus acquires by suggestion the status of an archetypical myth, which is not to be taken at face value: Romulus’s body may have not ascended to heaven, but in the life and deeds of the founder of Rome, the reader may detect a divine impetus, as it is understood in the context of current philosophical tenets.40 As a matter of fact, Plutarch’s Lives of non-mythical figures are free from miracles.41 This makes the attribution of healing powers to a historical person, namely Pyrrhus even more surprising: “People of a splenetic habit believed that he cured their ailment; he would sacrifice a white cock, and, while the patient lay flat upon his back, would press gently with his right foot against the spleen. Nor was any one so obscure or poor as not to get this healing service from him if he asked it. The king would also accept the cock after he had sacrificed it, and this honorarium was most pleasing to him. It is said, further, that the great toe of his right foot had a divine virtue, so that after the rest of his body had been consumed, this was found to be untouched and unharmed by the fire. These things, however, belong to a later period”. (Pyrrh. 3.4–5)

The possession of healing powers is not an expected property of a political leader. It indicates a magical, priestly or even divine status.42 Actually, such claims were made by Hellenistic and Roman monarchs, starting with Alexander’s deification. Pyrrhus was linked with Alexander through his family, through his ambitious 40 Cf. also Pelling 1990, 30 and 149: “We should believe the miraculous stories of Rome’s foundation, despite the criticism of sceptics, for the Roman state would hardly have advanced to such might if it did not have a wondrous and divine origin”. On Plutarch’s method of interpreting myth in a philosophical way, see Brisson 1996, 85–95. 41 In a famous passage (Life of Coriolanus 38) Plutarch explicitly refutes a series of common miracles that the people believe to be happening (that statues speak, bleed, etc.). He maintains that even if these appearances are possible, there are physical explanations for their occurrence. Gods use natural phenomena as signs, but do not violate natural laws. For Plutarch, the belief in miracles is rooted in the people’s inclination to accept what they have imagined as true or treat events which can be interpreted otherwise, or derive from imagination as miracles. The belief in miracles is sometimes founded in false assumptions about an alleged causal connection between two events, or in an insufficient understanding of the fact that God is inaccessible to human experience. 42 Political and magical power can be elements of “primitive” kingship; cf. Nederlof (1940) 19. It is not evident whether the legend is a reminiscence of such ideas in the Molossian kingdom. On the other hand, the motif of the cock associates the story with Asclepios.



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plans for military expansion, and, above all, through his exceptional personality. Plutarch thrice draws such a comparison between the two figures.43 Still, he does not attribute any healings to Alexander, nor does he endorse his deification.44 On the contrary, he consciously omits supernatural and miraculous motifs from his Life of Alexander. The biographer pointedly remarks that from the vast amount of information on Alexander, he only selects those items which are relevant to his purpose and compatible with the genre and the climax of his work. He thus acknowledges the existence of various traditions to which the reader is silently referred for more information. In this way, Plutarch has freed himself from the obligation of passing judgement on these legends. They can, however, keep their status as background knowledge of Plutarch’s readers, regardless their value. Thus, in respect of the common image of Alexander as an almost superhuman person, an image constructed thanks to this large amount of wide-spread information,45 it seems logical, that the legend about Pyrrhus’ healing powers not only confirmed the Epirote king’s extraordinariness but also corroborated his similarity to Alexander, in the sense that he appeared as elevated from the ordinary human status. Still, the ultimate reason why Plutarch admitted the story may be his wish to correspond to a tradition about Vespasian as a healer, which is attested in a number of sources.46 If Flavian propaganda at the age of Domitian tried to advertise the supernatural powers of the founder of the dynasty,47 it could be argued that Plutarch reminded his audience that similar traditions were not a privilege of the Roman emperor, but circulated also regarding the Greek king who mostly resembled Alexander, for instance Pyrrhus. At any rate, one has to distinguish between Pyrrhus’ supposed healing powers and the legend about his fireproof toe. While the latter is a rumor which concerns a single event, the healings were supposed to have been performed habitually, according to a stable ritual, and concerned a concrete disease. In addition, the healings were commonly accepted. As various healing stories from various sources indicate, “the concept of transmitting healing power by touch was familiar to the Greco-Roman world”.48 Healings were the most wide-spread and, no

43 Pyrrh. 8.1, 11.2, 19 1, cf. Appian, Syr. 10–11. 44 On the philosophical foundations of the idea, see Desmond 2011, 55  ff. 45 On ruler cult, see Smith 1978, 35–36 and 1996, 343; on Roman emperor worship, see also Gradel 2002 who regards “divinity as a relative rather than as an absolute category” (26). On Epicurus: Erler 2014. 46 See Luke 2010; Papaioannou, this volume. 47 The stories are located in Egypt, and Vespasian’s visit to the sanctuary of Sarapis is probably modelled on Alexander’s visit to Ammun. 48 Blackburn 1991, 115.

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doubt, the most welcome manifestations of divine power among the Greeks. On the other hand, healing was not exclusively attributed to divine intervention. It was also the target of medicine, which followed rational principles, even if physicians were not always successful, or the cure was not always explicable or intelligible. For that reason, even if the gift of healing might appear as a miracle, it has not necessarily to be stricto sensu a miracle, the result of divine intervention. The boundaries between magic and science were by no means clear. Thus, Plutarch’s report on the healings should be read at least as ambiguous. If it is read in isolation from the toe-story, it can be taken as a rationalization and secularization of the image of a Hellenistic king who raises claims to possess supernatural attributes. The passage had been motivated by the description of the external appearance of Pyrrhus, which had culminated in a detail which is quite unnatural (“he had not many teeth, but his upper jaw was one continuous bone, on which the usual intervals between the teeth were indicated by slight depressions”; 3.4), but is neither rejected nor cast with doubt by the author. Thus, the reader’s impression is that Pyrrhus’ unusual physical characteristics – at the margins of the natural – were accompanied by an unusual (but not unnatural) property. Its introduction with ἐδόκει is a straightforward way to express neutrality.49 If, however, one is inclined to regard the healings as miracles, then the additional information on the preservation of the toe appears as an organic annex to the story, while the credibility of both becomes interdependent. This story is introduced with λέγεται, an indication of little commitment to its truth on the part of the author. Besides, the concluding expression (ταῦτα μὲν οὖν ὕστερον) is ambiguous. It may have the meaning “this happened later” (as Perrin translates), “this will be reported later”, or even “this is what was reported later”. In any case, the reader’s impression is that Plutarch’s final word on the story is postponed. The detail, however, is forgotten in 34.5, where the cremation of Pyrrhus’ dead body is reported. Instead, we are told in detail about the maltreated status of the 49 For Plutarch, the people’s beliefs about the divine are the more effective way with which religion influences the lives of men, like a self–fulfilling prophecy; cf. Frazier 2005, 113–114: “In der Alexandervita wird diese Göttlichkeit freilich selbstverständlich vorausgesetzt. Allerdings ist sie lediglich ein Machtinstrument im ‚“machiavellistischen” Sinne, das dem König seine Macht zu befestigen erlaubt, an die er aber selbst, in Übereinstimmung mit der Lehre der Romulusvita, gar nicht glaubt [Alex. 28.6]. Alexander zieht lediglich Nutzen aus einer δόξα θειότητος; dieser Ausdruck, der noch an drei weiteren Stellen vorkommt – man denkt, dass sich etwas Göttliches in dieser oder jener Sache befindet – weist auf die Wichtigkeit der δόξα im religiösen Bereich hin: die menschliche Vernunft kann nicht vollständig zu der Gottheit durchdringen. Umgekehrt ist dem Menschen nicht Gott selbst, sondern nur dieses “Göttliche” erreichbar.” On Plutarch’s understanding of natural wonders, see Meeusen 2014.



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body and his decapitation. Thus, the authoritative historical report not only omits any reference to the wondrous preservation of the toe, but also satisfies the reader’s eagerness for accuracy with much detail about Pyrrhus’ body. The discourse about the supernatural appearances is tacitly dissociated from the historical narrative in an artful way. But, was this all necessary? The answer may be found in a further deviating trait of this Life. On the whole, Pyrrhus and Marius are not positive examples – they belong to the personalities among the Parallel Lives who are least worth imitating.50 If, however, Pyrrhus’ healing power is interpreted as a divine gift, this idea counterbalances negative impressions resulting from the hero’s shortcomings, and warns readers from a hasty, disparaging verdict. This would be a characteristically Plutarchean device, an allusion which alerts the reader to the tricky sides of interpreting a biography in a straightforward way. As in the case of Lysander and Sulla, Plutarch “avoids a facile judgement of dismissal”.51 This is a technique which “leaves the reader in just the sort of hermeneutic limbo that Plutarch often cultivates”.52 Despite the scarcity of miracles in Plutarch’s biographical writings, their treatment is significant. Writing about personalities of a remote past, for whom folktale and legend was part of the tradition, the biographer attempts to reduce the presence of myth following the usus of Greek historiography. He regularly applies distancing devices, while at the same time, he exploits the aesthetic potential of inherited anecdotal material in order to suggest an interpretation of the narrative which serves his ultimate aims. Focalization becomes a valuable tool which allows him to suggest possible ‘readings’ in an indirect way which does not contradict his philosophical principles. Besides, in the Life of Romulus he also resorts to philosophy, in order to make his legendary material compatible with a platonizing doctrine which could by appealing for his contemporary readers. This excursus guarantees a ‘meaning’ beyond the epistemic value of the anecdote. In the case of more recent historical figures, Plutarch avoids the reporting of miracles, with a notable exception: He tells a story about Pyrrhus’ healing powers. The story associates the hero with Alexander and the traditions of Hellenistic monarchy. In parallel, it probably balances a story disseminated by Flavian propaganda, namely that Vespasian had performed miraculous healings in Egypt. At any rate, Pyrrhus’ healings are open to interpretation. Healings are ultimately

50 Duff 2000, 101–130; Lamberton 2001, 73. 51 Lamberton 2001, 96. 52 Lamberton 2001, 99.

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events of such a kind that the reader can decide whether they can be classified as miracles or not.53

Epilogue Greek biography is a genre which is hybrid and derivative.54 It is the author’s choice to style himself as a narrator or as collector; as a researcher or as a reporter of traditions; to follow novelistic or historical guidelines. If historical biography developed last as a written genre and its subject was bounded in historical time, the biography of poets and philosophers strongly depended on oral biographical traditions which were shaped according to the rules of folktale legend. Miracles were a customary component of such traditions. They mainly concern birth, death, initiation, and confirmed the otherness of the intellectual and his ambiguous status within the group. Since the emergence and standardization of antiquarian biographies in the middle of the 4th century BC, miracle stories have been amply utilized, together with other anecdotes, in various types of biographical literature; hence, biography “came to occupy an ambiguous position between fact and imagination”.55 Depending on the authors’ ideology or philosophical preferences, miracles were either rationalized or treated in a way which subordinated the question of their historicity to the aesthetic aspects pertinent to their use in the new context. Therefore, miracles in biography should not be treated as facts which have to be accepted or rejected, in the same sense as in Christian literature; they are primarily signifiers of messages beyond historical truthfulness. At the same time, miracle stories corroborate the text’s implicit rhetoric. Rationalization and authorial indications of reservation are constant tenets even in biographies which are concerned with “holy men” (apart from purely novelistic works as Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius or the Life of Aesop); the latter category became fashionable since the 2nd cent. AD and has restored old traditions which have been adapted in a new literary framework. The

53 Cf. also Twelftree’s general observations on miracles 2011, 12: “Perhaps, then, a miracle can only be perceived (or not) and interpreted against an existing world view – faith, religion or community – and its set of perceptions. In other words, perhaps, a miracle is no more than my way of seeing as extraordinary what another sees as ordinary”. 54 On this trait cf. Schepens’ comments on the derivative character of paradoxography; Sche­ pens/ Delacroix 1996, 389–390 and 409. 55 Momigliano 1971, 46.



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increased presence of supernatural agents will prepare the emergence of Christian biography and the triumph of miracles.

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Regine May

Apuleius on Raising the Dead Crossing the Boundaries of Life and Death while Convincing the Audience Abstract: This paper discusses the blurring of the differences between necromancy and resurrection from apparent death in Apuleius’ works, focusing on the necromantic tales of Socrates and Thelyphron in Metamorphoses 1 and 2, and two episodes where doctors wake supposed corpses from coma (Met.10.5–12 and Florida 19, on Asclepiades of Prusa). The necromancers and the doctors are portrayed similarly, while verbal allusions between all four Apuleian episodes enhance the confusing effect. The behaviour of the comatose and the necromantically revived dead is similar, too, and their appearance is often undistinguishable, mystifying their audience as to their exact nature. Surprisingly, the biaiothanatoi Thelyphron and Socrates both speak, but the two comatose patients do not, although they are alive. Other contemporary texts (Philostratus VA 4.45; Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri 26–27) do not blur this boundary and use speech to mark revived comatose patients as alive. Apuleius’ boundary-blurring is unsurprising in a novel featuring Isis, a goddess who herself crosses the border of life and death in her myth. During his Isiac mystery initiations, Lucius, too, experiences death and rebirth and keeps mystical silence about the initiation process. This cross-over of miracles and medicine is therefore Apuleius’ preparation of his readership for the end of the novel.

Introduction1 In Apuleius’ novel Metamorphoses or The Golden Ass, wonderment is a key concept, which touches upon the plausibility and fictionality of the in itself unbelievable plot.2 Already its prologue solicits admiration for the story and promises ut mireris, exordior (“So that you may marvel [sc. at the metamorphoses in this novel], I shall begin”). The second century, as the works of Phlegon of Tralles

1 I am very grateful to my colleagues Roger Brock and Malcolm Heath, who read earlier drafts of this paper, and Maria Gerolemou for inviting me to contribute to this volume. 2 See May 2013, 94 and 144 on wonderment as a leitmotif of the Metamorphoses, ní Mheallaigh 2014, 142 on the reader’s involvement in the creation of the novel’s fiction. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-018

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or Lucian show, was especially interested in wonders; its audiences enjoyed spectacles and the worlds of magic and fiction coalesced, and the fictitious became problematized at least in some works of the period.3 Magical and medical treatments coexisted to a certain extent, and are never diametrically opposed to each other.4 Apuleius, too, moves within the fictitious and the magical, and his characters question the veracity of magical phenomena in the same breath as discussing the nature of fictionality. The focus is on the visual nature of these phenomena,5 and Apuleius’ characters, too, discuss the credibility of miraculous or magical events based on what they can see or hear. Wondering at miracles is especially associated with the magical content of a novel which describes the experiences of the young man Lucius, who is transformed into a donkey by magic after some encounters with witches. In the last book of the novel, the goddess Isis turns him back into a human being, and a grateful Lucius becomes her devoted priest. One of the novel’s specific set of miracles is the raising of the dead. I shall analyse the novel’s two main necromantic scenes, the tales of Socrates and Thelyphron in books 1 and 2,6 and two episodes describing a doctor raising a supposed corpse from apparent death in Apuleius’ works in Metamorphoses 10.5–12 and Florida 19, and the importance and reactions of the internal audiences to these actions. Furthermore, I will end with some suggestions on how Apuleius’ deliberate and unusual blurring of both necromancy and apparent death is important to our understanding of the novel as a whole. Hitherto, no analysis of necromancy and resurrection of the “dead” in Apuleius has focused on comparing the two concepts. At first glance, they are very different, as necromancy calls the souls of the deceased back to their bodies temporarily in order to answer pressing questions that the necromancer might

3 See ní Mheallaigh 2014, 261–277; Hansen 1996, 10. Lloyd 1979, 5 points out the “increase in magical beliefs and practices” in the 2nd century AD. 4 See Lloyd, 1979 41–49. 5 See e.  g. Hardie 2009, 4, with examples. 6 The summons of a female ghost in Met. 9.29–30 in order to kill a man is not a necromancy in the strict sense. The ghost, used as a nekydaimon or magician’s demonic helper, does not speak and murders her victim behind closed doors, a victim who then subsequently appears to his own daughter in a dream to reveal the story of his own murder to her (Met. 9.31). Consequently, this story is excluded from the present discussion, although it reinforces some of the conclusions, namely the intentional blurring of boundaries between the living and the dead throughout the novel. For general similarities between the story of Socrates (Met. 1.11  ff.) and this one cf. May 2013, 40, for the nekydaimon and necromancy in PGM, see Pachoumi 2011 with further reading. For examples of spells for acquiring a magical assistant, see e.  g. PGM I.1–42 and I.42–195.



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have, whereas the raising of a comatose sufferer is more permanent and not linked to prophecies. Still, both concepts miraculously cross the boundaries between life and death and need practised professionals (necromancers and doctors) to make it happen. Whereas this boundary is fluid in the spells collected in the Greek Magical Papyri (PGM), it is usually quite carefully observed in literary texts, which portray necromancy as infrequent, transgressive and harmful.7

The Death of Socrates (Met. 1.11–14; 17–19) The first necromancy of the novel is the death of Socrates and his subsequent return as a ghost (Met. 1.11–14; 17–19). At this stage of the novel, Lucius, still human, encounters two travellers who quarrel over the credibility of the story one of them has just told the other one; Lucius urges the narrator to repeat his story and promises to believe him, regardless how incredible it might be. The narrator, who reveals himself during the story to be called Aristomenes, tells Lucius (and the reader), the story of how he unsuccessfully tried to save his friend Socrates from the witch Meroe. The tale is usually seen as a warning to the novel’s protagonist Lucius not to meddle with witchcraft, and its setting and description are closely comparable to necromancies portrayed in other authors;8 like these, it is performed secretively in private, by evil witches, and has entirely negative connotations, although the prophecy itself is conventionally always true.9 While fleeing from Socrates’ partner Meroe, a dangerous and adulterous witch, the friends Aristomenes, who had aided and engineered Socrates’ escape, and Socrates stay at an inn. In the middle of the night two witches, the vengeful girlfriend and her sister, break into their room, ritually slaughter Socrates with a sword, tear out his heart, and put a sponge in its place, before they disappear

7 See Betz 21992, xlvii: “The underworld deities, the demons and the spirits of the dead, are constantly and unscrupulously invoked [i.  e. in PGM] and exploited as the most important means for achieving the goals of human life on earth. […] there is a consensus that the best way to success and wordly pleasures is by using the underworld, death, and the forces of death.” 8 Argued convincingly in Slater 2007, who recognised that the story of Socrates shares its necromantic themes with the story of Thelyphron. Resurrecting the dead for necromantic purposes appears elsewhere in ancient novels in Heliod. Aeth. 6 14–5, see Slater 2007. 9 True necromancies: Artemidorus Oneirocritica 2.69 (but cf. Stramaglia 1990, 192–193 and Ogden 2001, 232 for a discussion of counterexamples; the general idea of truthfulness however still holds). For a typology of necromancies, cf. Slater 2007, 61 (on Heliod. Aeth. 6.15), Ogden 2001.

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without leaving a trace. Aristomenes can only watch in horror.10 The inn’s doorkeeper, alerted by the noise of Aristomenes’ subsequent failed suicide attempt, breaks into their room. Unexpectedly, Socrates wakes up and has no memory of the night’s events. He then speaks scathingly of disreputable innkeepers in Met. 1.17, in earshot of both Aristomenes and the doorkeeper, whom he mistakes for an innkeeper (hospes): “Nam iste curiosus dum inportune irrumpit – credo studio rapiendi aliquid – […] marcidum alioquin me altissimo somno excussit.” “For instance that curious fellow, when he rudely burst in – I believe with the intention of stealing something –, shook me […] out of a very deep sleep, although I was really quite worn out.”

The speech works on several levels for the two people who hear it – the presumably baffled reaction of the doorkeeper is not recorded, but as Socrates suggests he may have wanted to steal something, the doorkeeper cannot have been pleased with Socrates’ accusation. Only for Aristomenes, and only at second glance, is the truth of what Socrates says detectable: the witch who broke into their room in the night is indeed an innkeeper (caupona, Met. 1.7) and has indeed stolen something from Socrates – his blood and heart. The witches, who are aware of Aristomenes’ presence and debate briefly whether they should kill him or not, accept him as an accidental witness for their necromantic sacrifice, although they do not specifically court witnesses for it, not being interested in any prophecies the revived corpse might utter. They need Socrates to be able to walk away from the murder scene to protect themselves, and Aristomenes alive to bury the body afterwards. The witch herself had never spoken to Socrates directly, whereas she had addressed her sister, Aristomenes and the sponge, which makes the doorkeeper the first person to address the dead Socrates directly, which results in his awakening and speech. Aristomenes does not realise that Socrates’ words are a necromancy and accepts Socrates’ speech as clear evidence that he is alive and well, and that the content of his speech is irrelevant.11 In both cases the reverse is true. Although Aristomenes half admits to himself that the events at night were real – in Met. 1.17, he correctly blames the fact that he is covered in the urine of the witches,

10 See e.  g. Met. 1.13 tremore viscera quatior “my insides were shaking”. Unless indicated otherwise, all translations are my own. 11 Met. 1.17: Emergo laetus atque alacer insperato gaudio perfusus. – “I emerged happy, swiftly, and drenched with unexpected joy”.



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who had urinated on him in order to perform a binding spell – neither he nor the doorkeeper engages with what Socrates has to say. Socrates’ necromancy is incidental, not the primary purpose of his revival, but truthful, despite its apparent triviality. Later on, Socrates resumes his journey together with Aristomenes. Dumbfounded, Aristomenes says nothing to Socrates about the previous night, hoping that it all had been a nightmare.12 Socrates, however, craves food and drink, and Aristomenes unknowingly feeds him food reminiscent of sacrifices to the dead.13 As soon as Socrates bends over to drink from a river, the sponge falls out and he dies again. The clotted nature and scarcity of the blood he sheds near the river is evidence that he had been dead for a while already (Met. 1.19). Aristomenes can only bury his dead friend.14 It turns out in retrospect that Socrates was a ghost, since the witches had killed him, though, as a Greek ghost with corporeality he was not necessarily recognisable as a ghost by his appearance,15 and he needed sustenance. This makes everything he said between waking up in the morning and his second death a necromancy, which displays all the telltale signs: his cruel death is a prerequisite, since it had allowed him to become a biaiothanatos, that is a person killed before their time by violent means; so are the ritual sacrifice, the cutting open of his throat which partly severs his head,16 and the replacement of his heart with a sponge (Met. 1.13).17 All these elements can be paralleled from other Greek and Roman literary necromancies.18 The story of Aristomenes is embedded in a Russian-doll-like version of storytelling. Although Aristomenes himself does not comment on its incredible nature,

12 Met. 1.18 extrema somniasti “you had a horrible nightmare” (Aristomenes addressing himself). 13 Milk, water and cheese, cf. May 2013, 186. 14 On the importance of burial to avoid the return of the dead as a ghost: Felton 1999, 9–11, Felton 2007, as Thelyphron and Socrates are both biaiothanatoi (having died violent deaths); both men ultimately receive a funeral, which avoids the fate of becoming nekydaimones, such as the female ghost (larva) in Met. 9.29, who is conjured up by a witch and sent to murder a man, see further May 2013, 39–40. 15 Compare e.  g. Phlegon of Tralles’ Philinnion, whose lover was unaware that she was actually a ghost (Mir. 1). 16 Phlegon Mir. 2 shows a similar phenomenon, when the head of a dismembered baby delivers an oracle. Compare also the ghost in Luc. 6.813 and Aeson in Ov. Met. 7.285–93 with Ogden 2001, 202–203, 214–215, and 140 on the expectation of truthfulness of this kind of prophecy; May 2013, 38–39 (with more examples). 17 Met. 1.13.7, with May 2013, ad loc. 18 See above footnote 6.

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Lucius does so immediately, confessing that he believes in the impossible (Met. 1.20): “Ego uero” inquam “nihil impossibile arbitror, sed utcumque fata decreuerint ita cuncta mortalibus prouenire: nam et mihi et tibi et cunctis hominibus multa usu uenire mira et paene infecta, quae tamen ignaro relata fidem perdant. “I believe nothing to be impossible, but whatever the Fates might decree, that in its entirety happens to mortal men. For me and you and all men experience many wonderful and almost impossible things, which still, when told to some ignoramus, lose their credibility.”

This introduces gullibility, naivety and curiosity as Lucius’ pervasive character traits.19 When Aristomenes tells the story to a credulous Lucius, another, sceptical, traveller is present and makes it clear to Lucius and the readers of the novel that he does not believe this kind of absurd and incredible tale.20 Met. 1.20 “Nihil”, inquit, “hac fabula fabulosius, nihil isto mendacio absurdius.” – “Nothing is taller than this tale, nothing more absurd than that lie.” He does not distinguish between lies and the absurd, which reflects the novel’s overall approach to fictionality. Only very belatedly does Aristomenes’ own audience recognise what has happened, and even then not everyone who hears the tale is convinced. Again the difference in his audience’s reaction is illustrative of the likely attitudes of the credulous Lucius and the likely more sceptical reader. Aristomenes’ audience here is split into one believer (Lucius) and one doubter (the unnamed travel companion). Although there is no ultimate proof at that stage of the novel that Aristomenes has told the truth when we hear him telling the story to us and Lucius without comment on its veracity, it becomes clear later on that witches indeed act like Aristomenes described them, which suggests that the story Aristomenes has told is true, and that Lucius was right to believe the story despite its obviously incredible and absurd nature and the scepticism of part of its audience.21 The sceptical internal audience in Apuleius reflects a possible initial attitude of the reader of the novel to miracles in general: scepticism about the reality of necromancy and temporary revival of the dead. In order to appreciate the novel’s plot, or even consider its truthfulness, with its witchcraft and transformation

19 Lucius continues to act like a credulous fool throughout the novel, and is often the implicit butt of the author’s jokes. For a discussion of Apuleius’ contemporary Lucian displaying faux– naivety in his work to deride gullibility, see Nesselrath 2013. On Lucian’s character, see most recently Harrison 2015. 20 Met. 1.3; 1.20. 21 Apuleius thus problematizes the “willing suspension of disbelief” required of readers of the fantastic; see Nesselrath 2013, 42 for an application of the term to Lucian.



