Statius' Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

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S TAT I U S ’ THEB AID A N D T H E P O E T I C S O F C I V I L WA R

This study focuses on ways in which Statius’ epic Thebaid, a poem about the civil war between Oedipus’ sons Eteocles and Polynices, reflects the theme of internal discord in its narrative strategies. At the same time that Statius reworks the Homeric and Virgilian epic traditions, he engages with Hellenistic poetic ideals as exemplified by Callimachus and the Roman Callimachean poets, especially Ovid. The result is a tension between the impulse towards the generic expectations of warfare and the desire for delay and postponement of such conflict. Ultimately, Statius adheres to the mythic paradigm of the mutual fratricide, but he continues to employ competing strategies that call attention to the fictive nature of any project of closure and conciliation. In the process, the poem offers a new mode of epic closure that emphasizes individual means of resolution. C h ar le s Mc N el is is Assistant Professor of Classics at Georgetown University.

S TAT I U S ’ THEB AID A N D THE POETICS OF C I V I L WA R C H A R L E S M CN E L I S

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521867412 © Charles McNelis 2006 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published in print format 2007 ISBN-13 ISBN-10

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For Eileen

Contents

Preface

page ix

Introduction

1

1 Gods, humans and the literary tradition

25

2 Beginning

50

3 Nemea

76

4 Middle

97

5 Heroic deaths

124

6 End

152

Epilogue Bibliography Index Index locorum

178 180 192 194

vii

Preface

Statius’ poetry is no longer ignored or, when read, dismissed out of hand. This critical rehabilitation stems in large part from the editions, commentaries, translations and literary studies of his poetry that have appeared in the past twenty or so years, as well as from the intense interest in allusion or intertextuality that has reinvigorated the study of all Latin poetry – especially post-Virgilian epic. We now know that the Thebaid, for example, is indeed about something. But for all the progress that has been made, much remains to be done on Statius’ poetic practices. In the hope of illuminating a constitutive feature of the artistic underpinning of the Thebaid, this book focuses on how Statius claims a distinguished place in the epic tradition for himself and his poem by reworking the poetry of Callimachus, the self-conscious artist par excellence. The study of Latin poetry has, hopefully, moved beyond the point of anxiety about the importance of Greek – and especially Hellenistic – poetic predecessors. Attempts to single out and favour one part of the literary tradition at the expense of others are reductive and misguided; Damien Nelis has shown, for instance, that the Argonautica constantly informs the Aeneid and virtually mediates Virgil’s use of the Homeric tradition. In the case of Statius, the son of a Greek poet from the Hellenized community of Naples, much less attention has been paid to his use of Greek literature than to his engagement with his Roman predecessors. This segmentation of the literary tradition has precluded a fuller assessment of the poem’s richness. My argument, then, does not favour Callimachus over the many other poets whose work is also important for understanding the Thebaid. Rather I consider how Statius reworks Callimachus’ poetry in ways that define both the structure of the epic and his relationship with the broader Greek and Roman literary traditions. This prominent aspect of the epic has not received sufficient attention. This study took its initial form as a UCLA Ph.D. dissertation (2000). Since then, I benefited from a Georgetown University Summer Grant ix

x

Preface

(2003) and Junior Faculty Research Fellowship (2004) that allowed me to add and to rewrite substantial portions. Far more important, however, has been the help I received from the many students and colleagues at Occidental College, the University of Virginia, Smith College and Georgetown University who enhanced and clarified my ideas in both direct and indirect ways. Mallory Monaco was a particularly helpful research assistant. In addition, I am grateful to Alessandro Barchiesi, Michael Haslam, and Susanna Morton Braund for their help and criticism over the years. This study began in a seminar taught by Carole Newlands, and I am deeply indebted to her for support at all stages. Pamela Bleisch asked the questions that prompted me to formulate central points of my argument. Early on in graduate school, Thomas Frazel and I discussed for the first time the ideas that came to fruition in this book. I am grateful to him for that conversation and the many generous comments upon my inchoate ideas ever since. Alexander Sens kindly read drafts and improved the form and content of the argument in many places. It has been a delight to share ideas with such friends and colleagues, and I am deeply grateful to them. Finally, I thank my wife Eileen for her contributions to this work at every stage and in every way. More than anyone, she made it possible. The text I cite for the Thebaid is from Hill (1983). All translations are my own, and I make no claims as to their literary merit. Earlier versions of portions of chapters 3 and 4 appeared in Stratis Kyriakidis and Francesco De Martino (eds.), Middles in Latin Poetry (Bari, 2004).

Introduction

On his journey through the ninth circle of Hell, Dante sees the Guelph Ugolino, who had been locked in a tower with his sons and starved to death, eating the head of his captor, the Ghibelline Ruggerio (Inferno 32.124–33.78). At the start of the scene, Ugolino is likened to Tydeus (Inferno 32.130–1), a character from Greek mythology who horrifically gnawed the skull of his foe Melanippus.1 The comparison illustrates a persistent feature of Dante’s artistry, namely that he accentuates the brutality of the atrocities committed in the internecine warfare that was plaguing Florence by evoking scenes from Statius’ Thebaid.2 In fact, Dante transforms Statius’ Thebes into a ‘metaphoric textual model’ for Hell.3 Later in the Commedia, however, Statius himself appears to Dante and Virgil as they proceed through Purgatory, and he is compared to Christ joining the two disciples on the road to Emmaus (Purgatorio 21.7–9). As the three epic poets continue their journey, Statius explains some of the workings of Purgatory and of the soul, and even accompanies Dante through the Earthly Paradise (Purgatorio 32.29). Dante thus plainly distinguishes Statius the salvific poet from his hellish Thebaid.4 In employing the literary past in such a way, Dante emphasizes the division that underlies both the Florentine civil war and the distinct components of his poem about Heaven and Hell. This book argues that Statius’ own practice in the Thebaid anticipates Dante’s strategy of alluding to the literary past both to structure a poetic study of contemporary civil war and to replicate that conflict in the very fibres of the poem.5 In particular, I contend that allusions to the poetry 1 2

3 5

Dante calls him Menalippo (Inferno 32.131). Tydeus devours Melanippus’ head at Theb. 8.739–62. Less startling moments of the Inferno also draw upon scenes and characters from Statius’ epic. In the eighth circle of hell, for example, Amphiaraus heads a group of condemned seers that includes false prophets of Dante’s own age (Inferno 20.31–130). And Capaneus, damned to the seventh circle, is a model for blasphemers (Inferno 14.63–75). 4 Ibid. 106–9. Brownlee (1993) 108. I use the word ‘allusion’ to describe the processes of literary interaction between Statius and his predecessors because it implies that the author is involved to some extent. Intentionality is of course

1

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

of the Hellenistic Greek Callimachus constitute a fundamental part of the Thebaid’s strategy for dealing with current internecine struggles.6 greek my th and roman realit ies That Statius’ epic on a Greek mythological theme – the war between Oedipus’ sons Eteocles and Polynices that culminates in a mutual fratricide – pertains to his contemporary Rome has been recognized.7 For example, when Theseus arrives at war-torn Thebes in an effort to bring an end to the tensions there, he embodies clementia, a virtue that was a central component of imperial ideology.8 His celebration of a triumph also evokes Rome’s imperial families since they held the exclusive right to put on such displays (Tac., Ann. 3.74).9 What Theseus actually achieves is disputed: some view

6

7

8

9

a problem. Conte (1994a) 133–8 issues a nuanced response to objections of intentionalist readings of allusion: the text generates intentions through its generic form. By reading the poem in relation to its cultural models, in Conte’s view, one understands how the text wants to communicate. Statius as author, then, is understood from the text and from its cultural models. However, Hinds (1998) 50 frankly admits that while ‘the alluding poet is ultimately and necessarily a figure whom we ourselves read out from the text, let us continue to employ our enlarged version of “allusion”, along with its intention bearing author, as a discourse which is good to think with – which enables us to conceptualize and to handle certain kinds of intertextual transaction more economically and effectively than does any alternative.’ I follow Hinds’ position. The theoretical problems here are serious and extensive (though Hinds (1998) 48 notes that occluding the author raises serious problems too), and my lack of engagement with them is not intended to be dismissive. Nonetheless, the primary goal of this study is to examine Statius’ poem, not to offer another methodological explanation of allusion or intertextuality (for recent discussions of this phenomenon in Latin poetry, see, e.g., Hinds (1998), Pucci (1998), Edmunds (2001). In fact, basic tools – such as commentaries on a few books and studies similar to those of Knauer (1964) and Nelis (2001) – necessary to study allusion in the Thebaid in a comprehensive way are still wanting.) Statius’ interest in Callimachus’ poetry has been recognized. Delarue (2000) 117–40 is the most extensive examination of a number of episodes from the Silvae and Thebaid. Fiehn (1917) 60 suggested that whoever reads Statius will find that the poet followed in the footsteps of Callimachus and the Alexandrians. A number of critics and some of the more than fifty papyri of Callimachus’ poetry that have been published since Fiehn’s work have corroborated his claim: the discovery of the Victoria Berenices, for example, prompted the work of Colace (1982), Thomas (1983), and Newlands (1991). Aric`o (1960) and Vessey (1973) discuss Callimachus’ importance elsewhere in the epic. Hutchinson (1988) 353 notes the inevitability of post-Augustan authors drawing upon the Augustans for their Callimacheanism, though he overstates his case by saying that it is hard to establish more fundamental influence of Callimachus on post-Augustan poets. Wimmel (1960) completely ignores the Thebaid. Ahl (1986) made a watershed case that the Thebaid is relevant for Roman affairs. This is not to say that the relationship between the poem and imperial Rome is straightforward. Critics such as Henderson (1991), Morton Braund (1996), Ripoll (1998), Delarue (2000) and Aric`o (2002) vary greatly in their assessments of the poem’s world view(s). Schetter (1965) 125, Ogilvie (1980) 234 and Vessey (1982) 76, however, offer that the poem is not relevant to Rome. Syme (1958) 414 and Weinstock (1971) 233–43 discuss the political dimensions of clementia at Rome. Morton Braund (1996) argues that Theseus’ possession of clementia at the end of the poem connects the mythic hero with Roman rulers; see also Henderson (1991) 34, Delarue (2000) 373. Campbell (1984) 138–9 discusses the triumph and the imperial house. Hardie (1997) connects Theseus’ arrival with Augustus’ entry to Rome in Aeneid 8.

Introduction

3

his instigation of all-out war as troublesome, others argue that his actions stem from just anger.10 Even such disparate interpretations, however, agree that Theseus is an analogue for Roman leaders, and thus that Statius’ consideration of civil war and its resolution looks beyond the mythical world to his contemporary Rome. Statius’ exploration of Roman politics through Greek myth reflects a regular ancient practice.11 In a play entitled Atreus, Aemilius Scaurus replicated a verse from Euripides that advocated toleration of thoughtless rulers.12 Tiberius thought that the verse was a critique of his rule and Scaurus paid the price with his life.13 So too Domitian executed the son of Helvidius Priscus on the grounds that he had criticized the emperor’s divorce through a play that involved the characters Paris and Oenone (Suet., Dom. 10.4). And Tacitus’ Aper accuses Maternus of ignoring pressing forensic duties in favour of composing tragedies that are based on Greek myth but actually concern Roman history (Dial. 3.4). In fact, by the Flavian period the correlation between Greek myth and Roman realities was so strong that Valerius Flaccus reversed the dynamic and compared the fight between the mythical Aeetes and Perses to actual Roman civil war: Romanas veluti saevissima cum legiones Tisiphone regesque movet, quorum agmina pilis, quorum aquilis utrimque micant eademque parentes rura colunt, idem lectos ex omnibus agris miserat infelix non haec ad proelia Thybris: sic modo concordes externaque fata petentes Palladii rapuere metus, sic in sua versi funera concurrunt dominis revocantibus axes. Arg. 6.402–9

As when most cruel Tisiphone stirs Roman legions and rulers, whose battle lines shine on each side with eagles and spears, whose parents cultivate the same fields, and whom the same wretched Tiber had sent after they were gathered from all fields to wars other than this one, so now fear caused by Pallas held them as they similarly sought their foes’ deaths, so now chariots, turned towards their own destruction, run on despite their drivers calling them back. 10 11 12 13

For a negative assessment of Theseus, see Ahl (1986) 2894–8; recent optimistic readings of Theseus have been offered by Morton Braund (1996), Ripoll (1998) and Delarue (2000). MacMullen (1966) 36–44 looks at a range of instances in which Greek myth informs Roman realities. Leigh (1996) examines the earlier use of Atreus and Thyestes by the Augustan regime. Dio relates that Tiberius heard the play and recognized himself in Atreus (58.24.3). Tacitus’ version is different, with an informant playing a significant role in Scaurus’ death. See Syme (1958) 336–7 and 362, and Champlin (2003a) 303–4. Whatever the reality may have been, the point is clear that Romans thought a Greek mythological play could pertain to contemporary politics.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

The juxtaposition of characteristically Roman words such as legiones (6.402), pilis (6.403), aquilis (6.404) and Thybris (6.406) with Tisiphone indicates that the distinctions between myth and history can be easily blurred.14 While Roman authors and audiences could see contemporary relevance in a range of mythic stories, Theban themes were particularly charged. Rome and Thebes shared similarities – such as the fact that fratricide is central to the mythical histories of both cities and that each community has two foundation myths – that made the Greek city an attractive vehicle for Roman writers to confront their society’s attitudes and values. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid takes advantage of parallels between the two cities to ‘short circuit the Virgilian vision of an enduring foundation’ for Rome.15 More specifically, Thebes appears in accounts of Roman political tension and civil war. Cicero, for instance, quotes words spoken by both Polynices and Eteocles in Euripides’ Phoenissae when he writes about Julius Caesar’s power and position in Rome (Att. 2.25.1, 7.11.1).16 Imperial literature also links the Rome of the Caesars with Thebes. In recounting the perverse omens that appeared just before the outbreak of civil war between Caesar and Pompey, Lucan mentions that at the conclusion of the Latin festival, a flame symbolically split into two parts. He then likens this flame to that which appeared on the funeral pyre of Eteocles and Polynices (BC 1.552).17 Lucan also compares the mutual destruction of two groups of Roman soldiers to the fratricide of the men sprung from the dragons’ teeth that Cadmus had sown in Thebes (BC 4.551). Roman writers, then, consistently pair Rome with Thebes, particularly in the context of civil war.18 Statius follows suit. By drawing upon Thebes to explore current events, Roman writers modified the practice of Athenian tragedy.19 Froma Zeitlin has argued that in fifth-century bc Athens Thebes . . . provides the negative model to Athens’ manifest image of itself with regard to its notions of the proper management of city, society, and self. As the site of displacement, therefore, Thebes consistently supplies the radical tragic terrain where there can be no escape from the tragic in the resolution of conflict or in the institutional provision of a civic future beyond the world of the play. There the 14 15 16 17 18 19

See the discussion of this passage in Hershkowitz (1998b) 224–8. Hardie (1990) 228. Janan (2004) also considers Ovid’s Theban episode and its implications for Rome. Morton Braund (2006). Ahl (1986) 2812. Hardie (1990) 230 writes that by ‘the time of Lucan, the analogy between the fratricide and civil wars of Thebes was well established.’ Hardie (1990) 229 discusses the Roman adoption of Theban themes and its departure from tragic examples.

Introduction

5

most serious questions can be raised concerning the fundamental relations of man to his universe, particularly with respect to the nature of rule over others and of rule over self, as well as those pertaining to the conduct of the body politic.20

For Zeitlin, ‘events in Thebes . . . [instruct] the spectators as to how their city might refrain from imitating the other’s negative example.’21 In imperial Rome, events in Thebes still instruct the audience, but Thebes is no longer the other. It has become the self: civil war, monarchical power, and problems of dynastic succession were real concerns for first-century Rome.22 For instance, Galba’s revolt in 68 ad – an uprising that closely followed an unsuccessful mutiny led by Julius Vindex – started a string of civil wars that plagued Rome during the years 68 and 69. And in 89, Saturninus started a revolt that Suetonius dubbed a civil war (Dom. 6.2). Moreover, the maturation of the imperial system and individual rule led to literary studies about kingship (e.g. Seneca’s De Clementia and Dio Chrysostom’s Orationes 1–4).23 Succession was also a concern throughout the principate. Augustus famously faced numerous problems.24 In addition, Vespasian’s rise to power after a series of civil wars was helped by the fact that he had two sons (Josephus, BJ 7.73; Tac., Hist. 2.77.1),25 but his assumption of control also raised questions about what powers he should inherit from his predecessors. The Lex de imperio Vespasiani was thus passed to define those powers.26 Legislation could not remedy all the problems involved in the transfer of power from one individual to another, however, since Titus’ sudden death and Domitian’s inability to produce an heir created a vacuum.27 In sum, monarchy, the inheritance of it, and its role in society similarly confronted Thebes and Flavian Rome, and in the Thebaid, Thebes is a metaphor to examine civil war and its concomitant problems in early imperial Rome. the augustan past The emergence of the principate brought an end to civil war.28 Yet while that form of government persisted, peace did not. In fact, the Flavians’ control of Rome was predicated upon their victory in civil war. Significantly, in the 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

21 Ibid. 145. Zeitlin (1990) 131. And for Statius, whose father wrote a poem about the civil war of 69 (cf. Silv. 5.3.195–8). See Jones (1978) 118–23 for Dio’s speeches and their relation to Trajan. Syme (1939) 419–39. Though there was concern that Titus would turn out like Nero (Suet., Tit. 7.1). For the Lex de imperio Vespasiani, see Brunt (1977) 95–116. Syme (1983) 130–2. Velleius Paterculus 2.89.3 and Res Gestae 34.1 correlate the elimination of civil war with the creation of the principate.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

aftermath of these internecine struggles, Vespasian made extensive use of the Augustan past to legitimate his position and to proclaim peace.29 His coins echoed Augustan slogans such as Fortuna Redux and Pax Augusta,30 and his building programme – including structures such as the Temple of Peace and the Colosseum – deliberately recalled the Augustan past.31 Like Augustus, he closed the doors of the Temple of Janus to herald a new era of peace.32 Also, Titus and Domitian were represented as Vespasian’s heirs in ways similar to those in which Augustus depicted his designated heirs, his grandchildren Gaius and Lucius.33 Vespasian thus sought to eliminate the spectre of civil war by manipulating public images and by associating himself with his predecessors, especially Augustus.34 Domitian continued this interest in the Augustan past, revaluing the coinage to meet the level that it had been at under Augustus, celebrating the Ludi Saeculares in 88 in order to conform with his predecessor’s plan to hold them in 23 (or 22) bc, restoring the temple of Apollo on the Palatine, and most of all implementing a moral programme that was modelled upon Augustan legislation.35 Despite the depiction of their rule as a revival of the Augustan peace, the Flavians faced the continued threat of civil war. Saturninus’ revolt occurred in upper Germany on 2 January 89, eerily replicating the time and location of Vitellius’ coup that took place twenty years earlier.36 Moreover, the appearance of false Neros under Vespasian in 69 (Tac., Hist. 2.8), Titus in 79 (Dio 66.19.3) and Domitian in 88 (Suet., Nero 57.2) posed potential threats to the peace.37 In the face of – or perhaps because of – these pressures, the Flavians exploited the memory of Augustus in order to strengthen their claims that they had eradicated civil war and brought peace and order to Rome. One way in which Roman imperial epic could address the topic of civil war was to engage the Aeneid. The nature of the relationship between 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37

Scott (1936) 25–39; Levick (1999) 73. Levick (1999) 70; Scott (1936) 25 notes that the role of personification in Vespasian’s coinage is similar to that of Augustus. See too Sablayrolles (1994) 126. Levick (1999) 126. Boyle (2003) 5 cites the evidence provided by Orosius 7.9.8–9. Hannestad (1988) 119. Levick (1999) 73 discusses the importance of Claudius as well; Suetonius (Dom. 20) suggests that Tiberius was a model too. For the revaluation of coinage under Domitian, see Carradice (1983) 9–56; for the Secular Games, B. Jones (1992) 102–3 and Sablayrolles (1994) 127; the moral reforms are discussed by Jones (1992) 99. Sablayrolles (1994) 125–7 discusses other ways in which Domitian used Augustus as a model. Syme (1983) 122. The two later Neros were actually more aligned with Parthia than Rome; see Jones (1992) 157–9.

Introduction

7

Virgil’s poem and the establishment of the principate after the civil wars between Antony and Octavian is controversial, but the fact that the poem was coeval with the new form of government created a link between the two. Ovid, for instance, tendentiously dubbed the Aeneid Augustus’ poem (Tr. 2.533 tuae . . . Aeneidos auctor). Whatever may be the tone and larger effect of this connection between Augustus and Virgil’s epic,38 two particularly marked means by which the Aeneid illustrates the ascendancy of Augustus are the gods and the arrangement of the narrative. For example, with the obvious exception of Juno, the Olympian gods act to help and to benefit Aeneas and the Roman state. Venus (Aen. 1.657–94), Neptune (Aen. 1.124–56), and Vulcan (Aen. 8.729), for example, all assist Aeneas. And this divine aid is not limited to the mythical realm: Apollo aids Augustus (Aen. 8.704), and Jupiter prophesies the achievement of peace under Augustus (Aen. 1.257–96). Jupiter’s speech also exemplifies the way in which the narrative is organized to highlight Augustan Rome: he begins by discussing Rome’s earliest history, then moves towards the peace that followed Augustus’ victory in civil war. The teleological thrust of Jupiter’s speech is replicated by the account of Roman history that Vulcan puts on Aeneas’ shield, a narrative that also begins with the archaic city and culminates with Augustan Rome. In linking formal features of epic to the Roman state, Virgil built upon the practices of predecessors such as Ennius, but the political transformation that virtually coincided with the publication of the Aeneid created an entirely new relationship between politics and epic. In the sixties ad, hopes for continued peace had been dashed, thus opening up – indeed, demanding – new perspectives on and readings of Augustan Rome. The Flavians offered their version in the political realm by replaying Augustan slogans. Statius’ Thebaid parallels those Flavian evocations of Augustan Rome in its reconsideration of the Aeneid. The poem adopts the Virgilian interest in both the gods and the arrangement of the narrative, but it then presents disturbing gods and a narrative that is hindered from making progress. By upsetting these formal features, Statius challenges – but does not dispose of – Augustan claims for order, stability and national progress.39 The Thebaid does not accommodate the transfer of the Pax Augusta to the Flavian world. 38 39

Thomas (2001) 74–8 discusses Ovid’s claim and various interpretations of it. Lucan aggressively eliminates many epic norms, but Statius preserves many features of Virgilian epic. Some obvious examples are the structure of the epic and the activity of the gods; also, he explicitly cites the importance of the Aeneid (Theb. 12.816). The relationship between Statius and Virgil has generated an enormous bibliography, but Pollmann (2001) 10–30 is a recent account.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

When Statius narrates the conclusion of the war between Eteocles and Polynices, he engages more directly with real Roman concerns. His emphasis upon clementia and triumphs particularly connects his version of the Theban myth to Roman events, as does the Virgilian framework of the final books of the epic. But once again the poem adopts Virgilian features only to overturn them, to illustrate that Augustan narratives are incongruous with Flavian Rome. In place of the Virgilian portrayal of the end of civil war, the Thebaid exalts the virtue clementia as a way to achieve order. The central role of this virtue indicates that the imperial house, of which clementia was a special prerogative, is essential to closural narratives. Statius’ vision of the virtue, however, is strikingly original in that it emphasizes that clementia is available not simply to the powerful but also to the powerless and to those who have suffered. By opening up this means of resolution to such a wide range of individuals, Statius builds upon Virgilian interest in individual reactions to the end of civil war (Aen. 8.717–18), but then expands upon that ideal in ways that have little to do with a specific place and/or time. He offers a virtually universal means of peace that will work in all places under any circumstances. Because the principate originated with Augustus,40 the Theban myth, which concerns origins and the difficulty of escaping them, is a poignant way to explore the reappearance of civil war. Statius’ engagement with the Aeneid and its cultural concerns allows him to go back to the origins of the principate and to revisit the purported establishment of peace after a series of civil wars. To address these issues, Statius employs Virgilian form within the framework of a paradigmatic myth about origins. callimachus and generic expectations The second major argument of this book is that allusions to Callimachus’ poetry are a fundamental part of the Thebaid’s designs. Callimachus’ most influential poem was the Aetia, which explained the origins of (sometimes arcane) religious practices. And it was this poem in which Statius seems to have been particularly – though not exclusively – interested. The Aetia’s theme of origins has obvious relevance for a Theban tale. Moreover, the religious nature of the Aetia was important for Statius’ epic. Richard Hunter has observed that the Aetia is ‘a kind of sequel’ to Hesiod’s Theogony in that the latter is concerned with the establishment of a world order and the former targets the practices of cult and religion that refine and vary that 40

Tac., Ann. 1.1; Dio 52.1.1, 53.11.4 identify the origins of the principate with Augustus.

Introduction

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Olympian order.41 For good reason, then, an episode that typifies relations between gods and humans in the Thebaid patently alludes to Callimachus’ poem. In chapter one, I consider the ways in which an aetion about Linus, Coroebus and the Argive celebration of Apollo showcases an uneasy alliance between Olympian and chthonic forces. The aetion starts with Apollo’s destruction of the Python, a paradigmatic myth about the establishment of Olympian order. Afterwards, Apollo seeks expiation, but when he arrives at Argos, he rapes the daughter of his host, leading to a deadly string of violence in which the god sends an infernal monster and then a plague against the Argives. His enlistment of the underworld essentially undoes the normal consequences of his defeat of the chthonic Python, and thus perverts standard mythic narratives. Another result of this partnership between Olympian and chthonic forces is that divine hierarchies become confused, a central point of the poem. For instance, early in the Thebaid, Jupiter still lords it over humans, but his position seems to have been usurped by Tisiphone. Additional chthonic deities challenge Jupiter’s authority throughout the epic, and at the end of the poem he abdicates and allows infernal forces to assume control and govern the horrific fratricide (Theb. 11.122–35). Olympian order is thus not only threatened but actually usurped by the underworld. What is even more perverse is that the destruction wrought by the infernal deities leads to the fruition of Jupiter’s wish to annihilate the human race (Theb. 1.214–47).42 This divine cooperation, then, disturbingly realizes Juno’s strategy to ruin Aeneas (Aen. 7.312 Acheronta movebo). The Thebaid, however, is not about one powerful goddess causing trouble for humans. Statius’ entire divine machinery does so, and the Callimachean aetion at the end of Thebaid 1 crystallizes the problematic nature of the relationship between Statius’ humans and gods. Through this depiction of the gods, Statius perverts their conventional roles in Roman epic as guarantors of national safety. Naevius may have appropriated for Rome the universality of the pan-Hellenic Zeus, but Ennius and Virgil certainly do so.43 The ruler of the gods is thus on Rome’s side, as is clear, for example, in the Aeneid when Jupiter tries to soothe Venus’ fears by saying that he has given Rome an empire without end (Aen. 1.279). Silius Italicus updates this Virgilian scene for a Flavian context when he has Venus anxiously question Jupiter about Rome’s safety because of the Carthaginian invasion. Jupiter responds by saying that there 41 42

Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 54. Dominik (1994) 1–33 discusses Statius’ Jupiter.

43

Feeney (1991) 115; 128.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

is no reason to worry, and that Rome will see the Flavians rule the world, join the gods after their death, and leave divine children on earth (Pun. 3.557–629). Ovid also connects gods and rulers when he equates Jupiter and Augustus (Met. 1.200–5; 15.855–60).44 This link between Jupiter and the emperor also appears at the start of the Thebaid (Theb. 1.29–31) and is ubiquitous in Statius’Silvae (Silv. 1.6.25–7; 4.2.11, 20; 4.3.128–9; 4.4.58), so there is good reason to think of this familiar dynamic throughout the Thebaid.45 What to make of Statius’ analogy is less clear. Many of the Silvae that equate Jupiter and Domitian have been understood as unabashed flattery. But even if this is the case for the occasional poems,46 the Thebaid cannot easily be assimilated to that model because its gods are wicked, and the divine ordering of the universe is pernicious and perverse.47 Indeed, the very order of the universe is called into question at the end of the poem when the Olympians are absent. Such problems are not a veiled critique of the Flavians or Domitian. In fact, Statius glorifies the imperial virtue of clementia as a source of order and resolution.48 Moreover, Theseus’ employment of the virtue at the end of the poem seemingly provides a positive exemplar for an imperial figure. Thus the position and authority of the emperor is not challenged. Nonetheless, Statius’ perverse treatment of the gods discards one conventional means of expressing order, and in its place he offers a markedly new form of security and comfort that may allow individuals to find comfort and consolation in a turbulent world of civic disorder. Individuals now have a means by which they can achieve peace amidst civil chaos and thus are no longer dependent upon forces greater than them.49 By moving away from the closural paradigms of grand narratives and focusing upon the ability of individuals to find their own solace, Statius ends his epic of loss and chaos with a hope that is distinctly new. 44

45

46 47 48 49

Ibid. 220. In addition, Ovid’s assembly of the gods is explicitly compared to a meeting on the Palatine (Met 1.176), and the Ovidian assembly influenced both Statius and Lucan. See Feeney (1991) 296, 353. Coins and gems also equate Jupiter and Domitian, who is famously said to have preferred the title dominus et deus (Suet. Dom. 13.2); see Scott (1936) 139–40; a wider range of evidence is treated on 133–40. Scott (1936) 141–8; 166–88 also shows that Hercules, Apollo, Bacchus and particularly Minerva were also used to represent the authority of the Flavians and especially Domitian. Newlands (2002) argues against this traditional view of the occasional poems. Feeney (1991) 359 n. 151. For the political implications of clementia, see Weinstock (1971) 232–41; Burgess (1972); Morton Braund (1996). The Thebaid’s interest in individual opportunities to achieve solace counters – or at least deflates – the Aeneid’s emphasis upon collective gain at the expense of individual loss (e.g. Aen. 5.815 unum pro multis dabitur caput). Hardie (1993) 3–10 offers a broader discussion of this theme.

Introduction

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teleology and roman epic Narrative arrangement is another way in which Roman epic expresses national order. In Ennius’ Annales, the narrative progression towards its telos seemingly corresponds to the increasing Roman domination of the Mediterranean: after the first three books that concern the period of kings, Annales 4–6 cover the Roman conquest of Italy, Annales 7–9 the Punic Wars, Annales 10–12 wars in Greece, Annales 13–15 in Syria, culminating in 16–18 and the wars of M. Fulvius Nobilior, Ennius’ patron. A teleological narrative is manifestly connected to national interests in the Aeneid. David Quint has argued that the shield of Aeneas, with its chronological depiction of hundreds of years of Roman conquest and survival in the face of various threats, is particularly emblematic of the Virgilian melding of politics, history and epic poetry. Indeed, the shield’s sequential depiction of the growth of Roman hegemony replicates the annalistic style of Ennius’ epic and thereby reinforces the link between linear narratives and national progress.50 Finally, in the proem of his Metamorphoses, Ovid connects his teleological narrative to the Caesars (Met. 1.3–4 primaque ab origine . . . ad mea . . . tempora). Allusions to Callimachus’ poetry play a substantial role in Statius’ construction and pursuit of a teleological narrative. In chapter two, I consider Statius’ description of Vulcan’s creation of a necklace that is worn by Argia on the day of her wedding to Polynices (Theb. 2.269–96). This ekphrasis assumes as a point of comparison the Virgilian account of Vulcan’s work on Aeneas’ shield. For example, just as in the Aeneid, the Cyclopes help Vulcan create a gift for the child of Venus. Moreover, Virgil’s god produces an object of civic safety and hegemony, and the decoration he puts on the shield produces a narrative that progresses in a linear fashion (Aen. 8.629 pugnataque in ordine bella). The necklace wrought by Statius’ Vulcan similarly presents a linear narrative (Theb. 2.267 series; 296 ordo). Ultimately, however, Statius upsets the Virgilian model because his god creates an object that, instead of preserving its founder, transmits evils from one generation of the Theban ruling house to another. The necklace is the cause of trouble in the Theban dynasty. The necklace, however, does not operate solely at the level of the ‘story’.51 The description of Vulcan’s handiwork suggests that it is a synecdoche for 50

51

Quint (1993) 8–9. Quint’s point about epics and teleological narratives is a good one, even if his argument for a dichotomy between epic and romance is troublesome. See Hardie (1986) 347–8 and Barchiesi (1997b) 274–5 on the annalistic style of the shield. I use ‘story’ in the sense put forth by Genette (1980) 27.

12

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

the larger narrative, and that the makers of the necklace are ‘responsible’ for the narrative of violence that is the subject of the Thebaid. That is, the fictive artisans call attention to the poetic fiction of which they are part, and in doing so illuminate the encompassing narrative.52 While Vulcan is chiefly responsible for the destructive Theban narrative, he receives help from, among others, the Telchines, whom Statius characterizes in ways that recall Callimachus’ famous poetic enemies (Aetia 1.1.1). By doing so, Statius aligns the narrative that results from the necklace with anti-Callimachean poetic values. In chapter three, I argue that the Thebaid contains a narrative interest that consistently thwarts the realization of Vulcan’s designs. Statius does this by drawing upon a Callimachean aetion for the Nemean games that creates a massive delay and postpones the recounting of the fratricide. This Callimachean episode clashes with the linear narrative created by the Telchines, and the resulting formal tension between the advancement of the teleological narrative and the postponement of it works on a broader level. David Quint has argued that in Lucan’s Bellum Civile the resistance to teleological accounts of coherence and Roman domination may be construed as a resistance to form: to the political unity and uniformity that the imperial regime sought to impose upon its subjects, to the formal closure it placed upon its version of history. The poem speaks against the desire for endings that would freeze history into any final shape and unalterable political configuration.53

The Nemean episode certainly does resist Virgilian form. Statius pointedly creates this stoppage in the fourth book, the same book in which Aeneas and his troops leave behind the delay that hindered their progress towards national destiny – and to a war that may be construed as civil.54 Also different is the fact that the delay of this heroic journey actually benefits civic safety by postponing the war that will destroy the community. In these ways, Statius alters the pattern of epic history that concerns civic order and universal control, thereby suggesting the incompatibility of that form with a Flavian context. In chapter four, I argue that the tension between the narrative interest in war and impediments to it comes to a head in the seventh book, a book that, according to the model of Aeneid 7, is supposed to focus on the narrative transition to martial themes. At least since Servius it has been pointed out that Aeneid 7 begins the ‘Iliadic’ half of the poem and closes the ‘Odyssean’ 52 54

53 Quint (1993) 147. Leach (1974) 104 comments on this phenomenon in Ovid. Rossi (2004) 165–8 is a recent discussion of civil war in the Aeneid.

Introduction

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(e.g. ad Aen. 7.1).55 Thebaid 7 demonstrates a similar concern with the literary past and narrative shifts, though it specifically concerns the turn from dilatory aetiologies to civil war. In addition to following the Virgilian model for the literary significance of a seventh book, Statius also heralds the Iliadic background of his book by replicating large portions of the Homeric Catalogue of Ships in a list of the allies fighting on behalf of Thebes. However, Statius continues to use Callimachean aetia and the closely related theme of metamorphosis to diffuse and to put off the realization of martial expectations. The efficacy of epic paradigms is thus challenged in a charged location. In the end, Statius follows Virgilian conventions and begins his narrative of warfare and battles. However, he does so by emphasizing that this war is modelled upon Lucan’s civil war and that, consonant with Lucan’s model, these upcoming battles will pervert Homeric and Virgilian norms. Conventional paradigms are dismantled and debased. I contend in the fifth chapter that after the transition to the Iliadic half is achieved, the actual battles illustrate an anti-Callimachean narrative strategy. That is, in scenes defined by hyperbole and excess, the deaths of the leaders of the expedition against Thebes instantiate themes or poetic traditions that are antithetical to Callimacheanism. The particular nature of these battles scenes reinforces that the martial agenda was put in place with the help of the Telchines. Chapters two through five thus concentrate on formal concerns such as the progress of the narrative towards its telos and obstacles to it. Statius creates this poetic friction by having the Telchines assist in the creation of a necklace that catalyses a narrative of violence, and then by alluding to Callimachus’ poetry in ways that postpone that narrative interest. In some sense, this poetic tension replays the antagonism between Callimachus and the Telchines that is featured in the Aetia prologue. Significantly, that programmatic opening concerns unity: Callimachus says that the Telchines carp at him because he does not produce one continuous song (Aetia 1.1.3
    ). What Callimachus means by that has been debated, but however that issue may be, Roman poets need not have responded to his statement in the same way.56 In the case of the Thebaid, this replaying of that literary conflict seems to underscore the point that the poem does not consist of one continuous narrative, but rather distinct ways – Telchinic and Callimachean – of telling the story that are brought together through the poet’s arrangement. Unity of the Aristotelian sort that depends upon a 55 56

This scheme is oversimplified, and both Homeric poems are important for each half of the Aeneid. But it is nonetheless useful and appropriate way to talk about broad designs of Virgil’s epic. See Myers (1994) 5; Hunter (1993) 194 discusses the Aetia and the notion of unity.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

beginning, middle and end is still present – hence the title of three chapters of this book. But delays and divagations persistently challenge that formal arrangement, and thereby generate within the narrative itself a kind of internal division and conflict that mirror the theme of the poem.57 In Thebaid 12, Statius addresses Augustan narratives more directly, and this book, and especially the arrival of Theseus, is the basis of my final chapter. Statius’ worrisome treatment of the gods and of generic form creates problems that have to be resolved at the end of the poem, and Theseus is the one to resolve them. Because Creon denied burial to Polynices and the other Argives, Theseus has to go to Thebes and gain burial for them. Forbidden burials recall the end of the Iliad, in which Achilles finally relents and allows Priam to bury Hector. But Statius deviates from the Homeric model and indicates that hatred lasts beyond the grave, and that burial is insufficient for resolution. In addition to reconsidering Homeric closural strategies, the ending of the Thebaid also revisits Roman imperial concerns that are raised in Aeneid 8. Theseus’ imperial associations and his arrival at a city ravaged by war, for example, suggest that he is an Augustus-like imperial figure. But Statius invokes this model only to scrutinize it. First, allusions to Catullus 64, a poem that works within the Callimachean tradition, raise doubts about Theseus’ possession of clementia and about heroic narratives. Next, it also emerges that collective celebration does not resolve individual loss as easily as it does in the depiction of Augustus’ triumph in Aeneid 8. Indeed, the Theban myth itself implies that Theseus’ accomplishments can only bring about a temporary pause in the cycle of violence. Statius thus rewrites previous scenes of epic closure to show their insufficiency for his poetic world. In place of those narratives put forth by its predecessors, the Thebaid asserts the benefit of the imperial virtue of clementia, but tweaks the concept in such a way that its accessibility extends to a range of individuals. Resolution is no longer dependent upon great narratives. Throughout the Thebaid, Statius creates expectations by alluding to Homeric and Virgilian models.58 Of course, these expectations need not reach fruition. As Hans Robert Jauss observes: A literary work, even when it appears to be new, does not present itself as something absolutely new in an informational vacuum, but predisposes its audience to a very specific kind of reception by announcements, overt and covert signals, familiar 57 58

This poetic arrangement also reveals an artistic design behind the episodic nature of the poem that has been missed by modern critics (e.g. Legras (1905) 152; Williams (1978) 250–2). That expectations are created through allusions to generic models is a familiar idea. Conte (1994a) 114: ‘genre is not only a descriptive grid . . . but also an expectation.’ See also Fowler (1982) 88–92 on allusion and genre.

Introduction

15

characteristics, or implicit allusions. It awakens memories of that which was already read, brings the reader to a specific emotional attitude, and with its beginning arouses expectations for the ‘middle and end’, which can then be maintained intact or altered, reoriented, or even fulfilled ironically in the course of reading according to specific rules of the genre or type of text . . . The new text evokes for the reader (listener) the horizon of expectations and rules familiar from earlier texts, which are then varied, corrected, altered, or even just reproduced.59

In passages that allude to or adopt Homeric or Virgilian features, Statius regularly confounds the realization of these expectations by reworking Callimachus’ poetry. Statius’ practice results in a dialogue between earlier epic and the Thebaid about literary versions of history and about the legitimacy of these historical accounts. By consistently disrupting the ideological package of the Aeneid, Statius illustrates the inherently tenuous nature of its claims. For Flavian Rome, in which the Augustan past figured strongly, the Thebaid’s refusal to accommodate the Aeneid takes on special significance: the poem reflects the difficulty of adapting the Augustan past – or indeed any dominant narrative of the past – to the present. callimachus, thebes and ro man poet ry Whatever the poetic values of the Aetia prologue may have been, they should no longer be considered coterminous with what it meant for Roman poets to explore ‘Callimacheanism’.60 Virgil and Ovid wrote epics that engage with Callimachean ideals, thus destroying any strict Callimachean ‘orthodoxy’ about small-scale poetics and antipathy towards long poems about kings and heroes. To be sure, Statius employs features that are often thought to be conventional Callimachean poetic ideals, but I consider his allusions to Callimachus primarily in relation to the unfolding of the narrative, and to the epic tradition. Richard Thomas has stated that ‘allusion to, and adaptation of, the Callimachean program really becomes a way of talking about one’s own changing tradition and one’s own place in that changing tradition.’61 My argument proceeds along similar lines, suggesting that Statius uses Callimachus to revisit issues raised by culturally dominant epics and to carve out his own place in the epic tradition. 59 60

61

Jauss (1982) 23. The bibliography on this point is enormous, and there have been a variety of views. Cameron (1995) considers the controversial prologue and the Roman reception of it, and draws attention to the hazards involved in trying to establish a Callimachean orthodoxy. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 444–85 provide an excellent discussion of Callimacheanism in the Greek world and at Rome. Thomas (1993) 201–2.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

Statius’ strategy was not invented ex nihilo, and owes much to his predecessors. In fact, Callimachus’ poetry was central to questions about Roman literature and its relationship to the world of politics.62 In the proem of the Metamorphoses, for instance, Ovid marks the importance of Callimachean poetics: In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et illa) adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen! Met. 1.1–4

My mind prompts me to sing about forms changed into new bodies. O gods, inspire my undertakings, for you changed those bodies too, and spin a continuous song that runs all the way from the origins of the world down to my own day.

Ovid creates a literary paradox at the start of his poem by claiming to produce a non-Callimachean perpetuum carmen in Callimachean fashion (deducere).63 This conflict precludes easy assessment of the narrative as a whole,64 and Ovid’s Rome is not exempt from such narrative difficulties. The proem’s ad mea . . . tempora anticipates the apotheosis of Julius Caesar at the end of the epic (Met. 15.860),65 and Ovid approaches this transformation as he did previous metamorphoses. As Alessandro Barchiesi has put it, ‘the principle regulating [the metamorphosis of Caesar] is no different than what transformed the Minyeiades into bats or the Cecropes into monkeys. The aura of incredibility that suffuses the entire poem seems to envelop this final miracle as well.’66 The proem’s paradox sets the stage for a narrative that constantly challenges the reader to find secure footing. To some extent, then, Statius’ conflicting narratives and the consequent interpretative challenges posed by them develop an Ovidian practice. Indeed, as will be seen, Statius alludes to Ovid’s proem at moments that also draw heavily upon Homeric and Virgilian epic and in doing so generates narrative friction. 62

63 64 65

66

Georgics 3.1–48 is a pointed example of the intersection of Callimacheanism and Roman politics. Fowler (1995) 254 and (2000) 30 notes the dynamic. This is obviously a large issue that has many and varied accounts, but in short the political dimensions of Callimacheanism owes quite a bit to the Hellenistic relationship between poet and ruler that prefigured similar Roman relationships. Myers (1994) 4–5 contains bibliography on the topic. This tension is perhaps best represented at Met. 8.618–878, where stylistically different Callimachean stories are juxtaposed. See Barchiesi (2001) 55 on the clash of narrative voices. The word tempora also has special force at the start of the Fasti, where the words cum causis create a Callimachean context. See Barchiesi (1997c) 51. For the remarkable dialogue between the Fasti and the Metamorphoses, see, e.g., Hinds (1987) 115–34. Barchiesi (2001) 75.

Introduction

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Roman poetry provided a more specific model for Statius by articulating a tension between Callimachean poetry and themes that concern war at Thebes. In 2.1, Propertius writes that if it had been his fate to write something other than love elegy, he would not write about the Titanomachy, the Gigantomachy, Thebes, Troy or a host of other themes, but he would address the exploits of Octavian and Maecenas: quod mihi si tantum, Maecenas, fata dedissent, ut possem heroas ducere in arma manus, non ego Titanas canerem, non Ossan Olympo impositam, ut caeli Pelion esset iter, nec veteres Thebas, nec Pergama nomen Homeri, Xerxis et imperio bina coisse vada, regnave prima Remi aut animos Carthaginis altae, Cimbrorumque minas et bene facta Mari: bellaque resque tui memorarem Caesaris, et tu Caesare sub magno cura secunda fores. Nam quotiens Mutinam aut civilia busta Philippos aut canerem Siculae classica bella fugae . . . 2.1.17–28 (Goold)

If, Maecenas, the fates had given me the power to lead heroic troops to war, I would not sing of the Titans, nor Ossa piled upon Olympus so that Pelion be a path to the sky, nor old Thebes, nor Pergamum – Homer’s source of repute – nor that the two seas were joined at Xerxes’ order, nor the early rule of Remus nor the spirit of lofty Carthage, nor the threats of the Cimbri and Marius’ great accomplishments. I would recall the wars and deeds of your Caesar, and you would be a close second after great Caesar. For how often I would sing of Mutina or the citizens’ graveyard at Philippi or the sea battle and rout at Sicily . . .

Mutina, Sicily, Perusia and Philippi refer to actual Roman civil wars, and Remus brings to mind the fraternal strife that is central to Roman (and Theban) myth. And Greek mythological themes such as the Titanomachy and the Gigantomachy could also refer to contemporary events such as civil war (e.g. Prop. 3.9.47–56). Collectively these battles illustrate the subject matter that Propertius avoids, and his reason for doing so is clear: sed neque Phlegraeos Iovis Enceladique tumultus intonet angusto pectore Callimachus, nec mea conveniunt duro praecordia versu Caesaris in Phrygios condere nomen avos. 2.1.39–42 (Goold)

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

But with his slight chest Callimachus would not thunder the struggle between Jove and Enceladus that took place at Phlegra, nor is my spirit appropriate for putting the name of Caesar among his Phrygian ancestors through heroic verse.

Despite the unfortunate lacuna in the preceding verse, the references to Callimachus and small-scale poetics (angusto pectore) that oppose grand thundering (intonet) explain Propertius’ avoidance of topics such as civil war. He thus sets Callimachean poetry against narratives of civil war. Propertius restates his Callimachean avoidance of Theban warfare in 3.9, a poem in which he claims that he will not relate the razing of the city by the Epigonoi, the sons of the Seven: non flebo in cineres arcem sedisse paternos Cadmi, nec semper proelia clade pari; nec referam Scaeas et Pergama, Apollinis arces, et Danaum decimo vere redisse rates, moenia cum Graio Neptunia pressit aratro victor Palladiae ligneus artis equus. 3.9.37–42 (Goold)

I will not mourn that the city of Cadmus fell upon the fathers’ ashes, and the battles always equal in destruction; I shall not mention the Scaean gates and Pergamum, the citadels of Apollo, and that the Greek ships returned in the tenth spring, when the victorious wooden horse of Pallas’ art overpowered the walls of Neptune with a Greek plow.

Propertius adds that he does not need such grand poetic themes because it is sufficient that he is a Callimachean poet who produces erotic poetry that excites youths: inter Callimachi sat erit placuisse libellos et cecinisse modis, Co¨e poeta, tuis. haec urant pueros, haec urant scripta puellas meque deum clament et mihi sacra ferant! 3.9.43–6 (Goold)

It will be enough for me to have pleased among the books of Callimachus and to have sung in your meters, Philetas. Let these words inflame boys and girls, and let them shout out that I am a god and let them bring sacred offerings to me.

Propertius also mentions Philetas as a poetic model, but Callimachus himself had treated Philetas as a significant predecessor in the Aetia prologue (Aetia 1.1.10). Thus while Propertius widens the range of poetic forebears, he adopts a Callimachean manner of speaking about the Hellenistic past and its relevance for his poetic interests.

Introduction

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The conflict between Callimacheanism and Thebes is perhaps strongest in Propertius’ 2.34, a poem in which Lynceus, a poet and philosopher, has fallen in love.67 Propertius offers that Socratic wisdom and Homeric epic will be of no avail to him, and he advises Lynceus instead to follow the writings, once again, of Philetas and Callimachus: tu satius Musis leviorem imitere Philetan et non inflati somnia Callimachi 2.34.31–2 (Goold)

It is better that you imitate the rather slight Muse of Philetas and the Dream of Callimachus, who is not turgid.

Propertius’ description of Callimachus as non inflati recalls programmatic passages such as the end of the Hymn to Apollo and the Aetia prologue, and the word somnia evokes the Aetia and its dream (Aetia 1.3–4 Massimilla). The Callimachean context is thus established even before Propertius identifies for Lynceus specific heroic scenes that may be of benefit: nam cursus licet Aetoli referas Acheloi, fluxerit ut magno fractus amore liquor, atque etiam ut Phrygio fallax Maeandria campo errat et ipsa suas decipit unda vias, qualis et Adrasti fuerit vocalis Arion, tristis ad Archemori funera victor equus: 2.34.33–8 (Goold)

Though you may relate the course of the Aetolian Achelous and how its waters, broken by great love, flowed, and also how the tricky Meander wanders over the Phrygian plain and hides its own course, and how Adrastus’ horse Arion, the victor at the funeral games of sad Archemorus, spoke . . .

Perhaps because elegy has an intrinsically aetiological interest in funerals,68 Propertius singles out Archemorus’ funeral games as part of the Theban story that is appropriate for a Callimachean. A more certain point, however, is that Callimachus himself had told about the funeral of Archemorus and the subsequent founding of the Nemean games (SH 266), so Propertius’ allowance for this particular theme is based on the authority of Callimachus himself. Propertius adds, however, that topics such as Amphiaraus’ descent 67

68

The Theban implications of 2.34 are enhanced by earlier poems. Stahl (1985) has pointed out that the Lynceus of 2.34 is remarkably similar to the Ponticus encountered in 1.7 and 1.9, and a prominent point in those two poems is that Ponticus is a poet who addresses Theban themes. Although Propertius does not explicitly refer to Callimachus in 1.7 and 1.9, he nonetheless does dissociate his elegy from such themes and thus anticipates his renunciation of Theban material. The word was thought to come from the lament    ; cf. LSJ s.v.  II.

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into the underworld and Jupiter’s smiting of Capaneus will not benefit Lynceus: num Amphiareae prosint tibi fata quadrigae aut Capanei magno grata ruina Iovi? 2.34.39–40 (Goold)

Would the fate of Amphiaraus’ chariot or the destruction of Capaneus – pleasing to Jove – benefit you?