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of people into animals, this kind of disbelief needs to be suspended. Important and identifiable observers (Aristomenes, Lucius) are eventually convinced of the veracity of the story, and of necromancy. The readers of the novel, too, may, as it were, move from the attitude of the more sceptical companion to that of Lucius, and, in the interest of enjoying the story, should accept the possibility that the miraculous tale of witchcraft and necromancy may be true, at least for the time they are reading the story of Lucius in the Metamorphoses. By adapting their belief in the possibility of miracles in the novel, the novel’s readers are drawn into the plot and prepared to accept the presence of miracles like necromancy in the novel as “true”. This kind of splitting the audience into a sceptical and a trusting part, as a ploy to manipulate the readership, becomes more pronounced in the Apuleian necromancy that follows, and time and again it is the part of the audience that believes the miracles to be true that is shown to be closer to the truth and whose attitude the reader is exhorted to emulate. The sceptical audience reaction to the talking ghost is an integral part of the novel’s concept.

The Tale of Thelyphron (Met. 2.21–30) The Tale of Thelyphron (Met. 2.21–30) is again a story told to a still human Lucius by its anti-hero, and it again functions as a warning for the protagonist not to meddle with witchcraft. Lucius is a guest at his aunt Byrrhaena’s dinner party, and the other attendants urge a fellow guest to tell Lucius (and thus the reader) his own story. The guest called Thelyphron obliges, and tells a complicated tale of his adventure as a guard for a corpse, also called, as he belatedly found out, Thelyphron. Thelyphron the first person narrator, he explains to Lucius, was hired to guard the corpse of a dead man the night before the funeral in order to prevent witches from stealing the corpse’s body parts. At night, despite all efforts to stay awake, he fell into what was probably a magically induced sleep after seeing a weasel unsuccessfully try to break into the room shared by him and the corpse (Met. 2.25).22 He suspected it to be a witch transformed into an animal, but could not keep awake. In the morning, the corpse seemed undisturbed; Thelyphron received his reward, but when the corpse’s funeral procession commenced, it was interrupted: the uncle of the dead man accused the corpse’s young widow of having murdered 22 Metamorphosis is a common feature in ancient literary witchcraft: Pamphile becomes an owl (Met. 3.21), compare Moeris in Verg. Ecl. 8.97–99 (wolf).

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her husband “to indulge her adulterous lover and to rob [sc. the deceased’s] inheritance” (in adulteri gratiam et ob praedam hereditariam; Met. 2.27).23 He then asked Zatchlas, an itinerant Egyptian priest,24 to perform a necromancy in front of the assembled mourners to find out the truth about his nephew’s death by recalling him from the dead for a very brief time (Met. 2.28): Da breuem solis usuram et in aeternum conditis oculis modicam lucem infunde. – “Bestow a short borrowing of the sun and pour a small measure of light into the eyes closed for eternity.” Zatchlas performed a complicated Egyptianising necromancy there and then, and, unusually, in full public view and broad daylight; he put a “little herb” (herbulam) in the mouth and on the chest of the dead man, and the corpse reluctantly revived (Met. 2.28): propheta sic propitiatus herbulam quampiam ob os corporis et aliam pectori eius imponit. – “Thus propitiated, the prophet put a certain little herb onto the corpse’s mouth and another one on its chest.” These details are not attested for Egyptian ceremonies, but here resonate with the magical ceremony in Met. 1.13, where a sponge is used.25 Observing the complicated ritual with awe and admiration, the audience anticipated a great miracle in response, and got it:26 the corpse woke up. The dead man chided the priest for recalling him from the Underworld, and needed to be threatened with the Furies before he “with an innermost groan agreed to address his audience”: imo cum gemitu populum sic adorat (Met. 2.29).27 He dramatically revealed that he has been poisoned by his wife. His audience was in two minds whether they should trust him or not.28 Some believed him immediately and “wished to bury the widow alive together with the corpse of

23 Inheritance is also a possible motif in Florida 19, as we shall see below p. 367. 24 On the possible but problematic Egyptian origin of the name, which adds exoticism and mystery to the character, see e.  g. Stramaglia 1990, 170, who also discusses other Egyptian prophet– priests in the novels pp. 163–170, such as the evil Paapis in Antonius Diogenes, or Tinouphis in the “Tinouphis” fragment PMich inv. 3378. 25 It may recall the Egyptian ceremony of the “opening of the mouth” during burial; cf. the discussion in Stramaglia 1990, 182–186; van Mal–Maeder 2001, 374, with further bibliography, on similarities and differences. 26 Met. 2.28: venerabilis scaenae facie studia praesentium ad miraculum tantum certatim arrexit. Miraculum, used here, is in poetry associated with magical feats. Van Mal–Maeder 2001, 375 compares Hor. Epist. 2.2.208  ff; Apul. Apol. 43 magorum miracula, the “miracles of the magi”. 27 Corpses in necromancy may be reluctant to speak, especially in magical papyri: Stramaglia 1990, 188–191 and 208–209 compares Luc. 6.720–25; Heliod. Aeth. 6.15 1, and Rufinus hist.mon. 9.4.7. 28 On the respective credibility of visual and aural witnesses and the trust put into them in the Metamorphoses, see May 2007, on religious fraud in second century AD, see Petsalis Diomidis 2010, 53  ff.



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her dead husband, others professed that a corpse should not be believed.”29 The corpse verified his claims by revealing what had happened to Thelyphron, who was to guard him at night, and who had fallen asleep.30 It turns out that both the corpse and his guard share the same rare name (Thelyphron), and when the witches summoned the corpse by his name to the door so that they could cut off his nose and ears, the sleeping Thelyphron responded a little more quickly to hearing his name and had his body parts cut off instead and replaced by wax models (compare Socrates’ heart replaced by a sponge). On hearing the corpse reveal this, the living Thelyphron touched his nose and ears, and they fell off, verifying the corpse’s statement. On this note he ends the retelling of his life story to Lucius at the dinner party, and everyone else apart from Lucius, instead of being horrified, again breaks into raucous laughter. This story shares many similarities with that of Socrates discussed earlier:31 both tales are told to a still human Lucius by the persons directly affected by them, both have several levels of believing as well as sceptical audiences to the necromancies, and both corpses, it turns out, had been murdered by their adulterous women. Socrates and Thelyphron both visit the town Larissa in Thessaly, the ancient centre of magic and witchcraft (Met. 1.7 and 2.1). Zatchlas and the witches, as it becomes clear, are foils of each other – they have similar abilities, but use them for opposite ends.32 There is some linguistic overlap between these passages, too,33 directly inviting us to compare their content and structure. For example, in Met. 1.17 Aristomenes tries to embrace and kiss Socrates after discovering he is “alive” (deosculabar amplexus “I embraced and tried to kiss him”); the same word is used in Met. 2.26 when Thelyphron’s wife embraces and kisses him (deosculata) and in Met. 2.28 when Thelyphron’s uncle kisses Zatchlas’ hand in supplication (deosculatus).34 Thelyphron breaks out into a cold sweat when the corpse reveals his mutilation in Met. 2.30 (frigido sudore defluens), just as Aristomenes in Met. 1.13 does when he realises the witches might attack him, too (sudore frigido […] perfluo). Aristomenes is asked by Lucius in Met. 1.4 to “retell his story” (fabulam remetire), and Lucius’ hostess and aunt Byrrhaena asks Thelyphron the same in

29 Populus aestuat diuersa tendentes, hi pessimam feminam uiuentem statim cum corpore mariti sepeliendam, alii mendacio cadaueris fidem non habendam. 30 Winkler 1985, 110–115 sees this episode as a game of storytelling. 31 As has been noted for a long time, cf. De Jonge 1941, 5. 32 Seelinger 1981, 97. 33 On Apuleius’ method of structuring his narrative via mirror scenes: May 2006, 182–187; Frangoulidis 2008. 34 See below p. 372 for further verbal echoes between the scenes.

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Met. 2.20 (fabulam … remetire). In Met. 1.5 Aristomenes swears by the all-seeing Sun that his story is true before he begins to tell it, in Met. 2.22 it is however claimed that witches generally can cheat the eyes of the Sun, just before Thelyphron begins his nightly watch. Witches are called sagae (lit. “wise women”) in Met. 1.8 and 2.21. In Met. 1.10 the crowd asks for a witch to be stoned, in Met. 2.27 Thelyphron’s widow is threatened with stoning by the audience as punishment for her crime. Both Socrates’ murder and Thelyphron’s mutilation take place at night. The rare nocte intempesta “in the dead of night” appears in both Met. 1.10 and 2.25 (the time the weasel arrives), the similarly rare introrumpere “to burst in” describes sudden entrances into rooms where witchcraft took place in Met. 1.17 and 2.26. In ipso momento – “in that very moment” occurs only twice in Latin, in Met. 1.17 and 2.20, alta nocte “in the middle of the night” describes nightly scenes in Met. 1.17 and 2.25. Similarly, superruere “to collapse on top of someone” is used in Met. 1.16 for Aristomenes falling on top of Socrates’ body, and only once again in extant Latin literature, in Met. 2.26, to describe Thelyphron’s widow throwing herself over his body. In Met. 1.17 and 2.26 both Aristomenes and Thelyphron are “drenched” in a joy (percussus) that will turn out to be false. More examples could be added, but it is clear that the two scenes are intended to correspond with each other. Both scenes describe an absurd and incredible feat of witchcraft which is victorious over the hapless antiheroes who live to tell the stories (Aristomenes and Thelyphron), and both scenes are retrospectively verified by the events of the story which happen to Lucius, once he himself encounters powerful witches who transform him into a donkey. Like Aristomenes and Thelyphron, he eventually escapes from the consequences of witchcraft a very much changed man. Part of the audience in the dead Thelyphron’s case is highly sceptical. It is his revelation that his widow gave him a “poisoned drink” (noxio poculo, 2.29) which causes that scepticism. The crowd unusually discusses whether ghosts should be believed or not (Met. 2.29): Populus aestuat diuersa tendentes, hi pessimam feminam uiuentem statim cum corpore mariti sepeliendam, alii mendacio cadaueris fidem non habendam “The people seethed, torn into different directions. Some said that this evil woman should immediately be buried alive together with the body of her husband, others that no trust should be put into a corpse’s lies.”

Evidence that his speech is indeed a true necromancy needs to be found.35 The audience believes the corpse only after they have heard him reveal the truth about

35 Having to provide proof in these circumstances is not unusual, cf. e.  g. Heliod. Aeth. 6.14.



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the other Thelyphron’s encounter with witchcraft and witness his fake waxen ears and nose fall off. Both Thelyphrons are alter egos of each other to the extent that the necromantic mutilation happened to the living Thelyphron and not to the dead one, an unusual and unexpected variation on the theme, and a theme that conflates the living and the dead. Liminal situations of this kind are frequent in the Metamorphoses:36 for instance in Met. 1.14 Aristomenes describes his deadly fear during the encounter with the witches as an experience resembling his own death and rebirth. Apuleius, well known for constructing these kinds of echoing parallels within his novel, plays with his readers a game of recognition and variation  – and here he blurs the boundaries between life and death precisely in scenes where these boundaries are crossed. In Thelyphron’s case the audience is told to expect a necromancy before it takes place, even though the setting is unusual: during daylight and in front of a mass audience. The audience, split in its reactions, first questions the reliability of the accusations of the resurrected corpse (Met. 2.29), only to be convinced in the end of its veracity. The dead Thelyphron can speak, and utter necromancies, because, just like Socrates before him, he is a biaiothanatos.37 Had Thelyphron not been prematurely murdered, Zatchlas would have been unable to revive him temporarily. People who die of natural deaths are not resurrected for necromancies. Like Socrates’, the dead Thelyphron’s ability to reply in the first place and astonish and divide their audiences is dependent on, and at the same time constitutes proof of, his murder. Thelyphron’s resurrection by the Isis priest Zatchlas results in the truest form of necromancy despite its unusual elements, such as the outsourcing of the mutilation to the namesake, and the necromancer, who is not a witch with evil objectives, but a (for all intents and purposes) benevolent Isis priest who helps to reveal (for a fee) the circumstances behind a murder. Since knowledge about necromantic procedure was widespread in antiquity, Apuleius’ readers will have known Socrates and Thelyphron to be truth-telling ghosts. Again, the internal audience’s reaction drives the reader’s response to the miracle: in the end, nobody doubts that Thelyphron’s corpse has indeed been resurrected temporarily as they can hear him speak,38 which is a step up from the story of Socrates whose necromancy is initially unrecognised and ignored. Since the living Thelyphron runs away in terror after his mutilation has been revealed 36 May 2013, 34–35. 37 For the term and its meaning, see above p. 357. 38 Slater 2007, 64 suggests that the audience in Met. 2 might at first suspect the priest of ventriloquism, which would cause their sceptical reaction. The story of the living Thelyphron’s mutilation however proves that ventriloquism is not causing the corpse to speak.

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by the corpse, we never discover for sure whether the corpse’s story has swayed the audience to believe the murder conspiracy story,39 but we can presume it did. Just as Aristomenes’ story about Socrates’ necromancy is retrospectively verified by events, so the dead Thelyphron’s tale is confirmed by the living Thelyphron’s visible loss of body parts. A little later, both stories are again verified by Lucius’ own transformation. Again it is implied that Lucius should be wary of encounters with beautiful women who may well be witches with deadly powers. Lucius, although he believes the story, does not act accordingly, and he is ultimately turned into a donkey by a witch. Again, the scepticism of the members of the audience at all levels (the actual audience of the necromancy as well as the audience of Thelyphron’s story during the dinner party where Lucius hears his tale) may reflect the educated reader’s initial reaction to the miraculous events, but the plot forces readers to abandon any such doubt and accept (for now) the reality of magic and necromancies. When ghosts talk, they speak the truth – and they talk a lot in this novel. Furthermore, the story of the two Thelyphrons makes one more important point. When a witch performs a ritual at night to summon the corpse to her so that she can mutilate it, it is the living Thelyphron who responds more quickly to her call in his deathlike sleep, as the corpse explains (Met. 2.30): postremum iniecta somni nebula eoque in profundam quietem sepulto me nomine ciere non prius desierunt quam dum hebetes artus et membra frigida pigris conatibus ad artis magicae nituntur obsequia. hic utpote uiuus quidem sed tantum sopore mortuus, quod eodem mecum uocabulo nuncupatur, ad suum nomen ignarus exsurgit, et, in exanimis umbrae modum ultroneus gradiens … “At last, they covered him with a cloud of sleep and buried him in deep slumber. Then they did not stop calling me by my name until my lifeless joints and cold limbs were struggling in sluggish attempts to comply with their magic art. But since this man [i.  e. the living Thelyphron] now was alive, but only in a deathlike sleep, because he had the same name as me, he unconsciously arose at the sound of his own name and walked on his own accord like a lifeless shade.”

The fact that the living yet supernaturally sleeping man gets up more quickly than the dead corpse, who also stirs but is not fast enough, shows that the living and the dead respond in the same way to a necromantic summons by a practitioner. Only here the living react more promptly, as logically could be expected. Curi-

39 See further Slater 2007, 65; Stramaglia 1990, 195; Winkler 1985, 76 and Drake 1977, 6, 10 on the corpse’s reliability.



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ously, in Met. 1.17 it is Socrates who gets up first in the morning, not Aristomenes, who may be under a binding spell just like the living Thelyphron, and is resembling a corpse in his sleep.40 It appears that both the living and the dead magically obey the same type of summoning spells, and in exactly the same way, and it is unpredictable who reacts more speedily, the merely sleeping or the dead. The dead speak (and speak the truth, even when the audience is sceptical), whereas the living appear motionless and often silent. To this could be added the blurring among the performers of the miracles, between evil witches and benevolent priests. This unpredictability is also important for our discussion of the raising of the merely comatose in Apuleius, which shares many important characteristics with the two necromancies just analysed. Despite obvious similarities, there are some differences between Socrates’ necromancy and Zatchlas’ resurrection of the dead Thelyphron. Necromancy is normally a shady business, mostly performed in private, with as few witnesses as possible.41 Zatchlas, on the other hand, has to perform the miracle in broad daylight and must avoid any association with witchcraft in order to avoid negative consequences for himself. He is accused of theatricality and showmanship by some scholars because of the public nature of his performance42  – but this does not sufficiently account for the unusual situation: this is not a performance primarily for financial gain or entertainment, but for publicly finding the truth in a murder case; similarly, Zatchlas does not force the gods (though his threat of the Furies indicates he might be able to!), nor does he want to cause harm.43 All this distinguishes him from normal necromancers and witches. In contrast to Socrates’ incidental necromancy, Thelyphron’s revival absolutely needs a large audience in order to achieve the required consequence, the trial of Thelyphron’s wife for murder. It is neither shady nor private, but as public as possible. Necromancy enters the courtroom, so to speak, and is the prerequisite of discovering the murderer of Thelyphron via somewhat unconventional,

40 See May 2013, 173 for the Scheintod motif raised here. 41 The necromancies in Heliod. Aeth. 6 and Luc. 6 are watched by very few people only, while the agoge in PGM IV.2006–2125, which involves a physical resurrection of a dead body, starts at sunset (IV.2039–42; see Pachoumi 2011, 733–734). 42 Stramaglia 1990, 186–188 associates Zatchlas less with priests here but with magical charlatans; Van Mal–Maeder 2001, 375 notes that during Imperial times goetes (magicians) performed in public. The scholarly debate on Zatchlas often focuses on whether he is a goes or a theios aner – but he is clearly intended to be both at the same time. 43 See also Seelinger 1981, 15, who argues for a religious as well as magical dimension of Zatchlas’ actions.

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absurd, means. Furthermore, the presence of a large audience and the performative nature of the daylight operation associate Zatchlas with another profession: doctors. Elsewhere Apuleius carefully distinguishes between the two professions, since magicians or evildoers (magi et malefici, Apol. 51), he says, are unable to cure diseases, but here Zatchlas affects, as we shall see, some behaviour associated with doctors. Apuleius avoids referring to Zatchlas in any negative terms. He is a propheta primarius, a “first-rate prophet”, quite a positive assessment44 (2.28), and “priest”, sacerdos, who rightfully deserves his large reward for revealing the truth. His positive intention and large reward become even more important when doctors performing apparent miracles or raising the “dead”, comatose patients, receive similarly split audience reactions to their entirely benevolent actions, and large sums of money, too. In fact, Zatchlas’ “miracle”45 is in many ways more similar to what Romans at the time might have thought of as a not completely unheard-of non-magical but medical intervention: namely the revival of apparently dead people, who turn out to be not dead at all but only comatose or sleeping. Technically, we have already looked at one of them, as the living Thelyphron, suffering from a witch’s binding spell, resembles in many ways his dead alter ego, and reacts just like him while supernaturally fast asleep – just a little more quickly. It is an unsettling element of the novel that both ghosts and the comatose can be raised, and that there is no clear distinction between either in the methods applied. Two further events show remarkable similarities with the two necromancies discussed so far; one example is again from the novel, the other from one of Apuleius’ speeches, and both feature large audiences in the daylight.

Asclepiades of Prusa and His Comatose Patient (Flor. 19) In a fragment of a speech collected as one of the purple passages in the Florida (no. 19), Apuleius describes how the famous doctor Asclepiades of Prusa46 saves a man, who was wrongly believed to be dead, from his funeral pyre. It allows 44 Stramaglia 1990, 173–176 (who compares Heliodorus’ Kalasiris); van Mal–Maeder 2001, 368. 45 His audience expects a miracle (miraculum) in 2.28. 46 Asclepiades, Apuleius says, innovatively heals people with wine applied at just “the right moment” (in tempore). Apuleius uses the famous story of his reviving an apparent corpse as an example of finding this right moment.



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us to explore the background to the medical aspect of calling back the dead or comatose to life. This story, also mentioned briefly and without details in Celsus and Pliny the Elder47 (possibly Apuleius’ source), is justly famous.48 Apuleius’ version is by far the most elaborate, and, as many vignettes in the Florida, embellished to the extent that it appears novelistic. Other segments of the Florida resemble scenes in the Metamorphoses closely.49 Thus, it is legitimate to look at the Florida passage as a fictionalised version of a famous event that was well known to Apuleius’ audience, taking Florida 19 as a normative portrait against which the description of a rescue from apparent death in the novels can be compared, providing an ideal version of events. This medical intervention shares many aspects with the more fictionalised necromantic revivals of the dead in the novel. The doctor Asclepiades encounters a well-attended funeral procession (Flor. 19.2). Curious, he tries to find out whose funeral it is. Not having received any answers for his questions from the large crowd (quoniam percontanti nemo responderat), he steps closer to the bier and inspects the corpse laid out for cremation. The body is already covered in spices, and the mouth is smeared with sweet-smelling ointments, and almost ready for the pyre.50 Apuleius is deliberately vague on how Asclepiades discovers through certain signs (quibusdam signis animaduersis) that the “corpse” is still alive, to give his doctor a more mysterious aura. Surprisingly, like Zatchlas, he meets with resistance from sceptical mourners when he wants to revive the “corpse” (Flor. 19.7): murmur interea exortum; partim medico credendum dicere, partim etiam inridere medicinam. – “In the meantime, a murmur arose; one part of the crowd said that the doctor should be believed, but the other part mocked medicine.” Again an audience is torn between different opinions: some are willing to believe the doctor’s statement that there are signs of life, others view all doctors with contempt. Proof is required, just as in the investigation of Thelyphron’s death. Not only does Asclepiades need to show that doctors can be trusted, he even needs to persuade the relatives of the man to be buried to allow him to try to treat him – Apuleius gives two different reasons for their reluctance. He suggests that they either may have already distributed the “corpse’s” considerable inheritance among themselves (quodne iam ipsi hereditatem habebant; compare the

47 Celsus, De Medicina 2.6 15; Plin. HN 7124 and 26.15. 48 See further Harrison 2000, 125–126; Hunink 2001, 196–201 on Florida 19 and the fame of Asclepiades in antiquity. 49 For example, the description of Lucius’ journey in Met. 1.2 resembles very closely a journey described in Florida 21; see further May 2013, 101 for discussion and further literature. 50 Flor. 19.3: iam miseri illius membra omnia aromatis perspersa, iam os ipsius unguine odoro delibutum, iam eum pollinctum, iam paene paratum.

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inheritance-driven greed of Thelyphron’s widow in Met. 2.27 which drove her to murder him),51 or (again) may simply not trust Asclepiades (an quod adhuc illi fidem non habebant). It is likely that Apuleius added these details himself to the story he found in Celsus and Pliny.52 This scenario therefore closely resembles Zatchlas’ incredible act, with the crowd watching in broad daylight, the suspicions of inheritance fraud, and the crowd’s distrust of the practitioners’ professionalism. Furthermore, both bodies have already been carried outside for burial or cremation when the necromancer or doctor intervenes, and herbs have already been placed over the body of Asclepiades’ patient and into his mouth in preparation for the pyre, which echoes Zatchlas’ use of the mysterious herb (herbulam) which he places into the dead Thelyphron’s mouth and on his chest.53 The actual natures of Zatchlas’ herb and of the drug Asclepiades uses to awaken the “corpse” (quibusdam medicamentis; “with certain drugs”) are deliberately left vague. Zatchlas’ untypically well witnessed revival of Thelyphron was needed to provide evidence that would stand up in court against Thelyphron’s widow. But this time it is not a necromancer, but a doctor who is doubted by his audience. As there is overlap between Apuleius’ portraits of necromancy and medical treatment, the practitioners are conflated, too,54 and amongst the practitioners, as we have seen, the scale ranges from evil witches to benevolent priests. Asclepiades seems to be aware how close his role might be to the necromancers’, and he tries to lessen the similarities, only to inadvertently stress the blurring of the two, often opposing, professions: a miracle-working priest begins to resemble a doctor (Zatchlas), and a doctor resembles miracle workers (Asclepiades). A further careful distinction must be made between the restoring of the continued life of an apparently dead person and the temporary resurrection of an obviously slaughtered corpse for brief necromantic purposes. The fact that the patient is not seen to speak exculpates Asclepiades from any assumptions that this is indeed a magical necromancy, despite, at least in Apuleius’ version, worrying similarities with necromantic stories in the novel blurring the picture. Accordingly, from the start he had enquired about how the patient had died, possibly to make sure that the patient’s “death” had occurred naturally and was not the result of violent death or murder (and thus susceptible to necromancy like 51 In adulteri gratiam et ob praedam hereditariam; transl. above p. 360. 52 See above footnote 47 for references. 53 Hunink 2001, 200, too, points to the parallel in Met. 2.28. 54 This is not the place to discuss how Apuleius, who himself dabbled in medicine as well as witchcraft, identifies with Asclepiades here; for an exposition of this problem, see Harrison 2000, 125–126 and Hunink 2001, 196–201.



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Thelyphron’s or Socrates’). Asclepiades has to make certain that his professional treatment of the patient cannot be mistaken for necromancy by his audience – the patient has not undergone a necromantic sacrifice, nor does he speak, as a necromantic body does. A large part of the audience distrusts medicine in general (partim etiam irridere medicinam) or specifically Asclepiades (illi fidem non habebant), and Asclepiades needs to prove himself to be right there and then, and immediately; he is granted “a short moment to act on behalf of the dead man” (breuem mortuo dilationem). Asclepiades, surprisingly, does not work in public but brings the corpse home, and revives him there (Flor. 19.7): uelut ab inferis postliminio domum rettulit confestimque spiritum recreauit, confestim animam in corporis latibulis delitiscentem quibusdam medicamentis prouocauit. “He brought him home as if back from death and without delay restored his breathing, without delay he coaxed out the soul that was lurking in the hiding places of the body with certain drugs.”

Asclepiades clearly protects his reputation as a serious practitioner, as well as his professional secrets, when he gives his patient privacy. Still, exactly by acting secretively here, he adds what appears to evoke a magic-necromantic flair to his use of mysterious medicines, a practice Asclepiades was not really associated with.55 At the same time, avoiding a large audience associates him with the usual secretive methods of necromancers. Furthermore, Asclepiades’ patient is never seen to address the audience, whereas both ghosts in the novel speak. The ultimate reaction of the audience to Asclepiades’ success is not preserved – possibly because of the fragmentary nature of Florida 19, but also because the patient had been removed from the crowd’s immediate scrutiny. For the doctor, a moving, living patient is proof enough; for the necromancer, a speaking ghost at times may be mistaken for being alive. In Apuleius’ treatment of the stories, speech or its absence becomes significant for audiences to assess the situation and status of the speaker and the practitioner: ghost or ex-comatose patient, necromancer or healer. The audience is often divided, and Apuleius manages to convince his readers to accept that both necromancy and apparent death and revival are possible and real, at times may look deceptively similar, and both blur the boundaries between life and death.

55 As previously noted, he was famous for treating his patients with wine; see further Hunink 2001, on Florida 19.

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The Doctor and the Drugged Boy (Met. 10.5–12) Let us return briefly to the Metamorphoses for our last example of apparent death. The reviving of the young boy in Met. 10.5–12 also involves a wise doctor and an apparently dead “corpse”, who, fortunately, had been buried and not cremated, and who will be rescued from his grave, with obvious similarities to the Asclepiades episode as well as to the necromancy scenes of the novel. The doctor had been approached on behalf of the boy’s mother who wanted to purchase a deadly poison. She intended to kill another victim when her own son accidentally drank the potion. As the doctor himself reveals dramatically during the trial of the victim’s stepbrother, who had been accused of murdering the boy (Met. 10.8), he had sold the mother a sleeping potion instead of poison, due to his belief that medicine should be beneficial to people and not destroy their lives (Met. 10.11 dedi uenenum, sed somniferum, mandragoram illum grauedinis compertae famosum et morti simillimi soporis efficacem. – “I gave him a poison, but a sleep-inducing one, mandragora, famous for causing proven heaviness, and sleep very closely resembling death.”56 The boy, who has already been buried by his grieving father, he reveals, is not dead, only drugged. The doctor continues that, if the boy is found alive in his grave, then this in itself is proof that he had drunk the doctor’s mandragora potion, and therefore what the doctor says is true (Met. 10.11).57 It is in the end not the doctor but the boy’s father himself who races to the tomb and rescues him after the doctor’s revelations, just as the boy regains consciousness (Met. 10.12): pater […] commodum discusso mortifero sopore surgentem postliminio mortis deprehendit filium eumque complexus artissime, uerbis impar praesenti gaudio, producit ad populum. “The father […] came upon his son just when he had shaken off his deadly sleep and was rising up, back from the dead. He embraced his son as tightly as possible, unable to find words suitable his present joy, and showed him to the people.”

The involvement of the doctor here consists of changing deadly for soporific poison; consequently the revival is not medical, although the drugging itself had been, as the boy simply wakes up as his rescuers arrive. Still, his acts and revelations save the boy’s life. The doctor’s claims are proven to be truthful by the mere fact that his patient is alive and moving.58 The murderous woman is put on trial.

56 For a discussion of the ethics involved, cf. May 2014, 117. 57 See also Winkler 1985, 76–80. 58 The doctor goes out of his way to ensure his actions are within the law and stand up in court:



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Still, as in his portrait of Asclepiades’ situation, Apuleius here manipulates his readers through clear similarities with both the necromantic wonders in the novel and the portrait of medical intervention in the Florida. Like Asclepiades’ intervention, the episode in Met. 10 takes place in broad daylight and in front of a large crowd, and for a benevolent purpose. The scenes also share some linguistic similarities, indicating Apuleius saw them as connected: Met. 10.12 corpus pueri depositum (“the boy’s body lay buried”) echoes Florida 19’s prope deposito “almost buried”.59 At the same time, there are some remarkable similarities between Met. 10 and the Zatchlas episode, which suggests an intentional echoing of a necromancy in an apparent death scenario. Both the doctor and the necromancers are experts, and in their own ways able to raise the “dead” to prove the truth for a noble purpose and the common good.60 Like the Zatchlas episode, the context is an attempt to find justice for a murder victim, and again a large crowd watches in open daylight as events unfold, as “no councillors, no noblemen, and no member of the general public” stayed behind (Met. 10.12): Nemo de curia, de optimatibus nemo ac ne de ipso quidem populo quisquam. The “grasping of knees” in supplication, though a commonplace trope, unites Met 2.28 (the uncle supplicates Zatchlas genua contingens) and Met. 10.6 (the boy’s father: genua … contingens). The father’s urgency to snatch the boy’s soul from the Underworld, Met. 10.12 discusso mortifero sopore surgentem postliminio mortis deprehendit filium echoes Zatchlas’ work:61 Met. 2.28  … reducere paulisper ab inferis spiritum corpusque istud postliminio mortis animare – “… to lead his spirit back from the underworld for a little while and to reanimate his corpse back from death.” Both times the rare word postliminio is followed by an even rarer genitive construction with mortis. The young boy in Met. 10.11 has drunk a poison that makes his sleep resemble death: uenenum … somniferum, … et morti simillimi soporis

for example, he intervenes before the jury casts the first ballot which would make the judgment irreversible (Met. 10.8); he tricks the purchaser of the poison into locking the money into a bag with his personal seal so that he can later be identified (Met. 10.9), and only at the very last moment reveals his exchange of the poisons in Met. 10.11 as proof that he tells the truth. See further Zimmerman 2000, ad locc. for legal detail, and Lloyd 1979, 39 on Greek doctors’ anxieties not to be associated with charlatanery. 59 Some more are noted in Slater 2007, 63, footnote 14 and Hunink 2001, 199. 60 See also Seelinger 1981, 211–212 and Stramaglia 1990, 200. 61 Translated above p. 370. Apuleius’ lost novel Hermagoras fr. 8 pollincto eius funere domuitionem paramus “after we had readied his corpse for the funeral we prepared to go home” might provide another instance of a similar situation, but the context of the mysterious fragment is obscure.

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efficacem,62 just as the living Thelyphron was caught (Met. 2.30) “in a death-like sleep”, sopore mortuus. There are also connections between Met. 10 and Met. 1. The awakening of the young boy from his deadly sleep protinus marcido sopore discusso remeabit ad diem lucidam – “forthwith he will shake off his weary sleep and return to the light of day” (Met. 10.11) echoes Socrates’ description of his own awakening from death in the early morning in Met. 1.17 marcidum alioquin me altissimo somno excussit – “he shook me, weary as I was, out of a very deep sleep”, again indicating that the echo is intentional. Thelyphron’s terrified cold sweated trembling in Met. 2.30 (frigido sudore defluens) anticipates the cold sweat of the slave in Met. 10.10 (frigidus sudor), and even recalls, as previously noted, Aristomenes’ shaking in Met. 1.13 (sudore frigido … perfluo). Again, more connections between the three Metamorphoses passages could be added.63 Met. 10 is the only scene under discussion here where the crowd has no doubts that the patient is alive and the practitioner is acting honourably and because of ethical reasons, but still the boy needs to be displayed as evidence in front of a large audience to convince them entirely, as this is a court case that is scrupulously conducted within the parameters of the law. The boy does not speak at all throughout the scene, and as a sufficient proof that he is alive, he is brought to court. Neither father nor son have to speak in the court room (or are heard speaking during the rest of the story), to achieve the conviction of the real murderers. Despite the presence of a huge crowd, no audience reaction is described at all, instead the narrative turns to the punishment of the evildoers. The crowd must have been completely convinced. The boy is evidently alive. His father, who had thought he had lost both him and his brother, who will now not be executed for murdering the boy after all, can celebrate this feat in metaphors of death and rebirth that we have come to expect from Apuleius’ picture of this kind of scene (Met. 10.12): qui momento modico immo puncto exiguo post orbitatis periculum adulescentium duorum pater repente factus est. “who after a small amount of time, or rather in an instant after he had been in danger of childlessness, was suddenly made the father of two young men.”

62 Translation: above p. XXX (14). 63 For example, van Mal–Maeder 2001, 379, who also lists some of these echoes, discusses allusions to the Underworld scenes in Aeneid 6 in both the Thelyphron episode and Met. 10.



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In court, though, the boy is still wrapped up tightly in his funerary clothes (Met. 10.12 ut erat adhuc feralibus amiculis instrictus atque obditus  … puer), thus at least optically conflating the dead and the living. Not even the reactions of their audiences distinguishes the dead and the living from each other  – what does, however, is their ability and willingness to speak.

Blurring the Boundaries between Life and Death It should have become clear that Apuleius intends the three episodes in the Met. to be read together, and very likely informed by the description of a normative rescue from “false death” like the fictionalised account of Asclepiades’ intervention in Florida 19. In the case of the novel, Apuleius ensures that there are strong links between all three passages, which invites a close comparison of the similarities, but also, again, of the differences. The dead resemble the living, and vice versa, and in appearance they are the same. Like Zatchlas, the Met. 10 doctor is richly rewarded; self-interest on the side of necromancers and doctors is condoned. Zatchlas conducts his necromancy for a large fee. It is not uncommon for holymen at the time to command fees for their troubles; the situation for doctors is more complicated: the contemporary famous doctor Galen did not demand fees, but accepted a “reward” from a wealthy patient.64 Asclepiades acts without ostentatious self-interest, but his actions will increase his fame and thus his marketability, and taking fees and looking after one’s own interests is common to performers of necromancies and medical treatments. That the presence of an audience for necromancies is important for the communication of the truthful prophecies goes without saying. But the audience reaction to the miracle is also crucial. Belief needs to be won by verification, it is

64 This is a somewhat contentious issue, but the payment of fees to doctors is common: Lucian Philops. 14–16 satirises the practice and compares them to magicians – both command high fees. See also Luchner 2004, 377–379 for the juxtaposition of magic and medicine in Lucian; Plin. HN 29.7 suggests that Greek doctors command large fees. Strabo, Geography 4.1.5 notes that in Marseille both doctors and sophists are hired on the public purse. For Galen’s practices, cf. Mattern 2008, 4 and 83 (fees); p. 16 (teaching in public); p. 143 (treating patients more privately in their bedrooms or baths – a practice which still allowed for an audience, with friends and servants present). Taking fees is a characteristic of magicians (Stramaglia 1990, 176–79; with further examples). Van Mal–Maeder 2001, 369 sees this as a negative character trait of Zatchlas’, and she argues for a deterioration of the depiction of his character from noble priest to magician. On greedy and generous doctors, cf. Zimmerman 2000, 159.

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not granted automatically. Internal audiences may be repelled by what they see or doubtful for entirely selfish reasons (such as inheritance hunting), but in the end, both magicians and doctors prevail in either achieving a successful necromancy or revival from apparent death. It seems that, just as the appearances and behaviour (as it were) of the dead and the comatose are strikingly similar in some terms, the actions and the tools of the doctor and the necromancer are in many ways similar, too. The border between death and life is entirely blurred. The most important difference occurs in the reaction of the person who is revived: in Apuleius’ necromancies the corpses speak the truth to the doubtful crowd, whereas people wrongly classified as dead but woken up again by the skill or faithfulness of a doctor do not speak at all. The revived comatose do not communicate, it is only the ghosts who do. But both groups require belief from their audiences. This curious reluctance on the side of Apuleius to portray the revived comatose as speaking is contrary to the description of other false deaths healed by holymen or doctors in comparable literature, where the patients speak immediately to prove they are alive: Apollonius of Tyana revives an apparently dead bride who was about to be buried (Philostr. VA 4.45), by merely touching the girl and whispering over her body.65 She rose and spoke up loudly to the surrounding mourners. The Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri, a later novel, is remarkably close to Apuleius’ description in Flor. 19. In its chapters 26–27 it is again a doctor (a young student of Chaeremon of Ephesus) who revives the heroine from apparent death while she is already placed on her funeral bier. As soon as he realises she is still alive he removes her to his own room and revives her there by rubbing her with warmed oil.66 She wakes up and speaks immediately, even though “with a soft and trembling voice” (leni et balbutienti sermone),67 to advise him that she is of royal blood. The fact that the two women are alive is already proof, but the climax of the narrative in each case is that they address the audience of their revival. Apuleius’ revived victims are silent. Apuleius clearly chooses to deviate from the pattern the other novelists (and novelistic texts like Philostratus’) display. Unlike them, I would argue, Apuleius deliberately confuses the distinctions between the living and the dead, and between necromantic resurrection and medical intervention, a boundary that is not crossed in the other texts. Philostratus, for example, takes great pains to

65 Philostratus claims aporia whether this was a Scheintod or the revival of a dead body. 66 In Artemidorus Oneirocritica 4.82 an apparently dead person is revived with warm oil, too. 67 For parallels in the Greek novels of revived people speaking immediately after discovered to be alive, cf. Kortekaas 2007, 398.



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demonstrate that Apollonius of Tyana does not perform magic, but miracles as a theios aner.

Isis Mysteries and Lucius’ Initiations: Crossing the Boundaries The feats of witchcraft Pamphile and her sisters can perform are expressed in the manner of adynata; in Augustan literature, as Hardie 2009, 4 argues, adynata “assert the stability of order”; in Apuleius’ novel, they however constantly threaten the order of the cosmos that only Isis in the end, who herself is able to perform adynata of this kind, can guarantee and protect in her role as a saviour goddess, who also turns Lucius back into a human being. Apuleius’ idiosyncratic treatment is therefore perhaps not surprising in a novel which concludes with the repeated intervention of Isis, a boundary-defying goddess of medicine and healing who herself commands power over the Underworld and the stars, and who herself has been credited with reviving the dead. She raised her murdered husband Osiris, and according to some stories, even her dead son Horus, from the dead.68 Isis, the goddess who deliberately crosses these borders between death and life, also repeatedly requires initiations from Lucius during which he himself has to blur these boundaries, only to bear witness to his readership about his initiation afterwards. He describes his mystery initiation in terms of stepping across the threshold between near-death and return-to-life, an experience, he reassures us, is true (Met. 11.23):69 crede, quae uera sunt. Accessi confinium mortis et calcato Proserpinae limine per omnia uectus elementa remeaui. “Believe me, because these things are true. I approached the boundaries of death and, having stepped onto the threshold of Persephone, I travelled through all elements and returned.”

Consequently, Lucius associates his own experiences with those he previously described in the novel: for him, too, the boundaries between life and death are 68 Isis raises Osiris as well as Horus from the dead in Diod. Sic. 1.25.6. Further evidence collected e.  g. in Merkelbach 1962, 68–69. 69 In Met. 11.23 Lucius describes how during his initiation ritual he crosses the threshold to Persephone’s Underworld and feels reborn; in Met. 11.21.7 Isis can draw those to her cult who were “on the very threshold of their final days”. Compare also Psyche’s own descent into the Underworld (Met. 6.21), with Zimmerman 2000, 183.

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blurred, just as in the stories of Socrates, the Thelyphrons and the young boy in Met. 10, as he experiences death and rebirth as an initiate into the cult of a goddess who herself presides over magic and medicine. It is Lucius, initiated into the Isis mysteries and living in Rome as her priest, who tells us the story of his life; The Metamorphoses is written in the first person, in his own words. Ultimately we are his audience, and may perhaps not initially believe this tale of a young man turned into a donkey and rescued by Isis. The tale’s wondrous nature is intended to educate us in the miraculous nature of Isis’ actions. With the stories of Socrates and Thelyphron we however saw how initially sceptic audiences, including us readers, were persuaded they were hearing the truth, and the last story of revival in Met. 10 ends with a crowd’s universal belief in the “miracle” they witnessed, the saving of the boy. The importance of silence to mystery initiations may also explain our Apuleian anomaly, where the living do not need speech to bear witness and convince their audiences. Although Lucius claims to be telling us candidly what happened to him, and reveals much about his experiences during the initiations, he still remains silent, and explicitly so, about what happens in the actual moment after he himself steps over the boundary between life and death. The description of crossing Persephone’s threshold is immediately followed by a vow of silence, since the uninitiated are not allowed to share this knowledge sine piaculo, “without atonement” (Met. 11.23). He denies his audience the ultimate knowledge and remains silent about the details of his initiation. His combination of loquaciousness and silence is intended to convince his readers into discarding any scepticism, and into believing his story. Apuleius’ story of the boy in Met. 10, who stepped close to that blurred boundary of life and death, ended atypically in the silence of the revived victim, just as Lucius, too, remains silent about what actually happened to him on that initiatory journey. His silence echoes the boy’s, but what he is able to divulge to his readers is true, like the necromancies of Socrates and Thelyphron. Like the revived boy in court, Lucius’ mere presence and silent display of himself in the temple to a large audience in Met. 11.2470 functions as proof of his salvation, the veracity of his initiation, and of the stories he is prepared to tell us. Isis also provides the first instance that a god speaks to Lucius directly in the novel; all other gods, despite his prayers, remain silent. Necromancy is no longer

70 Sic ad instar Solis exornato me et in uicem simulacri constituto, repente uelis reductis, in aspectum populus errabat; “After I had been decorated in that way in the likeness of the Sungod and set up in the place of a statue, suddenly the curtains were drawn back and the crowd walked round to see me.”



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needed by Lucius to find out about the wishes of the supernatural, he can now communicate directly with the gods through prayer and their response, but does not have to divulge everything he does in the process of communicating with them to the audience.

Conclusion The necromantic stories in Met. 1 and 2 are unusual, since Lucius is still human and can actively solicit their telling by requesting them from their narrators; Lucius the donkey is afterwards merely a passive audience to most other inset tales in Met., when he overhears what his long ears manage to catch. These stories therefore help more so than the later inset tales to characterise Lucius and to discuss the credibility of supernatural stories in the novel. Similarly, more than other inset tales in the Met. these stories illustrate the central importance of wonder and the credibility of stories in the novel. They are not only mere warnings not to dabble with magic, they also cut to the point of Lucius’ rescue by Isis and how credible the reader might find this miracle. I hope therefore to have shown that the miraculous tales of necromancy and apparent death in the Metamorphoses, which at first appear to be entertaining but self-contained, are not only connected to each other via recurring and interlacing motifs, but also function as a preparation of Lucius’ own near-death experiences during his initiations in Met. 11, and underpin the trustworthiness of the narration of his own salvation through Isis and his subsequent initiations into the Isis mysteries. The stories Lucius hears about necromancies, deaths and resurrections, which on the level of the story are proven to be true, prepare him for his own even bigger miracle, an encounter with the goddess, and the reader has to accept Lucius’ metamorphosis and retransformation as just as “true” within the story as the necromantic miracles. Furthermore, the unusual blurring of life and death, and of truthful necromantic prophecy and revival from apparent death, serves to comment favourably on Lucius’ own, comparable, experiences during his mystery initiations. This blurring of the boundaries is also possible because magic and medicine are blurred categories in the novel, which reflects attitudes in Apuleius’ contemporary society; their methods may overlap, and both their audiences need convincing of the practitioners’ benevolent nature and ability to make a difference. These miraculous stories of death and revival are therefore an essential and important structural principle of the novel.

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Bibliography Betz, H. D. (1992), The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation. Including the Demotic Spells, (2nd ed.), Chicago. De Jonge, B. J. (1941), Ad Apulei Madaurensis Metamorphoseon librum secundum commentarius exegeticus, Groningen. Drake, G. C. (1977), “The Ghost Story in The Golden Ass by Apuleius”, Papers on Language and Literature 13, 3–15. Felton, D. (1999), Haunted Greece and Rome. Ghost Stories from Classical Antiquity, Austin. – (2007), “The Dead”, in: D. Ogden (ed.), Companion to Greek Religion, Oxford, 84–99. Frangoulidis, S. (2008), Witches, Isis and Narrative. Approaches to Magic in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Berlin. Hansen, W. (ed.) (1996), Phlegon of Thralles. Book of Marvels. Translated with an Introduction and Commentary, Exeter. Hardie, P. (2009), “Introduction. Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture”, in: P. Hardie (ed.), Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture, Oxford, 1–18. Harrison, S. J. (2000), Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford. – (2015), “Lucius in Metamorphoses Books 1–3”, in: S. Harrison (ed.), Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Nine Studies, Newcastle upon Tyne, 3–14. Hunink, V. (2001), Apuleius of Madauros. Florida. Edited with a Commentary, Amsterdam. Kortekaas, G. A. A. (2007), Commentary on the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri, Leiden. Lloyd, G. E. R. (1979), Magic, Reason and Experience. Studies in the Origin and Development of Greek Science, Cambridge. Luchner, K. (2004), Philiatroi. Studien zum Thema der Krankheit in der griechischen Literatur der Kaiserzeit, Göttingen. ní Mheallaigh, K. (2014), Reading Fiction with Lucian. Fakes, Freaks and Hyperreality, Cambridge. Mattern, S. P. (2008), Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, Baltimore. May, R. (2006), Apuleius and Drama. The Ass on Stage, Oxford. – (2007), “Visualising Drama, Oratory and Truthfulness in Metamorphoses 3”, in: V. Rimell (ed.), Seeing Tongues, Hearing Scripts: Representation and the Modernity of the Ancient Novel, Groningen, 86–105. – (2013), Apuleius Metamorphoses. Book 1. With an Introduction, Translation and Notes, Oxford. – (2014), “Medicine and the Novel. Apuleius’ Bonding with the Educated Reader”, in: M. P. Futre-Pinhiero/G. Schmeling/E. P. Cueva (eds.), The Ancient Novel and the Frontiers of Genre: Fluid Texts, Groningen, 105–124. Merkelbach, R. (1962), Roman und Mysterium in der Antike, Munich. Nesselrath, H.-G. (2013), “Wundergeschichten in der Perspektive eines paganen satirischen Skeptikers: Lukian von Samosata”, in: T. Nicklas/J. E. Spittler (eds.), Credible, Incredible: The Miraculous in the Ancient Mediterranean, Tübingen, 37–55. Ogden, D. (2001), Greek and Roman Necromancy, Princeton. Pachoumi, E. (2011), “Resurrection of the Body in the Greek Magical Papyri”, Numen 58, 729–740. Petsalis-Diomidis, A. (2010), Truly Beyond Wonders: Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asklepios, Oxford.



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Seelinger, R. A. Jr. (1981), Magical Motifs in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius, Diss. University of Missouri-Columbia. Slater, N. W. (2007), “Posthumous Parleys. Chatting up the Dead in the Ancient Novels”, in: M. Paschalis/S. Frangoulidis/S. Harrison/M. Zimmerman (eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel. Parallel Readings, Groningen, 57–69. Stramaglia, A. (1990), “Aspetti di letturatura fantastica in Apuleio. Zatchlas Aegyptius propheta primarius e la scena di necromanzia nella novella di Telifrone (Met. II, 27–30)”, in: Annali della Facoltà di lettere e filosofia, Università di Bari 33, 159–220. (= O. Pecere/ A. Stramaglia (eds.), Studi apuleiani, Cassino, 2003, 61–111). van Mal-Maeder, D. (ed.) (2001), Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Livre II, Groningen. Winkler, J. J. (1985), Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley. Zimmerman, M. (ed.) (2000), Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses Book X. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen.

Donald Lateiner

Recognizing Miracles in ancient Greek Novels Dis Manibus Georgia Machemer Minyard, Student of the Wanderer Empedokles τῆς τε ψυχῆς ἀλλοχόθεν ἡκούσης δεῦρο … Abstract: Ancient Greek novels deal in fantasies of horror and hope, mostly improbable possibilities such as survival of catastrophe and happy endings for the oft imperiled couple. Discussions of the nature of thaumata and the non-miracle miracle of “apparent death” (Scheintod) precede a survey of such happenings reported in the plasmata of Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesos, Achilles Tatios, Longos, and Heliodoros. Chariton’s “belief apparatus” allows Aphrodite’s interventions from afar, Xenophon reports several miracles baldly, Longos has many pastoral deities interfere in mundane matters, Tatios mocks miracles as he does so much else, and Heliodoros allows miracle-producing objects (a ring, an embroidered band), persons (thaumaturges), and nick-of-time divine redirections. At the same time this last author satirizes miracle-mongering charlatans (e.  g., Kalasiris) and credulous audiences (Hellenic and barbarian). The historicizing novelist gives limited but real credence to oracles, dreams, and deus ex machina theophanies. The essay examines contemporary Imperial texts addressing miracles such as Philostratos’ Vita Apollonii, Lucian’s Alexander and Proteus, and Christian Gospels and early hagiography. One concludes that miracles in the novel texts are rarer than one might expect, but they occur at a time in which miracles were (paradoxically) conceived to be ordinary, when few escapes from disaster were possible.