He thus implicitly opposes these two stories to Callimachean themes. Significantly these two moments are featured in the second half of the Thebaid, the half that Statius frames as anti-Callimachean. More generally, when one considers that Propertius views the Nemean games – the topic of Statius’ dilatory aetiology – as an acceptable Callimachean theme and the Theban wars as unacceptable, it becomes clear that, despite the many differences between Propertius’ and Statius’ poetic interests,69 the division of the story by Propertius in distinct parts anticipates Statius’ practices.70 Statius’ allusions to Callimachus thus help to situate his epic in the literary tradition. Mutatis mutandis, this formulation of literary history is similar to that put forth by Gian Biagio Conte, who writes that when they confronted the poetic tradition of Ennius, the neoterics and the bucolic Virgil ‘turned to Callimachus and others of the Alexandrian “revolt” to see what choices they had made when opposing the poetic conventions of the Homeric tradition’.71 ‘Revolt’ may be a strong word, and Statius does not ‘oppose’ poetic conventions – he continually utilizes them – but nonetheless Conte’s view that Hellenistic poetry provided a way to approach epic is useful. Statius’ literary tradition was especially rich, consisting of Homer and Virgil, as well as the deep literary tradition that surrounded the topic of Thebes. And it was Callimachus’ poetry that provided him with a specific way to engage with the tradition. 69 70

71

Concerns about appropriate poetic material, for example, are not central to the Thebaid. For ways in which elegiac concerns operate in the Thebaid, however, see Bessone (2002). A similar contrast between Theban themes and the tradition of Callimachean poetry may underlie Catullus 95, in which he contrasts the popular appeal of the grand Antimachus with his preferred small-scale productions. Catullus does not explicitly refer to Antimachus’ Thebaid, but the Greek poet was famous because of that epic (e.g. Quintilian 10.1.53), and disdain for popular pleasures is a Callimachean conceit (Ep. 28.4), as is the preference for things that are parva. Horace also seems to express Callimachean disdain for those who celebrate Athens in a perpetuo carmine (cf. Nisbet and Hubbard on 1.7.6), and since this claim follows so closely upon the priamel that excludes other Greek cities, of which Thebes is one, similar literary ideals likely underlie the rejection of poetic topics concerning those cities. Conte (1986) 92.

Introduction

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statius’ poetic representation The Statius offered in this book is thus attuned to and engaged with a wide spectrum of the literary past, both Greek and Latin. In short, I treat Statius as a doctus poeta who astutely uses the Greek and Roman literary tradition – especially the Callimachean heritage – for his own poetic interests.72 This point is corroborated by Statius’ occasional poems, in which he reveals that he fully engages, develops and modifies Callimachean ideas.73 For example, as I will discuss, the Silvae refer to the mythological figure Molorcus in ways that not only reflect Statius’ interest in the Callimachean background of that character, but also comment upon and illuminate the literary dynamics of the Thebaid. Moreover, the Silvae regularly comment upon the production of the epic, and they do so in a manner that characterizes the epic in Callimachean terms. For instance, Statius continually emphasizes the hard work that went into the Thebaid. At the end of his going-away poem for Maecius Celer, for example, Statius describes his epic as one that demanded work (Silv. 3.2.143 laboratas . . . Thebas). So too in Silv. 3.5, a poem that attempts to persuade his wife to leave Rome and to move to his home town of Naples, Statius mentions that she alone knows the amount of toil that produced the Thebaid (Silv. 3.5.35–6 longi tu sola laboris / conscia, cumque tuis creavit mea Thebais annis). Lastly, in Silvae 4.7 Statius offers that the Thebaid had been subjected to much revision and polish (Silv. 4.7.26 Thebais multa cruciata lima). This final passage seems to position the previous two claims specifically in the Callimachean tradition of poetic labour because the comment concerning revision and polish (‘lima’) alludes to Horace’s lament that Latin poets do not sufficiently revise their works (AP 291 . . . poetarum limae labor et mora). In turn, that Horatian comment builds upon the metaphor for the poetic toil prized by Callimachus (e.g. Ep. 6.1; 27.4).74 Statius also informs us about the production of the Thebaid in Silvae 5.3, where he reveals that his father helped him produce the epic: . . . te nostra magistro Thebais urguebat priscorum exordia vatum; tu cantus stimulare meos, tu pandere facta 72

73 74

Venini (1971b) 9–28 examines Statius’ doctrina by analysing his work in the context of Roman predecessors. See also the comments by Aric`o (2002) 182. Statius’ learning has surprised or has been downplayed by scholars: Tarrant (2002) 19 views Ovid as ‘the first and the last poet to combine a broad knowledge of Greek literature with an intimate awareness of the new Latin classics’. Conte (1994b) 485 tellingly writes about the Thebaid that ‘ . . . unexpected models also appear – Euripides, Apollonius of Rhodes, even Callimachus . . .’ (my italics). Newlands (2002) passim. For Horace’s usage, see Brink (1971) 321; Coleman (1988) 203–4.

22

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War heroum bellique modos positusque locorum monstrabas. labat incerto mihi limite cursus te sine, et orbatae caligant vela carinae. Silvae 5.3.233–7

With you as my teacher, my Thebaid closely pursued the works of the ancient poets; you taught me to give passion to my poetry, to disclose the deeds of heroes, martial verses and the arrangements of scenes. Without you, my course wavers in an unsteady path, and the sails of my bereft vessel grow dark.

The elder Statius was his son’s poetic mentor. In fact, Statius’ father was an accomplished Greek grammarian and poet who taught the works of many Greeks, including Callimachus (Silvae 5.3.146–58).75 As Alex Hardie has stated, Statius’ father was a scholar-poet who operated in a tradition that harked back to Philetas and Callimachus.76 Statius’ comment upon the guidance he received while composing the Thebaid thus demands a reading of his poetry in relation to the tradition of the docti poetae. In addition, by using the guidance of his father, a Greek intellectual, to lend prestige to his artistic endeavour, Statius follows typical Roman practice.77 Horace, for instance, claimed to have transported the lyric poetry of Sappho and Alcaeus to Rome (Carm. 3.30.12–14); Virgil asserted that he did the same with Hesiod’s poetry (G. 2.176); Propertius called himself the Roman Callimachus (4.1.64). Such claims appropriate for the Roman writer the authority previously associated with Greek authors, and tendentiously attempt to eliminate further dialogue with the Greeks: Roman authors have become the models for subsequent authors. But by presenting us with an intense account of literary mentorship that involves a Greek poet, Statius reopens the dialogue with Greece and thus counters Augustan teleologies. Even from a literary-historical perspective, then, Statius demonstrates problems with Augustan endings. Finally, the Thebaid itself concludes with a self-referential statement about the Callimachean poetic tradition. In the epic’s epilogue, Statius advertises the importance of the poetic past: durabisne procul dominoque legere superstes, o mihi bissenos multum uigilata per annos Thebai? iam certe praesens tibi Fama benignum strauit iter coepitque nouam monstrare futuris. iam te magnanimus dignatur noscere Caesar, 75 76 77

For Silvae 5.3 and Statius’ father, see Holford-Strevens (2000); McNelis (2002). Hardie (1983) 9–10. Hinds (1998) 80–3 discusses this recurring phenomenon in Roman literature of writers offering accounts about their interaction with Greek learning and literature.

Introduction

23

Itala iam studio discit memoratque iuuentus. uiue, precor; nec tu diuinam Aeneida tempta, sed longe sequere et uestigia semper adora. mox, tibi si quis adhuc praetendit nubila liuor, occidet, et meriti post me referentur honores. Theb. 12.810–19

O my Thebaid, on which I worked at great length well into the night over twelve years, will you survive far into the future and, outlasting your author, be read? Already immediate fame has paved a kind path for you and has begun to point you out to posterity. Already great Caesar thinks it right to know you, and the Italian youth eagerly learns and recites you. Live, I pray. Don’t try to match the divine Aeneid, but follow far behind it and always adore its footsteps. Soon, if any envy spreads gloom before you, it will die, and, after I am gone, the proper honour will be paid.

Scholarship on this passage has justly focused on Statius’ position in relation to Virgil,78 and to the epilogue of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.79 Less attention has been paid to the phrase multum vigilata, which alludes to Cinna fr. 11.1–2 (haec tibi Arateis multum invigilata lucernis / carmina).80 Cinna’s verses reflect a strong interest in Hellenistic poetry: he talks about bringing poems of Aratus to Rome,81 and the word invigilata recalls Callimachus’ own epigram which praises Aratus’ sleepless nights (Ep. 27.4 

). Cinna’s diction thus establishes his ‘Alexandrian credentials’.82 The verbal parallel between Statius and Cinna is reinforced by the fact that Statius also adopts Cinna’s use of sailing as a metaphor for poetic composition. In particular, the learned adjective Prusiaca and the diminutive navicula correspond to the learned, small-scale poetry esteemed by Cinna and some of his contemporaries.83 Pointedly, in the verses immediately preceding the epilogue, Statius also uses the language of sailing to discuss his poetic composition (Theb. 12.809 et mea iam longo meruit ratis aequore portum).84 Obviously, the epic poetics of the Thebaid differ from Cinna’s small-scale brand of verse, but the details should not obscure the point that Statius situates his poetry in the tradition of Roman Callimacheanism. While this dimension of Cinna’s verse has been well studied,85 the allusion in Statius’ epilogue has prompted little consideration. 78 80 81 82 83 84 85

79 Henderson (1991) 30. Nugent (1996) 70. Sonnenberg (1911) 478; Courtney (1993) 222 note the similarities. Courtney (1993) 222. Williams (1992) 179 n. 8; Courtney (1993) 222; Hinds (2001) 227. Courtney (1993) 222 comments on learned features of Cinna’s language. For sailing and poetry, see Prop. 3.9.3, Ovid, Met. 15.176, Hor., Carm. 4.15.3. Statius himself refers to the Thebaid in such terms at Silv. 4.4.89. Wiseman (1974) 50–6; Thomas (1982) 200–1.

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Attention to the reception of Callimachus has greatly benefited the interpretation of so much Roman poetry.86 Yet despite the numerous suggestions throughout his poetic corpus that invite similar study, Statius’ epic has not benefited from such work. This book aims to bridge this gap by focusing on Statius’ allusions to Callimachus and on how they illuminate his artistic design, his relationship to the literary past and ultimately an assessment of early imperial Rome. Validation can only emerge from the poem itself, to which I now turn. 86

Wimmel (1960); Thomas (1983); Myers (1994).

chapter 1

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

At the start of the Thebaid, Eteocles rules over Thebes and Polynices has been exiled. In the course of his wanderings, a terrible storm drives Polynices to the doorway of Adrastus, the king of Argos. Tydeus, who has been exiled from his native Calydon, happens to seek shelter at the entrance to the king’s house at the same time. The two young men fight over the meagre shelter, and the commotion prompts the king to investigate its cause. When Adrastus sees Polynices wearing the skin of a lion and Tydeus that of a boar, he recalls a prophecy that foretold that his daughters would marry these animals. Believing the two exiles to be his future sons-in-law, he welcomes them into the palace as a religious festival is taking place, and he then explains the origins of the ceremony to the newcomers. The ways in which this aetion illuminates its encompassing narrative and affords deep insights into the gods of the Thebaid will be the subject of this chapter. Specifically, I look at the dissolution of distinctions between heavenly and infernal deities and the implications of this unusual divine arrangement for the poem. Adrastus’ account commences with Apollo’s victory over the massive snake-monster Python that had inhabited Delphi. Such mythical fights between sky and earth gods concern the ordering of the universe, and Apollo’s victory follows the standard paradigm in which the sky-god gains control. The king does not elaborate upon that story, however, and instead relates that immediately after slaying Python, Apollo sought expiation from Crotopus in Argos. He then reveals that while staying with Crotopus, Apollo raped and impregnated his host’s daughter, Psamathe. After she gave birth, Psamathe decided to hand the child – Linus – over to a shepherd in order to escape her father’s anger.1 Linus, however, was killed by dogs, whereupon Psamathe told her father the whole story, and he had her 1

Statius never actually mentions the child’s name until Theb. 6.64. But it is clear in Theb. 1 that the child is Linus. See Knaack (1880) 14 n. 24. Nor is Psamathe mentioned by name.

25

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killed.2 In response, Apollo conjured up a monster from the underworld to terrorize Argos and destroy its children, evidently as a comfort to himself (Theb. 1.596 solacia). After the hero Coroebus attacked and destroyed the monster, the god sent a parching plague that once again led to a host of deaths in Argos. Coroebus then went to Delphi, offered himself to Apollo, and requested that in exchange the innocent Argives be left alone. The Olympian finally relented and stopped the plague, thereby prompting the Argives to celebrate. Adrastus’ aetiological account of the Argive festival in honour of Apollo thus derives from a series of troublesome interactions between humans and divinities. Although Adrastus’ aetion has been viewed as a digression,3 more frequently critics have emphasized that it is tightly connected to and reflects upon its surrounding narrative.4 For instance, the story encapsulates the troubled relations between divine and human that pervade the poem. As C. S. Lewis observed, Adrastus’ tale proclaims ‘the unambiguous inferiority of Olympian to mortal’.5 The king’s explanation also illustrates the incapacity of humans to comprehend divine action fully. William Dominik, for example, well notes that the aetion contains ‘an important message on the consequences of supernaturally incited furor that goes uncomprehended’ by characters such as Adrastus.6 This ignorance leads to a profound gap between the celebration and the actions that underlie it, thus marking another moment in a Theban story in which Apollo challenges human ability to comprehend divine plans.7 The destruction and confusion caused by Apollo overturn typical treatments of male Olympians in the opening books of epics. The plan of Zeus is mentioned in the proem of the Iliad (1.5) and guides the poem throughout. Likewise in the first book of the Aeneid, Jupiter and Neptune 2 3

4 5

6 7

Statius does not say why Psamathe is killed. Conon 19.6–7 mentions suspected prostitution as the motivation. Legras (1905) 152; Duff (1927) 473; Aric`o (1960) 277. It is well worth remembering that the model for Adrastus’ aetion – the scene in the Aeneid of Evander’s welcome of Aeneas and the subsequent account of Hercules killing Cacus – had long been regarded as ‘episodic’ (see Galinsky (1966) 18 n. 3). Critics are now unlikely to use that term to explicate any passage, since it ignores a wide range of narrative interests. Kytzler (1955) 186; Vessey (1973) 103–5; Brown (1994) 172; Dominik (1994) 63 (with further bibliography cited in n. 92); Delarue (2000) 122. Lewis (1998) 99. Lewis speaks only of Coroebus, whose heroism is not representative of most human behaviour throughout the poem. Nonetheless, Lewis’ conclusion about the aetion’s significance for understanding the gods throughout the Thebaid is valid. Dominik (1994) 63. As will be seen, readers are well aware of Adrastus’ misconceptions, creating an enormous gap between the king’s focalized narrative and the surrounding narrative. Such a depiction of Apollo’s direct involvement with humans goes beyond even his role in Sophocles’ OT, where the god plays a major – though indirect – role in the unravelling of order (e.g. 151–7, 203, 1329–30).

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

27

create a sense of order out of chaos. Moreover, the initial books of epics often feature assemblies of the gods that afford important insights into the divinities – and particularly Jupiter (cf. Il. 1.493–611; Od. 1.26–95). Statius, however, builds upon Ovidian precedent (Met. 1.163–252) and depicts an assembly that reveals a Jupiter who seeks to destroy humans.8 The aetion about Apollo reinforces the problematic nature of the Olympians in the Thebaid. Little attention has been paid to the literary underpinnings of Statius’ treatment of his divinities.9 In this chapter, I argue that Statius models his aetion about Apollo upon earlier scenes from Virgilian and Homeric epic in which the god – or an analogue – brings about order and stability. These allusions reinforce the expectation of order created by the employment of a representative myth of the fight between Olympian and chthonic deities. Since Apollo brings about chaos and disorder, these expectations are defeated. Statius confounds expectations in part by building upon treatments of Apollo and the Delphic oracle in Lucan and Ovid, but most of all by reworking the poetry of Callimachus, who related the story of Coroebus, Linus and Apollo in the Aetia (F 28–34 Massimilla). Moreover, Statius’ adaptation of this aetion epitomizes poetic strategies that run throughout the Thebaid. That is, allusions to generic models create expectations that are not realized as the narrative unfolds, and the defeat of these expectations often stems from Statius’ use of Callimachus’ poetry. These conflicting narrative interests recapitulate the conflict that lies at the heart of the Thebaid.10 The aetion thus anticipates – or even sets up – an uncertainty that pervades the epic about the relevance and efficacy of generic paradigms. Since the Aeneid provides the most important model for Adrastus’ tale, it seems most useful to start by looking at the influence of that Virgilian account upon the aetion in the Thebaid. evander and ad rast us Statius modeled the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus at Adrastus’ palace upon the scene in which Aeneas reaches Evander’s city in Aeneid 8.11 For 8 9

10

11

Schubert (1984) 75–101; Aric`o (2002) 172–3. For the gods in the Thebaid and the massive secondary literature concerning them, see the excellent discussion by Feeney (1991) 337–91; Legras (1905) 157–205, Schetter (1960) 5–29, Burck (1979) 334–43 and Schubert (1984) also discuss the gods. Henderson (1991) 30–80 forcefully illustrates the inherent conflict in the Thebaid. Statius had much precedent for such narrative interests, since Roman epics contain a great deal of internal conflict. See, e.g., Hardie (1990) 229. Eissfeldt (1904) 413; Legras (1905) 38; Schetter (1960) 82–4; Burck (1979) 309–10; Brown (1994) 166– 8. There are also differences between the two scenes: Statius modifies Virgil’s account by depicting

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instance, Pallas begins his question to Aeneas and his comrades with the words iuvenes, quae causa . . . (Aen. 8.112), and Adrastus asks quae causa furoris / externi iuvenes (Theb. 1.438–9). The newcomers in each poem are then fed a meal after which the king explains the ritual that is taking place. Statius’ prefatory rex ait (Theb. 1.559) derives from the Virgilian rex Evandrus ait (Aen. 8.185). The kings then utter similar words: Adrastus’ non inscia suasit / relligio (Theb. 1.559–60) echoes Evander’s non . . . vana superstitio veterumque ignara deorum / imposuit (Aen. 8.185–8).12 In addition to the verbal similarities, there are thematic parallels. Both kings state that the rites celebrate deliverance from great troubles (Aen. 8.188 saevis . . . periculis; Theb. 1.560 magnis . . . cladibus), and the descendants of the two kings joyfully react to the elimination of this danger.13 Finally, each aetiological story is followed by a hymn to a god (Aen. 8.285–302; Theb. 1.696–720). More significantly, the aetia that are related by the two kings are mythological analogues. Evander tells Aeneas that Hercules defeated the monster called Cacus. This fight represents the struggle between chaos and order: Cacus is an evil chthonic force that is countered by the redeeming Olympian Hercules, whose victory purports to establish order and control in the universe.14 So too Adrastus’ aetion about Apollo’s destruction of Python concerns a struggle between Olympian god and chthonic force. Indeed, Apollo’s tussle with Python is a paradigmatic example of the duel between heavenly and earthly divinities over control of the universe.15 The mythological link between the two stories is reinforced by the fact that the Virgilian hymn to Hercules (Aen. 8.285–302) recalls the song celebrating Apollo and his victory over Delphynes (=Python) that is sung by Orpheus

12 13 14

15

Argos as wealthy, a pointed contrast to the humble nature of Evander’s Rome. In this scene, Statius also recalls the arrival of Aeneas at Dido’s palace in Aen. 1. See Heuvel (1932) 283. Heuvel (1932) 243; Vessey (1973) 102. Legras (1905) 38. Both passages also contain an infinitival form of the verb explere (Aen. 8.265; Theb. 1.623). Fontenrose (1959) 342–4 discusses the cosmic implications of Hercules’ struggle with Cacus. For Cacus as chthonic force, see Galinsky (1966) 38; Lyne (1989) 128–9. Cacus is also an autochtonous divinity who is overthrown by Hercules, and thus pointedly prefigures Aeneas’ fight with the Italians. Hardie (1986) 110–18 well demonstrates that Virgil specifically couches this fight as a Gigantomachic conflict in which Olympians fight for control of the universe against the Titans or Giants. Fontenrose (1959) addresses the slaying of Python and its universal significance. h. Ap. 300–87 well represents the cosmic implications of Apollo’s actions; see Clay (1989) 70–2 and Miller (1986) 87–8. For the struggle between god and dragon in cosmogonic myths, see Burkert (1999) 98. Strictly speaking, Statius’ account is not cosmogonic in the sense that it concerns the origins of the universe (nor is Virgil’s Hercules and Cacus episode, for that matter). Burkert (1999) 87 also notes the paucity of actual cosmogonies in Greek and Roman myth.

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

29

in Apollonius’ Argonautica (2.698–713).16 Moreover, Hercules’ crushing of the snakes sent by Juno (Aen. 8.288–9) parallels the destruction of the serpent by the young god Apollo (Arg. 2.706–7).17 The Apollonian and Virgilian villains also terrorize the inhabitants and livestock of the lands in which they dwell.18 Hercules thus parallels Apollo, and the subject matter of the aetion related by Adrastus underscores the verbal parallels between the Statian and Virgilian episodes. ovid’s py thon Statius also alludes to the Ovidian treatment of Apollo’s defeat of Python (Met. 1.436–51). Ovid recounts this story after relating the flood and the subsequent restoration of human life by Deucalion and Pyrrha (Met. 1.400– 28). The juxtaposition of the scene in which the earth is repopulated with an episode in which Apollo eradicates the chthonic force that was a terror (Met. 1.438–40) reinforces the cosmic significance of the combat.19 In gratitude to the god, a religious festival – the Pythian games – is created. Ovid’s account thus functions as an aetion (Met. 1.445–9), just as in the Thebaid the killing of Python contributes to the establishment of the rite whose origins are recounted by Adrastus. Furthermore, Ovid immediately turns from the victory over the snake to Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne, and Statius’ narrative progression similarly segues from triumph to the rape of Psamathe. Statius’ diction also recalls that of Ovid’s episode. His noun terrigenam (Theb. 1.563) evokes Ovid’s description of Python’s birth from the earth 16

17

18 19

Conington (1871) 109; Eden (1975) 97. Stephens (2003a) 211 n. 100 notes the association between Hercules and Apollo in Apollonius as well. While the hymns are similar, Fontenrose (1959) 358 notes that Hercules’ defeat of Cacus is a mythic analogue to Apollo’s defeat of Python. Galinsky (1966) 45. Moreover, Virgil’s diction associates Cacus with the serpentine creatures that are the traditional foes of Olympians (Galinsky (1966) 47). Nelis (2001) 360–4 enumerates further parallels between Virgil and Apollonius. Hardie (1986) 111 n. 68. B¨omer (1969) 133. The order and control brought by Ovid’s Apollo seem to be destabilized through generic terms, however. Cosmogonic histories operate in an epic tradition that stretches back to Hesiodic epic (Myers (1994) 7–9). Since Ovid begins his epic with Chaos (Met. 1.7), he recalls Hesiod (Theog. 116         ) and situates his cosmogonies in such a tradition. Moreover, Apollo’s epithet arquitenens (Met. 1.441) evokes Naevius (FPL 24) and Aeneid 3.75 and thus lends additional epic flavour to the passage. So too fortibus armis (Met. 1.456) and the description of Python as tumidum (Met. 1.460) are redolent of epic; see Myers (1994) 61–2). Yet less than ten lines after slaying Python, Apollo runs into Cupid who then shoots Apollo with an arrow and drives Apollo to desire Daphne. Ovid transforms Apollo from an epic hero to a frustrated elegiac lover (Knox (1986) 17 notes the elegiac dimensions of Apollo in the Daphne episode). Indeed, the entire encounter between Cupid and Apollo evokes elegiac discourse (Knox (1986) 14–17). The epic achievements of Apollo are thus juxtaposed with his elegiac loss of control: in the process, hierarchies are put forth only to be challenged. See Otis (1970); Nicoll (1980); Wills (1990).

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(Met. 1.434–9 . . . tellus . . . nova monstra creavit. Illa quidem nollet, sed te quoque, maxime Python, tum genuit), and his account of the wounds that the snake received (Theb. 1.567 absumptis numerosa in vulnera telis) echoes Ovid’s depiction of the injured Python (Met. 1.460 innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis).20 Also, like Ovid (Met. 1.459), Statius uses the word iugera to emphasize the amount of space the snake took up (Theb. 1.568). Finally, a suggestive point of contact between Statius and Ovid occurs before Adrastus even begins. Statius relates that the band of slaves and friends who celebrate Apollo’s rite wear leaves that are pudica (Theb. 1.553–5 Phoebum . . . ciet comitum famulumque evincta pudica / fronde manus). Though the type of leaves is not specified, it is safe to assume they are laurel because of the tree’s associations with Apollo.21 In addition, the description of these leaves as ‘chaste’ or ‘sexually pure’ points to a specific moment in Apollo’s past, specifically Daphne’s refusal of Apollo’s sexual assault and her subsequent transformation into a laurel tree. Statius’ description of the leaves thus seems to nod towards Ovid’s account,22 and it allusively augments the other allusions that mark the importance of Ovid’s epic for Adrastus’ aetion. aetiological ex pectat ions These universal myths about the struggles of Apollo and Hercules against chthonic divinities bear upon the human realm. As Walter Burkert puts it, ‘cosmogony ends in the installation of religious hierarchy which gives legitimation also to earthly power.’23 The clash between Hercules and Cacus indeed has an impact upon humans because they are delivered from danger (Aen. 8.188; 201) and benefit from the emergence of early Roman commercial and religious areas – the Ara Maxima and Forum Boarium – in the place where the fight occurred. The transformed physical space functions as a tangible symbol of Roman prosperity and growth. Moreover, Hercules’ 20 21

22

23

Heuvel (1932) 245 notes another similarity in Ovid’s mille gravem telis exhausta paene pharetra (Met. 1.443). The laurel is ubiquitously associated with Delphi: the first temple at Delphi was supposedly made of laurel (Paus. 10.5.9); Euripides refers to the trees in the sacred precinct (Ion 76) and branches at the entrance of the temple (Ion 80); and the Pythia supposedly chewed laurel leaves before delivering the oracle (Lucian, Bis Acc. 1). Heuvel (1932) 242 notes the Ovidian precedent. Knox (1990) 183–202 discusses other ancient accounts of the Apollo and Daphne story. In addition, the fact that both Ovid and Statius address the story of Python, which, despite the fact that it was common in Greek literature (e.g. h. Ap.), was rare in Latin, further connects the two passages. According to Tertullian, Pindar and Callimachus had Apollo put on a laurel crown after slaying Python (Aetia F 89 Pf.), so it is possible that Statius’ and Ovid’s juxtaposition of laurel and the Python-slaying may have had some sort of Callimachean colouring. Burkert (1999) 102.