Introduction This paper reviews oracles, epiphanies, prophecies, probative and punitive nonnatural occurrences such as divine healings, and nigh-impossible collocations of persons that bystanders may deem to arise from the meddling hand of god.1

1 For example, the coincidence of Theagenes, Kalasiris, and Charikleia being present at Delphi, the first coming from Thessaly to compete in the contests, the second tarrying at length after https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-019

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The five preserved ancient Greek novels exhibit many unlikely, therefore “marvelous”, coincidences but few miracles by conventional definitions.2 The paper explores the vocabulary of miracle and miracle-workers and reasons for these novels’ inclusion of the miracles and their limited numbers. Reports of extra-human acts strike historians as well as Lukian as implausible distortions at best (e.  g., alleged revivifications), fraudulent at worst. Eyewitness or third-hand miracle claims in works of history, biography, and hagiography or other genres mistake perceptions or provide propaganda for a cause. Historians often distance themselves from accounts of miracles by expressing their own disbelief or reporting as hearsay or alleging possible bias, or suggesting an inference from coincidences.3 The skeptical, anti-supernaturalist paradigm provides the rule and expectation, and the historian’s one job is to tell the truth.4 Paradoxically, the novelists can and do include miracles, justified on the basis of historiographical precedent. What Lukian calls historians’ “lies” often are improbable or impossible events (in our opinion), and some of them are miracles. Ancient Publics (polytheists and monotheists) typically believed in extranormal causation, in divine interference disturbing or advancing earthly concerns. One sees evidence from magical curse tables,5 itinerant healers, prophets,6 leaving Egypt, and the third, a resident, visible as an officiant priestess during the festival procession and pageant (3 15). But apparent coincidence is actually providence in Heliodoros (Futre Pinheiro 1991, 375). 2 Petronius’ characters report supernatural confrontations or beliefs (witches, werewolves, magic potions, apotropaic words and deeds), but the “realistic” fiction has no miracles. Apuleius’ internal narrators and protagonist report, despite the “realistic” setting of the first ten books, many supernatural events, including a magical metamorphosis, a necromantic inquiry, revenant spouses, and several miracles, including divine epiphany in the last book. This paper, however, limits itself to the “ideal” Greek romances, an obsolete term that nevertheless signifies a real difference in their approach to divine interference in their plausibly recognizable settings. 3 E.  g., Herodotos on the phasma of Pan before Marathon (with intrusive oblique infinitives as well), e.  g., 6.105–6; Livy, despite his skepticism copied lists of prodigies: e.  g. 21.62; Tacitus on Vespasian’s healings: Hist. 4.81; Plutarch on a guardian spirit’s interfering vengeance after Caesar’s assassination: Caes. 69.2. 4 Lukian spells it out in “How to Write History” 39, and flagrantly contradicts his precepts in the “True Narratives” 1.23, 30; 2.11, 43, 46, etc. 5 Gager 1992 divides his survey of magic tablets by these defixiones’ various functions: protection, legal disputes, business success, sexual dominance, sports–cheating, death–wishes, etc. 6 Henrichs 2003 in an exploration of written sacred and secret discourses discusses the social context of prophets, oracle–mongers, and other human intermediaries, as we see them in plasmatic texts such as Aristophanes Knights and Birds (219) as well as in secret, unspeakable, allegedly sacred texts, oral and written. Such reports emerge earliest in Herodotos – where they are mostly Egyptian (2.51.4, 62.2, 81.2, see p. 235). They extend to the periegete Pausanias. He describes Aristomenes’ burial of a Messenian talisman (4.20.4), a rolled–up leaf of tin preserved



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Asklepian shrine testimonials and dedications (iamata), and noted weird coincidences.7 The novels do not present miracles to proselytize for any faith, as we have indicated above, anent Merkelbach’s thesis, but their plot possibilities benefit from the public’s credence in miracles. If nearly everyone believes in miracles, why not insert them judiciously while not exceeding the bounds of audience credence and comfort? Heaven’s hand can be light or heavy. Historical events have no monopoly on either ordinary or extra-ordinary events or outcomes;8 indeed, plasmaticists can invent events on historical stages as they wish. As Lukian [“How to write” 39) says of poets: ἡ ἐλευθερία καὶ νόμος εἷς – τὸ δόξαν τῷ ποιητῇ: their law and freedom is one: “the poet [or novelist] writes what he pleases.” Herodotos and Thoukydides contribute material, style, and tropes of expression to the ancient novel, as Lukian’s theory and Chariton, Longos’, and Heliodoros’ practice make clear. The earlier historian welcomes unnatural thaumata and the later largely rejects them. Both historians record occurrences beyond human control or prediction, in which perceptions of, and reactions to, these possibly supernatural events affected human lives. Such moments include not only eclipses and earthquakes (Thuc. 1.23, 7.50, 8.6), but unlikely coincidences and “incredibly” narrow escapes such as graced the Mytileneans and Syracusans saving them from disaster (3.49, 7.2). Since sober writers of history admit more than human phenomenal events and causes, novelists will not exclude them. Divine aid for the novels’ protagonists credentials their private rather than political and military survival and success. The possibility of the impossible (miracle)9 has its own gradations in

in a Messenian bronze jar. The Argive Epiteles has a prophetic dream that instructs him to dig up and save “the old woman.” The tin contains elements of the Andanian “Mysteries of the Great Goddess” (4.26.6–27.7). Such documents demonstrate desire for and reports of supernatural doings in antiquity and authenticate continuing rituals and texts (e.  g., Ant. Diog. in Phot. Bibl. 111a–b; Luc. Ver. Hist. 1.7, 32; 2.24, etc.). Pausanias’ “hermeneutic strategy,” in which the old woman, to readers’ surprise, turns out to be a jar, resembles revelations of secrets and unexpected outcomes in the novels, and only in the novels (Hutton 2009, 163–164). 7 Toppling and sweating statues, e.  g., Plut. Ant. 60, Liv. 23.31 15; same–day battles, epiphanies for men and women facing crisis situations. 8 τοῦ δὴ συγγραφέως ἔργον ἕν ––ὡς ἐπράχθη εἰπεῖν. Lukian (“How to write” 8). This severe but simplistic commandment is easier to endorse than to accomplish. Few, if any, ancient historians, while expressing skepticism or ignoring divine causes (Hdt. 2.131, 8.8, etc.; Thuc. 2.54, 5.26, 5.105; Liv. 3.5.14, 43.13; Tac. Hist. 1.86 1), explicitly deny the possibility of divine interference. One cannot logically rule it out, and believers are happy to rule it in. 9 Harrison 2000, devotes ch. 3 to Herodotos’ alleged miracles, whether the historian expressed personal awe or only offers reports about or from his sources or his characters or ethnic legend

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Herodotos from characters attributing direct divine involvement to puzzled victims of eye-disease (θειότερον ἐφαίνοντο τοῦ οἰκότος, 1.174), through unendorsed epiphanies (6.105: Pan’s query; 8.84), to the author’s grudging endorsement (θῶμα δέ μοι, 9.65.2, cf. 7.137, 9.100–1). “Miracle” apparitions at Marathon or Salamis (6.117, 8.38, 84), crisis phenomena, encouraged embattled and stressed beneficiaries, although the catastrophes seemed to be the result of human error and not supernatural or miracle aid to the losers. Such descriptions cannot prove no miracle occurred – that is beyond science, philology and logic, even if Herodotos, Thucydides and current historians discredit miracles. The novelists, however had no reason to exclude miracles, any more than dreams, or any more than our novels and cinema have reason to exclude premonitions, intuitions, dreams, or the “pathetic fallacy,” etc. These paranormal and psychic phenomena contribute to every era’s spiritual and spirit contacts. Academic historians do not represent even the current predominant view on the reality of supernatural interference: devils, god, unexpected “good luck,” and miracles. Before exploring examples, one notes a vital distinction between miracles alleged in historical, biographical, and hagiographical texts and those in the novels. The former class of accounts presents itself as non-fiction, accounts of reality in which miracles always face various degrees of skepticism from educated readers. The latter class of texts, however, presents itself as fiction, untruth, and therefore benefits from audiences’ willing suspension of disbelief, as in theatrical dramas or imaginative poetry. Even readers who reject the reality of miracles find satisfaction in the supernatural survivals of heroes. This volume’s editor, Maria Gerolemou, suggested one method for determining what constitutes a miracle: the nature of the perception of supernatural events depends on the “cognitive horizons of its receivers.” Thaumatologists come in two flavors: doubters treat miracle as a starting-point, and in the beginning admit bewilderment at inexplicable or divinely explained phenomena, but they struggle to master any phenomenon at issue and reclaim it for the natural world. On the other hand, admirers see the miraculous as an endpoint, a divine intervention sensible to humanity, deserving awe for itself rather than demanding doubt and a materialist explanation. Readers adjust expectations as they survey these “cognitive horizons,” however, and even a single mind shifts as it adjusts to a culture’s expectations for different patterns of perceived “real-world” events and literary genres. The paper divides into four sections. First, we indicate the kinds of supernatural interference that the novels allow. Second, we survey the five complete texts that survive,

(8.37–8, 55, 65; 9.120) or even fairy–tale (2.181.4, 6.61 “romantic”). Sometimes he simply denies miracle (1.60 & 182, 4.95, 8.94), neutrally or with a smirk.



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especially (third) Heliodoros’ for its richness in this respect. Finally, we briefly compare the functions of miracles in the Greek novels to those in other contemporary genres such as Apollonios’ biography, paradoxography, and Christian hero narratives.

The Nature of Novel Miracles Greek fictions (plasmata) exhibit one consistently expectable and final miracle. This inexplicable event is the eventual reunion and apparently eternal union of two young, heterosexual lovers who have been separated by external agents, heavy weather, bad luck, and their own dumb mistakes. If a miracle is, to use a comfortable definition, a “surprising and welcome event, not explicable by the laws of nature and therefore considered to be of divine agency,” these reunions, usually within a year and often less, qualify, initiated by the mythic, twenty-years later Ur-Reunion of Odysseus and Penelope. Parents and pirates, catastrophic sea-storms and slavery, torture and seduction, apparent death10 and unwanted spouses intervene in concatenated trials of will and enduring faith born of a mutual love at first sight and climaxing in forever-after, civically sanctified marriage.11 Another dependably appearing thauma, described as such in most miracles, is the unexpectedly preserved chastity of the painfully beautiful female, usually matched “symmetrically” by that of the male.12 Sexual integrity, in extreme perils, seemingly requires divine protection, a topos also in the lives of female Christian saints, for example, Thekla or Eutychia. The “twister” Charikleia’s virginity seems incredible to her captors, given her fatal beauty and opportunities of legal masters and lusty outlaws who control her person.13 Theagenes’ purity seems even more

10 See below for Scheintod. 11 These observations apply to the “Big Five” texts of Chariton, Xenophon, Longos, Tatios, and Heliodoros. See Konstan 1995 for a thorough treatment of their extreme but comparable male and female tribulations. 12 Tatios’ Kleitophon, an amusing exception, proves the rule asserting that his one–night stand in which he sexually serviced Melite was his self–sacrifice to help a needy woman (5.25.7–6.1). Konstan 1994, 52–53 examines the failure of sexual symmetry in the case of Tatios’ Kleitophon and his iffy–ness about the reality of male virginity (5.20.5, 8.5.7). 13 Létoublon 1993, 180–183 discusses the allure topos, separate from the topos of disbelieved virginity, e.  g. Aith. 10.7.8, Charikleia’s danger: ἐν τῷ κάλλει τὴν καθ’ ἑαυτῆς βίαν; Ach.T. 6.21, Leukippe’s would–be rapist Thersander speaks: Παρθένος; ὦ τολμης καὶ γέλωτος· παρθένος τοσούτοις συννυκτερεύσασα περαταῖς; κ.τ.λ. Cf. 8.6–7 where even Leukippe’s priest–friend and

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unbelievable, given the sexual double standard. Males enjoyed many more opportunities to “lose” their virginity, and faced few reasons not to do so.14 The issues of facts, truth, and testable assertions in these fictional texts differ from those treated in other essays in this volume. Contemporary academics may doubt the hundreds of miracle cures emphatically attested at Epidauros and other healing sanctuaries,15 raisings of the dead, bi-location of specially favored individuals, (pseudo-] epiphanies, or divine co-incidence in Herodotos,16 or in Livy’s annual prodigies, e.  g., talking oxen, monstrous births such as twoheaded calves or children, rains of blood in civic crisis, or in Pliny’s paradoxographic, “scientific” reports of dog-headed men, umbrella-footed and eight-toed, backward-footed “monsters” at the edges of the world known to Mediterranean peoples.17 Many individuals and groups in antiquity, however, did so believe – although other, rarer individuals in antiquity like Lucian and rational philosophers did not. We here examine the presence of miracles in the “ideal” romances, thaumata in plasmata. These fictions and related texts such as the sui generis Philostratos’ Life of Apollonios report unnatural events (see below). Which functions do miracle-stories serve in these Hellenic novels of long-frustrated, often long-unconsummated love?18 Literary functions of miracles in the Greek novels serve at least the following three aesthetic purposes. First, the well-known pleasure for readers in confronting vicarious perils, whether to life itself, or more precious sexual purity. Brigands, bureaucrats, and parents, shipwrecks and amatory rivals, threatened murder or sacrifice of the protagonists, while time is running out or space between them increasing, foil the natural lusty outcome of any love – sexual union. When and why does supernatural aid supplement limited human capacities, especially the very limited capacities of most novel protagonists?

father are dubious about her alleged virginity before she handily survives her judicial test, a virginity ordeal. Daphnis’ father Dionysophanes demands to know from his son whether his intended Chloe remains a virgin before he approves their marriage (4.31.3). 14 Aith. 10.9.1: θαυμασθεὶς  … τοῦ μεγέθους καὶ κάλλους καὶ ὅτι περ οὕτως ἀκμαῖος ἀνὴρ ἀπείρατος εἴη τῶν τῆς Ἀφροδίτης. 10.9.4; sacrifice naturally strikes him as an ironic and bitter reward for their virginal virtue. 15 Jouanna 1999, 195–199 offers a sensitive discussion of the sanctuary and its inscriptions in a chapter entitled “Hippocratic rationalism and the divine.” 16 E.  g., 1.60 [Phye] and 6.117 [Epizelos at Marathon], 9.100 [co–incidence of the battles of Plataiai and Mycale]. 17 Livy 24.10, 41.21.12, cf. 22.18; Pliny NH 8.183, 7.23–30, etc. See Delcroix 1996, 433–439 on Pliny 18 Cotter’s 1999 rich survey and sourcebook treats nature miracles, healings, and exorcisms, but she ignores the relevant evidence in the novels. Lane Fox 1986, 137–140, however, briefly surveys the theophanies of Greek fiction.



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Second, the pleasure of that suspense induced by protagonists facing apparently life-ending (or chastity-ending) threats must be resolved. Either deus ex machina miracles with antecedents in epic and tragedy (which Aristotle excoriates, Poet. 1454 b1–10), or other textually inorganic interceptors stymy villainous power, as if miraculously. The alternative, more common in the novels, is unexpected coincidence, just-in-time appearance of decisive information or improbable reuniting of the principals. Both outcomes, however, pleasure the reader’s mind. The virtuous are rewarded, the villains punished or forgotten. Third, the salvific powers of gods who preserve and protect the hero(ine) – a theme descending from Homeric epic itself  – shows divine favor to already humanly favored protagonists. Readers delight when otherwise admirable characters defeat vastly superior forces in a plausible facsimile of “real world” options. Such victories require clever strategists, such as Kalasiris outwitting Peloros’ pirates at the Herakleotic mouth of the Nile (5.30–2), sometimes aided by superhuman assistance. Many incidents in novels can be welcome and surprising turn-abouts (peripateiai), but still receive or welcome explanations arising from natural forces and human ingenuity  – paradoxa, thaumasta, and apista climb the ladder of unlikelihood. Aristotle prefers the plot-exhibiting logic of τὸ γίγνεσθαι τάδε διὰ τάδε to μετὰ τάδε. Propter hoc trumps merely post hoc. The formulation endorses rational, phenomenological consequence as superior to mere and inexplicable posteriority, irrelevant or miraculous. In this respect, Heliodoros proves superior to (say) Xenophon or Longos. When Xenophon’s crucified hero’s prayers are instantly answered, or Pan prevents Chloe’s abduction, the salvational miracles come “after,” but they constitute “out of the blue” miracles. Narrative thaumata crown Heliodoros’ denouement, the miraculous salvations provided by possession of the apotropaic stone (pantarbê) and embroidered band, and the grid-iron proof of Theagenes’ life-long virginity. The author planted the seeds of these narrative miracles long before, along with the prophetic, plot-determinative Delphic oracle,19 to soften and prepare audiences for their miraculous revelations. The witnesses to the long-ago transfer of identifying objects (and to the birthmark and maternally-impressioned white color of Charikleia), Persinna and Sisimithres, are “coincidentally” present for the climactic Aristotelian and Aithiopian anagnorisis and peripateia. The recognitions produce unexpected and fortunate

19 2.35–6. Another example of Heliodoran skeptical borrowing from Thucydides: ἄλλος γὰρ πρὸς ἄλλο τι τὸ λόγιον ἔσπα καὶ ὡς ἕκαστος εἶχε βουλήσεως οὕτω καὶ ὑπελάμβανεν echoes Thuc. 2.54.3 on human inclinations for how to interpret divine communications: οἱ γὰρ ἄνθρωποι πρὸς ἔπασχον τὴν μνήμην έποιοῦντο.

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coincidences. The upset in the expected outcome depends on, if not supernatural miracles, at least unlikely revelations and consequent salvations for the protagonists and the heroine’s family. By definition, any (divinely activated) miracle rips the fabric of human strategy and tactics. Thus, it comes after (post hoc), but it also comes because (propter hoc). Humans cannot predict or foresee such divine interference, except in retrospect. The divine arrangements and oracles that led to Oidipous killing his father and marrying his mother (of all people!) are not the subjects of Aristotle’s admiration in the Poetics, but Sophokles’ treatment of the humans’ discovery and responses, and the community fallout in Thebes to these otherwise inexplicable developments. Similarly Heliodoros provides the miraculously predictive oracle at Delphi and divine direction that leads to the (happier) outcomes in Meroe. But Heliodoros’ audience is more agreeable to miracles and magic stones in the action “on stage” than Aristotle claims to be. Aristotle endorses τὸ θαυμαστόν as ἡδύ (1460a17), creating an aesthetic of wonder.20 He recognizes and appreciates the cognitive and emotional aspects of the experience. But he prefers “credible impossibilities” to “unbelievable possibilities,”21 again parting company with the pleasures of the future Greek novels. There, unbelievable but remotely possible escapes from men and punitive deaths for crooks and lovers’ sanctioned reunions delight surprised readers with unfamiliar plots. There, the only ruling necessity is that reunion occur beyond reason (ἄλογα, 1460α26–7). Ps.-Longinos, probably with more elevated concepts than unravaged virgins or two-headed calves in mind, states of the marvellous (35.5) that “the unexpected always [attracts] our wonder” (θαυμαστὸν δ’ ὅμως ἀεὶ τὸ παράδοξον). The two theorists thus endorse this element of the novels before the genre existed as such. Although the novels’ invented plots never need divine agency and inexplicable miracles (they have their authors’ free hand), they usually do not dispense with them  – or not entirely. Why? When, where, and why do the imaginative novelists  – in complete control of their documentary “sources” and explanations  – include miracles among their events? To answer briefly, their intrusion

20 Hunzinger 2015 discusses wonder as an element of ancient aesthetics and enlightenment. Θαῦμα can evolve into σῆμα or πῆμα (431), as she illustrates from Hesiod’s kalon kakon, Pandora. Quack doctors gain admiration (Hipp. Anc. Med. 9, Sacr. Dis. 4). She points out disapproving Platonic discussions of charlatan illusionists, thaumatopoioi (Rep. 514b, Leg. 658c, Soph. 235b), but these tricksters are not the miracle–workers that we are concerned with. Mirage and wonders such as scene–painting entrap untrained minds (Rep. 602d). Sokrates states that philosophy begins in wonder (Theat. 155d). But Aristotle is readier to admit serious value in deceptions of art, seeing wonder and learning as legitimate pleasures (Po. 1448b9). 21 That is, ἀδύνατα εἰκότα to δύνατα ἀπίθανα.



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there either [a] answers consumers’ needs for marvel-titillation. Plausible impossibilities, ἀδύνατα εἰκότα (Arist. Po. 1460a26–27), are acceptable in certain circumstances (“justified error”), according to Aristotle, and among these situations would be moments where the author wants to show something most shocking or unnerving, ἐκπληκτικώτατα (Po. 1460b24–27). Thus the improbable or impossible can become acceptable in a context already absurd or beyond reason – as in tragedy’s mythical plots (see Winkler 2014: 570–72). Or [b], the miraculous intrusion conforms to another genre’s literary paradigm, such as paradoxography, or [c] responds to earlier pagan and Christian tales of divine hero or holy-man interference (aretalogy), divine appearance (epiphany), or martyrs’ tortures and escapes from captivity and/or into heaven (hagiography), or [d] miracles indicate some other external, ideological impulse behind the novels, such as folktale and propaganda for Isis, Yahweh, Helios, or other salvific deity.22 Before examining the miracles of each novel, a brief consideration of one kind of non-miracle, apparent death, may clarify the distinction. Scheintod tests the novelists’ own belief in miracles of resurrection in comparison to contemporary publics’ acceptance of the phenomenon.23 Literary, Scheintod mocks belief in a second life. In every example, and every novel has one, the character genuinely believed by others to be dead is in fact not dead (hence the name of the topos). Either the character has fallen into a coma induced by drugs or violence,24 or the evisceration death was only pretended  – with actors’ paraphernalia. The ekplêktikon staged disembowelment, paralyzes the narrator-lover Kleitophon but provides suspense and farce for the stunned, by now suspicious, or second-time reader.25 The heroine, who, of course, cannot be killed within this genre, comes back to life on the next page, the next day (M. Winkler (2014)

22 This last explanation seems to have become impossible to prove or disprove. Merkelbach 1962 most famously argued this approach, suggesting origins in several mystery cults, by looking at pagan and Christian aretalogies. This approach from religious studies sprouts an offshoot in Bowersock 1994, who thinks the miracles of the pagan novels may provide a counter–inducement for other deities, one that was directed against existing Christian hagiographic narratives. Beck 2003 surveys the mostly negative responses to Merkelbach’s thesis. 23 Needless to say, resurrection from the dead provides the central event and defining element of faith for this period’s new and successful religion, Christianity. It is another intersection between pagan and early Imperial texts, both salvific and entertaining. 24 Anthia in Xen. 3.5–8, Kallirhoe in Char.1.5–8, Tarsia’s mother in Ap. Rex T. 25–7. Longos (2.30 1–2) miniaturizes death, as all else. Daphnis falls into a faint and Psyche brings him back to life after Pan’s miracle of the ships. 25 Leukippe’s ‘scapegoat, AT 3.15–20, 5.7, and 8.15–16. The gruesome, apparent violation of the genre’s rules – the lovely heroine must live to the end and happily beyond – deserves Winkler’s comment (2014, 573) “nonsensical but clever and appealing in its ingenuity.”

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572–579). We escape one “dead end” but reach a second, when Kleitophon reasonably misidentifies another person, decapitated and thus really dead.26 Kleitophon buries a headless body with extended lament – he mistakes the headless female torso’s identity.27 Theagenes similarly laments over a lovely Greek-speaking female stabbed through the heart in another case of mistaken identity. In the dark of a cave, the murderer (Thyamis) and the discoverers of the body (Knemon and Theagenes) believe the Greek-speaking woman was Charikleia but ut it is only the corpse of Thisbe. The implied or credited resurrection of the dead heroines  – who are alive but misperceived  – mocks credulous belief in life’s vain hope and most important second chance. The popular quest and imagined realization of a second chance, another life, in magical and religious texts renders the topos eminently mockable. Other characters are presumed to be dead because of extended, unexplained absence, a not uncommon disappearance in antiquity, a bodiless variety of Scheintod.28 We briefly survey novel thaumata--events explicitly attributed to divine powers. Events designated as thaumatic are often no more than surprising or remarkable, or, as we say, “incredible.” Kallirhoe’s beauty resembles a goddess’s, for instance, but that radiance is not a miracle but hyperbolic vernacular discourse, as well as a literary topos, even a cliché of the genre.29 Characters in dis-

26 Leukippe in AT 5.7–8, Thisbe in Hld. 1.30, 2.3–6, 5.2–4. Leukippe’s mother dreamt of her daughter disemboweled early on (2.23), a variety of Apparent Death, and Thersander had his henchman falsely report Leukippe’s death to Kleitophon in jail (7.1). 27 In a metanarratival pointer to the absurdity of the miracle, Kleitophon’s friend Kleinias exclaims (7.6): “Who knows whether she will live again? Has she not died several times and several times lived again? Why die hastily? There is plenty of time to do that once you have discovered that she is really dead.” 28 Like the prototypical long–lost novel hero, Odysseus. Anthia and Habrokomes, Xen. 5.13; Chloe in Long. 4.35, perhaps only a manner of speaking; Thersander’s return, AT 5.23; Charikleia long lost but now found, Hld. 10.15–16. 29 E.  g., Char. 1.9.3, 14.3; 7.5.13, 1.1.1 – Kallirhoe’s beauty (cf Apul. Met. 4.28, Psyche at the outset of her inset tale: ut ipsam prorsus deam Venerem venerabantur). The comparison occurs in four of the five extant Greek novels (Edsal 117), at the beginning also in Xen. 1.2, Tat. 1.4. Heliodoros characteristically parodies the trope by having the Nilotic bandits inside the novel wonder whether the teenaged girl on the beach is the goddess Artemis or Isis, a possessed priestess, or even an animated statue (1.2–3). When she weeps over and kisses the half–dead young man, the criminals experience second thoughts (2.7 ἑτέρας ἐννοίας) and ask: ποῦ ταῦτ’ ἂν εἴη θεοῦ τὰ ἔργα; The bafflement echoes non–novelistic epiphany reports where mortals do not know what they encounter (Edsall 2001, 122). The comparison does not always occur elsewhere, when readers may expect it, notably when the Delphic crowd and Theagenes first see the beautiful girl dressed in priestly garb: 3.4. Longos’ outlier story eschews the comparison with a goddess altogether, although Chloe is certainly a “looker,” as all the men in her life realize. Dryas on



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tress often invoke Gods, but they rarely appear in person. Eros and Aphrodite in anger at slights originate erotic plots, or sub-plots, from afar, but they generally retire from further impulsions.30 Characters’ speculations about their interactions far outnumber authorially verified epiphanies. As in “real life” events, men and women are all too ready to see the divine hand in their petty problems and lucky “breaks.”31

Miracles in the Five Extant Greek Novels Πλάσματα, made up narratives, require and possess their own Beglaubigungsapparat. As Detlev Fehling provocatively wrote for Herodotos, nonessential “Detail macht glaubwurdig” (1971, ET 1989: 120).32 The truth of this observation for writing plausible fiction seems self-evident. The Greek novelists have both privileges: the liberty to pick and choose among the Realien to authenticate their make-believe, and thus include flies on Daphnis’ milk-bucket (1.23.3), and the smell of dung (4.1.3) and exclude sour milk and grapes. The other privilege is to feature unreal, miraculous escapes from certain violation and death and employ life-saving, nick-of-time coincidences of (repeated) rescues and recognitions. Beyond Aristotle’s “incredible possibles” are the undeniable miracles  – the “incredible impossibles.” Εlite rationalists denied and deny that gods answer prayers, part the seas, or bring the dead to life. In a world full of gods,33 miracles are rare but (paradoxically), normal.

finding her regards the baby as a gift from the gods – i.  e., a miracle (1.6 1: θεῖον δή τι νομίσας). She and Daphnis both grew up “more beautiful than country children usually are” (1.6–7: hint– hint). Bowie 2015, 74 notes the lack of cult in this country novel despite the presence of various miracles. 30 Char. 1.1.3, Xen. 1 1.5, Long. 2.4, Tat. 1.2.1–2, 5.25.6, Hld. 3.11.5. Longos’ nymphs, Pan, and Eros play a larger role than named divinities in the other novels. 31 Söder 1932, 162–180 compares “Hilfe in höchster Not. Götterschutz” and “Orakel, Träume, göttliche Befehle” in the novels and Apostle narratives. She draws many parallels between beliefs expressed in the novels and early Christian texts. I thank Judith Perkins for this reference. 32 Fehling 1989 questioned the very existence of oral and written sources for many of Herodotos’ reports. Rather than view him as “no better than a liar and a fraud” (8), he deems him a “conscientious” innovator “who had no alternative” (215). 33 Keith Hopkins’ 1999 title, whose book explores miracles as the “critical symptom of the gospels’ extra–historical character” (297–8). For him the miracle is not the cure but the mind affected by believing the report and sharing it. Incredulous secular responders or other believing bystanders and more distant audiences only feed the faith of the emphatically faithful.