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defeat of Cacus symbolically anticipates Aeneas’ vanquishing of Turnus, and is thus further suggestive of the advance of the Roman cause.24 Ovid also connects – perhaps speciously – the story of Apollo’s attempted rape of Daphne to Roman hegemony when he has Apollo say that the laurel will be present at military triumphs (Met. 1.560–5).25 Of course, everything is not simple in these stories of monster-killing. Fontenrose suggests that ‘both creative and destructive forces are mingled on both sides of the divine combat. So myth is nearer to reality in this respect than that sort of partisanship in life or that sort of melodrama in literature which pits pure good on one side against pure evil on the other.’26 The general point is correct, even if literature presents more problems than Fontenrose allows. To take Virgil’s account, Hercules blurs the distinctions between Olympian and Giant. Denis Feeney, for instance, suggests that Hercules’ tremendous violence is ‘an attempt to attain to the status of divinity, and any such attempt is fraught with terrible moral hazard, always susceptible of being represented as gigantesque.’27 So too Ovid disturbs the seemingly straightforward aetion involving the Pythian games by immediately turning to Daphne’s unfortunate fate at the hands of Apollo.28 Pure good and evil are thus hard to find even in literature, but the aetiological accounts found in the Aeneid and the Metamorphoses nonetheless present the benefits of divine action that lead to tangible markers – however ambiguous they may be – of order and civilization. Statius’ allusions to similar myths in his Roman predecessors thus raises expectations that the aetion about the Olympian triumph over a chthonic power will also lead to civic enrichment. lucan’s delphi Statius’ mythic aetion differs from those found in Virgil and Ovid, however, because the god’s victory over Python and then his sexual transgressions 24

25 26 27

28

Buchheit (1963) 120–33. The violence and fury of Hercules and Aeneas have prompted various reactions (e.g. Galinsky (1966) 41; Cairns (1989) 82–4; Feeney (1991) 159–61; Thomas (1991) 261), and it is unnecessary here to enter into a debate that is all too familiar to readers of the Aeneid. The Roman associations of Hercules’ conflict with Cacus is even deeper since Octavian celebrated Hercules’ rites at the Ara Maxima on 12 August 29 bc – the anniversary of Hercules’ advent in Rome – and then celebrated his own triple triumph the next day. Barchiesi (2005) 144–6 notes that the Seleucids seem to have used the myth of Daphne in politically expedient ways, and thus potentially offered Ovid a precedent. Fontenrose (1959) 473; Burkert (1999) 104. Feeney (1991) 159–60; O’ Hara (1994) 219–22. Indeed, even in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo there is a degree of uncertainty in the achieved order; see Clay (1989) 72. For a more general assessment of the precarious nature of the established order in these myths, see Burkert (1999) 104. Wheeler (1999) 201–2 discusses Daphne’s position in the narrative. See also Otis (1970) 101–4.

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lead to the punishment of innocent children and civic chaos. And for this perversion of the Delphic myth, Statius owes much to Lucan, who had thoroughly overturned typical accounts of Delphi and its oracle.29 For instance, in order to indicate the wickedness of the Thessalian battleground on which Pompey and Caesar fight, Lucan mentions that the Python came from there to Delphi (BC 6.395 hac tellure feri micuerunt semina Martis). Lucan also compares the clash between Apollo and Python to the civil war between Pompey and Caesar (BC 7.144).30 Yet the poet renders inoperative the conventional pattern of mythic order: in the wicked struggle between Caesar and Pompey, Caesar wins and disrupts the cosmic arrangement by entering into the Olympian pantheon.31 This troubling treatment of the Delphic myth coheres with the state of decay into which the oracle has fallen. When Appius goes to consult the oracle about the outcome of the civil war (BC 5.80), the prophetess states that the oracle is no longer functioning. One explanation she offers for the malfunctioning site is that the ashes of the burnt Python clogged the chasm from which the priestess receives inspiration (BC 5.134–6). The narrator had anticipated her view that humans can no longer access the divine when it was revealed that rulers had destroyed the oracle’s function (BC 5.111–14). However, Appius disregards such comments and compels the priestess to foretell the future of the world, but he is given only a disingenuous account of his own prospects. In Lucan’s poem, then, the killing of Python and the subsequent establishment of Apollo’s oracle no longer represent conventional – though hardly straightforward – means for humans to learn of divine plans. The god’s precinct has become dysfunctional, and illustrates both that the hierarchy of the universe has been disturbed and that there are troubled relations between gods and humans. Statius’ transition from Apollo’s defeat of Python to widespread death and disorder builds upon Lucan’s troubled depiction of Delphi. Parallels between the two accounts are clear: each poem contains an aetion (cf. BC 6.409 unde et Thessalicae veniunt ad Pythia laurus),32 and then recounts the disastrous results of Apollo’s victory. And at the level of diction, a form of the verb explicare used by Statius in conjunction with Apollo’s destruction of the snake (Theb. 1.569 vix tandem explicitum) evokes Lucan’s version of the slaying of Python (BC 5.81 explicuit).33 29 30 31 32 33

Masters (1992) 91–149 is a full discussion of Lucan’s Delphic episode. Lucan persistently uses fights between heavenly and chthonic forces to underscore the strife between Pompey and Caesar. See Feeney (1991) 297. Henderson (1987) 145; Feeney (1991) 297. On the unusual location of the snake’s origins in Thessaly, see Masters (1992) 175–6. Barratt (1979) 31.

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callim achus, delphi and apollo in t he t h e b a i d Statius’ perversion of the standard mythic account of Apollo’s victory does not draw solely upon Lucan. It is Apollo’s pursuit of expiation and his rape of Crotopus’ daughter (Theb. 1.575) that undoes the conventional myth, and this material comes from Callimachus’ Aetia. Curiously, Statius seemingly ignores Callimachus’ own handling of Apollo’s expiation after the killing of Python (Aetia F 87–9 Pfeiffer), and instead turns to the story of Linus, Apollo and Coroebus that was told in the first book of the Aetia (Aetia F 28–34 Massimilla). The joining of these two stories about Apollo is unusual. Indeed, Statius was evidently the first author to link Apollo’s quest for expiation with his visit to Crotopus’ house,34 and he may even advertise the novelty of his account when he claims that Apollo went to Crotopus’ seeking a ‘new expiation’ (Theb. 1.569 nova piacula). The adjective seems to indicate self-referentially that the upcoming narrative uniquely reworks previous accounts of the expiation.35 Callimachean practices and ideals shape Statius’ scene. Not only are both aetia concerning Linus related in the opening book of their respective poems, but Crotopus’ reception of a god (or hero) in a humble house (Theb. 1.570 tecta haud opulenta) brings to mind the Callimachean scenes involving characters such as Hecale and Molorcus.36 In addition, once Apollo enters the house, Statius’ narrative quickly moves away from the god’s need for expiation and concentrates on the interaction between him and his human hosts. In Callimachus’ account of Apollo’s actions after his victory, the god purifies himself in the waters of Peneios and then is welcomed with a feast by the Deipnians. If, as happens elsewhere in his poetry, Callimachus devoted more attention to an unfamiliar detail (such as the feast with the Deipnians) surrounding famous mythic activity rather than in the feat itself, he may have offered Statius a precedent for making the conventional myth subordinate to the reception scene. Details surrounding Psamathe’s abandonment of her child reveal specific links between Statius and Callimachus: 34 35

36

Conon and Pausanias (1.43.7) offer no explanation for the reason behind Apollo’s meeting with Psamathe. Ironically, the story of Apollo and Crotopus was written in elegiac couplets upon the grave of Coroebus and – together with a visual image of Coroebus’ slaying of Poine – formed, according to Pausanias (1.43.8), the oldest images in the Greek world. Statius’ nova piacula is thus particularly marked. Hinds (1987) 112–13 discusses the poetic resonance of some Ovidian examples of humble dwellings.

34

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War . . . ac poenae metuens – neque enim ille coactis donasset thalamis veniam pater – avia rura eligit ac natum saepta inter ovilia furtim montivago pecoris custodi mandat alendum. non tibi digna, puer, generis cunabula tanti gramineos dedit herba toros et vimine querno texta domus; Theb. 1.578–84

And fearing punishment – for that father would not have forgiven forced sex – she chose the pathless country and among the sheepfolds secretly surrenders her child to be raised by a shepherd who roams the hills. Child, your home was woven out of pliant oak branches and the grass provided you a bed on the turf, a cradle unequal to your grand lineage.

Scholars have long seen that this particular passage is indebted to Callimachus’ story of Linus and Coroebus.37 According to Statius, Linus was raised in sheep pens (saepta inter ovilia), a detail that alludes to Callimachus’ phrase ‘lambs, child, were your playmates and your chums, the pens and pastures your bed’ (Aetia Massimilla 1.28.1–2  , ! ", #  $%, / , &'(  ) ( *).38 The address to the child, preceded by the dative case of the second person singular pronoun (tibi . . . puer), replicates Callimachus’ diction (Aetia 1.28.1 , ! "). In addition, after Linus is killed and Apollo sends his punishment against the Argives, Statius mentions that nurses lose their babies to the monster: haec tum dira lues nocturno squalida passu inlabi thalamis, animasque a stirpe recentes abripere altricum gremiis morsuque cruento devesci et multum patrio pinguescere luctu. Theb. 1.601–4

In its nightly wandering, this destructive, filthy pest creeps into bedrooms and tears newborns from their nurses’ breasts. It then devours them with bloody teeth and gorges itself on the nations’ grief.

This detail corresponds to the Callimachean verse in which mothers are said to have become bereft of their children and nurses of their charges 37 38

Knaack (1880) 14–28; Heuvel (1932) 250; Aric`o (1960); Vessey (1973) 101; Delarue (2000) 121–3. The lambs in Callimachus’ account have aetiological import for the name of an Argive month (Aetia 1.28.1 +% ).

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(Aetia 1.30.14    &, -, &.!'  '/).39 Finally, Psamathe surrenders Linus in the pathless woods (Theb. 1.579 avia rura). This location may activate a Callimachean metaphor, particularly since it contrasts strongly with Statius’ description of the path to Thebes as a notum iter (Theb. 1.101), a phrase that metapoetically indicates the well-established place of the Theban saga in poetry.40 Since the stories of Linus and Oedipus are similiar,41 it is tempting to conceive of these different ‘paths’ in poetic terms: the pathless countryside in which Linus is found has good Callimachean credentials,42 and forms a stark contrast to the well-discussed Theban story. The distinct characterization of each story about the abandoned child may thus hint at the two different poetic traditions that lie behind them. The narrative sequence in Adrastus’ aetion also seems to cohere with the course of events in the Aetia. After the account of Linus’ sleeping quarters, Statius relates that dogs killed Linus (Theb. 1.587–90), and that because of her outstanding grief, Psamathe confessed her entire story to her father (Theb. 1.590–4). Next, Crotopus kills his daughter (Theb. 1.594–5), and Apollo retaliates by sending a monstrum that destroys Argive babies. The tattered state of the Aetia precludes certainty about what connection Callimachus drew between the fragments describing Linus’ bed among the lambs and those preserving the remainder of the story, but Rudolph Pfeiffer posited a plausibly reconstructed narrative of the Aetia that is replicated by the sequence of events in the Thebaid.43 Pfeiffer proposed that once Linus dies (Aetia 1.30.3 ' . . .), Callimachus mentions the young girl Psamathe (Aetia 1.30.10 .!

) and calls Crotopus a child-killer (Aetia 1.30.11  !0-1). Apollo then sends Poine against the Argives (Aetia 1.30.12 2 & +[ ), after which Callimachus mentions the nurses who lose their charges (Aetia 1.30.14). Though the arrangement of the Callimachean narrative cannot be established with certainty, it does seem to parallel Statius’ sequence. Statius’ rewriting of the Callimachean aetion matters because it is the visit to Crotopus’ house that leads to the perversion of the results conventionally 39 40 41 42 43

Pausanias and Conon do not mention nurses. Pausanias simply states that Poine snatched children from their mothers (1.43.7 .  3 %  4 5   - !( 67). Henderson (1991) 41 notes the literary-historical suggestions of the phrase. Vessey (1973) 105 points out similarities in the stories. Dominik (1994) 66 n. 96 objects to the idea that Linus recalls Oedipus, but I follow Vessey. One may think of the ‘untrodden paths’ that are mentioned at Aetia 1.1.27–8. Callimachus, Aetia F 26 (Pfeiffer) is of particular importance. He draws upon Ovid’s Ibis 573–6, Statius, and Greek epigram to reconstruct the narrative. Massimilla (1996) 304–5 essentially follows Pfeiffer’s account. Frazel (2002) 90 n. 11 succinctly captures parallels in narrative chronology between Ovid and Callimachus.

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achieved in the mythic combat between god and dragon.44 For example, the deaths of Psamathe and Linus prompt Apollo to send Punishment against the Argives.45 This creature is tellingly called a monstrum from the underworld (Theb. 1.597–8 Phoebe, paras monstrum infandis Acheronte sub imo / conceptum Eumenidum thalamis; cf. 1.637), a characterization that mirrors that of the chthonic Python (Theb. 1.562 monstri).46 Apollo’s punishment of Argos thus undoes his earlier slaying of Python by unleashing on humans another chthonic force. Even more worrisome from a mythic perspective is that Apollo’s fight with Python results in an alliance between Olympian and chthonic forces. Rather than using that mythic struggle to delineate divine hierarchies, Statius employs it in a way that jumbles any distinctions. This confusion reflects a central theme of the Thebaid, namely that the Olympians use hell to destroy Thebes, but in so doing, they lose control over the cosmos. Jupiter, for instance, had sent Mercury to the underworld in order to have the shade of Laius stir up war in Thebes (Theb. 1.292–302), and Oedipus’ speech at the start of the Thebaid suggests that in some ways Tisiphone has supplanted Jupiter.47 Since this divine struggle for control will persist throughout the epic,48 Adrastus’ aetion about Apollo and the monstrum recapitulates and crystallizes the problematic nature of Olympus in the Thebaid. Statius’ cosmogonic scene leads to perverse events on earth as well because the installation of the Olympian hierarchy in the Thebaid does not lead to any collective benefit. In fact, Apollo kills children and begins a cycle of violence and destruction. Virgil and Ovid accenctuate earthly power through Olympian triumph,49 but Statius’ reworking of Callimachus’ poetry creates a markedly different scenario, and a very different Olympus. The mythic 44

45

46 47 48 49

The significance of the allusions has been ignored. When discussing Statius’ use of Callimachus, for example, Vessey (1973) 101 states that ‘. . . to name the source of the story-material does not explain why Statius chose to insert this particular myth at this point.’ Vessey is right that the study of allusion does not equal source criticism, but he then oddly abandons further analysis of Statius’ engagement with Callimachus. Pausanias (1.43.7) indicates that Apollo sent personified ‘Revenge’ against the Argives, though it is possible that the monster Apollo sends in the Thebaid is not a personified creature but just ‘poena’, i.e. ‘a punishment’. The word monstrum also punctuates the Apollo/Python and Hercules/Cacus passages from the Metamorphoses (1.437) and Aeneid (8.198). Feeney (1991) 346–53 analyses the interrelation between heaven and hell – and Jupiter and Tisiphone – in the Thebaid. As Feeney (1991) 345 puts it, a tension runs throughout the Thebaid ‘as to where the centre of gravity resides’. Burkert (1999) 102 discusses cosmogonies and the establishment of hierarchies that legitimate earthly stability.

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material that owes a debt to the Aetia disrupts the theological vision of earlier epic, and the scene thus follows Lucan’s lead in suggesting that cosmogonic struggles do not lead to human benefit, or to dramatic change. Rather, hazards that replicate earlier troubles emerge and illustrate that humans are continually plagued. The Argive story is thus relevant to Thebes, which is also subject to recurring violence. And in terms of the poems’ design, the aetion evokes standard treatments of epic divinities only to pervert them and to defeat the realization of generic expectations. Within its own narrative, then, the epic contains a struggle that stems from the expectations created by the evocation of generic models and the subsequent failure to realize these expectations. linus and poetic inheritance That the aetion related by Adrastus concerns Linus lends special point to Statius’ engagement with the literary past. There were two Linuses, one of whom was an infant who died in the Argolid, the other a Boeotian singer/musician (or even teacher).50 Although the two Linuses are clearly different, the myths about them were malleable and interchangeable. Propertius, for example, applies the adjective Inachio (‘Argive’) to Linus the singer/poet, thereby conflating the youth and the artist (2.13.8).51 Linus thus connects the two Greek geographical regions – Argos and Boeotia – that are about to join in battle when Polynices marries Argia.52 In addition to geographic significance, Linus is central to literary genealogies. As the son of Apollo, his song possessed a divine heritage and he himself figures prominently in accounts of poetic lineage. For example, Virgil has Linus transmit the poetic past to Gallus:53 dixerit: ‘hos tibi dant calamos – en accipe – Musae Ascraeo quos ante seni quibus ille solebat cantando rigidas deducere montibus ornos. his tibi Grynei nemoris dicatur origo ne qui sit lucus quo se plus iactet Apollo.’ Eclogue 6.69–73 50 51 52

53

Brown (1994) 176–82 discusses the Linus myth and its variants. See also Ross (1975) 21–36. Ross (1975) 35–6. Statius’ exploitation of geographic links between Boeotia and the Peloponnese is also exemplified through his awareness of Callimachus’ treatment of the Asopus, as will be seen in chapter four. Ross (1975) 23–38 explores this highly charged scene in detail, and at 118–20 he also points out the poetic importance of Linus in Propertius 2.13.

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He said: ‘The Muses give you – take them – these pipes which earlier belonged to Hesiod and with which he used to lead down tall ash trees from the mountains by singing. With these pipes let the origin of the Grynean grove be told by you, in order that there there be no grove in which Apollo exalts himself more greatly.

Though it is the mythical Linus who hands over the pipes to Gallus, the influence of actual poets permeates this passage. For instance, Virgil’s modification of the gifts the Muses gave to Hesiod (pipes, not the laurel branch) marks a specific interest in pastoral poetry.54 Also, Servius noted that the Grynean grove is a subject Gallus took over from Euphorion.55 Further, Virgil had earlier used a form of deducere in his reformulation of Callimachus’ ‘refined Muse’ (Aetia 1.1.24 8 9" . . .  ),56 and this poetically charged context suggests that it has poetic significance here as well. For certain, the phrase ne qui sit lucus quo se plus iactet Apollo is a clear allusion to Callimachus.57 Linus thus transmits the literary heritage – in which Callimachus’ poetry figures prominently – to Gallus. Strikingly, Callimachus’ own aetion about Linus displays a similar interest in poetic inheritance, though he seems to discuss his own – rather than another poet’s – poetry and its relationship to predecessors. A Pindaric scholiast assigns to Callimachus the pentameter that contains the words ‘the story woven to the wand’ (Aetia 1.30.5 Massimilla ( 4 &( :* -; "' ) has poetic undertones,58 and thus the masculine speaker, either an embedded narrator or the narrator Callimachus, discusses his reception and articulation of the literary past. Epic seems to be the particular focus since :*  is associated with rhapsodic performance,59 which, as Susan Stephens has noted, entails the ‘combining of various songs into one “text” or performance’.60 Callimachus, then, refers to a poetic story – and an epic one by all indications – as something that is received by his narrator who then weaves together disparate tales.61 The programmatic significance of this passage is suggested by the adverb ‘continually’ (= ), which harks 54 55

56 57 58 59

Clausen (1994) 203. The details of Servius’ statement are well-debated. Lightfoot (1999) 59–67 rehearses the arguments. The relevant point for my argument is simply that the layers of poetic lineage surrounding the Grynean Grove are lengthy. Massimilla (1996) 217 is a recent, straightforward discussion of both Virgil’s verses and the bibliography on Virgil’s well-scrutinized allusions to Callimachus. Coleman (1977) 198; Clausen (1994) 204. Massimilla (1996) 303; D’Alessio (1996) 409 n. 91. 60 Stephens (2003b) 22. 61 Ibid. Cf. Pindar I. 4.37–9 and N. 2.1.

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back to the highly charged prologue and the Telchines’ complaint that Callimachus does not write one continuous (   ) song.62 This claim may answer that charge in the sense that it calls attention to a different type of narrative continuity.63 For certain, Callimachus’ aetion contained an important statement about his reception of the epic past and its relationship to his particular narrative style. Statius adopted the metaphor of weaving from Callimachus’ story of Linus and Coroebus. Later in the Thebaid, an image of Linus is prominently featured on the funerary adornments of the child Opheltes: summa crepant auro, Tyrioque attollitur ostro molle supercilium, teretes hoc undique gemmae inradiant, medio Linus intertextus acantho letiferique canes: opus admirabile semper oderat atque oculos flectebat ab omine mater. Theb. 6.62–6

The top part of the bier clatters from the gold, and a soft overhang of Tyrian purple rises, and polished jewels illuminate this on all sides. Linus and the deadly dogs are woven into the middle among acanthus. The mother always hated this incredible work and always turned her eyes from the omen.

Since weaving is a frequent metaphor for poetic composition in Latin as well as in Greek,64 the word intertextus works on a literary level, virtually glossing Callimachus’ word (
Stephens (2003b) 21 n. 37 points out that the fragment preserving the adjective was actually assigned to the prologue before the discovery of P. Rylands 13. Massimilla (1996) 303; D’Alessio (1996) 409 n. 92. Stephens (2003b) 23 also notes that   may draw a diachronic link between Callimachus and his predecessors. 65 Brown (1994) 182. Lyne (1978) 108–9. Brown (ibid.) similarly notes that Statius uses Callimachus’ poetry to create an agonistic narrative, though she views it in terms of the heroic orientation of the aetion competing with a pastoral/elegiac influence.

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Callimachus’ poetry is one persistent way in which Statius generates this tension between the creation of expectations through allusions to predecessors and the subsequent failure to realize these expectations. aetiology and knowledge While the Callimachean aetion is important for Statius’ myth about Apollo, there are substantial differences between the two versions of Linus, Coroebus and Apollo. Statius downplays or ignores Callimachus’ particular aetiological interests.67 For instance, Callimachus evidently had Coroebus go to Apollo’s temple at Delphi for purification, whence, in order to cleanse himself, Coroebus had to carry a tripod until he dropped it. In that spot he was to build a temple to Apollo.68 Statius shows no interest in such events. Also, Statius’ narrative does not lead to benefits for humanity, whereas in the Aetia Apollo’s slaying of the Python leads to a feast between god and humans. A more significant difference between Statius and Callimachus concerns knowledge and human access to the divine. Command of facts is central to the Aetia. Callimachus’ poem contains a series of conversations between the poet and the Muses that begin with an allusion to the encounter between the Muses and Hesiod in the Theogony, where the goddesses state that they can tell lies that seem like truth and that they can speak the truth when they wish (Theog. 27).69 Callimachus exploits this concern with poetic truths and lies by parading his knowledge in conversations with the Muses, thereby allowing him to assume a position of equality with them.70 Recognition of truth works quite differently in the Thebaid. Like Evander in Aeneid 8, Adrastus can only attempt to understand his world; the certainty of Callimachus’ conversation with the Muses is absent. Moreover, Adrastus strikingly fails to perceive the dissonance between the story he tells and the conclusions he draws from it.71 Indeed, Statius highlights the king’s ignorance. After Adrastus has explained his people’s motivation for celebrating the rite, he questions his guests about their origins. The interest in Polynices’ lineage is especially marked (Theb. 1.668–72 . . . has 67 68 69 70 71

Aric`o (1960) 283–5 notes some differences between the two accounts. Massimilla (1996) 299 discusses this part of the myth as found in the Aetia. Massimilla (1996) 233–4 collects some of the massive bibliography on Callimachus’ dream and the Theogony. Massimilla (1996) 31, 325. The irony of his words non inscia suasit / relligio (Theb. 1.559–60) is thus very strong. Vessey (1973) 134 well notes Adrastus’ misconceptions, though I do not agree with his view that the ending of the episode moves from chaos to order.

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forte invisitis aras / vos quae progenies? . . . tu pande, quis Argos advenias, quando hae variis sermonibus horae) because it echoes Pallas’ questions to Aeneas about his identity (Aen. 8.112–14). In particular, it calls attention to a difference between the scenes in the Thebaid and in the Aeneid: Pallas and Evander know with whom they speak, but Adrastus does not.72 In fact, Polynices had refused to answer an earlier question about his identity, and the repetition of that question here emphasizes the fact that Adrastus told his story with full ignorance of his audience (Theb. 1.447–67).73 Furthermore, the sequence of events in the Aeneid (in which questions about origins follow upon an aetion and a libation) is inverted in the Thebaid (in which a libation is followed by an aetion and then by questions about origins), and this change also underscores the fact that the king is ignorant at the moment he speaks with Polynices.74 The postponement of introductions keeps Adrastus unaware of his audience and allows him to relate without any discomfort a story that has numerous parallels with the Theban myth.75 Polynices initially responds to Adrastus’ second question with embarrassment and distress (Theb. 1.673–4 deiecit maestos . . . / in terram vultus), and finally states that he is the son of Jocasta. Adrastus politely intervenes and tells Polynices not to lament about his family any longer or to elaborate upon its problems (Theb. 1.688–9 ne perge queri casusque priorum / adnumerare tibi). Then, in an effort to console Polynices, Adrastus says that his family has had its share of misfortune as well (Theb. 1.689–90 nostro quoque sanguine multum / erravit pietas) and that the errors of previous generations do not impede later ones (Theb. 1.690 nec culpa nepotibus obstat). Adrastus is dead wrong.76 Indeed, the aetion that he just related to Polynices indicates that the ‘sins’ of the fathers are in fact visited upon the sons. When Apollo decides to punish Argos for Psamathe’s death at the hands of her father Crotopus, he sends a monster to Argos that attacks 72 73 74

75

76

In the Odyssey, meals often precede questions (e.g. Od. 3.69–74; 4.118–54). But those revelations of identity lead to benefits, so Statius overturns even that epic practice. Brown (1994) 172 notes the irony. The libation itself is curious. Just before Adrastus relates the aetion to Polynices and Tydeus, he calls for a libation bowl that is described in some detail (Theb. 1.543–51). This bowl contains images that contrast with the situation in the Thebaid: the severed head of the Gorgon indicates the ability of humans to eradicate destructive forces, but that idea is countered in the Thebaid by the potency of the Gorgon which Vulcan inlays upon Argia’s necklace, the gift she wears on her wedding day that leads to Argive destruction (Theb. 2.278). And the depiction of Ganymede, dependant upon Aen. 5.250–7 (Caviglia (1973) 149–50), suggests a less antagonistic relationship between Jupiter and humans than that at work in the Thebaid. Vessey (1973) 103–5. Adrastus’ story of an abandoned child raised among herdsmen could have been relevant for Tydeus too, since some accounts claimed that he was raised by swineherds. See Antimachus’ Thebaid F 13 (Matthews). Ahl (1986) 2858; Dominik (1992) 75; Brown (1994) 173.

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and kills the youngest and most innocent of the population (Theb. 1.597– 604). It is grimly ironic, then, that Adrastus calls Apollo ‘Father’ (Theb. 1.696 parens).77 Moreover, earlier in the poem Jupiter had declared that the Thebans and Argives would not escape punishment for the mistakes that have been committed by their ancestors: nunc geminas punire domos, quis sanguinis auctor ipse ego, descendo. Perseos alter in Argos scinditur, Aonias fluit hic ab origine Thebas. mens cunctis inposta manet Theb. 1.224–7 Now I am going down to punish the two houses, my own blood. One branches to Perseus’ Argos, and the other flows from its origins to Aonian Thebes. But the character bestowed to all of them abides.

Jupiter then declares that the whole Theban family will be destroyed because of its continual transgressions (Theb. 1.242–3 totumque a stirpe revellam / exitiale genus). Before Adrastus offers his views to Polynices, then, it had been revealed that behaviour and evils do pass from one generation to the next, and that later generations pay for the mistakes of earlier ones. Adrastus misinterprets divine plans in other ways as well. He welcomes Polynices and Tydeus into his house because they were respectively wearing the skins of a lion and a boar, thereby fulfilling the prophecy of Apollo that his daughters would marry a ‘lion’ and a ‘boar’. Apollo’s prophecy had been characterized in sufficiently ambiguous terms (Theb. 1.495 nexis ambagibus augur Apollo),78 and Apollo had forbidden even his prophet Amphiaraus to know the truth of the situation (Theb. 1.398–9). Moreover, the description of the Argive king at the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus reinforces that the prophecy is unclear: a ‘joyful shudder’ passes through Adrastus’ limbs (Theb. 1.493–4 . . . laetusque per artus / horror iit). Horror may be used in context of joy as well as fear,79 and while the adjective suggests Adrastus’ pleasure, the noun points to what his reaction should be in light of the fact that Jupiter will use the marriage of Polynices and Argia to arrange for the mutual destruction of Argos and Thebes (Theb. 1.224–6). Yet Adrastus interprets Olympian action as a benefit, thinking that the arrival of his sons-in-law corroborates divine power. In support of his view he specifically refers to tripods (Theb. 1.509 prisca fides tripodum), which had traditionally been offered to Apollo’s precinct at Delphi. Yet, as we can see from Herodotus (e.g. 1.92), royal households that offered such 77 79

Ahl (1986) 2855; Dominik (1992) 69. Heuvel (1932) 224; L-S s.v. horror.

78

Ahl (1986) 2852–5; Brown (1994) 168 n. 28.

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gifts at Delphi did not always properly interpret Apollo’s statements about civic safety. Adrastus’ ignorance about divine intentions uncomfortably resurfaces at the end of the book, where he leads a hymn that celebrates Apollo (Theb. 1.696–720). Formal characteristics of a hymn abound: all forms of the second person personal pronoun are repeated (Theb. 1.705, 709 (twice) tu; Theb. 1.698, 703, 712 tibi; Theb. 1.696, 711, 717 te), alternative residences or cult-names are listed (Theb. 1.696, 697, 699, 701 seu . . . seu . . . seu . . . seu) and various places the god inhabits or the names he may be called are mentioned.80 While the location of this hymn after Adrastus’ explanation for the religious festival parallels the placement of the hymn to Hercules after the aetion concerning his struggle with Cacus, the Virgilian hymn does not contain a pronounced gap between celebration and reality. The first two words of Statius’ hymn are Phoebe parens (Theb. 1.696), a worrisome start since the troubles were initiated by Apollo’s siring of Linus.81 Also, the mention of Python in the hymn disturbingly connects the celebration to the aetion that was just related (Theb. 1.711). In addition, it is claimed in the hymn that Apollo knows the changes in political power marked by comets (Theb. 1.708 quae mutent sceptra cometae). The collocation of mutent and sceptra recalls earlier verses about the eventual breakdown of the rule that was supposed to alternate between Eteocles and Polynices (Theb. 1.138– 43).82 Also, the fate of Niobe, who is described as Thebanaque mater (Theb. 1.711) anticipates that of Jocasta, another Theban mother who will lose her sons.83 Additionally, the hymn ends with Apollo, in the guise of Mithras, dragging a bull to be sacrificed. However, since Eteocles and Polynices had been compared to bulls,84 the sacrifice of these animals to a god may suggest that sacrificial norms have been upset. Far from celebrating the gods, then, this hymn calls attention to numerous problems that revolve around the Theban war, and Adrastus’ Argos will be unwittingly drawn into this struggle. By foreshadowing Theban troubles, the hymn is incongruously juxtaposed to the celebration in which it is performed.85 Because Adrastus conceives of Apollo’s actions – from his slaying of the monster to the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus – as a benefit for humanity, he is established as an ignorant narrator. In this respect, he differs from the shrewd narrator of the Aetia who understands and accurately accounts 80 81 82 85

Norden (1956) 155 n. 1 discusses Statius’ hymn in his fundamental account of the vocabulary of hymns. Ahl (1986) 2856. See also Dominik (1992) 69 on servatoremque parentum (Theb. 1.694). 83 Ibid. 84 Dominik (1992) 77. Vessey (1973) 135. Vessey (1973) 102–3 comments on the irony of the scene.

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for religious practices. Moreover, the king’s assumption that Olympian behaviour is beneficial leads to the destruction of his family and city, a marked deviation from the Ovidian and Virgilian aetia in which Olympian victory leads to civic security. the homeric apollo In addition to overturning myths found in Roman epic, Statius also upsets the Homeric depiction of Apollo. Most obviously, Adrastus’ hymn parallels the hymn to Apollo offered by the Greeks after the plague subsides in the opening book of the Iliad (1.472–4). Additional parallels further suggest the importance of the Homeric Apollo. For instance, the plague that the god sends against Argos has clear similarities with that of Iliad 1.86 He is described as sitting in both instances (Theb. 1.629 residens; Il. 1.48 ?7 ) and his arrows lead to fire of some sort in both epics (Theb. 1.631 incendit; 1.635 ignis; Il. 1.52 ). Particularly significant is that Statius’ Apollo is ‘angrier’ (Theb. 1.627 saevior). A straightforward reading of the comparative adjective indicates that Apollo’s current anger about Coroebus’ slaying of the monstrum surpasses his anger towards Argos when Psamathe was killed just a few verses earlier. However, in the context of the other allusions to Iliad 1, the comparative may also mark an intertextual relationship, recalling yet expanding upon the anger of the Iliadic Apollo (Il. 1.44–6 @-0 . . . @- ).87 That is, the comparative form indicates that the rage of Statius’ Apollo goes beyond his Iliadic predecessor.88 Indeed, since Coroebus is no Agamemnon, Apollo’s assault on Argos is more disturbing than that which he sends upon the Greeks in the Iliad.89 In addition, while the gods often punish entire communities on account of the transgressions of a single individual,90 the adjective saevus anticipates Apollo’s later statement that he is cruel and unworthy of worship (Theb. 9.657 saevus ego immeritusque coli).91 Statius’ Apollo is modelled upon the 86 87 88

89 90 91

Juhnke (1972) 63 notes numerous parallels between Statius and Homer. Eissfeldt (1904) 389 calls attention to the god’s anger in both passages. It is similarly tempting to take the comparative force of the adjective as an intertextual reading on the proem of the Aeneid, where Juno is described as saevae (Aen. 1.4) The anger of Statius’ divinities will go beyond those of the Aeneid as well. Though curiously Juno herself is relatively restrained in the Thebaid, as Feeney (1991) 343 notes. Juhnke (1972) 63. The flood in Metamorphoses 1 is an obvious example. See also Brown (2002) 152. In addition, Statius applies the adjective crudelis (Theb. 1.629) to Apollo and iniquo (Theb. 1.629) to his bow, a notable contrast from the Iliad where his weapons are merely &@ (Il. 1.51) and   (Il. 1.49).

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Homeric god, but ultimately he emerges as an angrier and more worrisome god. The remainder of the aetion reveals additional divergences between the Homeric divinity and Statius’ version of Apollo. After the god sends the plague, Coroebus voluntarily goes to Delphi in order to surrender and to free the Argive community from further harm (Theb. 1.643–8). The hero strikingly asks Apollo why the Argives should suffer, even if monstra are so dear to Olympians and there is such inclementia in the heavens (Theb. 1.648– 51 quodsi monstra effera magnis / cara adeo superi . . . / et saevo tanta inclementia caelo est / quid meruere Argi?). Coroebus’ remarkable courage virtually forces Apollo to relent, but it is his rhetoric that brilliantly constrains the god. Coroebus shrewdly suspects some sort of alliance between the Olympians (superi, caelo) and chthonic forces (monstra). His keen intuition brings to mind both Apollo’s enlistment of Poine and the association between Jupiter and Tisiphone that was raised earlier in Thebaid 1. In addition, Coroebus’ mention of inclementia forces Apollo’s hand. Forms of (in)clementia are rare in the Thebaid,92 and the most remarkable of these is the ekphrastic description of the ara Clementiae in the final book of the epic (Theb. 12.481– 518). This altar is clearly modelled upon the Greek ‘Altar of Mercy’ (A  B-0 ). The most obvious translation for &  would be misericordia, but that does not scan in hexameters, so, in part for metrical reasons and in part for contemporary associations, Statius uses clementia to render the Greek word for ‘mercy’ into Latin.93 Coroebus’ use of inclementia thus brings to mind &  , the central point for the resolution of the disorder that stems from Achilles’ rage in the Iliad. Indeed, it is Apollo himself who starts the resolution of the poem by appealing to &  (Il. 24.44) and Achilles’ need to abandon his anger.94 Coroebus’ question to Apollo thus challenges the god to live up to the values he espoused in Iliad 24 and to bring an end to his own anger.95 Since Coroebus’ words stop Apollo’s assault on Argos, it seems that the god is not without some compassion. Nonetheless, at the end of the poem the abstract value of clementia actually takes over the Olympian role of bringing about resolution in an epic, and thus Coroebus anticipates a major 92 93 94 95

The word appears only at Theb. 3.527; 5.173; 11.606; 11.684; 12.175. The first two examples refer to climate and thus are different from the later uses that stress the virtue. Morton Braund (1996) 9; Burgess (1972) 339–42. Richardson (1993) 5. The bibliography on the virtues of clementia and pietas in this scene is large. Vessey (1973) 105–7, Ripoll (1998) 302, and Delarue (2000) 318 offer positive assessments of Apollo and his use of clementia in light of Coroebus’ pietas. Kytzler (1986) 2920 and Hill (1989) 115 emphasize the need for personal demonstration of pietas.

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problem concerning the gods and the conclusion of the poem.96 The virtue that Apollo appealed to at the end of the Iliad still has an important role in the Thebaid, but the gods’ relationship with it is fraught. Whereas in Iliad 24 the gods remind humans how to behave, in Statius’ poem courageous humans need to challenge the gods to behave properly. In its insistence upon the virtue of individual excellence in the face of malfunctioning authority, the Thebaid moves away from the paradigm of the Iliad. The fragmentary nature of much of Callimachus’ story of Coroebus and Apollo unfortunately precludes assessment of whether or not Statius’ interaction between Apollo and Coroebus owes anything to the Aetia. Notably, Coroebus does not journey to Delphi in all versions of the myth,97 while he does in the versions told by Statius and Callimachus. Though it is not clear in what way the Callimachean conversation between god and hero proceeded, it is clear that in an aetion that displays an intense engagement with the Aetia, Statius took advantage of the interaction between hero and god to illustrate differences between his Apollo and that of the Iliad. aetion and narrat ive The dismantling of conventional depictions of the gods that takes place in Adrastus’ aetion also illuminates the struggle between Eteocles and Polynices. In Thebaid 11, Creon, angered at the loss of his son, challenges Eteocles to fight Polynices one-on-one. In the process, Creon calls Eteocles the instigator of the war and its furies (Theb. 11.271 Eumenidum bellique reum). This claim correctly recalls that Eteocles, incited by Tisiphone, rejected the pact of kingship alternating between the brothers (Theb. 1.123–30). Creon next wonders why Eteocles would want to rule a state that has been drained in such a way that it seems as though a plague has been sent from heaven: urbem armis opibusque gravem et modo civibus artam ceu caelo deiecta lues inimicave tellus hausisti vacuamque tamen sublimes obumbras. Theb. 11.273–5

Like a plague sent down from heaven or a hostile land, you have drained this city that had been powerful in arms and resources and recently packed with citizens.

In Creon’s view, at least, Eteocles represents both the furies of the underworld and a destructive force sent from heaven. Like Apollo’s monstrum, the ruler of Thebes is an agent of a troublesome alliance between heaven 96

Feeney (1991) 389–91.

97

Conon, for example, has Crotopus go to the temple (19.18).

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and hell. Indeed, the link between the two scenes is cemented when Creon uses the word lues to describe Eteocles and thereby replicates the description of the monster that Apollo sent to kill the Argive babies (Theb. 1.601).98 Creon suggests that the destruction of Thebes is effected in part through an alliance between heaven and hell, an indictment that has clear similarities to the story of Adrastus in Thebaid 1. generic god s By thoroughly overturning epic treatments of the gods, Statius rejects the notion that control and order are dependant upon the gods.99 Such generic probing raises questions about Roman society as well. After all, Roman epic, following upon imperial discourse, draws clear associations between emperors and Olympians. Moreover, the mythic subject of the slaying of Python had been used in poetic discussions of Roman rulers. Propertius, for instance, treated Apollo’s slaying of the Python as a mythic analogue to Augustus’ triumph at Actium over Antony: cum Phoebus linquens stantem se vindice Delon (nam tulit iratos mobilis ante Notos) astitit Augusti puppim super, et nova flamma luxit in obliquam ter sinuata facem. non ille attulerat crinis in colla solutos aut testudineae carmen inerme lyrae, sed quali aspexit Pelopeum Agamemnona uultu, egessitque auidis Dorica castra rogis, aut quali flexos solvit Pythona per orbis serpentem . . . 4.6.27–36 (Goold) When Apollo left Delos which stands fixed under own protection (for formerly it moved and endured the fierce South winds), and stood over the prow of Augustus, and a strange flame radiated, curving three times into a slanted torch. Apollo did not come with his hair flowing on his neck, nor did he bring the unwarlike song of the tortoiseshell lyre, but with a face as when he looked upon Agamemnon, the descendant of Pelops, and he emptied Greek camps onto greedy funeral pyres, or such as when he slew the Python creeping through its twisted coils.

Similarly, a cup that contains an image of Apollo defeating Python contains an inscription that commemorates Octavian’s victory at Actium.100 These 98 99 100

Lues appears elsewhere in the poem only at Theb. 10.854. The loss of Naevius is particularly unfortunate in this repsect, because it would be interesting to know how he treated Apollo Pythius (fr. 24). Syndikus (1972–3) 70.

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analogies between myth and history operate in multiple ways. Karl Galinsky has pointed out that the part of the myth that concerns Apollo’s purification would have been useful in Augustan Rome as it emerged from a series of civil wars.101 In addition, Propertius sets the Actian victory and the slaying of Python in the context of the Gigantomachy and other myths of monsterslaying that were frequently exploited in political discourse to express order and control.102 Just as Apollo’s vanquishing of Python rids the world of evil, so too does Augustus’ victory over Antony. The political dimensions of the Gigantomachic myth were active as early as Pindar (P. 1.13–20), so it is no surprise that Flavian Rome makes use of the imagery as well.103 Martial uses the myth to praise Domitian (8.49(50)) and Statius compares Domitian to Jupiter enjoying the Muses tell of the Gigantomachy (Silv. 4.2.55–6).104 But the standard ideology of the myth – the victory of good over evil, of order over chaos – simply does not work in the Thebaid. Statius addresses Apollo’s need for purification but diminishes it and emphasizes instead the results of the god’s sexual transgressions and the recurring civic violence that follows his victory. Apollo’s defeat of Python leads to the introduction of another evil force, and thus the distinctions between sky and earth gods that are central to the Gigantomachy collapse. Moreover, later in the Thebaid, the Theban war will be cast as a Gigantomachy, and surprisingly, Jupiter abdicates and surrenders control of the universe to the forces of evil.105 So the epic further disrupts this myth in that Olympian order is actually overthrown. Since it is clearly at variance with the standard rhetoric of the Gigantomachic mythic narratives (including those at work in Flavian Rome), the Thebaid raises serious doubts about conventional modes of order. The poem thus establishes early on that something different will be needed in order to bring about order and stability. This radical destabilization of the gods opens up a void that finds no sort of resolution until Theseus arrives at Thebes at the end of the poem and clementia comes back into play. It is precisely this virtue to which Coroebus alludes when he complains about the inclementia of the gods and challenges Apollo to behave differently. The hero thus foreshadows that clementia will help to bring resolution. Since this virtue was associated 101 102 103 104

Galinsky (1996) 221. Mader (1990) 330 discusses Gigantomachy in Propertius; for the role of the myth in political contexts, see Nisbet and Hubbard (1978) 190; Hardie (1986) 85–90. Hardie (1986) 85–90 considers the history of the theme in the political realm and contains further bibliography. 105 See chapter 5. Newlands (2002) 276–7 discusses the scene.

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with the imperial house, Statius’ dismantling of the Gigantomachic myth throughout the poem does not denigrate Domitian or the Flavian house. But by introducing the idea of clementia in a disturbed mythic context, Statius ensures that resolution will not depend upon great mythic narratives that underpin the Roman state. prelude The aetion at the end of Thebaid 1 recapitulates important points about the gods that have been raised earlier in the book, and it also looks forward to what follows. In fact, the location of the hymn at the end of the book invites us to look ahead to the remainder of the poem. After all, some hymns – or at least some of our Homeric hymns – served as preludes to performances of hexameter poetry and even Homeric epics.106 In a figurative sense, then, since Adrastus’ hymn to Apollo crystallizes tensions about the gods, it too functions as a prelude to the narrative interests that run throughout the Thebaid. If the end of Thebaid 1 functions as a ‘prelude’ to the upcoming narrative, then Thebaid 2 is the ‘beginning’ of the epic. 106

Clay (1996) 494–8 discusses the varied function of hymns.

chapter 2

Beginning

Origins and the search for them define many parts of the Theban story. Cadmus, for instance, sowed the teeth of a dragon and thereby produced inhabitants of Thebes. Those sprung from these teeth had, according to Aristotle, a spear-shaped birthmark in order to indicate their lineage (Poetics 1454b22). In addition, questions about the parentage of both Dionysus and Oedipus led to catastrophic results. For his part, Statius’ interest in origins has to do with identifying an appropriate beginning for his Theban tale:1 . . . gentisne canam primordia dirae, Sidonios raptus et inexorabile pactum legis Agenoreae scrutantemque aequora Cadmum? longa retro series, trepidum si Martis operti agricolam infandis condentem proelia sulcis expediam penitusque sequar, quo carmine muris iusserit Amphion Tyriis accedere montes, unde graves irae cognata in moenia Baccho, quod saevae Iunonis opus, cui sumpserit arcus infelix Athamas, cur non expaverit ingens Ionium socio casura Palaemone mater. atque adeo iam nunc gemitus et prospera Cadmi praeteriisse sinam: Theb. 1.4–16 Shall I sing of the origins of the dreadful clan, the Sidonian rape, the unrelenting demand of Agenor’s order, and Cadmus searching the seas? The story goes back a long way, if I should tell about the nervous farmer of hidden war who buried battles in unspeakable furrows, and then follow upon that in full detail: by what song Amphion ordered mountains to approach Tyrian walls, why Bacchus had fierce hatred towards his ancestral city, what cruel Juno did, against whom wretched Athamas took up his bow, and why Palaemon’s mother did not fear the huge Ionian sea as she was about to plunge into it with him. Now I shall allow the sorrows and good times of Cadmus to have passed . . . 1

Mauri (1998) discusses the poetics of the proem.

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Beginning

51

The list of possible starting points illustrates the enormity of the Theban saga as well as the poet’s power in selecting the components of the story that he will relate.2 Following Horace’s advice (AP 147), Statius does not begin from the egg – or in this case the sowing of the teeth. Instead, he chooses the house of Oedipus as his subject (Theb. 1.16–17 limes mihi carminis esto / Oedipodae confusa domus), thereby starting in medias res and avoiding a linear account of Theban history from its beginnings. Despite his praeteritio, however, Statius does return to Thebes’ origin. In Thebaid 2, he briefly refers to the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia, the parents of the Theban race, in the course of a description – or ekphrasis – of the necklace that Adrastus’ daughter Argia wore on her wedding day.3 This necklace, which Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines designed, had been worn by Harmonia when she married Cadmus, and thence became a Theban heirloom. It is thus a symbol of Thebes’ origins and its subsequent history, and affords Statius the opportunity to return to the actual beginning of the Theban family. Argia’s necklace and what it reveals about events in Statius’ Thebes are the focus of this chapter, in which I make three points. First, the necklace stimulates and directs the awful events of the Theban house. It thus produces the Theban ‘story’, or the content of the poem.4 Second, the necklace also operates at the level of the ‘narrative,’ that is, the way in which the story is told.5 In general, ekphraseis invite ‘the reader to consider the relevance of this secondary field of reference to the primary narrative’.6 These relationships between narratives and the objects described in them necessarily vary since ekphraseis are compressed within and thus subordinate to the main narrative.7 At the same time, however, such descriptions often have a strong cooperative role,8 desiring (and resisting) integration into the larger 2 3

4 5 6

7

Ford (1992) 67–72 usefully discusses both the perils faced by a poet who confronts a large literary tradition and his power in selecting parts of that tradition. For the modern use of the term, see Heffernan (1993) 3. James and Webb (1991) 4 have pointed out that the modern critical usage of ekphrasis does not correspond to the ancient definition (‘a descriptive speech bringing the thing shown vividly before the eyes’). It is, then, a modern tendency to use the term ekphrasis in a rather specialized and limited way to designate the description of artistic objects. For an account of the difference between ancient and modern views of ekphrasis, see Barchiesi (1997b) 271. I use ekphrasis in the modern sense throughout this chapter. I use ‘story’ in the sense used by Genette (1980) 27. For ‘narrative’, see ibid. Barchiesi (1997b) 274. Ekphraseis are often the subject of arguments about visual representation as opposed to verbal and vice versa. For a recent treatment of this subject in Roman poetry, see Laird (1996) 75–102. 8 Heffernan (1993) 137. Barchiesi (1997b) 274.

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poem.9 In the case of the Thebaid, Argia’s necklace has a synecdochic relationship with its encompassing narrative, representing and embodying the worrisome characteristics of the larger context.10 The third point derives from the first two: the creators of the necklace have programmatic significance. Poets often use fictive artisans to call attention to and even comment upon the designs of their own creation.11 In the Thebaid, Statius’ craftsmen are Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines, and his depiction of them establishes that the narrative of Theban violence has an anti-Callimachean programme.12 Because ekphraseis focus on art, rather than action or characters, they become a central location for poetic self-reflexiveness, for commenting upon the narrative of which they are part.13 As John Hollander suggests, ekphrastic poems that are always representing poetic process, and the history of poetic readings of works of art, can by those means get to say rather profound things about the works of art in question. By constructing some fictional versions of them, they put powerful interpretative constructions on them, construe them with deep effect.14

Statius’ description of Argia’s necklace is hardly an ‘ekphrastic poem’, but it nonetheless offers a powerful reading of the poem. It illustrates the original cause of the problems at Thebes and at the same time demonstrates both the artistic and mythical forces that drive the narrative of violence in the Thebaid. the neckl ace and the war In Thebaid 2.213–64, Statius describes the wedding day of Polynices and Argia. A multitude of Argives attend, and this communal celebration foreshadows that Argos will be drawn into the Theban quarrel. However, their 9 10

11 12

13

Fowler (1991) 35 states that an ekphrasis has the presence of ‘two realities: the passage taken in isolation and its wider context’. Synecdochic readings of described objects abound. See Kurman (1974) 9; Krieger (1992) 263 and passim; Heffernan (1993) 137. For the Iliad, Anderson (1976) 5–18; Sprague Becker (1990) 151 and (1992) 6 and 21; for Apollonius, see Goldhill (1991) 310; Hunter (1993) 55. Leach (1974) 133 discusses Ovid’s Metamorphoses; Vessey (1975) 391–405 examines Hannibal’s shield in the Punica. For Virgil, see Putnam (1998) 3. Leach (1974) 104. Despite the mass of criticism on ekphrasis in Roman poetry, little has been written on Argia’s necklace. See Vessey (1973) 138–9; Feeney (1991) 363–4 and Georgacopoulou (1996) 345–50. Gossage (1972) 198 perceptively writes that the necklace is related to the main theme of the poem. 14 Hollander (1988) 209. Barchiesi (1997b) 272.