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Chariton’s Eros impels the beautiful Chaireas and Kallirhoe (likened to Artemis, 1.1.16) to fall in love with each other (1.1–5) – a match made in Heaven. Kallirhoe prays to Aphrodite for an outcome contrary to her famous father’s wishes for a “better” spouse (1.1.7), one of her many prayers, and eventually offers an appreciative dedication to that goddess (8.2.8) after she gets what she wants. An envious daemon (βάσκανος δαίμων) contrives trouble for them (1.1.16; cf. Tyche in 1.14.9). Chaireas’ kick seems to kill Kallirhoe (1.5.1, Scheintod), but after a magnificent funeral escort to her elaborate tomb, once buried, she comes out of her coma. Despite having been buried alive, her experience is described as a rebirth/ resurrection (1.8.1: δευτέρα παλιγγενήσια). Chariton’s early, first-century novel, heavily dependent on Tyche,34 presents the usual panoply of miracles. The separated married lovers pray for assistance to Aphrodite, and, after seven books, she answers their prayers.35 Envious anonymous daimones furnish objects of expostulation (3.2.17, 6.2.11, 8.5.15), and Eros takes rightful blame for their suffering and Dionysios’ (1.9.3, 2.4.5, 3.2.17). The narrator eventually states that Aphrodite decided that her victims had suffered enough (2.2.8, 8.1.3–5). She it is who “straightened out a situation contrary to nature, indeed incredible” (2.8.3: πρᾶγμα παράδοξον, μᾶλλον δὲ ἄπιστον κατώρθωκεν). Kallirhoe’s scheintod sets their misfortunes in motion. Although Chaireas’ coma-inducing kick was not fatal, the new wife was entombed, and references to Kallirhoe’s “life after death,” once awake in the tomb, often appear in recapitulations (3.4.14, 5.1.1., 5.4.2 [τέθνηκα, κεκήδευμαι], 6.5.3, 8.1.14, 8.7.6). Dionysios, arguing in a Persian court by Attic means, mentions the resurrection of Chaireas with a sneer (5.6.10, 5.10.1 with a parallel to Protesilaos). Although such a miracle for a man legitimately presumed dead is mocked, repeated mention of resurrection proves its hold over contemporary first-century imaginations. Similarly, while no god appears, Dionysios fears that he sees one, when Kallirhoe suddenly appears in all her radiance.36 His slave Leonas had

34 Tyche is personified frequently, e.  g., 1.14.9, 2.8.3–4, 3.3.8, 4 1 12, 4.5.3 (arranging events), 6 13.8, 8.1.2, 8.3.5. Προνοία (3.3.10 & 12; 3.4.7) or Providence appears in one incident as a sloppy alternative. On the other hand, there are no nature miracles (as in Xenophon) or faith–healings of the common NT sort reported for Jesus and Paul. 35 Kallirhoe prays: 3.2 12, 8.7, etc.; Chaireas: 3.5.9; also her briefly successful second husband, Dionysios: 3.1.8. 36 The heroine’s beauty, decried by its possessor for its commodified profit (6.5.4: ὦ καλλὸς ἐπίβουλον, σὺ μοι πάντων κακῶν αἴτιον), repeatedly surfaces (2.2.6, 3.6; 5.4.3, 8.9). Crowd acclamations praise her for her looks and bow down to Kallirhoe, as if she were a goddess, in Sicily, Asia Minor, and Babylon (1.1.1: θαυμαστόν τι χρῆμα παρθένου, 3.2.17, 4.7.5).



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contrived an unexpected rendezvous at Aphrodite’s temple–dea e machina (2.3.6).37 The plot of Kallirhoe contains many uncanny or miraculous coincidences, such as Polycharmos’ chance mention of the heroine’s name just before his crucifixion and Mithridates’ recognizing it (4.2.12, 3.5–6), or the “Persian” woman captured and wrapped in grief on Arados turning out to be Kallirhoe (7.6.8), when of all people Chaireas the victorious general for the Egyptians enters. More striking, the narrator comments on unnatural, freakish collocations that allow the unexpected νόμιμοι γάμοι to be consummated (8.1.5). Kallirhoe rightly calls her “true” stories unbelievable tales, διηγήματα ἄπιστα (2.5.9; cf. 2.8.3 and 8.6.6). The bizarre reunion of the lovers (POW and fleet Commander) causes them to faint and fall to the floor, while the miracle renders their faithful friend Polycharmos speechless (8.1.9: ἄφονος … πρὸς τὸ παράδοξον). Xenophon ascribes Habrokomes’ wonderful escapes from execution by crucifixion in Egypt as a result of his epiklesis (summoning prayer) and a god’s responding pity (Hὔξατο καὶ αὐτὸν ὁ θεὸς οἰκτίρει). A gust of wind leads to the erosion of the Nile’s cliff when he is mounted on a cross as judicial penalty for murder (4.2.6). Falling into the water, the fetters do not impede him, he does not drown, and no animal attacks him. The authorities, however, again force the survivor to be fixed on a pyre prior to incinerating him. The officials ignore his prior escape, made possible by divine aid, perhaps because they cannot and need not imagine that cause. He prays again, a short prayer, and the Nile rises in spate and extinguishes the blaze (4.2.8: εὔχετο πάλιν ὀλίγα ὅσα ἐδύνατο σῶσαι αὐτόν). The omniscient narrator specifies divine aid and that the event causes wonder both in the onlookers and the official responsible (4.2.9–10: θαῦμα δὲ τὸ γενόμενον τοῖς παροῦσιν ἦν  … ἐθαύμασεν [ὁ ἄρχων τῆς Αἰγύπτου] ἀκούσας τὰ γενόμενα). As often, Xenophon’s concatenated plot and simple ideology provides a horizon of expectation for subsequent, more sophisticated texts. The surprise for literary and historical critics is how rarely his successors avail themselves of similar

37 The usual communicative channels of the gods rarely surface in Kallirhoe: no oracles, barely a prophet (6.8.3), and few sacrifices (8.2.9, but good omens on Cyprus: τὰ ἱερὰ καλά). Visions of the beloved are usually attributed to dreams, not an epiphany but perhaps divinely inspired (2 1.2, 3.5, 9.6; 3.6.4, 6.2.2 [the Persian King pretends to have dreamt a dream of the gods]). Whether one understands it as hyperbole or characterizing naiveté, Kallirhoe wonders whether Mithridates has conjured up the ghost of Chaireas, when she sees him at trial, since the Persians reputedly have competent magicians (5.9.4: πεπλάνημαι; … εἴδωλον, ἐν Πέρσαις μάγους …). No necromancy here or raising of the truly dead. In other words, Chariton satirizes most kinds of divine intervention, except on the highest, undisprovable level.

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supernatural assistance. One senses generic resistance to obvious and too easy e machina resolutions, but the rarity needs explaining.38 Longos’ pastoral fantasy includes miracles beyond the divinely ensured, unlikely survival of the exposed infants, beyond their preternatural ability to avoid defloration by more powerful sexual predators (except Lykainion, 3.18), beyond their ignorance of natural impulses towards coitus and incomprehension of the animal coupling ubiquitous in their shepherd lives. Further, their good fortune extends beyond their resurrection from exposed infants and therefore presumed dead (4.35.2: ἆρα καὶ σὺ ζῇς  …;). Their miraculous survival and flourishing extends beyond these peasants or serfs’ eventual recognition as blooded aristocrats  – both of them. A number of divinity-populated dreams foretell events, sometimes answering prayers or threatening harm: Bryaxis dreams Pan’s warning, the Nymphs appear in Daphnis’ dreams (at supernatural direction, with a Homeric formula, οὐκ ἀθεεί) in one informing him of the dolphin treasure enabling him to propose marriage with dowry to Chloe’s previously disinclined foster-father (2.22– 23, 26.5–27, 3.27–28). Indeed, answered prayers may be the commonest miracle in the ancient novels, or even in antiquity and present times. More miraculous is Chloe’s rescue, salvation from seizure and rape. Here nature is confounded by supernatural intervention. Goats skip in a circle around Chloe, piping music, a parting of the seas, events θαυμασιώτερα on land and sea. Stolen cows, driven by music, tip and capsize the rustlers’ ship. A leaping dolphin leads a flagship on its way – prodigious events, miracles (1.29–30, 2.29). Tatios derides events that his protagonist considered miracles. After the hocus-pocus of a mock-sacrifice has been demystified, the gullible and delicate Kleitophon describes another intentionally fraudulent Scheintod as a magos’ φρικοδέστατον resurrection (3.17–22, 8.16).39 His beyond-human, supernatural events produce a salvific miracle that permits the lovers to reunite in the final book. Town officials invoke Artemis, the local goddess of chastity, and her power (music and waterlevel) acquits the wife and the virgin of unchastity before large, witnessing crowds (8.7.6, 14.2 & 4). Triggered by plaintiffs’ judicial challenges and organized by the civic authorities, gods measure human (female) chastity in ceremonial ordeals in caves and rising waters and reveal the truth by unnatural events – divine melodies 38 Heliodoros employs mêchanê for a salvific miracle, emphasizing its artificial nature. Beyond Aristotle, Horace registers other objections to this slack contrivance (Ars Po. 191–2): nec deus intersit. 39 ὁ δὲ ἄρχεται τερατεύεσθαι καὶ λόγον τινὰ καταλέγειν·καὶ ἅμα λέγων περιαιρεῖ τα μαγγανεύματα …



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from a syrinx, opening doors, seething, god-disturbed waters for the unchaste. These ritual miracles, here on community request, “prove” that the nubile and sexy slave Leukippe has retained her virginity and Melite, the accuser’s wife, has remained chaste (by the terms of the challenge).40 Miraculously, Syrinx’s lovely melody and steady low water-level certify Leukippe’s virginity and even Melite’s fidelity--while her husband Thersander was absent (8.6–7, 12–14).41 The magistrates and townsfolk acknowledge and accept this divine revelation. The crowds cheer (8.14.6: ὑπὸ πάντων εὐφημούμενοι). Leukippe is freed from slavery to marry Kleitophon, while Thersander judges it wise for him to leave town suffering divine and human disapprobation (8.14 – and surely to his wife’s relief). The lovers unite and celebrate Leukippe’s deliverance with her recently arrived father. Since the parodying novelist never elsewhere exhibits belief in divine intervention, these elaborate civic “miracles” probably mock examples of ordeals and resurrections in other, simpler novels or hagiographical narratives (Ephesiaka, Thekla, e.  g.). Tatios nowhere else endorses vulgar claims of miracle, cure or salvation reported, sculpted, and inscribed, or rejected, in the Imperial East.42 Heliodoros’ omniscient narrator and secondary narrators such as Kalasiris explicitly descry a divine plan and governance.43 Only Heliodoros (among the Greek novelists), however, repeatedly exposes fraudulent thaumaturges, pretenses of miracle-making and divine direction for individuals. The omniscient narrator or characters, such as Kalasiris, present seemingly supernatural objects or events as the gods’ will, when claims of a miracle or legerdemain advance their plots and causes. The narrator and characters mock gullible individuals or groups who interpret surprising or puzzling events as constituting actual miracles. Kalasiris bamboozles the Egyptian merchant Nausikles with a fraudulent “miracle” (παράδοξον). He stuns his victim when from the flames he produces a highly wrought and magical jewel.44 The mystic mage, in fact, had hidden the stone “up his sleeve.” Thaumaturgic gestures help him pretend that he has snatched it from 40 The narrow specifics of the challenger’s test allows the defendant a pharisaical “letter of the law” survival, since he had imprudently specified a fixed period for her alleged infidelity and for her oath swearing chastity within it. Her sexual therapy with Kleitophon occurred afterwards. 41 This villain accuses the lovers of collusion with a local priest. He overhears that officiant’s bawdy, even Aristophanic, routine (Gaselee: “farcical ribaldry” 8.10.2: ἠκούσαμεν πάντα ἀσελγῶς καὶ ἀναισχύντως ὑποκριναμένου …). He alleges the priest has engaged in sexual dalliances with one or the other or both lovers. 42 Texts survive from different genres, such as Aristeides’ diary cataloguing Asklepios’ medical successes or Lucian’s objects of scorn in Proteus Peregrinos and Alexander. 43 Examples: 1.1.6, 5.4.1, 8.9.2, 10.16.3; also 3.11.4–5, Kalasiris the oneirocritic. 44 The amethyst prevents drunkenness, as its very name testifies (5.13–15).

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their shared campfire (5.13.2: ὡς τῆς πυρᾶς δῆθεν45 σπασάμενος). Heliodoros mocks the methods of a holy man and the supposed power of an engraved, sobering rock. The Pantarbê stone set in a ring, on the other hand, does command “holy and mystical powers” (4.8.7: ἀπορρήτῳ δύναμει τὴν σφενδόνην καθιερωμένον; cf. Phil. VAp. 3.46). The stone can protect against fire (8.9–11), a supernatural characteristic that keeps Charikleia safe from harm when she stands convicted as a poisoner amidst the flames on Persian Arsake’s execution-pyre. Charikleia later manically dances on the Ethiopian manufactured, heated golden gridiron and fire, on which she exhibits miraculous proof of her chastity by remaining unharmed (10.9). Like Tatios’ supernatural (water) judicial ordeal, these two incidents provide inarguable, divine evidence of her innocence of the accusation of murder and her chastity. In both cases, ordinary elements behave unnaturally/ miraculously, only when humans favored by divinity, invoke, instigate, or infer divine judgment and interference. Miracles of several sorts certify past or current virtue and provide a divine stamp of worthiness for their beneficiaries. Such is the case with faithful Habrokomes’ prayers, Daphnis’ too, and Leukippe’s chastity.46 The corpse’s resurrection remains miraculous despite Kalasiris’ disapproval (cf. 3.16) and Charikleia’s fears. Both observers direct audience disfavor to the “black magic” but cannot deny its powers and efficacy. A powerful Egyptian witch raises the angry corpse of her slaughtered son. The necromantic magic carried out near Bessa (6.14.4–15.5) provides her with accurate prophecies forced from his reluctantly reanimated body – proleptic truth for the plot. The miracle, presented in a comic interlude, foreshadows immediate and long-range outcomes. The briefly and unhappily revivified corpse also accurately predicts his mother’s immediate death and so she dies, impaled by stepping on a broken spear that pierces her groin. He predicts the foreign onlookers’ successful exit from the battleground and eventual achievements. Charikleia’s embroidered band (10.12–13) also appears to protect miraculously her life and chastity. The multivalent cloth also provides clear, corroborating proof of her royal Aithiopian birth, a bulky “token” of identity. The explicit text states bare facts (10.12–14), but it also supports metaphorical textile symbolism. Its aegis-like presence wrapped around her body suggests godlike invulnerability. Where and when she wears the ceremonious outfit of her Delphic priest-

45 I treat Heliodoros’ employ of this particle in a future paper. 46 Melite’s salvation, dependent on the precise word and not the spirit of husband Thersander’s chastity–challenge, convicts the battering villain. He unwisely phrased his challenge, so her de iure acquittal vindicates the de facto adulterous wife.



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hood, “elements of [Christian] epiphany reports and aretalogy” arise (Edsall 121). The hidden band and flaunted robes – speaking objects--and her innate beauty constitute divine attributes that manifest her first bow-carrying Artemis-like apparition on the beach in the opening scene, as the ignorant Egyptian bandits, boukoloi, intuited (1.2.1, 6; 1.17.2; 5.31.1). That is to say, Heliodoros never hesitates to borrow from contemporary faiths’ iconography and ideology. When Charikles furiously condemns the memory of the dead Memphitic priest Kalasiris with accurate charges before the Ethiopian Royal Judge Hydaspes, he accuses him of being a kidnapper and a liar. The allegation of “charlatan priest” (10.36.4: ψευδοπροφήτης) attests ancient awareness of false prophets (inside and outside of the novels). The allegations resemble texts in which Christians and Pagans refer to other faiths’ miracle-workers as magicians and frauds, nearly synonymous labels for lower order supernaturalism.47 Kalasiris serves as Heliodoros’ reliable narrator inside the text from 2.21 to 7.8, but he is repeatedly and intentionally an unreliable interlocutor with potential road-blocks. The “stage-manager” conceives and manages the Liebespaar’s elaborate preparations for elopement.48 He executes their escapes from Delphi, from Zakynthos, and from marriage to a pirate on the beach at the Herakleotic mouth of the Nile Delta. In his sacerdotal persona and robes, he employs dis-information, hiding places, and charades, before finally inducing the lustful pirates’ mutual massacre.49 His multiplicity of roles (including disguise as a mendicant) demands polyvalent per-

47 Cf. current derogatory white race labels for black race practices, such as Haitian supernaturalism, for example the dismissive word “voodoo” in “voodoo economics.” See recently Panayotakis, Schmeling, and Paschalis 2015. Dowden discusses levels of authority for a text, riffing on Artemidoros Dream Book 2.69; cheese–prophets and necromancers are included. He concludes (7), as one might expect, that outrage at false prophets “arises from the conviction that there are, or should be, real prophets.” 48 Kalasiris manipulates evil–eye hocus–pocus to explain Charikleia’s condition to her foster– father Charikles. His pompous pseudo–iatric diagnosis of Charikleia draws her knowing (i.  e., disbelieving) smile. Similarly, Kalasiris convinces Theagenes of supernatural knowledge of his psycho–somatic condition (3.17.1–2) by a “benign expression… digital calculations, tossing his hair around, and a pretence of “spirit possession”–– summarized as ‘showmanship’: ἔγνων οὖν καιρὸν τερατεύεσθαι πρὸς αυτὸν καὶ μαντεύεσθαι δῆθεν ἄπερ εγίνωσκον. In short, he plays the prophet or medium of divine intelligence. Phil. VAp 7.39 similarly mocks naïve victims of charlatans. Kalasiris’ goofy explanations of “Thigh–Man” Homer’s origins or the Nile’s source (Aith. 3 14, 2.28) are less ‘philosophical’ than a wink at the learned reader’s familiarity with pre–Socratics’ speculative hypotheses. Herodotos observed this (2.5, 10–34, esp. the “Hellenes” and “Ionians” of 2.15–24). Kalasiris enjoys impersonating wise men equipped with Alexandrian learning when he consorts with Delphic ministers or with gullible Nausikles. 49 Charikleia devises the fraudulent personae of these lovers to be siblings rather than self–affianced runaways (1.22 & 25, 5.26, etc.).

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sonae, and he has all he needs. He is both a true prophet, an amateur psychologist, and a strategic master of deceit. His command of priestly mumbo-jumbo and paternal mendacity, as Winkler (1982) brilliantly demonstrated, compensates for his lack of physical force. Like Sisimithres, his holy-man serial doublet in Book X, the cunning senior is “the only person who really knows what is happening” (Dowden 10). Sisimithres at the finale explains the thaumaturgy and theodicy of this teenagers’ odyssey to King Hydaspes, his royal master and theological pupil.50 Whether by inclination or familiarity with past and contemporary Christian literary contrivances, Heliodoros is the historical novelist readiest to provide miracles. Kalasiris easily demonstrates how to dupe sophisticated citizens, gullible crowds, and ordinary bourgeois. He guys and hoodwinks Delphic deacons and Hellenic businessmen such as Nausikles and Knemon.51 At the same time, he and his creator repeatedly invoke both the providence and the playful malevolence of the gods (χλεύη … καὶ παιδιά). Divine interference in this plot (5.4.1, 6.12.1, 10.16.3, 38.3), such as deus e machina references and vocabulary associated with theatrical tropes (tragôdia, anagnorisis, peripeteia, etc.) highlights literary/dramatic contrivance.52 Heliodoros’ world becomes, explicitly, a directed stage.53 Heliodoros’ ascriptions of divine agencies for miracles are not intellectually coherent (Morgan 2003: 448–50) because their interventions advance his erotic plots; they do not construct a theology. “At the deepest level god and author are indistinguishable” as the producers of these marvels (Morgan (2003) 450). The Delphic priestess’s oracle enables and summarizes the unrolling plot of the next eight books.54 Her divinely provided foreknowledge of events constitutes a riddling miracle that puzzles the bystanders (ἀμηχανία πλείστη … τοὺς ἀποροῦντας), who are in too much of a hurry to see the pageant to work out its obscure meaning

50 10.39.2: ἀλλ’ αἰσθανώμεθα τοῦ θείου θαυματουργήματος … 51 Kalasiris fancifully explains various phenomena, natural and literary: 2.27–8 explains animals, pyramids, burial mazes, and the geography of the Nile river, 3 13 human ability to perceive gods, 3.14 Homer the Egyptian. Even without Kalasiris, Heliodoros accounts for the scientific prodigy of the Syene Nilometer, 9.22. 52 Paulsen 1992 analyzes all examples of dramatic vocabulary, e.  g., 2.8.3, 5.12.2, 7.65, 9.24.6, 10.9.5, 12.2, 39.2. Theatrical terminology increases in frequency in the second half, especially in the various peripeties of the last book. 53 As the nuclear physicist Gerold Buchenauer once observed: “There must be a god. Things could not be this bad without a guiding hand.” Morgan once summed up Heliodoros: “Providence is only plot in disguise.” 54 Demystified the text portends that Charikleia and Theagenes will depart Delphi, cross the sea to Egypt and Ethiopia, where their boldness and moral excellence will gain them a royal position, [perhaps] white–skinned to rule over a black–skinned population.



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(2.35–6: τὰ χρησθέντα πρὸς τὸ ἀκριβὲς ἀνιχνεύειν ἀμελήσαντες).55 Kalasiris, however, with additional reasons to care and with information from Charikleia’s swaddling band soon unravels it correctly in an Aristotelian moment of tears and joy (4.9: πάθος τι καινότερον ὑπέστην ὁμοῦ δακρύων καὶ χαίρων … διαχεομένης τῆς ψυχῆς πρὸς  … τῶν χρησθέντων ἤδη τὴν ἐπίλυσιν  … τὸν ἀνθρώπινον βίον οἰκτερουσης). Kalasiris claims (for Knemon) to have experienced a genuine theophany of Apollo and Artemis (3.11). The sage informs his dubious female acolyte Charikleia that she has been ensorcelled by the Evil Eye (4.5.4), but he has the power to de-sorcel her. Meanwhile, he feigns irritation with Theagenes for insulting his techne, a skill that can and has ensorcelled his beloved maid (4.6.4). Kalasiris, retelling the adventure, informs Knemon that the gods’ subtle “economy” was at work and he, their deputy, fit himself to their plan (4.9.1). But he then acknowledges that the priestly, holy man scene for the two teenagers was all pretend – smoke and mirrors magic (4.12.1). Kalasiris’ “chance” encounter with Phoenician sailors saves the couple (4.16.3). Hydaspes’ dream prompted sexual union with Persinna and the fateful begetting of their white daughter under the painting of Andromeda (4.8.4). The dreams of Thyamis and Charikles foretell immediate crises in obscure ways, functioning like heaven-sent oracles but these messages are forwarded to private parties from heaven (1.18, 4.14.2; cf. dream-interpretations at 2.16.6, 4.14). Human motives always sufficiently motivate the characters and plot of the Aithiopika, but the miracles enable the desired outcome. Supernatural phenomena repeatedly afflict Heliodoros’ main and subsidiary (e.  g., Knemon’s Athenian tale) plots and arrange his scenery. Oracles (2.26.5, 35.5), dreams everywhere (see Futre Pinheiro (1991) for these), possible theophanic apparitions (e.  g., 3.11.5, 8.11.1), and ominous appearances,56 anticipate and direct the plot, in both Kalasiris’ telling and the unnamed narrator’s. Kalasiris mocks human fallibility in interpreting divine signs and wonders, but this divine man’s amusement at, and employment of, human error does not invalidate his (apparent) or others’ (certain) belief in such messages. “The interpretation of dreams and oracles depends on the outcome,” Kalasiris opines sardonically (2.36.2, echoing Thuc. 5.26). Everyone interprets the master oracle that drives the plot differently and no one was correct, even Kalasiris (3.11.4; cf. Char. 8.6.6). 55 Heliodoros here combines Thucydidean historiographical vocabulary and skepticism (“oracles and dreams are generally explained by the outcome of events”) with an un–Thucyididean goal, penetrating a divine communication. 56 Men walking along the banks of the Nile see the familiar sight of a crocodile (6 1.2), but Kalasiris considers it to be ominous κώλυμά τι τῶν καθ’ όδὸν ἐπισημαίνεσθαι προὔλεγεν. Futre Pinheiro 1991, 365 considers the oracles to be the most significant of Heliodoros’ portents.

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Knemon the dimwit also critiques dream interpretation as indulging fantasies rather than solving real-life problems (2.16.6): ὀνειρώτειν  … ἐνύπνια μὲν καὶ φαντασίας ἐζετάζοντες  … Kalasiris bedazzles other priests57 and bamboozles uninitiated lay-persons.58 He claims divine possession, divinatory powers, and a science or wisdom (4.6.1: ἅτε μαντικός; 4.11.2: σοφία). Although he soon admits to Charikleia his mumbo-jumbo pretences are part of a plan (4.12.1: συμβουλή), he expresses belief in an antitheos, maleficent goêteia, and manganeiai to Charikles (4.7.13) – a god of evil, sorcery, and occult spells. Joking and evidently deceitful of a credulous soul in this last example, Kalasiris never doubts the supernatural nature of the necromancy which he witnesses or the power of some occult spells (6.13–14, 3.16: low magic for corrupt pleasures, etc.). Kalasiris warrants that the plot unfolds providentially, under just supernal powers, and not coincidentally.59 Miracles determine the chief strategist Kalasiris’ thoughts, plans, and acts, and therefore miracles drive the plot  – a Delphic oracle, divine visions,60 two magic stones, a resurrection with necromantic prophecy, and fateful collocations of men and women. Characters both admire the divine management of human affairs and fear evil spirits. Theagenes (2.1.3: ὤ τῆς ὠμότητος καὶ τῆς ἀρρήτου τοῦ δαίμονος βασκανίας), Kalasiris (2.25.3), and Charikleia (5.2.7, 6.8.3) confess belief in occult opposition, but these three and others elsewhere praise or admit possible occult assistance (8.9.15, 9.8.2: δαιμονία ἐπικουρία). Charikleia, for instance, endorses this beneficent view of a just universe at the happy ending (10.38.1: διοίκησις θεῶν). More programmatic, however, for the plot’s oscillations is her disputatious dialogue with her beloved Theagenes concerning divine interference in Arsake’s prison (8.10.1–2; cf. 2.13, 10.13.5: ἐπιπαίζει). After her miraculous salva-

57 2.28, 4.7 (lesser powers invoked to counter spirit–possession). 58 3 12.1: ὑπάρ, not mere ὄναρ; cf. 8.11.1, Charikleia; Kalasiris’ showmanship during his diagnosis of Charikleia’s illness and its cause, 4.5: muttering, yawning, waving arms, evil eye; 3.17: showmanship, divine spirit–possession, hair–tossing in manic manner for Theagenes. 59 Futre Pinheiro’s well–argued thesis (see 1991, 372; 375; 379). Heliodoros’ own beliefs remain a “delicate issue” (359). While critics seek a consistent theology, Heliodoros offers many characters who believe in various determining powers but do not comprehend basic frauds, and a determined internal narrator who offers plausible uncertainty at many points or vernacular piety in dialogues. Heliodoros’ historical pose forfends any claim to know the gods’ thoughts, designs, and actions, but his romantic novel suspends and violates historiographical principles to achieve closure. On rare occasions, Herodotos himself seems to think some event “proves” divine intervention. 60 Kalasiris and Charikleia cannot be entirely confident they have experienced a vision and not a mere dream in their sleep (3.11, 4. 8.11 1). Their doubt contributes to the veneer of verisimilitude that Heliodoros cherishes (Morgan 1982).



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tion from the pyre (κατὰ τὴν πυρκαιὰν θαυματουργία), he claims that the couple is blessed by divine care (εὐμενεία). She claims that the two are cursed by the gods (δυσμενεία). Her final “escape clause” ironically reflects on the entire novel and all Greek Romances. “Unless we are living under miracle-workings of a god who inflicts the worst dangers on us before saving us from impossible deadends,” πλὴν εἰ μὴ θαυματοποιία τίς ἐστι δαίμονος εἰς τὰ ἔσχατα μὲν βάλλοντες, ἐκ δὲ τῶν ἀπόρων διασῳζόντος. Despite the many names for supernal forces in the novel (5.6.2, 7.6.4), the Moirai trump all others (2.24.6, 25.4, 7.8.1).61 Even where Kalasiris knows what will happen, he cannot change it. Divine forces control the histories of the two stranded protagonists, sometimes malevolently (1.1.6, 5.4.1: ὁ δαίμων, τι δαιμόνιον). The omniscient but inconsistent narrator and his representative (Kalasiris) consider ἡ τύχη, ἡ εἱμαρμένη, and οἱ θεοί, to be the cause of various surprises (4.9, 7.6, 9.10; 10.16.3). Kalasiris’ timely, nick-o’-time arrival in Memphis aborts his son Thyamis’ intended fratricide, and it obtains several such contradictory miraculous “explanations.” Ironic theater metaphors, however, somewhat distance the omniscient narrator from such melodramatic interpretations. Cursed and blessed characters in the text express parallel or opposite analyses of supernatural interest: Kalasiris (4.9.1: θεῶν οἰκονομία, 4.12, 6.9.5), Sisimithres (10.39.2), Charikleia (10.20) and Theagenes (1.25.1, 2.1.3). Personified superhuman powers (Artemis, Apollo, Eros) are cited almost interchangeably and accompany more abstract concepts like Destiny (τὰ πεπρωμένα, αἱ μοῖραι). Bystanding crowds cue reader reaction to miracles by their shouts or applause, a cliched, validating response common in aretalogical and Gospel texts.62 Habrokomes and Anthia attribute their rescue to Isis alone (5.13.3–4), and the Rhodians shout praise for the goddess like a Hallelujah chorus. A similar crowd frenzy in Meroe accompanies the miraculous (10.32, 38, 41.1 & 3) denouement of Theagenes’ wrestling first a bull and then a man (10.28–32), Charikleia’s proofs of royal identity, and the reunion and marriage-to-be of Theagenes and Charikleia.63

61 Οἱ Κρείττονες (cf. Futre Pinheiro 1991, n. 28) serves as Heliodoros’ vaguest personification, including Fate and the Fates; see 4 15.2, 4.18.6, 7.26.9, etc. 62 Xen. 4.2, Long. 2.25–9 [Pan shattering oars, sounds of an approaching fleet], 4.23.2; AT 8.13.1, 14.2; Hld. 8.9.11–16; cf. Apul. Met. 11.13: populi mirantur, religiosi venerantur  … numines potentiam …, and 24. 63 Some fictional figures enjoy divine guidance knowingly (Kalasiris but not Theagenes), but even they cannot at will gain access to communicate with higher powers (like Homer’s Achilleus or Philostratos’ Apollonios).

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Epiphanies (especially those in Heliodoros’ Aithiopika) The novels report reactions typical to divine epiphanies in other genres, but they desanctify them, applying the language of miracle to hyperbolic responses to radiant and attractive  – “god-like”--human beings. Thus, Xenophon has the radiant beauties Anthia and Habrokomes first arrive in Rhodes to amazement, acclamation, public prayers, sacrifices, indeed, festival worship (1.12.1–3; cf. Chariton’s Kallirhoe and Chaireas: 1.1; Apul. Met. 4.28: Psyche’s praecipua praeclara pulchritudo). Xenophon’s charismatic couple’s imprudent travel plans (despite a helpful oracle, 1.5–7) and their subsequent misfortunes and adventures invite trouble beyond their powers to resist and thus require miracles. When they return and reunite in Rhodes, at last after many adventures, the Rhodians praise Isis (5.13). The very reunion of these seemingly cursed and repeatedly separated mortal couples rightly seems miraculous to witnessing crowds singing hosannas. Acknowledgment of divine presence and perpetual meddling in human business in epic and tragedy invites the genre-borrowing novels’ naive or winking imitation of the gods’ miraculous immanence, or at least long-range interference, in their personal affairs. Just as heroes like Odysseus recognize divine assistance, even when they remain unsure which god assists at their side (Il. 13.68–72, 22.9, Ody. 13.311–13, etc.), so the novels’ protagonists wonder which god pursues them or by miracles protects and saves them. Contrived bogus theophanies reveal the novelists’ wavering cynicism towards the thaumatic. Although Homer everywhere admits divine interference, his heroes question certain prophecies. Prophecies, like portents, are themselves miraculous--supernatural transmission to humans of divine knowledge of the future. Herodotos derides the Athenians’ gullibility for believing Peisistratos’ Phye, a large local girl of Attika, to be Athena escorting her human protégé back to Athens (Hdt. 1.60).64 Similarly (Edsall (2001) 124), Kalasiris encourages the bandits’ second-in-command, Peloros, to view Artemis’ human equivalent in order to fire his lust (5.30).65 This goddess-trope taken literally reappears after 64 See my “Deception and Delusions in Herodotus” (1992) discussing Hellenic admiration of deceits and deceivers. The Ionian historian takes pleasure in mocking dupes, fantastic beings, frauds, prophecy–sellers, and in flourishing the flagrant cases of deceitful, alleged divine men, Aristeas and Salmoxis. Terminology includes μηχανή, τέχνη, σοφίη, δόλος, ἀπάτη, ἐπιστήμη (231). The Homeric Odysseus and Aristophanes’ poneroi with their bright but insane proposals anticipate the novelists’ fraudsters and lunatics. 65 He identifies her falsely as his daughter (5.30.2: ἐρᾷ σου θυγάτηρ ἡ ἐμή, καὶ θαυμαστὸν οὐδέν), so Edsall 2001, 124 is wrong to suggest that the hoodwinking promises an actual epiph-



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the massacre, e.  g., when Egyptian bandits afterwards see the young beauty with her bow and quiver seated motionlessly over her apparently dead lover. Later, she stands and cavorts on an Egyptian pyre to prove her innocence of murder under the pantarbê’s protection, and then on an Aithiopian gridiron, resplendent in her priestly robe proving her virgin status: ἀγάλματι θεοῦ πλέον ἢ θνητῇ γυναικὶ προσεικαζομένη (1.2.6, 8.9–16, 10.9.2–4; cf. Létoublon (1993) 122–4). Miraculously having suffered no harm from the incineration test, Theagenes and Charikleia need yet another miracle to save them from sacrifice to the Sun and Moon as proven virgins (Edsall (2001) 125–6). The next miracles of the vulgar sort are parceled out equally. Charikleia proves (with the gymnosophist Sisimithres’ additional data) her Aithiopic and royal birth in Meroe. She is then acclaimed by the amazed and marveling crowd (10.15.1: παρὰ πάντων κρότον καὶ θόρυβον, 16.3), the usual validation that miracles have witnesses. Theagenes emerges victorious over the huge bull and huge Aithiopian wrestler-athlete (10.32.5: βοή). Again, the crowd responds with standard aretalogical amazement and acclaim for the “miracle.” All of this is incredible and unlooked-for (10.13.1: τὸ τῶν παρ’ ἐλπίδας ἄπιστον) – miraculous workings of the divine (10.16.6, 10.39.3). The King, the Queen, and the priest Sisimithres have all come round to seeing the miracles as revealing the gods’ intent: Ἀλλ’ αἰσθανώμεθα τοῦ θειοῦ θαυματουργήματος … When credulous beneficiaries regard these developments as miracles, the narrator and more cynical characters liken them to signs and wonders of the tragic stage’s mêchanê where miraculous and incredible (unwahrscheinlich) denouements resolve intractable deadlocks.66 For example, Kalasiris miraculously arrives in the nick of time to interrupt his sons’ Trojan/Theban, fraternal, one-on-one battle for power. Thyamis chases his sibling Petosiris around the crowded walls in hopes of killing him (7.6.5). The narrator’s terminology includes “theater, drama, tragic twist, second drama, sage, and mechane.” The decrepit Kalasiris’ sudden, running entrance provides one unexpectedly and decrepitly human deus e machina, in other words,

any of the goddess. When he predicts that “You will see Artemis herself sitting there,” Heliodoros again exemplifies a hyperbolic female beauty trope. 66 Cf. Paulsen 1992, 24–25 on 2.8.2, 9.24.6 [Charikleia], 5.12.2 [scornful Nausikles], 7.6.5 [narrator describing Kalasiris’ “dramatic” arrival and suppliancy of his sons], 10.9.5 [Aithiopian crowd], 12.2 [sarcastic Hydaspes], 39.2 [Sisimithres]. Heliodoros’ narrator preserves his rationalist credentials by leaving the nature of Kalasiris’ unnervingly timely arrival uncertain (7.6): τότε δή πως εἴτε τὸ δαιμόνιον εἴτε τύχη τις τὰ ἀνθρώπεια βραβεύουσα καινὸν ἐπεισόδιον ἐπετραγῳδει … See below. The Hebrew Bible does not employ “miracle,” nes, but only “signs and wonders,” (Rabbi Tamara Eskenazi per litt.).

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their inorganic clean-up of the plot.67 Charikleia, when she becomes the patient stage-manager, instructs Theagenes to slow down their revelations to her mother Persinna, because (9.24.4) some daimôn demands many peripeties and a drawnout conclusion to their convoluted adventures before the full truth be displayed. Here the protagonist, not the narrator, assigns their plot twists to a supernatural power (cf. 5.6). Sometimes Kalasiris prophesies or shows knowledge of secrets, but sometimes he only uses prior knowledge or his power of prediction – while stunning an interlocutor by his amazing percipience. Thus, readers encounter [1] pseudo-miracles managed by frauds, [2] coincidences possibly natural but believed by characters to be of gods’ devising, and [3] yet other events that the omniscient narrator designates as divine. These last occasions, unless one argues that the narrator/Heliodoros also deceives his audience, argue that Heliodoros or the authorial voice believed in miracles. Other passages of uncertainty reveal the omniscient narrator consciously imitating Herodotos’ scrupulosity and frequent doubts about historical or natural phenomena.68 Heliodoros historiographical “pose” (as Morgan (1982) 223 termed it) converts the historian’s honest unanswerable uncertainties concerning geography, ethnology and other Realia, uncanny events, and exotic beings into excurses featuring a mannered semblance of fictional “realism.” His “impression of verisimilitude” also imitates historiographical certainty and polemics. He pauses to dispute other available accounts, just like Herodotos.69 These incidents sometimes feign historians’ authentic ambivalence, especially about causality, e.  g., whether Theagenes’ motivation was courage or divine inspiration (10.28), and what ruptured the Syene tunnel, or what prompted Arsake’s slave to volunteer Charikleia’s innocence (9.8.2, 8.9.2). Historiography, along with drama and epic, provides the recessive narrator Heliodoros with opportunities to satirize the genres considered best and greatest.70

67 Charikles’ sudden appearance in Meroe supplies another nick–of–time arrival (10.34–8). The homo e machina wraps up a loose end (the plot left him grieving for his foster–daughter back in Delphi) rather than solves an insoluble problem. It does raise in stark form the question of fatherhood. Hydaspes the biological father, Sisimithres the savior father, Charikles the foster– father, and Kalasiris the fatherly facilitator all have claims. The model for such coups de théâtre, of course, is Odysseus’ self–revelation/sudden appearance on Ithaka on the very day when the (middle–aged) princess must choose a new husband (Ody. 21.1–4, 428–30). 68 For catalogues, see the author’s (1989) Historical Method of Herodotos, chh. 2–4. 69 E.  g., sources of the Nile, 2.28; Gulf of Krisa tides, 5.17; the boukoloi, 1.5; Thermouthis’ death, 2.20; Kalasiris’ arrival, 7.6; the crocodile, 6 1; the giraffe, 10.27. 70 Other examples: the narrator’s uncertainty about whether Kalasiris died of a medical problem or prayed to leave this life (7.11.4); a divine force or the Aithiopians’ understanding allowed them to interpret the final trials of the Liebespaar (10.38.4).



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Heliodoros has his cake and gets to eat it. Life imitates theater, but perceptions of abnormal events, miracles, are offloaded onto his characters – and perhaps credulous readers. The mystic Sisimithres states (10.9.7): [I offer] “a prediction I base on signs given by the godhead [ἄλλοις ἐκ τοῦ θείου συμβόλοις τεκμαιρομένῳ], particularly the halo of light [τῷ περιλάμποντι φωτί] around the strangers, a sure sign [διασημαίνοντι] that they are under the protection of one of the lords of heaven.” Did he see a halo, did the internal audience see it, did his contemporary readers imagine it was real? Similarly, dedications to gods in the text expressing gratitude for salvific interventions “cast pivotal events in the story as miracles.”71 That is, typically aretalogical “evidence” identifies welcome and recognizable interruptions of natural and human forces to express favor for heaven’s elect, such as Habrokomes’ rescue from crucifixion and fire and Heliodoros’ Liebespaar’s survivals of threats and final, marital union.

Miracles in Contemporary Genres Claimants to wonderworking powers roamed the Mediterranean landscape. While few still credit the reality of aretalogies as an ancient literary genre (see, e.  g., Francis (1995) 118–120; Beck (2003) 137–40), pagan and Christian apologetics show the need for energetically denying magical powers to their holy men and women. Philostratos’ narrative of Apollonios, the celebrated Tyanian philosopher/thaumaturge, was a contemporary (ca. 10–98 CE) of the earlier novelists, Chariton and Xenophon. His account provides relevant analogues to miracles and thaumaturge-refutation in the novels. This novelish biographical text reports sought and unsought disruptions of the natural order, with and without request or prayer (the Romans’ omina impetrativa and oblativa). In the later, miracle-rich, credulous age of the latter Severans, perhaps contemporary with the novels of Achilles Tatios and Longos, Philostratos sanctifies this sage with his lengthy, perhaps imperially demanded, eulogistic Vita. In Constantine’s early fourth-century era, the Christian bishop Eusebius pillories both the sage and the biographer while refuting Hierokles’ condemnation of Christian confidence in Jesus’ miracles (in Hier. 6, 10, e.  g.). Philostratos depicts Apollonios as an extraordinary, wandering sage, but not a miracle-worker. Others, such as his mother and his alleged biographer Damis, may view him as a “divine man” (1.2, 1.4–6, 3.43, 5.24, 7.38, 8.15), but Apollonios 71 Edsall 2001, 118, on Xen. 5.11, 15: the Liebespaar’s Rhodian and Ephesian inscriptions: ἀναθήματα καὶ δὴ καὶ γραφήν.

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himself rejected such labels (1.6, 4.31, 7.32, 8.15, esp. 8.7; cf. Eus. Against Hier. 2). Philostratos’ Life describes a pagan sage, decorated with mystic elements of Empedokles and Sokrates. Like Jesus, he somewhat unwillingly becomes an object of veneration. Philostratos, whether from lack of skill or witting intent, has welded miracle stories onto an unwilling victim. “Miracles are a minor aspect of the VA, and as for prophetic and intellectual powers, … these were an established feature of earlier lives of philosophers,” gifted men of uniquely high status devoted to philosophical tradition. Thus, Francis paraphrases Cox (1983) 44, but some of the Tyanian’s achievements leave readers perplexed by inconsistencies. He resurrects a dead girl by a whisper (although even here Philostratos inserts one or two less miraculous alternatives). Philostratos introduces the incident by “Here’s another miracle” (4.45: κἀκεῖνο ‘Απολλωνίου θαῦμα): Philostratos rationalizes when he can, and manipulates fuzzy sources  – all the easier when they have disappeared. He minimizes the sage’s miracle moments.72 Philostratos’ VAp merges eastern and southern Wonderland creatures, sages, and locations with biography and eulogy.73 He thus incorporates paradoxographic topics describing unnatural, eye-opening materials, beings, and events with a presumably historical individual’s career. Philostratos the Sophist shares this excursive tendency that had first appeared in the historians, and extended itself to biographers and novelists.74 Paradoxographers from Kallimachos to Phlegon and beyond75 eschewed narrativity in favor of culling topical collec-

72 Anderson 2009 explains these narratives’ origins in folklore (“plague–buster,” Lamia demon–destroyer). Petzke 1970, 125–137 lists a dozen marvels and compares them to New Testament miracles – healings, visions, divination, treasure–finds, etc. 73 Anderson 1986 devotes ch. 11 to “Apollonios in Wonderland,” a series of exotic and paradoxic encounters with mantichores, golden waters, phoenix birds, levitations of sages, and other fantastic tales (3.45, 49). Anderson awards Philostratos the benefit of his twentieth–century doubt as a reporter of garbled hear–say and hear–read (214–20), but no one contends that Philostratos possessed a skeptical, much less scientific, mind. 74 Delcroix 1996 discusses Latin paradoxography, a “data–base” literature of unexpected but observable mirabilia phenomena in the collections of Cicero, Varro, Pliny, etc. Their marvels seemed less important to Christians who had more spectacular “once–only” miracula, for them the new “realia” of God. He cites Rommel (1923, non vidi) for a comparative study of the “naturwissenschaftlich–paradoxographischen Exkurse” in Philostratos, Heliodoros, and Achilles Tatios. 75 Damaskios, born in Syria in the early 460s, was the last principal of Plato’s Athenian Academy. Aside from other works, he organized 372 marvels into four books. Photios (Bibl. cod. 130) compared his style to that of Lukian, Achilles Tatios, and Heliodoros. This unexpected but telling gather (cited by Johnson 2006, 179) signals overlap in presentation among paradoxography, satire, and the novels.



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tions of miracles, apista, libri miraculorum fabularumque pleni.76 Some exotic, pseudo-scientific miscellanies date from the Classical period (Aristeas’, Ktesias’), but the mirabilia genre became popular after Alexander’s real and imagined exotic travels. The arm-chair collectors compiled marvellous descriptions derived from more adventurous types. Their disconnected, non-narrative descriptions extracted both unfamiliar and unreal flora and fauna, minerals, and exceptional humans events from acquired credibility from their sources--history, travel-writing (from Hanno and Skylax on), and biological notes (from Aristotle and Onesikritos on). They corrected sensational and suppressed dubious notices. The astonishing contents concerned natural curiosities and not divinely inspired miracles (Schepens (1999), 387, 382), so the natural-wonder-collecting paradoxographers remain on the fringe of our topic, unnatural wonders or miracles. Neverthelesss, the two genres (from their historiographical origins) share material, and the novelists probably found these excerptable bon-bons in Alexandrian paradoxographers, if not in the historians and pseudo-historians like Onesikritos (ψευδολόγος, τῶν παραδόξων ἀρχικυβερνήτης Str. 15.1.28 = FGrHist 134 T10). The novelists’ protagonists (except Longos’ Lesbian isolates) all reach Egypt sooner or later and, following the traveler-historian-investigator Herodotos in Egypt (2.35–6, report (from the Greek viewpoint) inversions and fantastic features. Novel authors, especially Heliodoros, incorporate exotic locales and biological curiosities as background to dramatic incidents that power romantic narratives. Like film now, the Greek novels’ beautiful people, romantic love, and even happiness achieved against all odds play out in glamorous and dangerous settings. Believers in miracles (ancient and current) need not even suspend disbelief, since, for them, miracles, rare but decisive, redirect perceived reality. Their gods do care and can sometimes be identified. Sophisticated literary figures invented negative portraits of ascetics and selfstyled holy men before those positive legends outgrew oral, lower class adulation and achieved literary respectability (Francis (1995) 125). Philostratos’ Life, ungainly and hard to place in any ancient genre, rehabilitates a philosopher kidnapped by sensationalists while underplaying the mage.77 Miracles and portents certainly appealed to the masses’ yearning for a better life, whether Philostra76 Schepens and Delcroix 1996 quoting A. Gell. 9.4.1–4 provide a thorough introduction to this form of “infotainment” (406). See also Johnson 2006, ch.4 who delineates the largely perished genre. Christians appropriated it and shared the bizarre happenings with the Greek novels in their own non–fiction, novelistic narratives of the saints and martyrs. Karla’s volume 2009 challenges the usual genre orthodoxies and distinctions between pagan and Christian texts. 77 Francis’ argument 1995 ignores the literary qualities of the Gospels, whether their art

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tos reports Empedokles was making a bull out of pastry at Olympia (VAp. 1.1), or Pythagoras was recalling earlier incarnations (8.7). Philostratos aggressively dismisses Moiragenes’ four books on Apollonios, positive or negative as they might have been, perhaps because they detailed his wonder-ful mageia/goêteia. Philostratos’ Tendenz liberates his role-model from accusations of supernatural activities and establishes his Socrates-like, courageous, and seemingly superhuman physical endurance and philosophical powers. Philostratos’ Apollonios, then, conforms to an old pattern rather than establishing a new one. The Pythagorish, Socratic hero questions contemporaries by appeals to ancient established norms (Francis 126). The accomplished sophistic author “mutes and masks” pre-existing oral tales of an ascetic holy man, dressing this locally revered Tyanean miracle worker in the more respectable garb of Hellenic philosophical tradition and social conservatism. Apollonios’ bodily ascension in old age measures how friendly Philostratos was to miracles. As with Plato’s unlikely account of Socrates’ self-control as his body reacts to hemlock poison, Philostratos could not resist a martyrdom in which the victim controls his own demise. Fierce watchdogs did not attack the sage, he removed his chains (calling the jailers to witness), he ran to the nearby temple of Diktynna, the temple doors opened (and later closed) of their own accord, a choir of maidens called him away, and he disappeared (VAp. 8.30). Ἀφανίζεσθαι, his last unearthly achievement on earth, provides the pagan vox propria of assumption into heaven (8.31.3; cf. Herakles, Empedokles; Flinterman (2009) 229). Animal mastery, self-liberation, welcome by the goddess Diktynna, and assumption, body and soul together mark Apollonios’ powers and his divine recognition. No grave or marker anywhere signifies that the “divine man” was here. Philostratos’ text does not present itself as a novel, and it is not a love story, but the encomiastic Life does not eschew a few marvels. Hostile to miracle-stories, the author tells several anyway. The text reflects both the near universal pull of marvels for audiences and the intellectual rejection of them by ambitious authors. Anti-divine man satires certainly flourished not only in Lucian’s attacks on pseudo-prophets like Alexander and Proteus, but in pro- and anti-Jesus pamphleteers. Jesus-narratives and other hagiographies feature miracles that prove special powers or favors, exhibit exorcisms, healings from mundane diseases, and punishments for non-believers or threatening authorities. Jesus’ defenders had to demonstrate that Jesus’ achievements were entirely different from magi-

(in  Greek versions) was pitched to tastes of the uneducated or sublimely simple. Flinterman 2009, 234 doubts Philostratos’ “seriousness (or competence) as an apologist.”