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joy starkly contrasts with the ill-omened ceremony. As the procession goes past the temple of Minerva, a shield falls from the temple roof and ominously extinguishes the marriage torches. Inauspicious sounds also emanate from the temple (Theb. 2.249–61). Such portentous circumstances worrisomely invert ideals of a Roman wedding, at which divinities were invoked precisely to provide beneficial auspices and to approve of the day.15 The narrator then reports that Argia was wearing the necklace that Vulcan and his assistants had made for Harmonia on her wedding day, and he explicitly connects Argia’s doomed nuptials with the necklace: nec mirum: nam tum infaustos donante marito ornatus, Argia, geris dirumque monile Harmoniae. Theb. 2.265–7 And no wonder. For then, Argia, you wear the accursed jewellery that your husband gave you, the awful necklace of Harmonia.

After the troubling omens that mar the wedding, the implication of nec mirum is clear: the necklace was made to be a source of evil. As Statius proceeds to describe the piece, it becomes clear how and why it instigates problems: . . . ibi arcano florentes igne zmaragdos cingit et infaustas percussum adamanta figuras Gorgoneosque orbes Siculaque incude relictos fulminis extremi cineres viridumque draconum lucentes a fronte iubas; hic flebile germen Hesperidum et dirum Phrixei velleris aurum; tum varias pestes raptumque interplicat atro Tisiphones de crine ducem, et quae pessima ceston vis probat; haec circum spumis lunaribus unguit callidus atque hilari perfundit cuncta veneno. Theb. 2.276–85

[Vulcan] surrounded it with emeralds that were brilliant from a hidden fire; with adamant that was engraved with accursed shapes; with Gorgon eyes; with ashes left on the Sicilian anvil from the last thunderbolt; and with the crests shining from the head of green dragons; here is the tearful fruit of the Hesperides, and the disastrous gold of Phrixus’ fleece; then he entwines various plagues and a leader snatched from the black hair of Tisiphone and the worst power of Venus’ girdle. These he craftily anoints with lunar foam and soaks everything with a pleasant poison. 15

Catalano (1961) 42–5; Linderski (1986) 2295–6.

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This description of the artifact demands to be read in relation to previous epic ekphraseis. For instance, Hephaestus (or Vulcan) also creates the shields of Achilles and Aeneas in the Iliad and Aeneid, respectively, and the assistance offered by the Cyclopes (Theb. 2.269–75) recalls their involvement in making Aeneas’ shield (Aen. 8.414–53). In fact, Statius suggests that his scene depends upon that Virgilian episode when he says that Vulcan put the ‘left-over ashes of the last thunderbolt’ onto the necklace (Theb. 2.278–9). This implication of an earlier project reverses the scene in Aeneid 8 in which Jupiter’s thunderbolt is left unfinished: his informatum manibus iam parte polita fulmen erat, toto genitor quae plurima caelo deicit in terras, pars imperfecta manebat. Aen. 8.426–8

They had a lightning bolt that was shaped by their hands and was like that which the heavenly father cast numerous times at the earth from every part of the sky. Part of it was polished, but part remained unfinished.

Statius’ Cyclopes ‘complete’ the project that had been unfinished by Virgil’s workers, thereby marking both the lapse in literary-historical time between the Thebaid and the Aeneid, and the importance of the literary tradition for this ekphrasis.16 Statius noticeably diverges from epic practice in his description, however. As Denis Feeney has noted, unlike other ekphrastic objects that serve as icons for the cosmos of the works in which they appear, Argia’s necklace lacks a ‘comprehensive vision of empire or of the rhythms of human life, but [is] an internally bound miniature of pettiness and vice, a catalog of lust and madness . . .’17 Indeed, Vulcan and his assistants inlay the necklace with items that portend trouble: words such as infaustas (Theb. 2.277), flebile (Theb. 2.280), dirum (Theb. 2.281), pessima (Theb. 2.283) and veneno (Theb. 2.285) indicate the ominous nature of the artifact. Moreover, the phrase varias pestes (Theb. 2.282) echoes Virgil’s description of the disaster that can result from not attending properly to one’s soil (G. 1.181). Hard work, however, is irrelevant in Statius’ epic, and humans will be subject to disasters no matter what. Even Vulcan’s use of adamas (Theb. 2.277), which seemingly draws upon the description of Hercules’ shield ([Hesiod] Sc. 231), 16

17

At Thebaid 1.217–18, Jupiter also states that the Cyclopes have been exhausted by working on his thunderbolts. This is yet another suggestion that time has passed since they had to stop their work on the thunderbolt in the Aeneid. Feeney (1991) 364.

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has sinister implications because it is commonly associated with the underworld in Roman epic.18 But it is the serpentine nature of the necklace that is most troubling. Vulcan includes the deadly gold of Phrixus’ fleece on the necklace, and we know from Pindar that this fleece was guarded by an extraordinarily huge and menacing snake (P. 4.244). The Gorgon is regularly represented with snakes ([Hesiod] Sc. 233–6), and the shining crests of dragons may recall the description of the serpents that kill Laocoon (Aen. 2.206 iubae).19 Most of all, Argia’s serpentine necklace parallels the snake sent by Allecto that entwines itself around Amata’s neck (Aen. 7.351–2 fit tortile collo / aurum ingens coluber).20 Since Amata, goaded by this snaky necklace, instigates war in the Aeneid, it seems that Vulcan’s work is not only a harbinger of evil, but also an impetus for war. Specific items included on the necklace do indeed catalyse the war.21 For example, later in the poem Statius emphasizes that Eriphyle desired the necklace and thus goaded Amphiaraus into joining the expedition against Thebes (Theb. 4.193–213; especially 211–12 sic Eriphylaeos aurum fatale penates / inrupit scelerumque ingentia semina movit).22 While Statius does not specify that any particular part of the necklace attracted her attention, it is intriguing that emeralds are the first items Vulcan is said to have inlaid on the piece of jewellery (Theb. 2.276–7). Emeralds had a special visual appeal (Pliny NH 37.63), and Propertius connects them with Eriphyle’s desire for the necklace when he bemoans the gifts that Cynthia has received from another suitor: sed quascumque tibi vestis, quoscumque smaragdos, quosve dedit flavo lumine chrysolithos, haec videam rapidas in vanum ferre procellas: quae tibi terra, velim, quae tibi fiat aqua. aspice quid donis Eriphyla invenit amari 2.16.43–6, 2923

Whatever garments he gave you, whatever emeralds, and whatever topaz with its golden light, I hope to see them carried off to nowhere by storm winds and be turned to earth and water. See what bitterness Eriphyle obtained from her gifts . . . 18 19 20 21 22 23

Aen. 6.552; Met. 4.453, 7.412; Lucan 6.801. For the serpentine undertones of iubae, see Austin on Aen. 2.206. Lyne (1989) 20–2 discusses the passage in Aen. 7. One may also think of the transformed Cadmus and his lingering about the neck of Harmonia at Ovid, Met. 4.595–601. Bessone (2002) 215 observes the link between the necklace and the war. For additional connections between these two scenes, see Georgacopoulou (1996) 348–9. I print Goold’s text, which accepts Carutti’s transposition of verses 29–30. Even if the transposition is not accepted, the mention of the jewels and Eriphyle occurs in the same poem.

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Eriphyle’s ‘bitterness’ is the destruction of her family, and thus her greed offers Cynthia an example of the destruction that can arise from gifts such as emeralds. Though Propertius does not specifically connect her desire for the necklace with the emeralds on it, the collocation of Eriphyle and the jewels suggests that the literary past lends specific charge to Vulcan’s inclusion of emeralds on the necklace: the god’s handiwork allures the woman who spurs the attack against Thebes. Tisiphone’s chief serpent also motivates events in Statius’ narrative (Theb. 2.282–3 . . . raptumque interplicat atro / Tisiphones de crine ducem). The description of the monster recalls Virgil’s description of the snake that Allecto sends against Amata (Aen. 7.346–7 huic dea caeruleis unum de crinibus anguem / conicit), and the similarity is strengthened by the fact that both are the agents of the Furies (Theb. 7.467–9; Aen. 7.421–74). Statius then calls attention to Tisiphone’s hair multiple times when he discusses her role in the development of the Theban war. The word crine (Theb. 2.283), for instance, recalls the scene in which Tisiphone, having let her hair down (Theb. 1.90), accepts Oedipus’ prayer that his sons fight one another.24 In addition, Statius’ hair-like serpent prominently resurfaces when Tisiphone spurs Eteocles and Polynices to fight: iamque potens scelerum geminaeque exercita gentis sanguine Tisiphone fraterna claudere quaerit bella †tuba: nec se tanta in certamina fidit sufficere, inferna comitem ni sede Megaeram et consanguineos in proelia suscitet angues. ergo procul vacua concedit valle solumque ense fodit Stygio terraeque inmurmurat absens nomen et – Elysiis signum indubitabile regnis – crinalem attollit longo stridore cerasten: caeruleae dux ille comae, quo protinus omnis horruit audito tellus pontusque polusque, et pater Aetnaeos iterum respexit ad ignes. accipit illa sonum. Theb. 11.57–69 Now, in possession of the crimes, tired from the blood of both sides, Tisiphone seeks an end to the brothers’ war. She doubts that her strength is up for such a conflict, unless she summons Megaera and her kindred snakes from her infernal home to be a helper for battle. She withdraws to an empty, far-away valley and digs up the ground with her Stygian sword and mutters the absent name to the earth.

24

The description of the necklace also recalls that opening scene with Tisiphone through the mention of witches and their ability to charm the moon (cf. Theb 1.106; 2.284–5).

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And she brings forth a serpent from her hair with a long hiss – an indubitable sign for the realms of the underworld. He was the leader of the dark hair, and the whole earth, sky and sea shuddered when they heard him and Jupiter looked again to the fires on Aetna. Megaera heard the noise.

The potency of the hair is made clear by its universal impact. Indeed, Statius’ reference to the land, sea and sky (tellus pontusque polusque) expands upon the Virgilian description of the last night of Troy (Aen. 2.250–1 ruit . . . nox / involvens umbra magna terramque polumque), and the recollection of that Virgilian passage is one way Statius foreshadows Thebes’ impending destruction. Moreover, the cooperation of Tisiphone and Megaera drives Jupiter to look for his thunderbolts (Theb. 11.68 Aetnaeos . . . ignes). Statius’ description of Jupiter’s weapons, the means by which he maintains control over the universe, recalls the Virgilian account of the Chimera depicted on Turnus’ helmet (Aen. 7.785–6).25 And that reference, as Philip Hardie has pointed out, situates Turnus’ behaviour in the context of the Gigantomachy.26 Statius’ evocation of that mythic struggle is apt since Tisiphone and Megaera drive the brothers to mutual fratricide and in the process prompt Jupiter to abdicate his authority and control (Theb. 11.122– 35). The snaky hair that Vulcan inlays on the necklace thus drives the narrative towards the fratricide and a chaotic universal arrangement. neckl ace and narrative In addition to stimulating the brothers to fight and thus generating this particular moment of the Theban story, the ekphrasis is synecdochically related to the larger narrative. Statius’ practice builds upon that of Posidippus, who had used gems that were inlaid on necklaces as metaphors for his epigrammatic poems (Austin-Bastianini 6,7,8).27 In addition, another of Posidippus’ epigrams emphasizes the astonishing skill that was necessary to carve a snakestone (AB 15) – a stone that was thought to resist artistic endeavour – and the poem then aligns this craftsmanship with the poet’s artistry.28 Statius’ craftsmen also work with snakestone (Theb. 2.279– 80 viridumque draconum / lucentes a fronte iubas), but, presumably because they are divine, they do so effortlessly. Despite such differences, Posidippus’ epigrams lay the groundwork for using necklaces and stones as metaphors for the poems in which they are described. 25 26

The phrase itself also has a strong Lucretian background. See Horsfall (2000) 510. 27 Smith (2004) 111–12. 28 Ibid. 112–17. Hardie (1986) 118–19.

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A synecdochic relationship between Argia’s necklace and the narrative of the Thebaid is suggested in a number of ways. The Gorgon eyes that Vulcan puts on the necklace, for example, exemplify the particular horror of Statius’ Thebes (Theb. 2.278 Gorgoneosque orbes). Gorgons are frightful and terrifying creatures on Hercules’ shield ([Hesiod], Sc. 224–40), and in the Iliad they appear on the shields of Agamemnon (Il. 11.36) and Athena (Il. 5.741). Indeed the Gorgon lends a terrifying and intimidating look to both (Il. 11.37; 5.742).29 Even when not on a shield, however, it can indicate ferocity, as when Hector’s daunting look is compared to the eyes of the Gorgon (Il. 8.349). The Gorgon is thus a fearsome symbol closely associated with great warriors, and characters in Statius’ epic seem to be aware of its martial significance. After Tydeus successfully defends himself against a Theban ambush, for instance, he dedicates to Minerva the weapons of his slain foes and specifically calls attention to her Gorgon shield, presumably because it heralds her martial excellence (Theb. 2.715–17).30 The only two subsequent references to the Gorgon in the Thebaid, however, illustrate martial depravity rather than excellence. When Tydeus devours the head of Melanippus, the Gorgon shields Minerva from the grisly sight (Theb. 8.762–4 stetit aspera Gorgon / crinibus emissis rectique ante ora cerastae / velavere deam). So too, just before the final duel between Eteocles and Polynices, Minerva, holding her protective shield, abandons the scene in the face of Theban atrocities (Theb. 11.414–15). Statius mentions the Gorgon at two of the most repulsive scenes in the poem not to illuminate its fearsome power, but to mark the extraordinary horror of his battles. Moreover, in the Thebaid, the normal function of the Gorgon has been inverted: instead of protecting by projecting an intimidating sight, it now protects from an intimidating sight. Like Statius’ narrative, the Gorgon calls attention to the norms of epic but then diverges from them. The inclusion of Gorgon eyes on Argia’s jewellery reveals another point of contact between the necklace and Statius’ narrative as a whole. Before taking up her shield, Athena slips out of the dress that she had made for herself (Il. 5.734–5). This detail calls to mind that one of her spheres of influence was at the loom and spindle, and ancient commentators 29

30

The silver that encircles the Gorgon is a marvel to see ([Hesiod], Sc. 224). Statius may play with this idea of wondrous ekphrastic items through the phrase nec mirum, which refers to the disaster surrounding the wedding but also seems to suggest that this is not a typical ekphrasic account about a '". Minerva’s relationship with the Gorgon is pronounced in ancient literature. Examples from Roman epic of the close connection between Athena and the Gorgon are found at Aen. 2.615–16; 8.435–8; Valerius Flaccus 4.605; 6.175–6.

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specifically mention that the dress she removes is a woman’s garment.31 She then dons a chiton and armor (Il. 5.736–52), since, as the commentators note, they are more suitable for war.32 The Homeric dressing scene thus clearly distinguishes between martial and domestic spheres.33 In the Thebaid, however, the Gorgon is depicted on an object that conflates these realms and underscores the immanence of problems in the Theban house, where there is no respite, no separation of domestic and martial. The narrator explicitly connects the epic narrative and the necklace when he indicates that the problems he faces in describing the artifact parallel those he faces in relating the Theban saga. For instance, just before the ekphrasis, the narrator says: . . . longa est series, sed nota, malorum. persequar, unde novis tam saeva potentia donis. Theb. 2.267–8

The sequence of evils is a long one, but known. I shall relate whence the new gift had so cruel a power.

This prefatory comment recalls the narrator’s concern in the introduction proper about where to begin the story (Theb. 1.3,11 unde). Indeed, the comment that the Theban tale is a long one – longa est series (Theb. 2.267) – replicates the earlier characterization of the Theban tale itself – longa retro series (Theb. 1.7).34 The subject matter of the poem proper and the ekphrasis is thus the same. Indeed, the very word series seemingly captures this blending of narrative and necklace since the word may have suggested a semantic similarity with the Greek ,35 a word used both for items that go around the neck (such as ropes or nooses) and for a line,36 the latter being the concept that dominates accounts of Western narrative.37 In the Thebaid, the linear orientation of the saga catalysed by the necklace is established by the transmission of the artifact from one generation of Theban 31 32 33 34

35 36

CA on Iliad 5.734:  : %   . . . CT on Iliad 5.736: D E F &#  &  -;. The meeting of Hector and Andromache in Iliad 6 provides an obvious example of the distinction between martial and domestic. The introduction to the ekphrasis prepares us for a lengthy (longa) excursus. But Statius provides only a very brief, abbreviated series. Like the necklace itself, the ekphrasis is tiny and well wrought. This perverse longa series also powerfully contrasts with the impressive account of Dido’s family that encompasses caelataque in auro / fortia facta patrum, series longissima rerum / per tot ducta viros antiqua ab origine gentis (Aen. 1.640–2). In doing so it seems to develop the misery of Ovid’s Thebes (Met. 4.564 serieque malorum). See Mulder (1954) 194; Henderson (1991) 35. Chantraine (1983) s.v. : ‘Un rapprochement avec lat. sero et grec G- serait satisfaisant pour le sens, mais est phon´etiquement impossible . . .’ 37 Hillis Miller (1998) 46. Od. 22.175. Elsewhere it refers to a noose; cf. LSJ s.v. 3.

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women to another: Semele, the daughter of Cadmus and Harmonia, takes possession of the harmful gift (Theb. 2.292 dona nocentia), and then the infamous Jocasta inherits it (Theb. 2.294–5). Afterwards, a series of women owned it (Theb. 2.296 post longior ordo). The description of this inheritance as an ordo advertises its linear orientation and affirms that the necklace is a synecdoche for the linear narrative of Theban violence. Statius sets it up that the narrative proper and the description of the necklace are composed of traditional poetic material. The story of the necklace was well known (Theb. 2.267 nota) and its history is preserved by prisca fides (Theb. 2.269). The phrase recalls a Virgilian invocation of the Muses (Aen. 9.77–9 quis deus, o Musae, tam saeva incendia Teucris / avertit? tantos ratibus quis depulit ignis? / dicite: prisca fides facto, sed fama perennis), and that appeal to the Muses is itself modelled upon Homeric invocations (e.g. Il. 16.112–13). Statius’ mention of ‘old faith’ thus places this account in the tradition that is controlled by the Muses. So too the verb perhibent (Theb. 2.294) implies that Statius draws upon the literary past.38 The actual proem of the epic similarly situates the poem in a long literary tradition. Denis Feeney has well observed that Statius’ proem calls attention to the Theban tale in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, only to expand upon moments that receive slight attention in Ovid’s poem and to avoid material that Ovid had covered.39 At both the beginning of the poem and of the ‘proem’ of the ekphrasis, then, Statius accentuates the well-known outlines of his story, and draws attention to poetic predecessors and their stories. He implies that his poem already has a form, that it has been created in a certain way.40 This relationship between the necklace and, by extension, the poem to a pre-existing form, to its literary predecessors, functions as a type of beginning. As Edward Said has commented about the start of literary works, ‘a beginning immediately establishes relationships with works already existing, relationships of either continuity or antagonism or both.’41 The necklace, an originary part of the Theban tale because of its presence at the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia, also functions as a beginning in Said’s sense by establishing continuity with earlier poetry. And while the intrusion of the first-person narrator emphasizes that the ekphrasis and the poem are Statius’ own presentation of inherited material (Theb. 1.4 gentisne canam; 38 39

40 41

Norden (1957) 123–4 notes that such verbs may gesture towards the literary past. Feeney (1991) 344 n. 106. See also Heuvel (1932) 58–63, who notes the rich literary tradition on each part of the myth, especially the precedence of Ovid’s Theban history in the Metamorphoses. Hardie (1990) 226 n. 13 and Vessey (1986) 2971 also note Ovid’s importance for Statius’ proem. Kinney (1992) 25–6 discusses the strategy by which poems explicitly articulate their repossession of the literary past only to revisit those earlier poems. Said (1975) 3.

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2.268 persequar), a question emerges from this account about from where he derives this story. One way to address this question is by examining the makers of the necklace. Artisans mentioned in ekphraseis may illuminate the literary and aesthetic project of the larger work,42 and in the case of the Thebaid, the synecdochic relationship between necklace and narrative suggests that the makers of the necklace are also responsible for the poem’s narrative. These fictive artisans are the ones who gave the Theban story its form and content. Their creation is subsequently retold in the Thebaid, but their involvement remains foundational. It is worth considering in some detail, then, those who originally made the necklace. the craf tsmen: vulcan and his aims Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines are the primary manufacturers of the necklace: Lemnius haec, ut prisca fides, Mavortia longum furta dolens, capto postquam nil obstat amori poena nec ultrices castigavere catenae, Harmoniae dotale decus sub luce iugali struxerat. hoc, docti quamquam maiora, laborant Cyclopes, notique operum Telchines amica certatim iuvere manu; sed plurimus ipsi sudor. Theb. 2.269–76 The Lemnian, so the old story goes, had made this for Harmonia as an ornament for her wedding day because he was for a long time annoyed at Mars’ secret love, which punishment did not stop. Nor did Vulcan’s avenging chains chasten Mars. The Cyclopes worked on it, though they are skilled in larger matters, and the Telchines helped with a friendly hand in rivalry. But Vulcan sweated the most.

As is to be expected from other epic ekphraseis, the bulk of the work in making the necklace is Vulcan’s (Theb. 2.274–5), but here the god makes a female heirloom as opposed to a warrior’s shield. In this sense, the necklace is an appropriate emblem of the fundamentally domestic nature of Theban strife. The familial dimensions of the Theban war also appear throughout the verses describing Vulcan’s work. For example, it is revealed that the divine smith was hurt by the affair between his wife Venus and Mars (Theb. 2.269–70). That information indicates that while the adjective Lemnius 42

Leach (1974) 104.

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alludes to the Virgilian description of Vulcan (Aen. 8.454 Lemnius . . . pater), it is especially appropriate here because the god went to Lemnos after he had made the chains to catch Venus and Mars while they were having sex (Od. 8.283, 301).43 Moreover, the adjective is the same one used for Vulcan in the account of the affair between Mars and Venus offered by Ovid’s Leuconoe (Met. 4.185). So by calling Vulcan ‘the Lemnian’, Statius foregrounds the affair between Mars and Venus. Statius also has Vulcan himself give the necklace to Harmonia (Theb. 2.271), a point that both differs from some versions of the myth and underscores the god’s special interest in the gift.44 No explicit reason is given for Vulcan’s actions, but the implication is that he seeks revenge for the affair through the necklace.45 Indeed the verb struxerat, emphasized by its enjambed position, often takes as its object underhanded activity (Theb. 2.273).46 The tension between Vulcan and Venus gains special point from Statius’ deviation from earlier literary treatments of the troubled marriage. First and foremost is the Homeric account (Od. 8.266–366), in which the Olympians, with the exception of Poseidon, laugh at Hephaestus after he ensnares Aphrodite in bed with Ares (Od. 8.326, 343). Poseidon entreats Hephaestus to release the gods and promises that Ares will pay the price for his actions (Od. 8.348). He adds that if Ares does not, he himself will compensate Hephaestus (Od. 8.356). The Odyssey, however, never relates whether Ares pays a penalty. Taking advantage of this silence, Statius’ implies that Mars did not suffer: the words poena, ultrices and castigavere are all suggestive of punishment, but they are mentioned only to indicate that they had no effect. Since the necklace is designed to change that by punishing Mars’ offspring, Statius transforms the humorous Odyssean story and paints a darker picture of the affair, and of relations among the Olympians. The Odyssey is not the only text that informs Statius’ account of the divine love triangle. Valerius Flaccus reports that Lemnos was dear to Vulcan because he landed there after being tossed out of Olympus by Jupiter for trying to free Juno from the chains that Jupiter had put her in (Arg. 2.85–9). 43 44

45 46

Mulder (1954) 196. The adjective is also ominous given that the phrase 4 H# was shorthand for the Lemnian massacre (Aesch. Choe. 631). Hesiod F 141.4 (M-W), F 142, and Apollodorus (3.4.2) report that Hephaestus made the necklace; Apollodorus mentions it as a wedding gift. There are other versions, such as Diodorus Siculus 4.65.5, in which Hephaestus is not the donor. See Frazer on Apollodorus 3.4.2 n. 4. Vulcan’s intentions in making the necklace are made explicit in Latin versions of the myth as we see from Lactantius ad loc. and Hyginus CXLVIII. Mulder (1954) 198. In fact, the verb recalls but pointedly reverses the evil that Venus connived for Vulcan’s beloved Lemnians in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica (2.101 struit illa nefas Lemnoque merenti / exitium furiale movet).

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But the Lemnians did not honour his adulterous wife Venus, and thus they suffer at her hands: . . . meritas postquam dea coniugis iras horruit et tacitae Martem tenuere catenae. quocirca struit illa nefas Lemnoque merenti exitium furiale movet Arg. 2.99–102 . . . after the goddess trembled at her husband’s just anger and the hidden chains held Mars. For that reason she plots evil and like a Fury stirs deadly destruction for deserving Lemnos.