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cians’, so they had him attribute his “signs and wonders” to God the Father. In the novels, miracles preserve the protagonists from harm but not by their own agency. Oracles may direct them, magic objects protect them, a few prayers summon divine aid, but these protagonists do not command supernatural forces.78 Miracles violate the natural order. The ones reported in pagan texts (novels, biography, encomia, satire) reflect different genres but provide parallel crisis narratives. They do not demonstrate any serious inclination or attempt to promote religious conversion or philosophic adhesion.79 In fact, tangled and suspenseful erotic plots--rather than authorial belief in miracles and “divine men”--motivate the occasional miracle. Coincidence “miracles” structure novel denouements, usually permitting the reunion of separated lovers; but natural explanations suit most of them. Charismatic holy men gain credence by miracles or by owning a new revelation. Parallel pagan thought-patterns took shape from the shadowy figure of Pythagoras and his imperial revival. Apollonios of Tyana (cf. Anderson 2009) and his shameless plagiarizer Alexander of Abonuteichos (Luc. Alex. 3; cf. Nock (1928)) contributed to Heliodoros’ Kalasiris and his dubious wisdom claims. Aristeides’ accounts of medical cures at the god Asklepios’ spas provide the believers’ viewpoint toward divine interest in sufferers (Beck (2003) 140–143); Lucian’s satirical exposés of charlatan imposters provide the disbelievers’. The novels share stories of sexual purity or cesspools of lust followed by salvific thômata with contemporary exemples such as Lukian’s Alexander, Acts, Thekla, and Pelagia.80 78 Granted, Habrokomes, Daphnis and Chloe, and Charikleia are saved once or twice by saying prayers and obtaining corresponding salvation in extreme peril (Xen. 4.2, Long. 2.2, 3.27, 32, Hld. 8. 9), but prayer does not provide their regular modus servandi. In the novels, the thaumatic preserves the protagonists themselves, usually without their (or their authors’) recognizing the divine tacticians. Habrokomes is not portrayed as a “darling of providence” (Beck 2003, 136), and his unique, salvific, cause–and–effect sequence of prayer and deliverance strikes readers as primitive, deus e machina without machina. Jesus’ miracles (and many saints’) focus on proving and exerting special powers over others, exorcisms, healing diseases, and punishments of persecutors. Like Philostratos’ Apollonios, Jesus tries to downplay his thaumaturgy (John 4:48: ἐὰν μὴ σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα ἴδητε, οὐ μὴ πιστεύσητε; cf. Mk. 13:22), but the Gospels hardly hide it. Brewer 1886 lists hundreds of OT/NT and later miracles. 79 Fusillo 1988, 23 and Edsall argue this non–theological intent well. Gospel and saints’ miracles, more frequent and more designed for spiritual persuasion show as many differences as superficial parallels to novel texts. Kee 1983, 174–220 compares the roles that miracles play in pagan, Jewish, ad Christian texts from many genres. 80 The moral reprobate Lucius becomes an Isiac priest by the miraculous theophany, intervention, and metamorphosis from ass back to man, a change powered by the goddess Isis herself. This divinity has agglutinated all other divinities into her power (Met. 11.1–13: the Corinthian crowds testantur deae beneficium).

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The Greek novels also differ from Utopian and travel-fictions in their Eskapismus. Fantasy structures the narratives of Euhemeros, Iambulos, and Antonios Diogenes’ ΑΠΙΣΤΑ, Wonders Beyond Thule, while it only fitfully emerges in the incidents of the love novels (Baumbach (2006) 87, 92). Longos’ narrator describes a painting, an artificial representation, but never explicitly doubts the reality or historicity of the fantastic elements in Pan’s crisis rescue of kidnapped Chloe from the Methymnian sailors in the war without heralds (Long. 2.26.5, 2: φαντάσματα, πολλὰ παράδοξα), although the mention of drunken revelry and fright (ἔπινον, ἔπαιζον) might invite readers’ doubts about the fanciful abduction. Longos’ peculiar brand of “realism” vacillates in this rare miracle.81 Here, as in many of the historians, the daimonic god Pan does his thing, he introduces panic. The intertextuality of the novels’ resolutions found in rare and brief  – but decisive  – supernatural interventions82 defeats efforts at finding the origins of miracle-stories in any one (literary) genre. Folk belief and later folklore of miracles have claims to originating all narratives of wondrous “human” accomplishments (healings, raising the dead, bi-locations, exorcisms, hexing) and supernatural interference (epiphanies and nature miracles, ascensions to heaven). The Greek novels minimize – but do not entirely suppress – resurrections, among the favorite “signs and wonders” (σήματα καὶ τέρατα/θαύματα) of Pagan, Jewish, and Christian thought. Imaginary and nostalgic recreations of earlier, more glorious epochs invited plausible facsimiles of mostly ordinary (if preternaturally handsome) youngsters surviving extraordinary perils.83 Their mostly mundane and

81 Baumbach 2006, 90–100 briefly examines the ancient novels for phantastic elements in both religious echoes and inset stories. The divine and welcome miracle of Longos’ pastoral landscape of abduction has a counterpart in Petronius’ destabilized, unpleasant suburban reality. When the theatrical Nikeros describes a soldier/werewolf of his acquaintance at Trimalchio’s wine–soaked banquet (Sat. 62–3), the inset horror story exhibits metamorphosis and anamorphosis – supernatural but unwelcome events – contrary to nature. Trimalchios’ following astonishing narrative about the fearless Cappadocian dolt, plussciae witches, and the abduction of a changeling son/straw–bundle (vavato) similarly asserts non–natural prodigies close to home. Apuleius multiplies dreadful miracles wrought by evil supernatural powers, rarely welcome and more often horrifying events, contrary to nature. 82 E.  g., Homer’s watery Thetis and Olympian Zeus, Herodotos’ bilocating Aristeas and Salmoxis: 4.13–16, 94–6, Philostratos’ Apollonius, Longos’ salvations, Peregrinos’ claims. See Lateiner 1990, 238–245 and 1993, passim, on fifth–century popular delusions. 83 Edsall 2001, 131 (not, as she alleges, following Bowersock 1994, 142) believes that the novelist Heliodoros, after reacting to the bizarre religion of the Christians with his utopian, Helios– worshipping novel, became a Christian, indeed, a bishop like [the mischievous] Tatios (Suda’s “Achilleus Statios” [sic]).



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urban context84 with coitus interrupted by pirates, shipwrecks, jealous rivals, and a war or two (Chariton, Heliodoros) aimed at reflecting an ideal of long-gone youth and beauty that vicarious thrill-seeking readers aspired to imagine. If one were neither mage nor sage, procuring a handsome spouse and living happily ever after would suffice – with a minimum of miracles, please! Pagan and Christian heroicizing traditions share at times a mix of pornography, gender-bending, and spiritual eccentricity. Women prove “brave beyond their sex,” accepting possible torture and obliteration of their bodies to preserve their chastity. Novels and hagiographies display the pornography of (male) power confronting the courage of determined but powerless and often naked (female) sufferers (the αὐτοδεσπόται, cf. 4 Macc.1.1). Their recalcitrant passions and their extraordinary “patience” for suffering deaths meaningful for their cause (chastity or marital or Christian virginity) highlights a “more feminized rhetoric.” Unflinching endurance of undeserved civic or private punishment produces greater honor, attribution of supernatural powers, even in shameful venues provided by slaveowners85 or the Roman state. The power of passive resistance itself evolves into active virtues (ἀρεταί, δυναμεῖς), a “novel ideology.”86 Outlasting persecutors and jailers, even if torturers were to destroy their victims, they raised lowly and ordinary men and women from powerless bodies – “losers” – to victorious personalities miraculously restored to reunion with lovers in this life (fictional narratives) or reunion with god in the next (hagiographic narratives).

Conclusions Supranormal events – especially marvel healings of deaf, mute, blind, and lame persons  – render sensational certain ancient narratives, pagan, Christian, and (more rarely) Jewish (cf. Keener (2011) ch. 3 with examples). Healing shrines’ inscriptions and ex-votos attest to these miracles. Tacitus and Mark report that the enemies of the itinerant healer and thaumaturge Jesus and his cult perceived 84 Longos’ short pastoral novel, unique in many respects, has the most violations of the natural order, counted per page, but it too exhibits the birth of the protagonists in the Lesbian polis and peripeteia and anagnorisis occur in the polis environment. 85 E.  g., Xen. 2.6, Apsyrtos tortures Habrokomes; AT 6 18–22, Thersander has Leukippe tortured; ApRT 33–34, pimp sets the virgin Tarsia to sex work in the brothel. 86 Cf. Xen. 5.7; Apul. Met.: Psyche 6.9–21, Charite acts super sexum 6.27.4, and with animam virilem 8 7–14. These novel passages express the idea of women surpassing gendered norms for courage and resistance to pain. See Shaw 1996, 272; 276; 284; 289; 294. He cites Tatios’ novel and Jerome Epist. 1 (CSEL 54.1–9) considering women’s endurance and defiance of torture.

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his acts as those of a malevolent magician and pernicious (exitiabilis) troublemaker.87 Both Hellenic biographers of thaumaturges (Aristeas, Jesus, Apollonios) and writers of romances not surprisingly devote more pages to welcomed wonders than do writers in other, less uplifting and didactic genres such as philosophy, universal history, or satire. The historical Apollonios was renowned in the first-century CE for magical accomplishments, manipulating supernatural powers to aid the sick, restore the dead to life, exorcising daemons. Longing for such reports only grew from Anatolia to Palestine and beyond in the first centuries of the Christian era, as the Gospels, martyrologies, and associated miracle-worker accounts testify.88 Philostratos resembles the author of Acts and other Christian congeners in distinguishing his hero’s benevolent miracles brought about for free from harmful “magic” and profit-motivated marvels. Their texts constitute “antimagical apologetic” (Keener (2011) 53), but they do not reject miracles tout court. Lukian describes and despises not only Christian and Jewish witches and thaumaturges but pagan Alexander, Apollonios, and yet others.89 “Miracles,” when believed and disseminated, legitimated these agents and healing shrine locales such as Epidauros. Similarly, they benefitted those who begged for such help and /or evangelized for any person or faith believed responsible for the achievement. Audiences further afield were encouraged to believe, as many then and now believe, whether needy themselves or not, in the efficacy of prayer, laying on of hands (or spit), or word and gesture formulae that embody special power. The Greek novels scatter decisive events that are or seem miraculous (to internal and sometimes external audiences) throughout their plots. They insert many fewer epiphanies and other “unbelievable” moments, however, than the archaic epic poems or the classical Attic tragedians. Their Greek Imperial plots concern a distant Classical past (or Longos’ bucolically distant present), but their protagonists never boast divine lineage or see their authorially certified patrons (except in some dreams or their cousins, visions). Young, attractive, aristocratic, and unlucky, extra-ordinary events befall them, many of them real enough in a world full of envious peers, betters, and inferiors. Even today, the possibility of miracles remain in the consciousness of many people who depend on irrational hopes

87 Ann. 15.44.3–8; Mark 3:22, 5:15–17; cf. Luk. 11:15. 88 E.  g., Acts, Acts of Thekla, Pseudepigrapha, Damis the authenticating sidekick’s account of Apollonios, if it ever existed. Keener 2011, 35–82 summarizes pagan (‘gentile’) and Christian miracle claims, their literary and other memorials, and their developments, such as material cures from Jesus’ spittle or merely speaking his name as efficacious healing agent. 89 Philops. 16–17, Alex. 13, Podagr. 145–75, esp. 171–3 condemning sacred potions, quacks’ chants, and Jewish spells; cf. Juv. Sat. 6. 542–7 and Keener 2011, 56–61.



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in politics and lotteries. Supernatural “phenomena” in the twenty-first century include answered prayers, visions of Jesus, and non-medical healings, meaningful dreams and “incredible” coincidences, not to mention life after death. Not so much any more do the needy meet oracles, raisers of the dead in this life, necromancy, and divinely inspired prophets. These practices are currently unfashionable in fiction, except in fantasy cinema. The “realism” of the ancient novels is a matter of degree, as is the “miraculism.” The never-never land of Longos’ Lesbos is most comfortable with divine constructions, when one examines the five Greek novels. The superabundant, irrelevant details and by-ways of Heliodoros’ veristic Athens, Delphi, Memphis, and Meroe underlie an “unbelievable” course of events. Just as the historical paraphernalia help readers to suspend disbelief, so the supernatural machinery of older genres and well-known authors comfortably adjusts the lover of literature to improbable coincidences and “unbelievable” escapes from violation and failure – until we attain the wonder-fully happy marriage consummated only in the Land of the Sun and after the novel ends. The novels accept miracles for their literary contributions (excitement, plot reversals, impossible odds) and for their moral validation of the protagonists. They exploit their contemporaries’ pleasure in reading escape narratives. These texts offered secular and faith-based, last-moment rescues of imperiled purity. Miracle was the only conceivable solution in a top-down world of shrunken possibilities, erotic and spiritual.

Bibliography Anderson, G. (1986), Philostratus, London–Sydney. – (2009), “Folklore versus Fakelore: Some Problems in the Life of Apollonius”, in: K. Demoen/ D. Praet (eds.), Theios Sophistes, Leiden–Boston, 211–223. Baumbach, M. (2006), “Ambiguität als Stilprinzip”, in: N. Hömke/M. Baumbach (eds.), Fremde Wirklichkeiten. Literarische Phantastik und antike Literatur, Heidelberg, 73–107. Beck, R. (2003), “Mystery Religions, Aretalogy, and the Ancient Novel”, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden, 131–150. Bowersock, G. (1994), Fiction as History. Nero to Julian, Berkeley–Los Angeles. Brewer, E. C. (1884), Dictionary of Miracles. Imitative. Realistic, and Dogmatic, Philadelphia. Cotter, W. (1999), Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity, New York. Cox, P. (1983), Biography in Late Antiquity. A Quest for the Holy Man, Berkeley–Los Angeles. Demoen, K./D. Praet (eds.) (2009), Theios Sophistes. Studies in Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apolonii, Leiden–Boston. Dowden, K. (2015), “Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias”, in: Panayotakis, S. et al. (2015) 1–16. Edsall, M. (2001), “Religious narratives and religious themes in the novels of Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus”, Ancient Narrative 1, 114–133.

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Fehling, D. (1971/1989), Herodotus and his “Sources.” Citation, Invention and Narrative Art, Edinburgh. Flinterman, J. (2009), “Apollonius’ Ascension”, in: Demoen/Praet (2009) 225–248. Francis, J. A. (1995), Subversive Virtue. Asceticism and Authority in the Second-Century Pagan World, Pennsylvania. Fusillo, M. (1988), “Textual Patterns and Narrative Situations in the Greek Novel”, GCN 1, 17–31. Futre Pinheiro, M. (1991), “Fonctions du surnaturel dans les Éthiopiques d’Héliodore”, Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé, 359–381. Gager, J. (1992), Curse tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World, Oxford. Harrison, T. (2000), Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus, Oxford. Henrichs, A. (2003), “Hieroi logoi and Hierai bibloi: the (un)written margins of the sacred in ancient Greece”, HSCP 101, 207–266. Hopkins, K. (1999), A World Full of Gods, London. Hunziger, C. (2015), “Wonder”, in: P. Destree/P. Murray (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Aesthetics, Malden, 422–437. Hutton, W. (2009), “Pausanias the Novelist”, in: G. A. Karla (ed.), Fiction on the Fringe. Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age, Leiden–Boston, 151–169. Johnson, S. F. (2006), The Life and Miracles of Thekla. A Literary Study, Cambridge, Mass. Jouanna, J. (1999), Hippocrates, transl. M. B. DeBevoise, Baltimore. Kee, H. C. (1983), Miracle in the Early Christian World, New Haven. Keener, C. S. (2011), Miracles. The Credibility of the New Testament Accounts, (2 vols.) Grand Rapids, Michigan. Konstan, D. (1995), Sexual Symmetry, Princeton. Lane Fox, R. (1986), Pagans and Christians, New York. Lateiner, D. (1989), The Historical Method of Herodotus, Toronto. – (1990), “Deceptions and Delusions in Herodotus”, ClAnt 9 (2), 230–246. – (1993), “The Perception of Deception and Gullibility in Specialists of the Supernatural …”, in: R. Rosen/J. O’Farrell (eds.), Nomodeiktes. Studies in Honor of Martin Ostwald, Ann Arbor, 179–195. Létoublon, F. (1993), Les lieux communs du roman. Stéréotypes grecs d’aventure et d’amour, Leiden–New York. Merkelbach, R. (1962), Roman und Mysterium in der Antike, Munich. Morgan, J. R. (1982), “History, Romance, and Realism in the Aithiopika of Heliodorus”, ClAnt 1, 221–265. – (2003), “Heliodorus”, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden, 417–456. Nock, A. D. (1928), “Alexander of Abonuteichus”, CQ 22, 160–162. Panayotakis, S., et al. (eds.) (2015), Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 19, Groningen. Paulsen, T. (1992), Inszenierung des Schicksals. Tragödie und Komödie im Roman des Heliodor, Trier. Petzke, G. (1970), Die Traditionen über Apollonius von Tyana und das Neue Testament, Leiden. Remus, H. (1983), Pagan-Christian conflict over Miracle in the Second Century, Philadelphia. Rommel, H. (1923), Die naturwissenschaftlich-paradoxographischen Exkurse bei Philostratos, Heliodoros und Achilleus Tatios, Stuttgart.



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List of Contributors Charles Delattre is professor in Greek language and literature at the University of Lille (France). His research focuses mainly on mythology: abandoning the quest for heroes and stories, he prefers to define mythology as a complex set of erudite practices, focusing on literary procedures and social contexts. In his work myth is the result of a modern construction, which helps to reveal negociations, struggles and inconsistencies in the Greek and Roman literate and illiterate societies. His publications include theoretical inquiry on myth making (Le cycle de l’anneau, 2009), edition and translation of ancient Greek mythographic texts (Ps. Plutarque, Nommer le monde, 2011) and study of Greek and latin mythography and paradoxography, specially in imperial times. J. R. R. Tolkien’s works, where ancient heritage and modern fiction meet, are another field of interest. Chrysanthi Demetriou studied Classics in Cyprus (BA) and the UK (MPhil Cambridge, PhD Leeds). Her research interests revolve around Roman drama (mainly Plautus and Terence), ancient commentaries on Terence (mainly Donatus) and the reception of Roman comedy in late antiquity (staging, education, rhetorical theory). She is currently an adjunct lecturer in Latin Language and Literature at the University of Cyprus and an adjunct tutor at the Open University of Cyprus. Maria Gerolemou currently works as a postdoctoral researcher at the Classics and ­Philosophy Department of the University of Cyprus. Her research focuses on ancient drama, primarily through parameters such as those of gender and madness, on paradoxography and, most recently, on ancient mechanics. She is the author of the book  Bad Women, Mad Women: Gender und Wahnsinn in der Griechischen Tragödie (Classica Monacensia, Tübingen 2011). She is is currently preparing a monograph on the automatic theater in antiquity. Lisa Irene Hau is Lecturer in Classics at the University of Glasgow. She has her BA and MA in Classical Philology from the University of Aarhus, Denmark, and a PhD in Classics from Royal Holloway, University of London. Her interest is in Greek historiography of the Classical and Hellenistic periods, and she has published on Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybios, and Diodoros of Sicily as well as on the genre of historiography as a whole. Her monograph ‘Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus’ has just been published by Edinburgh University Press. Christine Hunzinger  is Maître de Conférences in Greek language and literature at the University of Paris-Sorbonne. She studied Classics at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris (Ulm) and at the University Paris-Sorbonne. She has worked https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-020

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primarily on  thauma  in archaic Greek Epic (PhD Dissertation 1997, University Paris-Sorbonne). She has published articles on Homer, Hesiod, Homeric Hymns, Theognis, and Herodotus and she has also written on various aspects of the representation of the marvelous in archaic and classical Greek literature. George Kazantzidis (DPhil Oxford) is Assistant Professor in Latin Literature at the University of Patras. His interests lie in the intersections between medicine and poetry in antiquity, with special emphasis on the history of mental illness and the emotions. He has published articles on Cicero, Callimachus, Lucretius and the Hippocratics. His book-manuscript on medical notions of melancholy in Hellenistic and Latin poetry is near completion while he has recently launched a new long-term project on medicine and paradoxography in classical antiquity. András Kraft is a PhD candidate in Medieval Studies at the Central European University (Budapest), where he specializes in Byzantine history. His research deals with the intellectual history of the Middle Byzantine period with a focus on philosophical and prophetic literature. He holds an MA degree in Philosophy (Eötvös Loránd University, 2010) and an MA in Medieval Studies (Central European University, 2011). During the academic year 2014/15 he was a Junior fellow at the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations (Istanbul) and in 2013/2014 as well as in 2015/2016 he carried out research in Ioannina and Thessaloniki as a Junior fellow of the Alexander S. Onassis Foundation. Donald Lateiner has taught Ancient History, Greek and Latin languages and their literatures, in recent years in the Humanities-Classics department at Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, Ohio. He publishes on Herodotus and Thucydides, e.  g., The Historical Method of Herodotus (1989), (co-editor Edith Foster) Thucydides & Herodotus (2012), and has edited and annotated translations of both authors (2004, 2006). Sardonic Smile: Nonverbal Behavior in Homeric Epic (1995) explores the variety of body language and proxemics chiefly in the Odyssey. Research examines nonverbal behaviors in ancient texts, both in poetry and prose, e.  g., in Homeric and Ovidian epic and in the novels of Petronius, Apuleius, and Heliodoros. Currently, he is writing on the senses, e.  g., smell in the ancient novels, and on the emotions, editing (with Dimos Spatharas) The Ancient Emotion of Disgust (2017). The current essay contributes to a larger project: “Religious Entrepreneurs in the Roman Empire.” Lydia Langerwerf received her PhD from the University of Nottingham in 2010 with a dissertation entitled “No freer than the helots”: Messenian rebel behaviour in Pausanias’ Messeniaka in comparative perspective. She continued her career



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as a historian at the Lebanese American University in Byblos and the University of Groningen and is currently working on a broadranging monograph on rebel behaviour in Greek Authors of the Roman Empire. Irene Pajón Leyra is postdoctoral researcher at the University of Nice. She has a PhD in Greek Philology (Complutense University, Madrid 2008) and a degree in Hebrew Philology (2006). Her research has dealt with three main fields: Greek paradoxography, ancient Geography and papyrology. Paradoxography was the subject of her Doctoral Thesis, later published as a book (Entre ciencia y maravilla, Zaragoza 2011). In the field of ancient Geography, she has published studies on some of its most relevant figures, namely Posidonius of Apamea, Artemidorus of Ephesus or Pytheas of Massalia. Trained in papyrology at the University of Oxford and the Spanish National High Council of Research (CSIC), her work as a papyrologist focuses on the collection and study of papyri connected to ancient Geography and paradoxography. She participates or has participated in prestigious research projects, both in Spain (Hesperia, DVCTVS) and abroad (FrGrHist IV, Zoomathia, Practicing Knowledge in Islamic Societies and their Neighbours). Regine May is lecturer in Latin Literature at the University of Leeds and the author of two books on Apuleius: Apuleius and Drama. The Ass on Stage (Oxford: OUP 2006) and Apuleius. Metamorphoses Book 1. With an Introduction, Translation and Notes (Oxford: Aris & Phillips 2013). She has also written numerous articles on the intertextuality between drama (especially Plautine comedy and pantomime) and the ancient novels. Other research interests include: marriage symbolism in Menander (cutting hair in Perikeiromene) and the Greek and Latin novels; characterisation, especially of Photis, in Apuleius; the purpose of Plato citations in Apuleius’ Apologia; connections between ancient magic and mystery cults; ancient medicine in the novels; the reception of New and Roman comedy in the second century AD, and mediaeval and Renaissance responses to Apuleius’ text. Her next project will look at the reception of Cupid and Psyche from the Renaissance to modern times. Karen ní Mheallaigh is a senior lecturer in Classics at the University of Exeter. Her interests cluster around interactions between ancient fictional literature and its contemporary context, especially between fiction and non-fiction, and how fictional literature relates to its contemporary Wunderkultur of antiquarianism, spectacle, technology and illusion. Her research includes a monograph on the works of Lucian of Samosata, Reading fiction with Lucian: fakes, freaks and hyperreality (Cambridge, 2014).

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 List of Contributors

Margot Neger was born in Graz, Austria. She graduated in Classics in 2005 from the University of Graz and gained her PhD in 2011 from the LMU Munich, Germany. Her doctoral thesis on the epigrams of Martial was published 2012 under the title Martials Dichtergedichte. Das Epigramm als Medium der poetischen Selbst­reflexion (Tübingen). At the LMU Munich she has been a member of staff at the Classics Department from 2007–2013. In March 2013 she joined the Department of Classical Studies at the University of Salzburg, Austria, as a postdoctoral researcher. From 2012 to 2015 she has also been a teaching fellow at the Classics Department of the University of Graz. Her research-interests are Greek and Roman epigram, ancient epistolography, Greek and Roman imperial literature and ancient literary criticism. She has published articles on Greek and Roman epigram and epistolography (especially Pliny the Younger) and is currently preparing a monograph on Pliny the Younger’s narrative strategies in his letters. Andrew Nichols is an adjunct lecturer in the Department of Classics and the Center for Greek Studies at the University of Florida. He is the author of Ctesias: On India (Bloomsbury 2011). He has published articles on the Zoroastrian concept Asha, the cave of the nymphs of Mt. Ossa, and inscriptions from Epidaurus. He has written entries for the Herodotus Encyclopedia (ed. C. Brown) and the encyclopedia Great Events in Religion (eds. F. Curta and A. Holt). He is currently working on a monograph on the legendary Assyrian monarchs Ninus and Semiramis. Sophia Papaioannou teaches Latin language and literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, Faculty of Philology. Her principal areas of research include ancient epic, the literature and culture of the Age of Augustus, and Roman drama, especially comedy, and she has authored, edited and co-edited several books and articles on the above areas. Her current work includes a commentary on Plautus’ Curculio; a study on the reception of Apollonius’ Argonautica in Ovid; an article on the reception of Plautus in Ovid; and the first bi-lingual translation (Greek and English) of the unpublished Latin philosophical treatise De Statu Hominis by the 15th century Greek Catholic theologian Leonardus, archbishop of Mytilene. Clarisse Prêtre is researcher at the CNRS (France); her research topics concern the votive practices in ancient Greece, through the study of texts about divine medicine, the analysis of the names of offerings in epigraphic sources or the archaeological study of small votive objects. She is the author of several books, including a collaborative work about the iamata from Epidaurus.



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 421

Antonis Tsakmakis is Associate Professor of Greek in the Department of Classical Studies and Philosophy (Head since 2013), University of Cyprus. His research interests are Greek historiography, old comedy, the sophistic movement (Protagoras), archaic poetry, Greek stylistics, Greek particles, the reception of antiquity in modern times, the teaching of Greek in secondary education. He is the author of Thukydides über die Vergangenheit, Tübingen 1995 and co-editor of Brill’s Companion to Thucydides, Mnemosyne Suppements, Leyden: Brill 2006, and Thucydides between History and Literature, Berlin – New York 2013. Recently he has completed a new series of textbooks for teaching Greek in High School. His current research projects include Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae, Euripides’ Suppliant Women and Herodotus.

Index Nominum et Rerum Abydos 71, 296 Αcademicorum Philosophorum Index Herculanensis 335 Accius 170 Achilles 3, 137, 261  f., 270, 319 Achilles Tatius 237, 381, 385, 394, 395  f., 405  f., 411 Adam and Eve 114 Adynata 375 Aegisthus 209 Aelian 13, 15, 32, 134  f. Aemilius Paullus 73–5, 82  f., 281–3 Aesculapius 104, 107, 171 Aesop 330, 332, 336, 348 Africa 68, 77, 81, 103, 134, 185, 200 Agamemnon 209 Agestratos 21 Aischines 26 Albunea 212 Alcmene 157, 343 Alcumena 155–7, 160, 162, 169, 173  f. Ales 211 Alexander of Abonouteichos 225–230, 246, 251  f. Alexander the Great 14, 94, 97–9, 103–5, 226–228, 239  f., 275, 277–300, 338, 344–7, 407 Alexandria 4, 11, 99–101, 103, 108, 299 Alexios I Komnenos 126 Alogon ix Alpheius 210 Alyattes 136, 141  f. Amasis 141, 143, 145 Ameria 195 Ammon, oracle of 99, 293 Amphitruo 153–174 Anagkẽ xv Anagnorosis xiii, 387, 398, 429 Anatolia 412 Anaxagoras of Clazomenae 280 Anchises 25 Andromache 22  f., 399 Anio 190 Anna Komnene 126 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110563559-021

Anonymi de rebus Byzantinis vaticinium 116  f., 119, 127 Antichrist 111  f., 114  f., 120–5, Antigonus of Carystus 31  f., 45, 49, 55 Antonius Diogenes 249, 360, 410 Aphrodite 25, 137, 381, 391–3 Apollo 22, 88–91, 93  f., 97, 106  f., 142, 211, 220, 228  f., 235, 279, 334–7, 399, 401 Apollo Medicus 106  f. Apollo Thyrxeus 220 Apollonius of Rhodes 298  f. Apollonius of Tyana 374  f. Apparent death xv, 50, 353  f., 365, 367–71, 374, 377, 381, 385, 387, 389  f., 392, 394, 403 Apuleius xv, 335  f., 353–77, 382, 410 Arabia 143, 217 Aratus 198 Archē 207 Archelaus I (king of Macedon) 300 Archilochus 5, 330, 332 Architectus 157, 165 Ares 279 Aretalogy xv, 19, 226, 327, 389, 397, 401, 403, 405 Arete 137 Argos 146 Arignotus 185 Arimaspians 138 Arion 146 Aristander 278, 294, 298 Aristeas of Proconnesus 6, 138  f., 338, 343, 402, 407, 410, 412 Aristobulus of Casandreia 290, 293, 295, 298  f. Aristomenes 309, 321, 355–65, 372, 382 Ariston 334 Aristophanes 245, 382, 402, 421 Aristotle ix, xi, xiii, xiv, 7–9, 11, 13  f., 31–6, 43–6, 48–50, 52, 54–6, 59, 68, 71, 80, 134  f., 160, 246, 265, 275, 280, 285, 290  f., 294, 306, 321  f., 329, 387–9, 391, 394, 407 Aristoxenos of Tarentum 329, 336 Arkhimedes 75

424 

 Index Nominum et Rerum

Arrian of Nicomedia xiv, 97, 105, 277–80, 284, 286, 289–98 Artapanus 288 Artaxerxes II 13 Artemis x, 37, 142, 211, 390, 392, 394, 397, 399, 401–3 Artemisia 143  f. Artemisium 139  f. Arybbas 22  f. Asclepiades of Prusa 353, 366–71, 373 Asclepius 18, 20–8, 35–7, 225–35, 247, 338 Asia 194  f., 275, 286 Asia Minor 18, 235, 293, 392 Assyrian 278 Astyra 212 Athaumastia 208 Athena (goddess) 3, 140, 247  f., 266, 269, 402 Athenaeus 47, 144, 230, 247 Athenodorus 185–8, 200 Athens 32, 73  f., 91, 140, 185  f., 200, 247, 317, 335, 402, 413 Atlantic Ocean 285 Atlantis 216 Atomist school 298 Augustus 85–7, 91, 93–8, 103, 105–7 Autophone oracles 225, 227, 232, 234, 237, 247  f., Babylonian, Babylonians 123, 142, 144, 297, 392 Baebius Macer 182 Bandits 390, 397, 402  f. Battus of Cyrene 92  f. Biaiothanatos 357, 363 Biblis 210 Bilocation 174, 410 Boubastis 141 Boy-medium 232, 234 Buris 291 Buto 142 Caius 21 Caius Octavius 93 Caius Oppius 98 Caius Sulpicious Callus 282 Calchas 268  f. Callimachus xi, 4  f., 7  f., 11  f., 32, 45

Callisthenes of Olynthus 99, 275, 290–4, 297–9 Calpurnius Fabatus 192, 195 Cambyses 147 Caninius Rufus 179, 191, 201 Cannae, battle of 279 Carchedonians 139 Carthage, Genius of 76, 279 Carthaginian 72, 82, 279 Caspian Sea 285  f. Cato the Elder 66 Cecrops 91 Cenchrius 210 Centumviral Court 182 Chaeremon of Ephesus 374 Chaldeans 184 Chariton 381, 383, 385, 393, 405, 411 Chemmis 142 Chreiai 379 Christ xii, 114, 116, 118–20, 122–5 Cicero ix, 87, 182, 199, 282, 406 Claudius 189 Cleomedes 343 Climax, Mount 284, 292 Clitarchus 293, 295, 298  f. Clitumnus 190, 193  f., 196 Colophon 211 Comatose; See apparent death Comum 192, 195  f. Corinth 68, 82, 146, 185, 306, 311, 329, 409 Cornelius Nepos 328 Corpses 353, 360  f., 374 Counterfeit seals 233 Crete 18 Croesus 76, 147 Crucifixion 118, 393, 405 Ctesias xi, 3–15, 33, 51, 134, 210, 290 Curtius Rufus 185, 188, 200, 285 Curtius, Quintus 294–7 Cyanea 220 Cyrus x, 137, 147 Cyzica 211 Dacia 191  f., 197 Damastes 6 Danube 197 Darius 144, 196



Daskylon 212 Decebalus 197 Deification 99, 344  f. Deinon of Rhodes 65, 180 Delos 291 Delphi 11, 21  f., 88–90, 92, 94, 381, 387  f., 397  f., 400, 404, 413 Demaratus 141 Demeter 22, 141, 219  f., 308  f. Democritus 8, 208, 232, 250, 298 Dicaeus 141 Dio Cassius 87, 103 Diocles of Peparethus 342 Diodorus Siculus 8, 134, 229  f. Diogenes Laertius 47, 331, 335, 337–9, 360 Dionysius II. of Syracuse 328  f. Dionysius of Halicarnassus 93, 96, 144 Disappearances 19, 22  f., 210, 219, 260, 269, 281, 338, 342  f., 355, 390, 406, 408 Discourses of John Chrysostom concerning the Vision of Daniel 127 Divination 36, 96  f., 246, 276  f., 281, 298, 335, 406 Divine Men xii, 128, 226, 228, 253, 336, 343, 348, 365, 373–5, 389, 396, 398  f., 402, 405, 407–9 Domitian 103–107, 179  f., 182, 188  f., 200, 345 Dreams 36, 101, 103, 159, 165  f., 169, 171, 175, 179–84, 189  f., 200, 338, 342, 381, 384, 393  f., 399, 412  f. Drusus, Nero Claudius 183, 189 Duplication 160–2, 174, 233 Earth 46, 55, 189  f., 91–3, 165, 235, 262, 266  f., 278–81, 291, 383 Echion 92 Egypt , Egyptian, Egyptians 87, 99, 103–105, 107  f., 134, 137, 139, 141  f., 144, 194  f., 229, 233, 249, 287, 295–7, 315, 345, 347, 360, 382, 393, 395–8, 403, 407 Eidolon 220 Eikos 208, 222 Ekbatana 67  f., 81 Ekphrasis 136  f., 195, 198, 215, 218  f., 221  f., 266 Ekplẽktikon xiii, 164, 387 Eleusis 141, 308

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 425

Empedocles 47, 329 Endymion 235 Engastrimythia 244  f. Ennius 170 Enoch and Elijah 123 Epaminondas 321 Ephesus 46, 165, 374, 419 Ephorus 134 Epicureanism , Epicurus, Epicureans 174  f., 226, 246, 251, 298, 328 Epidauros Limera 219 Epidaurus 18, 20, 22–4, 35 Epimenides 329, 338  f. Epimetheus 267 Epiphanies xv, 23–5, 97, 118, 190, 226, 229  f., 236, 247  f., 264, 269, 332, 381–4, 386, 389–91, 393, 397, 402, 410, 412 Eratokles 20 Erichthonius 92 Eros 391  f., 401 Etesian winds, etesians 285 Eudoxus 11 Euripides 155, 157, 164, 329 Eurotas 210 Eurycles 245 Eustathius of Thessalonica 244, 291  f., 294 Fannius, C. 184–6, 189, 200 Frodo 221 Galadriel 221 Galen 18, 41  f., 44, 47, 50  f., 53, 373 Gaugamela, battle of 275, 277, 284, 294, 297 Gellius Aulus 12, 15, 52, 98 Ghost 158, 164  f., 179–181, 183, 185–9, 200, 354  f., 357, 359, 362–4, 366, 369, 374, 393 Glycon 226, 231  f., 235–7, 239–41, 243, 246, 251  f., 357 Gordius 97 Gyges x, 144  f. Hadrian 5, 47, 103, 308 Halitaea 210 Hamilkar Barka 72 Hannibal 73, 75, 80–3, 98, 279 Happy Endings 381, 400 Hebrews 244, 287, 289, 404, 419 Hecataeus of Abdera viii

426 

 Index Nominum et Rerum

Hecataeus of Miletus 3–6,11, 138, 142 Hector 143, 262 Hegesistratus 144 Helen 268, 271 Heliodorus 237, 366, 381–3, 385, 387  f., 390, 394–413 Heliopolites 288 Helix 295 Hellanicus 4, 6  f., 134 Helvidius Priscus 189 Hera 260, 279 Heracles 33, 154–6, 160, 163  f., 240, 279, 281, 293, 340, 343 Heraclides of Pontus 47, 50, 337  f. Hermes 143, 169, 244, 261, 267 Hermippus 329 Hermodicus of Lampsacus 26 Herodotus xi  f., 3–7, 10–12, 15, 33, 51  f., 92  f., 102, 133–147, 205, 229, 281, 296  f., 301, 305  f., 313, 315–7, 319, 321, 323, 402 Hesiod xiv, 25, 138  f., 202, 261, 266, 268, 270  f., 331  f., 332, 388 Hippo 180, 190, 197 Hippocrates , Hippocratic 18, 31–56, 386 Hippolytus of Rome 115, 120, 123, 225, 227, 230–6, 240, 248  f. Hispellum 193 Homer 3, 137–9, 143, 146, 245, 261, 268, 271, 275, 319, 323, 330–2, 335–7, 398, 402 Hyperboreans 134, 139 Hyrcania 285  f. Incubation 20, 23  f., 26, 36, 54, 171, 173, 175 India 4, 6, 9, 12–14, 139, 285  f. Ino 219 Iolaus 279 Ionia , Ionians 5, 140, 210  f., 284, 307, 316, 397 Ioppe 212 Iphigenia x Iseum Campense 104  f. Isidore of Seville 4 Isigonus 8, 37 Isis 104, 353  f., 375–7, 389  f., 401  f., 409 Isis priest 363 Islam 114 Isocrates 228, 328  f. Israelites 287

Issidones 140 Italy 99, 192, 195  f., 199  f. Iunius Brutus 87  f. Iunius Brutus the Younger 88 Iunius Pastor 182 Jamblichus 334, 336 Jason 5, 33 Jerusalem 114  f., 126 John the Evangelist 123, 409 Josephus, Flavius 103, 244, 286–9 Judaea 212, 230 Jupiter 98, 153, 155–8, 160, 162 Kleo 19 Kosmos 208 Laconia 219, 313  f. Lake Moirion 142 Larva; see ghost Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel 128 Latium 97, 212 Lebena 18 Lesbos 212, 413 Leto 142 Levounion (Thrace) 126 Licinius Sura 180, 185, 188, 190, 192, 200 Linos 331 Livia Drusilla 85, 87, 95–7, 108 Livy 85–98, 108, 186, 282  f., 297, 382, 386 Longinus ps. ix, 6, 138 Longus 381–94, 405, 407, 410–3 Lucian xiii, xiv, 133  f., 185, 225–53, 358, 373, 381, 386, 395, 408  f. Lucilius 170 Lucius character in Apuleius 353–377, 409 Lupercus 196, 198 Lycia 220 Lycurgus 340 Lydia , Lydians 97, 136, 140, 281, 284, 318 Lygdamis 143 Lysander 311, 347 Macedon 73 Macedonians xiv, 83, 228, 275, 277–291, 299  f., 309 Magic vii, xiii, xv, 17, 36, 42, 46, 49, 162  f., 220  f., 225–53, 275–7, 280, 298  f., 344, 346, 354  f., 359–61, 364–9, 373–7, 382, 388, 390, 393, 395–7, 399  f., 405, 409, 412



Marathon 141, 382, 384, 386 Mardonius 140 Marinus 336 Marius 347 Maximus 197 Medea 96, 298  f. Medians 281 Medicine xv, 13, 17  f., 20, 27  f., 31–55, 104, 346, 353, 367–70, 373, 375–7 Mediterranean 285, 386, 405 Megasthenes 4, 7  f. Melchizedek 119 Memphis 141, 288, 401, 413 Memphites 288 Mentor 269 Mercury 155–61, 168, 170, 174 Meroe, character in Apuleius 355, 388, 401, 403  f., 413 Messenia 211, 309, 311, 313, 317, 321, 382  f. Metamorphosis 260, 353, 359, 377, 382, 409  f. Miletus 210 Moiragenes 408 Monstrum 164, 213 Moon 49, 235  f., 278–83, 286, 290, 292, 295–7, 403 Moses 119, 288  f. Mothone 211 Mount Calvary / Golgotha 114 Mumbo Jumbo 398, 400 Museum 299 Myrsilos 6 Mystification xi, 39, 48, 313, 353, 394, 398 Naravas the Numidian 72, 82 Necromancy xv, 244, 353–65, 368–76, 393, 400, 413 Nekydaimon 354, 357 Neoplatonism 328, 335–7 Nerva 180 Nestor 269  f. Nick of Time 381, 391, 403  f. Nile 6, 34, 101, 134, 137–139, 285, 287, 393, 397–99, 404 Nitocris 142, 144  f. Novius Maximus 184 Numa 340 Númenor 216

Index Nominum et Rerum 

 427

Nymphodorus 6, 11, 32 Ocean 138, 285  f., 290 Odysseus 5, 147, 251, 268–271, 385, 390, 402, 404 Olcas 214 Omens xiii, 85–109, 219, 281, 283, 332, 393 Oracles 88–92, 99, 113, 115, 117  f., 127  f., 142, 147, 214, 220  f., 225, 227  f., 232, 234, 237, 239, 243, 246–8, 284, 293, 310–12, 322, 332  f., 337, 342, 357, 381  f., 387  f., 393, 398  f., 402, 409, 413 Orakelkritik 225, 227, 245  f. Ordeals 310, 386, 394–6 Orestes 146 Oribasius 18 Orpheus 331, 338 Otanes 140 Oxus, River 67, 81 Pacuvius 164 Palici 219 Pamphylia 287, 290–2, 294, 298  f. Pan 140, 382, 387, 391, 401, 410 Pandora xiv, 266  f., 270  f., 388 Paradoxographus Florentinus 7  f. Paradoxographus Vaticanus 6, 8 Paradoxon 31–56, 64, 214, 242–5, 260, 264–5, 308 Paraetonium 293 Paralysis 310 Patras 219–221 Pausanias xiii-xv, 208–213, 219–221, 305–324, 382  f. Pechenegs 126 Peleus 137 Pella 228, 230  f., 299 Peloponnese 219, 306, 341 Perdiccas II (king of Macedon) 300 Periander 146 Periegesis 209–211, 305–324 Perils, vicarious 386, 410 Peripeteia xiii, 398, 411 Perseus 65, 73, 80, 293, 317 Persia , Persian 9, 13, 134, 139–141, 144, 278, 281, 287, 295, 322, 341, 392  f., 396 Petronius 237, 382, 410 Phaselis 275, 284–89, 291–3, 298 Pherecydes 329, 338

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 Index Nominum et Rerum

Philinos 65, 80 Philip II 73, 83, 328 Philip V 66, 71, 80, 82, 279  f. Philo of Alexandria 103, 106, 247, 288  f. Philon 6, 11 Philopoemen 328 Philostephanus 7  f., 32 Philostratus  Phlegon of Tralles 31, 35, 41, 47, 52, 54, 353, 357, 406 Phobos 294 Phocians 144 Phoenician 69, 82, 143, 280, 399 Photius 8  f., 11  f., 13, 217 Phusis / kata phusin / para phusin 206–213, 221 Phya 140 Phylace 210 Phylarkhos 64, 70, 77  f., 80 Pindar xiv, 135, 138, 260, 335 Pion 210  f. Piston / apiston 146, 208, 213, 222, 384, 407 Plasmata xv, 381, 383, 385  f. Plataea 141, 145 Plato 54  f., 185, 216, 243, 245, 251, 265, 266, 309, 320  f., 327, 329–31, 334–38, 344, 347, 388, 406, 408 Play-within-the-play / intrigue xiii, 153–159, 161, 164, 166, 168, 174 Pliny the Elder 4, 7, 13, 15, 21, 47, 49, 95, 97, 294, 367  f., 386, 406 Pliny the Younger xiii, 103, 179–201 Plotinus 331, 336–8 Plutarch 83, 94, 98  f., 105, 134, 182, 184, 208, 246  f., 278, 281–83, 294, 328–30, 334, 337, 339–48, 382  f. Poikilia viii Polemon 6, 8, 32, 219 Polybius xii, 63–78, 80–83, 133, 278–86, 328 Polyphemus 3 Porphyry 247, 331, 334, 336  f. Poseidon 137, 262, 279 Posidonius of Apamea 230, 286, 292 Pozzuoli 212

Prayer 27, 37, 74, 100, 124, 166, 220, 243, 340, 343, 376  f., 387, 391–4, 396, 402, 404  f., 409, 412  f. Prayer-scrolls 233, 239 Priests 18, 20, 37, 88  f., 91  f., 95, 99, 105, 119, 219, 231, 246, 310, 344, 354, 360, 363, 365  f., 368, 373, 376, 382, 385, 390, 395–400, 403, 409 Proclus 336  f. Prodigies xii, 19, 21, 23, 24, 26, 41, 85  f., 88  f., 164, 262, 282  f., 291, 382, 386, 394, 398, 410 Progymnasmata 195, 215 Propertius 193 Ps.-Aristotle (paradoxographer) 7, 9, 31–4, 46, 49, 52, 55  f., 209, 214, 219 Ps. Herodotus 330 Ps. Hippolytus of Rome 123 Ps. Plutarch 330 Ps. Prophets 116–28 Ptolemy (I Soter) 290, 295, 298  f. Publicius Certus 189  f. Punic, see Phoenician Pydna, battle of 281–3, 296  f. Pythagoras 246, 329, 331, 334, 336, 338, 408  f. Pytheas of Massalia 286 Quintilian 134, 187, 199 Quirinus 343 Rampsinitos 144 Red Sea 287–9 Resurrection 116, 118  f., 122, 353  f., 363–77, 389  f., 392–96, 400, 410 Rhesus 137 Rome 31, 68  f., 73–5, 77, 80  f., 87–93, 96–98, 104–108, 120, 128, 174  f., 188, 194  f., 200, 251  f., 341, 344, 376 Romulus 87, 90  f., 93, 97, 340–7 Saga. See witchcraft 42, 235, 244, 298  f., 354–68, 375, 382, 396, 410, 412 Sallmann, Klaus 183 Salvation 107, 120, 287, 338, 376  f., 387  f., 394–6, 409  f. Sappho 138 Sardis 296 Sargetia 197 Satyros 328  f.



Scapegoats 389 Scheintod. See apparent death Scheria 137 Scipio the Elder 66, 76, 80, 82  f., 98 Scipio the Younger 65, 74  f., 78, 81, 83 Scyllias 139  f. Selene 235  f., 280 Semiramis 141 Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus 172 Seneca 195, 291, 307 Serapis / Serapeum 99–101, 103  f., 107 servus callidus / clever slave 157 Sicily 6–8, 219, 229, 392 Silius Italicus 193 Socrates 243, 320, 329, 335, 338, 408 Socrates, character in Apuleius 353–77 Solon 147 Sophos x, xii, 147, 337 Sosia 155, 159, 161  f., 168–170, 173  f. Sotion 28 Spain 81, 186, 419 Speusippus 334  f., 337 Statius 193 Statues x, 67, 77, 104, 195  f., 231, 314, 322, 344, 376, 383, 390 Stesichorus 332 Stobaeus 208, 285  f., 294 Stoics, Stoicism ix, 76, 174, 189, 276–8, 290, 298, 328 Strabo 8, 99, 134, 208, 229, 292–4, 373 Styx 217 Suetonius 85–7, 94–109, 181–84, 200 Sulla 98, 184, 347 Sun 91, 138, 141, 187, 278–85, 289, 295–7, 342, 360, 362, 403, 413 Tacitus 85–7, 99–104, 179, 191, 200, 382, 411 Talos 298 Tanaquil 96  f. Tantalus 214 Tarentum 81, 146, 329 Tarquinius Priscus 96 Tarquinius Superbus 85, 87  f. Technoprophet 225, 227 Tegea 146, 210 Teiresias 155  f., 332 Telemachus 143, 269  f. Temenos 218  f.

Index Nominum et Rerum 

 429

Thales of Miletus 140, 281, 284  f. Theios anẽr; see divine men Thelyphron, character in Apuleius 353–377 Theophanies 381, 386, 399, 402, 409 Theophrastus 11, 170 Theopompus viii, 11, 15, 65, 78, 80 Theoria 146 Thermopylai 211  f. Theseus 317, 340–43 Thessaly 6, 361, 381 Thoas x, xi Thrasea Paetus, P. Fannius 184 Thucydides 69, 72, 78, 133  f., 340  f., 384, 387, 399 Tiber 190 Timaios 65, 68, 70, 77  f., 80 Tinouphis 360 Titus 90, 103–6, 182 Titus Flamininus 66, 80 Tivoli 212 Tolkien 216, 221 Trajan 103, 180, 188, 191  f., 197  f. Trevi 193 Triton 279, 316 Troezen 20, 24 Trophonius 309–12, 322 Troy 262, 268, 270 Turkey 275, 284 Tyana 33, 214, 216–18 Tykhe 77  f., 392 Typhoeus 360 Ulysses; see Odysseus Umbria 55, 193 Ummidius Quadratus 189 Vadimonis lacus 190, 195 Ventriloquism 244–49, 363 Vespasian 85, 87, 98–108, 345, 347, 382 Vesuvius 180, 186  f., 190  f. Victor Hugo 18, 28 Virgil 192  f., 198, 201 Virgin Mary/Theotokos 125, 127 Virginity 37, 334, 385–8, 394  f., 403, 411 Vision of Daniel on the Future of the Seven-Hilled City 128 Vision of Daniel on the Last Times (Daniel καὶ ἔσται) 127 Voconius Romanus 193  f.

430 

 Index Nominum et Rerum

Wunderkritik 133–135, 225–253 Xenophon of Athens x, 75, 328 Xenophon of Ephesos 381, 385, 387, 392  f., 402, 405 Xerxes 143  f., 278, 296

Zatchlas, character in Apuleius 360  f., 363, 365–8, 371, 373 Zeus 99, 155, 262, 267  f., 270, 279, 293, 308  f., 311, 317, 410 Zonaras 126