Valerius’ tacitae Martem tenuere catenae refers to Vulcan’s capture of the lovers, and is echoed by Statius (Theb. 2.271 ultrices castigavere catenae).47 But ultimately the two accounts diverge. Valerius’ quocirca, an unusual and thus emphatic word in epic,48 directly links the capture of Venus and Mars with the murder of the Lemnian men at the hands of their wives and daughters.49 But Statius’ allusion to the affair between Mars and Venus does not lead to an account of the Lemnian massacre, which Hypsipyle relates in Thebaid 5. Instead, Statius emphasizes Vulcan’s desire for retribution and the consequent spread of familial strife from Olympus and Lemnos to Thebes as well, an appropriate point for this tale of domestic conflict. Statius’ treatment of the discord between Vulcan and his wife also reworks the depiction of the Theban family in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. When Ovid concludes his account of the marriage between Cadmus and Harmonia, he offers a happy family portrait that includes the children and grandchildren of the adulterous gods: Iam stabant Thebae, poteras iam, Cadme, videri exilio felix. soceri tibi Marsque Venusque contigerant; huc adde genus de coniuge tanta, tot natas natosque et pignora cara nepotes, hos quoque iam iuvenes. sed scilicet ultima semper exspectanda dies hominis, dicique beatus ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. Met. 3.131–7

Now Thebes stood complete, and, Cadmus, you were able to seem happy even in exile. You gained Mars and Venus as your in-laws, and in addition children of 47 48 49

Both Valerius and Statius play off Ovid’s description of these same chains as graciles (Met. 4.176). For quocirca, see Axelson (1945) 80. Valerius, then, has humans pay for Vulcan’s actions, and thus turns on its head the Odyssean notion that Hephaestus will receive retribution from Ares.

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such a great wife, so many daughters and sons, and grandsons, dear pledges, and these too are young men. But of course a man’s last day must be waited, and no one ought to be called blessed before his death and last rites.

The idea that children and family are a source of comfort to Cadmus is highly ironic. After all, in Euripides’ Bacchae, Pentheus is a major source of grief for Cadmus (e.g. 1302–26). And Ovid in fact does relate the young ruler’s downfall (Met. 3.511–731), so we see that in his initial set-up of Cadmus, the poet lays the groundwork for the calamitous reversal that will take place with Pentheus’ death. Statius also uses the union of Cadmus and Harmonia – or rather, an emblem of that union – to forecast the ruinous events that will emerge. The account of the necklace thus imposes a narrative structure upon the events it brings about. The account in the Thebaid is seemingly the first in which Vulcan created the necklace to gain revenge,50 and by imputing such a motive to him, Statius accentuates that the god maliciously plotted the sequence of violence at Thebes. The tiny necklace drives that larger story, and thereby reverses the standard relationship that subordinates ekphraseis to their larger narratives. The specific impact that Vulcan’s necklace has upon the narrative emerges in Thebaid 3. Jupiter orders Mars to stir up war between the Argives and Thebans (Theb. 3.220), and the war god, more than willing to do so, is on his way when he encounters Venus (Theb. 3.260–323). Venus stops him and asks why he is intent on destroying Thebes and his offspring: bella etiam in Thebas, socer o pulcherrime, bella ipse paras ferroque tuos abolere nepotes? Theb. 3.269–70

Do you, o most beautiful father-in-law, prepare war against Thebes to destroy your own descendants with the sword?

This meeting between Venus and Mars is marked and unusual because ‘deities of love do not often pronounce on warfare.’51 Moreover, the conversation reverses the happy Ovidian depiction of the Thebans’ relationship with Mars and Venus. Statius’ nepotes and socer replicate the diction of Ovid’s family portrait (Met. 3.132, 134), but here the words alarmingly emphasize that Mars is about to destroy his children.52 Since the god unreflectively pursues a self-destructive war, Venus has to ask if slaughter is the reward of her illicit affair (Theb. 3.274 hoc mihi Lemniacae de te meruere catenae?). Her 50 51

B¨omer (1977) 399 cites Statius as the earliest instance in which Vulcan has such motivation. 52 The Thebans are labelled Mavortia plebs at Theb. 4.345. Wills (1996) 64.

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words hark back to the ekphrasis by conflating a form that is similar to the adjectival Lemnius (Theb. 2.269) and the phrase ultrices . . . catenae (Theb. 2.271).53 Next, Venus taunts Mars by saying that she could get Vulcan to do what she wants – even gladly make weapons for his cuckolder – because he loves her so much: . . . at non eadem Volcania nobis obsequia, et laesi servit tamen ira mariti. illum ego perpetuis mihi desudare caminis si iubeam vigilesque operi transmittere noctes, gaudeat ornatusque novos ipsique laboret arma tibi. Theb. 3.275–80 But Vulcan’s obedience to me is not like this. The wrath of my wronged husband still helps me. If I were to order him to sweat at the ceaseless furnace for me, to spend nights awake at work, he would be glad and would create new equipment, arms for you.

In the Thebaid, Vulcan’s craftsmanship implies his work on the necklace.54 However, since he designed that object to ruin Thebes (the very point Venus is worried about), her arrogant comment ironically emphasizes her ignorance of the disaster and destruction planned for her children by Vulcan. But at least she, unlike Mars, has not forgotten her familial ties to the Thebans. In his response, Mars informs Venus that he must follow Jupiter’s orders (Theb. 3.304–10). And the power of the ruler of the gods is made clear when Mars claims that all the regions of the universe shake at his order (Theb. 3.308–9).55 But a simile that concludes the conversation between Venus and the war god troublingly illuminates Mars’ service to Jupiter: . . . non ocius alti in terras cadit ira Iovis, si quando nivalem Othryn et Arctoae gelidum caput institit Ossae armavitque in nube manum: volat ignea moles saeva dei mandata ferens, caelumque trisulca territat omne coma iamdudum aut ditibus agris signa dare aut ponto miseros involvere nautas. Theb. 3.317–23 53 54

55

Mulder (1954) 198. Venus characterizes Vulcan’s work in terms suggestive of poetry: his burning of the midnight oil (vigilesque operi transmittere noctes) is a hallmark of Alexandrian poetry (Barchiesi (1997c) 59 n. 27). Indeed, the phrase is paralleled by the description of Statius’ own efforts at writing the Thebaid (Theb. 12.811) and thus may suggest another similarity between the two fiction-makers. The description of Jupiter’s power surpasses even his authority in the Iliad (Il. 1.530)

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Not more quickly does Jupiter’s anger fall upon the earth, if ever he stands on snowy Othrys or the cold peak of northern Ossa and arms his hands in the clouds. The fiery mass, bearing the cruel orders of the god, flies and terrifies the heavens with triple tail to give a sign to rich fields or to overwhelm wretched sailors in the sea.

The reference to Jupiter standing on Mount Ossa while he hurls thunderbolts alludes to his fight against the Giants, and, since he defeated these foes, it implies Jupiter’s control. However, the comparison of Mars’ eagerness to ignite the war at Thebes to Jupiter’s fight against the Giants suggests that this civil war will threaten the order of the universe. And, as will be argued in later chapters, this is the case. A point to be made here, however, is that Mars represents a literary agenda:56 in serving Jupiter’s wishes, Mars drives the narrative towards the war between Thebes and Argos, and his rousing of the troops symbolizes that the narrative will focus on warfare. That Mars has literary significance is a familiar point. In Ovid’s Fasti, for example, Mars is closely aligned with epic, and his literary interests clash with Venus’ elegiac and amatory orientation.57 A similar literary dynamic is at work in the Thebaid, though Statius is not concerned with generic issues. Venus construes delay as an alternative to war when she asks whether Mars will stop because of her tears (Theb. 3.272 nec hae quicquam lacrimae, furibunde, morantur? ). Mars has no interest in postponing battle (Theb. 3.293 haud mora), and when he, in full military gear, awkwardly and violently hugs Venus (Theb. 3.294 laedit), it seems as though his interests will prevail. Nonetheless, the conflicting desires of the lovers suggest different narrative possibilities: whereas the delay desired by Venus would postpone the recounting of the battle between Eteocles and Polynices, Mars’ interest in war drives the narrative towards its goal. Each divinity hints at and even represents potential directions for the narrative of the Thebaid. Mars’ eagerness for war serves Jupiter’s interests, but that it is only part of the story. This war has been over-determined: Vulcan also wants Thebes to be destroyed, and consequently made the necklace. It is thus significant that when Mars responds to Venus’ taunt that she can make Vulcan do anything she wants and that she should thus be able to get a favour out of Mars as well, the war god refers to Vulcan’s handiwork in his response to Venus. He says that the task of starting the conflict is too great for the hands of the divine smith (Theb. 3.305–6 neque enim Vulcania tali / 56 57

Feeney (1991) 368–71 comments on the allegorical (and narrative) implications of this meeting between Mars and Venus. Hinds (1992) 81–112 analyses the literary backgrounds of Ovid’s Mars and Venus.

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imperio manus apta legi). Manus suggests Vulcan’s artistic activity,58 and in the Thebaid that means the necklace. Yet readers are aware that Mars is wrong about Vulcan’s hands and their inability to stir up war. In fact, it was for this very reason that he made the necklace, and he seems destined to succeed. Indeed, Mars’ involvement seems virtually pre-programmed by Vulcan: after all, there can be no one better than Mars for creating the kind of destruction and turmoil that Vulcan wanted when he made the necklace. In his haughty, impetuous rush to start the conflict, then, Mars ironically does precisely what Vulcan, whose handiwork he derides, desires. That the necklace bears upon Mars’ activity is reinforced later in the ekphrasis, when Statius mentions that Irae helped Vulcan make the necklace (Theb. 2.287). Elsewhere in the poem, Statius, like Virgil, associates them with the war god: they are found in Mars’ temple (Theb. 7.48), and, most significantly, he is accompanied by Ira when he rouses troops to fight (Theb. 9.832–3).59 In making the Irae both Mars’ consorts and assistants in the manufacturing of the necklace, then, Statius fuses Vulcan’s handiwork and Mars’ stimulation of the fight between Thebans and Argives. The gods’ influence upon the narrative extends beyond formal concerns. For instance, Statius’ Venus uses the markedly Roman words socer and nepotes to describe Mars’ relationship to the Thebans.60 The diction underscores the fact that the lovers are also the parents and protectors of the Roman state, as well of Thebes.61 The gods’ parental relationship implicitly connects the myths of the two cities.62 But in the Thebaid, Mars plans to kill his offspring, thoroughly perverting his job as protector. Statius’ scene also reverses the account of Venus’ relationship towards her children that is depicted in the Aeneid because Jupiter does not soothe her anxiety by prophesying great things for her descendants. In fact, her anxiety is the result of Jupiter’s aim to destroy them. So too Vulcan’s relationship with Venus’ offspring has changed. In the Aeneid, he provides Venus’ illegitimate child with an object that both protects him and represents a promising future (Aen. 8.731 attollens umero famamque et fata nepotum). And the teleological narrative that he puts on this shield forecasts Roman strength and hegemony. In Statius’ epic world, Vulcan’s motivations have changed, and the object he creates now represents a linear narrative that aims to destroy 58 59 60 61 62

Headlam (1922) 206 discusses the Greek @ as a means of referring to artistic creation. The change from singular to plural seems to be a small one: the passage in Thebaid 9 contains the singular but recalls that multiple Irae accompany Mars at Aen. 12.336. Hershkowitz (1997) 45 addresses Mars’ familial relationship with the Thebans. Zanker (1988) 195; Barchiesi (2002) 6. See Hardie (1990) 229 for a similar suggestion about the Theban Mars in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

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the descendants of Venus’ bastard child. Statius’ gods have left behind the roles they played in the Aeneid: the protectors of the city have worrisomely become its destroyers. the craftsmen: the telchines, t he cyclopes and others Although Statius specifies that Vulcan is the primary artisan (Theb. 2.275–6), the Telchines also help make the necklace, and they lend special point to the narrative established by Vulcan (Theb. 2.274–5 notique operum Telchines amica / certatim iuvere manu). The Telchines, semi-divine chthonic magicians and skilled metalworkers, appear as early as Stesichorus (PMG 265) and are not particularly rare characters in Greek literature. The description of them as notique operum may refer to their typical mythic job. Their fame (noti), however, must derive from Greek literature, since they appear in only one Latin passage before the Thebaid.63 In particular, it is difficult not to think of Callimachus’ Aetia prologue and its infamous Telchines: . . . . . . .]  I@% .7  /J #  K 9.

L &  !, M L@
    N *[ . . . . . .]  & % O @. . . . Aetia 1.1.1–4

The Telchines, who are ignorant and not friends of the Muses, grumble at me because I did not produce one continuous song about kings in many thousands of verses

Later authors indicate that Callimachus’ Telchines were indeed famous,64 and Statius provides concrete reasons to read the Telchines in Callimachean terms.65 The adverb certatim (Theb. 2.275), for instance, recalls the Callimachean characterization of the Telchines as an envious and prickly lot 63 64

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Ovid mentions their traditional attribute of the evil eye: et Ialysios Telchinas, / quorum oculos ipso vitantes omnia visu / Juppiter exosus fraternis subdidit undis (Met. 7.365–7). The Telchines appear two other times in Callimachus’ extant corpus. In one passage, Callimachus says that the Telchines made Poseidon’s trident (Hymn to Delos 31), in a second that they are among those who are insolent to the gods (F 75.65). These passages do not draw the attention of later writers to the same degree as the prologue. Pfeiffer notes that when Philippus, for instance, refers to the Telchines, he mentions Callimachus himself and also alludes to the prologue (AP 11.321: P( 9    , / '5 / @% **-, Q  0 . , / R@ 5, . . . .7 . . .). Statius’ use of the word ceston (Theb. 2.283) as a substantive also seems to contribute to the Callimachean atmosphere since the word is used in such a way for the first time in extant poetry at Aetia 2.50.53 (see Massimilla (1996) 338).

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(Aetia 1.1.17).66 Also, in the Silvae, Statius characterizes a miniature statue of Hercules as not being the work of the Telchines, Brontes, or Vulcan: tale nec Idaeis quicquam Telchines in antris nec stolidus Brontes nec, qui polit arma deorum, Lemnius exigua potuisset ludere massa. Silvae 4.6.47–9

Neither the Telchines in Ida’s cave nor brutish Brontes nor Vulcan, who polishes the armour of the gods, would have been able to work with the tiny lump.

The connection between this passage and Thebaid 2 is indubitable: the same trio – Vulcan, the Telchines and the Cyclopes (represented by Brontes in Silvae 4.6) – appear in each poem as the creators of a work of art.67 And subsequent verses from Silvae 4.6 provide additional information about these artisans. After specifying that these craftsmen did not make the statue of Hercules, Statius notes that the statue represents the hero as he was when Molorcus’ household marvelled at him, or when Auge saw him at Tegea, or when he had a drink with the gods in heaven: nec torva effigies epulisque aliena remissis sed qualem parci domus admirata Molorci aut Aleae lucis vidit Tegeaea sacerdos, qualis et Oetaeis emissus in astra favillis nectar adhuc torva laetus Iunone bibebat. Silvae 4.6.50–4

The statue is not grim and unsuited to a relaxed meal, but [Hercules was depicted] as the kind of hero that the home of frugal Molorcus admired, or that the Tegean priestess saw in the groves of Alea, or such as he was when he was joyfully drinking nectar – despite Juno’s anger – after he was sent to the stars from the ashes of Mount Oeta.

The reference to Molorcus, a figure whom Callimachus either invented or dragged out from obscurity, has unquestionable Callimachean associations,68 and thus this reference to the Telchines – as well as the one inThebaid 2 – indicates that Statius’ gnomes also have a Callimachean provenance. But there is a key difference in Statius’ two treatments of the Telchines: in 66

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Gregory of Nazianzus, Alciphron, and Synesius all associate the Telchines with * , a connection which likely derives from Callimachus’ charge that the Telchines are a malignant race (Aetia 1.17 *

S4   ). Herter, RE s.v. ‘Telchinen’ 207, 1–24 cites the passages. On the Latin side, Lactantius in Theb. 2.274–6) also charges the Telchines with being an invidious bunch: hi tres fratres dicuntur fuisse invidia lividi. See Barchiesi (1995) 60. Statius’ triadic grouping of these craftsmen in Silvae 4.6 is discussed by Cancik (1965) 31. Parsons (1977) 43 and Morgan (1992) 538 discuss Molorcus’ heritage.

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Silvae 4.6, they do not work on the object that is being described, whereas in the Thebaid they do. The contrast in the Silvae between the small Molorcan statue of Hercules and the Telchinic necklace works on a programmatic level, suggesting that small-scale Callimachean art is matched against large-scale Telchinic poetic activity. This artistic contrast seemingly carries over into the values embodied by each object. The necklace foments discord and hatred. The statue, on the other hand, has been removed from martial contexts: Alexander, Hannibal and Sulla (Silv. 4.6.59–88) had owned it, but under Vindex’s ownership, it enjoys a peaceful existence (Silv. 4.6.96 laeta quies) in which it does not look upon war (Silv. 4.6.97 nec bella vides pugnasque ferocis). Moreover, the statue will enjoy continuous friendship and loyalty (Silv. 4.6.91–3 . . . sed casta ignaraque culpae / mens domini cui prisca fides coeptaque perenne / foedus amicitiae).69 The fact that the same trio is mentioned in both the Silvae and the Thebaid invites comparison between the two scenes, and the stark contrast between the calm that surrounds the statue and the lasting hatred at Thebes is clear: the Telchines create not small-scale creations that enjoy peaceful settings, but large-scale productions about violence and strife – or at least small objects that have grand associations. The Telchines’ assistance aligns the martial narrative that Vulcan designed with Callimachus’ poetic enemies, and thus the narrative interest in war is anti-Callimachean.70 The Cyclopes’ contribution also shapes the poetic programme of the martial agenda. They appear as Vulcan’s helpers in earlier epic (Aen. 8.424), and Statius alludes to the fact that they traditionally create grand items such as warrior shields when he says that they know how to work on greater objects than this necklace (Theb. 2.273–4 hoc, docti quamquam maiora, laborant / Cyclopes).71 One difference between Statius and Virgil, however, is that the individual Cyclopes are not named in the Thebaid, as they are in the Aeneid: ferrum exercebant vasto Cyclopes in antro, Brontesque Steropesque et nudus membra Pyragmon Aen. 8.424–5 69

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Konstan (1997) 146 notes that Statius alludes to ‘Catullus’ prayer (109.6) for an “eternal covenant of sacred friendship” with his mistress, Lesbia . . .’ Statius’ phrase may thus mark an interest in neoteric poetics as well. That Posidippus’ epigrams seem to have been a model for the conflation of poetics and necklace is a striking coincidence since the Florentine scholia identify Posidippus as one of the Telchines. Barchiesi (1995) 60. Feeney (1991) 364. The description recalls Ecl. 4.1 Sicelides Musae, paulo maiora canamus and its ‘rejection’ of pastoral.

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The Cyclopes were working the iron in the vast cave, Brontes, Steropes and barearmed Pyragmon.

Pyragmon does not appear before Virgil, but Brontes and Steropes are found in Hesiod (Th. 139–40).72 The names of the Cyclopes are thus somewhat traditional, and elsewhere Statius himself refers to their individual names. Brontes alone is mentioned as one of those who did not make the statue of Hercules (Silv. 4.6.48), and in a poem that concerns a temple for Hercules that was built by Pollius, Statius states that Brontes and Steropes did not create the structure: non tam grande sonat motis incudibus Aetne cum Brontesque Steropesque ferit, nec maior ab antris Lemniacis fragor est ubi flammeus aegida caelat Mulciber et castis exornat Pallada donis. Silv. 3.1.130–3 Aetna does not sound so much when Brontes and Steropes strike after the anvils are in place, nor is the uproar from Lemnos’ caves greater when fiery Vulcan embosses the aegis and adorns Pallas with chaste gifts.

The collocation of two Cyclopes with Vulcan obviously recalls Thebaid 2 (as well as Aeneid 8), and illustrates that Statius freely alternates between specifying the names of the Cyclopes and designating them corporately. Both Silvae 3.1 and 4.6 reject the possibility that the Cyclopes worked on an artistic project. In Silvae 1.1, however, the Cyclopes are put forth as the possible creators of a statue of Domitian, and from this poem it is possible to see what type of work they create. The start of the poem contains a string of questions: Quae superimposito moles geminata colosso stat Latium complexa forum? caelone peractum fluxit opus? Siculis an conformata caminis effigies lassum Steropen Brontenque reliquit? an te Palladiae talem, Germanice, nobis effinxere manus, qualem modo frena tenentem Rhenus et attoniti vidit domus ardua Daci? Silv. 1.1.1–7

What is this mass that embraces the Roman Forum and that is doubled by the colossus on its back. Did it glide from the heavens after it was finished? Or did the statue, moulded in Sicilian furnaces, leave Steropes and Brontes tired? Or did Pallas’ hands make you for us, Germanicus, in such a way as the Rhine and the tall house of the astonished Dacian recently saw you? 72

Callimachus, Dian. 68–75 also cites Brontes as one of Hephaestus’ helpers.

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The rhetorical questions about the equestrian statue accentuate the importance of the creator: was it made by Minerva, the patron goddess of the Flavian household? Was it made in heaven? Or by Steropes and Brontes in Sicily? The questions are never answered, leaving all three possibilities in play. The equestrian statue was a public and politically significant object, located in the Forum and near a host of other public buildings.73 In addition, Statius continually stresses the statue’s enormous size.74 For instance, in the preface to the first book of the Silvae, Statius refers to the statue as the maximum equum (Pref. 1.17–18), and, at the opening of the poem itself, the massive block is doubled in size and vastness when the statue is placed upon it (Silv. 1.1.1 superimposito moles geminata colosso). Later, he says that its head reaches into the clouds (Silv. 1.1.32) and that its chest is large enough to handle the concerns of the entire world (Silv. 1.1.41). The statue’s sword is as large as Orion’s (Silv. 1.1.44–5), and the earth may not be able to sustain the statue’s weight (Silv. 1.1.56–8). Prominent figures from mythology and Roman history also emphasize the size of the sculpture: Arion would have been afraid of Domitian’s horse, and Castor’s horse Cyllarus, who can see Domitian’s statue from a neighbouring temple, is frightened at the enormity of the emperor’s mount (Silv. 1.1.52–4). Mettus Curtius, who sacrificed himself for Rome by riding into a hole in the ground and after whom the Lacus Curtius was named, is also terrified by its huge size (Silv. 1.1.71–2 ac primum ingentes habitus . . . expavit). Finally, the equestrian statue of Julius Caesar is told to give way to the new and larger statue of Domitian (Silv. 1.1.84–90). There is some doubt whether the actual statue of Domitian was a colossus.75 Consequently, the emphasis in Silvae 1.1 on the statue’s size has been read as a reflection of Statius’ hyperbolic attempts to flatter the emperor.76 However that may be, Hubert Cancik has suggested that the large size of the statue also reflects the poem’s artistic programme of Kolossalit¨at, enormity.77 73

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Silv. 1.1.29–30 refer to the Basilica Julia and the Basilica Aemelia; Silv. 1.1.31 to the temples of Concord and Vespasian; 1.1.34 mentions the Palatine. Moreover, Statius writes that the Cyclopes did not make the statue of Hercules Epitrapezios or Pollius Felix’s temple, two private objects. Perhaps Cyclopean art is located only in public spaces of Rome. After all, their involvement with the construction of Roman monuments goes back to Aeneid 8, where they helped Vulcan make Aeneas’ shield with its triumph of Augustus after Actium. See Newlands (2002) 87 for the different values expressed by the statue in comparison with the equestrian state. A point most fully explored by Cancik (1965) 89–100. See also Ahl (1984) 91. Cyclopean art is by definition enormous (e.g. Paus. 2.16.5 on the walls of Tiryns). Yet, they are also able to perform in the pastoral world of Theocritus’ Idyll 11 and in a similar context in Ovid’s Met. 13.789–869. Geyssen (1996) 24. Ibid. Newlands (2002) 46–73 argues for a less subservient reading of the poem. Cancik (1965) 90–3; Newmeyer (1984) 1–7.

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Cancik argues that there is a connection between the grand-scale aesthetics of the statue and of the poem, and that these artistic interests stem from imperial iconography, in which the emperor is depicted as larger than life.78 Statius’ description of an object that the Cyclopes could have worked on thus evokes imperial Roman productions. That the Cyclopes’ work pertains to grand Roman narratives makes sense in the light of the epic tradition as well, since these craftsmen created the narrative of Roman history on Aeneas’ shield. Of course in the Thebaid, Statius’ workers are hardly linked to Rome in such an explicit way. But his characterization of their help in creating the teleological narrative that aims to destroy Venus’ bastard child reverses Virgil’s depiction of their efforts, and undercuts notions of divinely preordained narratives of civic greatness. Statius thus reworks the Cyclopes in ways that flout Virgilian mythic accounts, and aligns their work with enormous artistic endeavours. The Cyclopes’ grandiose artistic programme clearly resembles that of the Telchines and is thus anti-Callimachean. For example, Callimachus says that that works of great size are not impressive per se (cf. Aetia 1.1.17– 18 D'   @ 1 / ,] 8 @-; T  8 ! ). Statius’ Cyclopes, in contrast, have made both an enormous equestrian statue and the miniature necklace that is the emblem of a much larger chronicle. Furthermore, when the Cyclopes create these objects of great size, they generate a tremendous amount of noise: . . . strepit ardua pulsu machina; continuus septem per culmina †montis† it fragor et magnae vincit vaga murmura Romae. Silv. 1.1.63–5

The tall crane resounds from the blows and a continuous uproar goes through the hills and overwhelms the diffused noise of great Rome.

Loud endeavours are problematic for some poets,79 and Callimachus famously expressed his disdain for loud and noisy poetry: . . . &( % E   K 3 U@   , ']0*  L &!  V-. ' (  L0  S#  , &W  G  <@. , X 0 . . . Aetia 1.1.29–32 78 79

Cancik (1965) 91; Stemmer (1971) 574–80. In Silv. 1.1, the verb strepit echoes Horace’s description of the noise made by swollen rivers rushing with winter snow (Carm. 4.12.3–4 nec fluvii strepunt / hiberna nive turgidi.). Such noises are indicative of the inappropriate season for Horace’s lyric. For the aesthetic values of sounds in Roman poetry, see Francis (1987) 141–5.

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We sing among those who love the sound of the cicada, not the noise of asses. Let someone else bray like a long-eared beast, but may I be small and winged . . .

Thus, both the size of the Cyclopean endeavors and the noise produced by them stand at odds with Callimachus’ poetic interests.80 The aural effect of the Cyclopes’ activity is not mentioned at all in the Thebaid. But another (in)famous Thebaid, that of Antimachus of Colophon, was thought to generate harsh sounds,81 and thus establishes a poetic heritage for poems on Thebes. Though this particular suggestion cannot be pushed too far, it is nonetheless clear that the Cyclopes orient the narrative of warfare in the direction of a hyperbolic, large-scale artistic project. Vulcan and his assistants are the most significant creators of the necklace, but Statius lists a number of other divinities who also invest the Theban heirloom with poetic values: non hoc Pasithea blandarum prima sororum, non Decor Idaliusque puer, sed Luctus et Irae et Dolor et tota pressit Discordia dextra. Thebaid 2.286–8

Pasithea, the leader of the beautiful sisters, did not make this, nor did Beauty, nor Cupid. But Lament, Anger, Grief, and Strife shaped it with all the power of their right hands.

As discussed earlier, the involvement of the Irae in the creation of the necklace links it to Mars and suggests that as he pursues war, he also realizes the design of the necklace. Moreover, Statius’ collocation of Luctus and Discordia (Theb. 2.287–8) recalls the Virgilian description of these forces that inhabit the underworld (Aen. 6.275–81), and the similarity reinforces the ominous suggestions of the necklace. So too Virgil’s description of Discordia’s snaky hair augments Statius’ emphasis upon the serpentine and sinister aspect of the necklace. Finally, Discordia is an appropriate figure to 80 81

Perhaps the continuus . . . fragor produced by the construction of the statue is similar to the Telchines’ preferred poetry of an    . Dionysius Halicarnassus (On Imitation, Usener-Radermacher 2.204.13) characterizes Antimachus’ epic style: +@  L ( -/ @.  ( " #' / &,> / . In his On Literary Composition (Usener-Radermacher 2.98.9), Dionysius writes that Antimachus and Empedocles are the epic poets who excelled in the so-called austere style, which admits harsh and dissonant collocations (2.96.15–19 @  @/' @/J ( . % *% L  L/J ! , Y  5   ' - & Z  '- [ 8 ,  * , (  ( L@ ). See the discussion by Krevans (1993) 158 of Dionysius’ characterization of Antimachus’ epic style and sound as it may apply to Antimachus’ Lyde: ‘Antimachus . . . writes in a severe style characterized by harsh combinations of sounds.’ Demetrius Laco may also characterize Antimachus in such a way, if Romeo’s conjecture at Philodemus De poet. 2 col. 7, 11–12 is correct.

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work on this catalyst of war since as early as Ennius she throws open the gates of war (Ennius, Ann. 225–6 Skutsch). Despite the efficacy of these abstractions, they are negated at the end of the poem by the Athenian Altar of Clemency, which receives the Argive women seeking burial for their dead husbands. Statius reveals that irae are far removed from the altar (Theb. 12.504), and though editors print the word with a lower case ‘i’, it is nonetheless reasonable to think of the personified Irae that have caused problems throughout the poem. Similarly the fact that the grieving Argive women find some comfort at the Altar illustrates that Luctus and Dolor can be overcome. While the end of the epic offers a way to handle such forces and their influence on human lives, that later scene illustrates that in this description of Argia’s necklace, Statius unveils the forces that drive his troubled epic. close Argia’s necklace is a synecdoche for the larger narrative, but Statius presents this work and the narrative itself as a well-known and pre-existing story developed by predecessors. Indeed, by making the necklace the origin of evil in the Theban household and by linking it with the actual origin of Thebes, Statius has it determine and represent the poem’s structure and narrative. That form was put in place by Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines, all of whom represent similar poetic values. The Telchines, Callimachus’ poetic enemies, are practitioners of grandiose poetry and participate in the construction of a necklace that, though small and intricately made, is a symbol of a long chronicle of internecine strife. Because they create harsh, large-scale objects, the Cyclopes may also be read as anti-Callimachean. But Vulcan’s desire for revenge is the driving force behind the creation of the necklace, and his designs generate the narrative of violence. To return to Hollander’s assessment of ekphraseis, then, Argia’s necklace does indeed provide profound insights into the Thebaid’s poetic structure and theme. However, the necklace and its makers represent only one narrative strategy, one way of making fictions. In later books of the Thebaid, Statius alludes to Callimachus in ways that counter this ‘Telchinic’ strategy, specifically by delaying and creating alternative poetic possibilities. These vying narrative strategies produce an internal literary conflict that reflects both the conflict of the house of Oedipus, and the conflict between the Telchines and Callimachus that is famously depicted in the Aetia prologue. The next chapter looks at the development of this Callimachean narrative that relates aetiologies and consequently postpones war.

chapter 3

Nemea

Mars unwittingly does the work of Vulcan when he ignores Venus’ request for delay and rushes off to incite the Argives to march against Thebes (Theb. 3.273). The movement of characters within a work often corresponds to the advancement of the narrative itself,1 and in the Thebaid the Argives’ advance towards Thebes does indeed symbolize the narrative interest in war. However, Venus’ point that delay is an alternative to war does not disappear. In fact, she articulates a narrative struggle that pervades the epic but is especially prominent throughout the Nemean episode of Thebaid 4–6.2 When the Argive troops pass through Nemea, Bacchus dries up all sources of water and the army suffers a parching thirst. They meet Hypsipyle, who leads them to a stream where they refresh themselves. As the Argives are about to resume their march, however, they ask Hypsipyle who she is. She reveals her identity and tells them about the massacre that was perpetrated by the Lemnian women against their husbands and fathers that led to her departure from the island, whereupon she was captured by pirates and ended up as a nurse for the baby of king Lycurgus. She had just placed this child, Opheltes (also called Archemorus), in the grass before leading the Argives to the stream. While she recounts her story to the troops, the child is touched by the scales of a massive snake and dies. Opheltes is buried and funeral games are held in his honour before the Argives continue their advance on Thebes. Throughout the nearly 1,900 verses in which the army lingers at Nemea, Statius persistently signals that this episode delays the march and thus the progression of the narrative towards the decisive duel. Such a strategy is standard epic practice.3 The Iliad patiently keeps Achilles and Hector away from one another. Juno wants to postpone Lavinia’s marriage to Aeneas (Aen. 7.315 at trahere atque moras tantis licet addere rebus), and the second 1 2

Goldhill (1991) 287 discusses the journey of Odysseus and its relation to progress of the narrative. 3 Barchiesi (1997b) 278. Wetherbee (1988) 75 well discusses delay in the Thebaid.

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half of the epic is full of the kinds of delays that the goddess desires.4 Lucan too postpones the combat between Pompey and Caesar.5 However, each work creates such delays in distinct ways. In the case of the Thebaid, Statius brings the Argive march to a halt by patently drawing upon the aetiological account of the Nemean games offered by Callimachus at the start of Aetia 3. This reworking of Callimachean aetiological material has an impact upon both the story and the narrative itself in that it stops the army’s advance on Thebes and deflects the narrative away from martial themes. The Nemean episode thus provides a counterpoint to the martial agenda devised by Vulcan and his assistants. Such a conflict between dilatory and goal-oriented narratives – a ‘dynamics of dilation’ – often results in a dialogue (or even competition) between poetic strategies that generate distinct readings.6 In the workings of the Thebaid, the Callimachean underpinning of these different modes of reading is clear: the teleological narrative that aims to destroy Thebes was generated by Vulcan, the Telchines and the Cyclopes, whereas allusions to Callimachus’ poetry create an extended aetion that retards the goal-oriented narrative. Specifically, this aetion about the death of a child deflates the realization of heroic warfare. The poem thus has conflicting narrative strategies, and reflects in its very fibres the theme of intestine conflict.7 This chapter focuses on the creation of this poetic friction, particularly as it relates to the Nemean delay of the Argive advancement. the argive preparation for war After Venus fails to stop Mars, the end of Thebaid 3 focuses on the preparations for war. Statius describes the inauspicious omens received by Amphiaraus before the Argive march against Thebes (Theb. 3.470–575), but the prophet refuses to relate the horrible portents that he saw and goes into his house for days.8 In the meantime, Jupiter and Mars urge the Argives 4 5 6

7

8

Semple (1959–60); Hardie (1994) 3. Miura (1981) 207–32; Henderson (1987) 133; Masters (1992) 5. Kinney (1992) 183 discusses the ‘dynamics of dilation’ and their concomitant literary implications. Barchiesi (1997b) 274 discusses an example from Aeneid 6, where Aeneas gazes at images of neoteric and Alexandrian poetry on the doors of Apollo’s temple at Cumae (Aen. 6.14–36). The Sibyl interrupts Aeneas’ gazing at the doors of Apollo’s temple at Cumae and says it is not the right time for such activity. She thus points out narrative antagonisms between Aeneas’ goal-directed epic journey and his dilatory gazing. A similar contention for Lucan’s epic is made by Masters (1992). A difference between Lucan and Statius lies in how they create the poetic conflict. Lucan appeals to political history, pitting Pompey against Caesar. Statius appeals to literary history – and specifically the Aetia prologue – to create an epic of conflict and civil war. Fantham (2006) examines a range of issues that emerge from Amphiaraus’ taking of the auspices.

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to proceed to Thebes in order to fight the war (Theb. 3.575–8), and the soldiers prepare their weapons: . . . arma paternis postibus et fixos superum ad penetralia currus vellere amor; tunc fessa putri robigine pila haerentesque situ gladios in saeva recurant vulnera et attrito cogunt iuvenescere saxo. hi teretes galeas magnorumque aerea suta thoracum et tunicas chalybum squalore crepantes pectoribus temptare, alii Gortynia lentant cornua; iam falces avidis et aratra caminis rastraque et incurvi saevum rubuere ligones. caedere nec validas sanctis e stirpibus hastas, nec pudor emerito clipeum vestisse iuvenco. Theb. 3.580–91

There is a desire to pull arms from their ancestral doorposts and to retrieve chariots that had been fixed to the shrines of the gods. Then they refurbish spears that were rotting rust and swords sticking in their scabbard so that they may give cruel wounds. They restore the weapons by rubbing them with stone. These ones put on round helmets, and the woven bronze of great breastplates, and tunics creaking on their chests from rusty iron. Others bend Cretan bows. Sickles, ploughs hoes and curving mattocks cruelly grow red in greedy furnaces. There is no shame to cut down strong spears from sacred stocks, and to cover a shield from an ox that has done its job.

This description of martial preparations is modelled upon similar Virgilian scenes. First, the measures taken for battle recall the activity of Italian soldiers before the war with the Trojans (Aen. 7.626–40).9 Both sides, for instance, sharpen or mould weapons in fire (Theb. 3.579; Aen. 7.636). Statius’ diction also recalls Virgilian battle scenes. The phrases aerea suta (Theb. 3.585) and tunicas Chalybum squalore crepantes (Theb. 3.586) echo words from consecutive verses in which Aeneas kills Theron (Aen. 10.313– 14 . . . aerea suta / per tunicam squalentem . . .). In addition, the Cretan bows (Theb. 3.587) seem to be modelled upon the weapon of Virgil’s Chloreus (Aen. 11.773). Although words such as putri robigine (Theb. 3.582), squalore (Theb. 3.586), and pudor (Theb. 3.591) imply that the war will fall short of heroic ideals, Statius’ appeals to the literary past create the expectation of war and situate his fight within the epic tradition. After this arming scene, Capaneus urges the coalition to proceed and he challenges the cloistered Amphiaraus to come and join the rest of the 9

Snijder (1968) 232.

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expedition. Although Amphiaraus states that the cause is cursed and advocates that they stay in Argos, he ultimately capitulates and joins them. Capaneus reacts to the prophet’s speech by calling attention to the delay that it caused (Theb. 3.651 quis vota virum meliora moraris?). Significantly, when he derides the delay, Capaneus is inspired by Mars (Theb. 3.598–9 Capaneus Mavortis amore / excitus). This detail pointedly reinforces the tension that had emerged earlier between Mars’ interest in war and Venus’ desire to postpone that interest. Indeed, the juxtaposition of Mavortis and amore may even invite consideration of Mars’ relationship with Venus and their different narrative interests. However that may be, as in their earlier conversation (Theb. 3.260–316), Venus’ hopes to defer the war are once again dashed by Mars, who drives his children to war. Capaneus’ statement and the excitement it generates in the troops suggest that the narrative will move towards its theme of fraternas acies. A simile punctuates the idea that war is inevitable: ut rapidus torrens, animos cui verna ministrant flamina et exuti concreto frigore montes, cum vagus in campos frustra prohibentibus exit obicibus, resonant permixto turbine tecta, arva, armenta, viri, donec stetit improbus alto colle minor magnoque invenit in aggere ripas: Theb. 3.671–6

Like a raging river to which the spring breezes and the mountains thawed from their frozen chill lend strength, when it goes wandering into the plain over obstructions that check its course to no avail, houses, fields, cattle, and men clatter in the mixed up swirl, until uncontrollable it stands, smaller than a high hill and finds its banks in a great heap.

The statement that obstacles have been overcome obviously pertains to the narrative itself. Moreover, the comparison evokes Homeric and Virgilian similes that describe warfare,10 and thus Statius aligns his narrative content with martial themes by alluding to the epic past. The river simile may even function symbolically: water is a common symbol for poetry, and rivers in spate often serve as metaphors for lofty poetic registers.11 Statius’ river seemingly evokes the poetic grandeur that is associated with epic battles. 10 11

Snijder (1968) 253 points out that Homeric (Il. 4.452–5; Il. 5.87–92) and Virgilian (Aen. 2.304–8) parallels for the swollen river simile have a martial context. E.g., Call., h. Ap. 105–12; Hor. Carm. 4.2.5–8. The Aeneid reveals that battles are a lofty poetic topic (e.g. Aen. 7.44).

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The final scene of Thebaid 3 also suggests that warfare will begin.12 Argia pleads with her father Adrastus to march against Thebes because Polynices chafes at his exile (Theb. 3.687–710). She adds that his feelings have been clear since their inauspicious wedding day (Theb. 3.691–2 ex quo . . . movitque infausta sinistram / Iuno facem), and that as a loyal bride she wants her husband to be happy. The reference to her ill-starred wedding recalls Thebaid 2 and the verses leading up to the description of the necklace that dooms the marriage. Understandably, Argia thinks that Juno, the goddess of marriage, is responsible for her troubles. Her view also makes sense from a literary-historical perspective since Juno had linked a war and a wedding when she arranged for Bellona to be Lavinia’s pronuba (Aen. 7.319). Yet Argia is wrong to blame Juno. As she herself notes, her problems stem from her wedding day, and readers know that this ill-omened wedding was due to Vulcan’s designs. The malicious handiwork of the divine craftsman may even be referred to in subsequent verses where Argia adds that Adrastus approved of her marriage to Polynices and that her marriage was thus proper: non egomet tacitos Veneris furata calores culpatamve facem: tua iussa verenda tuosque dilexi monitus. Theb. 3.701–3 I did not steal secret fires of love, or a guilty wedding torch. I respected your august commands and warnings.

Since Argia behaved like a good Roman daughter and married the man her father wanted her to, the wedding was not something that brought ill-repute to Adrastus (non . . . culpatamve facem).13 However, culpatus seems to implicate the literary past as well as Roman realities. The word is rare word in epic poetry,14 but Virgil uses it to describe Paris (Aen. 2.602 culpatusve Paris). The word thus links Argia and Paris, and the equation is apt since their respective marriages lead to the destruction of their cities.15 The particular means of civic disaster in the Thebaid may even be suggested through the phrase tacitos Veneris . . . calores. Veneris is most easily construed metonymically as an objective genitive (‘the quiet passions of love’). But the context also allows Veneris to be taken as a subjective genitive, in which case 12 13 15

Bessone (2002) 199–204 well discusses the connection between love and war in this scene (and others). 14 Austin (1964) 233. Snijder (1968) 262. On the other hand, Argia is unlike Helen (and other female epic characters such as Dido and Medea) in that she did not enter into a problematic relationship with a newly arrived man.

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it would refer to Venus’ secret affairs,16 and in the Thebaid, that means her relationship with Mars.17 On this reading, Argia claims to have avoided an illicit relationship of the sort that prompted Vulcan’s design of the necklace. Her words, then, seemingly need to be read in light of the ekphrastic account of the necklace. For certain, Argia’s motivation to stir her father to war derives from her husband’s unhappiness and her ill-starred wedding, and Vulcan’s role in creating this situation had been made clear. Argia’s opposition to delay and desire for war, then, support Vulcan’s designs, but her ignorance illustrates the human tendency to misinterpret divine behaviour. Adrastus’ response to his daughter reinforces the narrative dichotomies at work when he tells his daughter that they will march against Thebes despite the momentary delay (Theb. 3.718–19 neu sint dispendia iustae / dura morae: magnos cunctamur, nata, paratus). Even before the Argives reach Nemea, then, numerous characters call attention to the obstructions that lie in the way of the advance to Thebes. Collectively, these examples illustrate that there is a conflict between different types of narrative: the march against Thebes represents the narrative interest in warfare, but delay, as Capaneus, Argia and Adrastus point out, retards the telling of it.

t h e b a i d 4 and the catalogue War seems imminent at the start of Thebaid 4.18 The war goddess Bellona stirs both Thebans and Argives, even distributing weapons to the latter and guiding them to the gates (Theb. 4.5–12). Soldiers say their goodbyes, and their abandoned families, watching the exodus of the warriors, are compared to those watching a ship that has set sail: sic ubi forte viris longum super aequor ituris, cum iam ad vela noti et scisso redit ancora fundo, haeret amica manus: certant innectere collo bracchia, manantesque oculos hinc oscula turbant, hinc magni caligo maris, tandemque relicti stant in rupe tamen; fugientia carbasa visu dulce sequi, patriosque dolent crebrescere ventos. Theb. 4.24–30 16 17 18

Since Paris stole Helen as his reward for choosing Venus in the beauty competition, the phrase may also refer to the goddess’ role in the Judgement and the subsequent theft of Helen. The adjective tacitus may look to the affair of Mars and Venus mentioned at Val. Flacc. 2.100. Fantham (2006) rightly observes that the start of Thebaid 4 dispenses with delay. This elimination of delay, however, applies only to the immediate context of Amphiaraus’ hesitancy about the war and not the remainder of the poem, as Feeney (1991) 339–40 shows.

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So it is for men who are about to go over the great sea, when the wind fills the sails and the anchor has been brought back from the cleft ocean floor, a loving group clings. They hasten to wrap their arms around a neck, and kisses or the fog of the great sea cloud their moist eyes. Finally, left behind, they nevertheless stand on a rock, since it is sweet to follow with their eye the fleeing sail and they grieve that the winds from their country grow strong.

The nautical simile is out of place in the land-locked Thebaid, but it serves the purpose of marking the commencement of martial themes. Indeed, at the end of the poem, Statius states that his ship has reached port after being out on the great sea (Theb. 12.809 longo . . . aequore). This ship that comes in represents his poetic account of the war, and reveals that, as so often, the sea symbolically represents poetic composition.19 The simile in Thebaid 4 works in similar fashion, intimating that the poem embarks upon martial themes. The catalogue of the Seven augments these bellicose suggestions (Theb. 4.38–308).20 Adrastus, accompanied by his horse Arion, carries his sword and leads a formidable contingent of three thousand Argive soldiers bearing weapons of all kinds (Theb. 4.38–73). Statius calls attention to Polynices’ ferocity by describing his weapons and the lion skin that he wears (Theb. 4.86). More importantly, he leads soldiers from both Thebes and Argos (Theb. 4.76–83), the cities that will be destroyed in this civil war. Tydeus leads Aetolian troops driven by the typical epic desire for military glory (Theb. 4.102 belli fama). Capaneus is indirectly likened to Hercules (Theb. 4.168–9), an appropriate model since he sacked Thebes and also entered the realm of the gods on Olympus, a feat Capaneus will attempt in Thebaid 10.21 Parthenopaeus’ contingent has an epic pedigree because his soldiers come from places that Statius took from the Arcadian section of the Homeric Catalogue of Ships.22 These troops are thus evocative of heroic poetry. 19

20 21 22

Roman poets regularly correlate writing poetry and travelling (usually by sailing) on the aequor, cf. Geo. 2.541, Prop. 3.9.3, Ovid Met. 15.176, Hor. Carm. 4.15.3. The relation between sailing, writing and the advance of martial interests also appears at Theb. 7.139–44, and between the Thebaid and sailing at Silv. 4.4.88–9. For the epic pedigree of a catalogue, see Harrison (1991) 106–7. Harrison (1992) 248 notes Capaneus’ Herculean attributes. Theb. 4.286 (Rhipeque et Stratie ventosaque donat Enispe) translates Iliad 2.606 ( \]   C   ( =0 A ). Statius also replicates the Homeric placement of Tegea after the first longum in the subsequent verse. Moreover, the phrase dives et Orchomenos pecorum (Theb. 4.295) recalls the Homeric ^@4 .  (Il. 2.605), Statius’ Cyllene (Theb. 4.288) comes from Iliad 2.603, Pheneos (Theb. 4.291) from Iliad 2.605, Aepytos (Theb. 4.296) from Iliad 2.604. See Parkes (2005) 358–65 for an excellent discussion of this part of the catalogue that deals with Parthenopaeus.

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The section of the catalogue that considers Amphiaraus’ troops contains a key point for the narrative of the Thebaid. Statius reveals that the seer was reluctant to go to war, but had to because of fate and his wife, who desired to possess Argia’s necklace (Theb. 4.189–90). Statius in fact focuses on the necklace for over twenty verses, and specifically mentions that the small heirloom was a prime force in starting the evil conflict (Theb. 4.212 scelerumque ingentia semina). The impact of Eriphyle’s lust is underscored by the fact that Tisiphone smiles at the influence of the necklace (Theb. 4.213), and her delight ominously recalls that she had been charged by Oedipus with provoking problems in Thebes (Theb. 1.59–87). However, the attention lavished on the necklace harks back to the description of it in Thebaid 2, where it is clear that Vulcan and his assistants made it precisely to generate a narrative of violence. The prominence of the necklace at this point illustrates its agency in starting the war and in directing the narrative towards martial themes. Despite all these suggestions that the narrative is headed towards its theme of brothers-at-war, Statius also prepares for delay within the catalogue itself. The central section of the list is the only one that is not under the direction of one of the Seven: quis numerum ferri gentesque et robora dictu aequarit mortale sonans? suus excit in arma antiquam Tiryntha deus; non fortibus illa infecunda viris famaque inmanis alumni degenerat, sed lapsa situ fortuna, neque addunt robur opes; rarus vacuis habitator in aruis monstrat Cyclopum ductas sudoribus arces. Theb. 4.145–51

What mortal voice could match in words the amount of weapons, the people, and the strength? Hercules rouses his ancient Tiryns to arms. She is not barren of brave men, nor has she failed the fame of her massive child, but her fortune has slipped from decay, nor does wealth add strength. A lonely dweller in the empty fields points to the towers built by the work of the Cyclopes.

This party hails from Tiryns, the city of Hercules. But it does not live up to its past: Tiryns musters only 300 soldiers, and its earlier glory has faded (Theb. 4.148–9). A curious detail is that the Tirynthian cohort sings hymns in honour of Hercules (Theb. 4.157 canunt), thus calling attention to the special position of poetry in this section. Specifically, it is Callimachus’ poetry that matters, as is revealed by the origins of some of the troops:

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War dat Nemea comites, et quas in proelia vires sacra Cleonaei cogunt vineta Molorci. gloria nota casae, foribus simulata salignis hospitis arma dei, parvoque ostenditur arvo, robur ubi et laxos qua reclinaverit arcus ilice, qua cubiti sedeant vestigia terra. Theb. 4.159–64

Nemea provides troops and so too the sacred vineyards of Cleonaean Molorcus offer strength which compels them to war. The fame of the cottage is well known, and the arms of the god who was a guest are depicted on its willow doors. It is shown in the tiny plot where he put aside his club and under what holm oak he rested his unstrung bow, and where the imprint of his elbow remains in the soil.

Some of these soldiers are from the vineyards of Cleonae, where Molorcus lived (Theb. 4.160 Cleonaei . . . Molorci). Molorcus, who appears in an aetion about the foundation of the Nemean games at the start of Aetia 3, was either invented by or raised from obscurity by Callimachus.23 Moreover, since the epithet Cleonaei appears in that same aetion about Nemea (SH 259.37), the collocation of the two words has a strong Callimachean flavour.24 Indeed, the phrase gloria nota casae (Theb. 4.161) alludes to the hut that forms the setting for Hercules’ stay with Molorcus, and the small plot (Theb. 4.162 parvo . . . arvo) coheres with both Nemea’s relatively meagre contribution of forces and Callimachean poetic ideals. Statius’ inclusion of these Callimachean soldiers is incongruous with the martial pretensions of the catalogue. In Silvae 4.6, a poem in which he describes the miniature statue of Hercules owned by Novius Vindex, Statius states that on the one hand the statue is not the type of work such as the Telchines would make, but on the other it is the kind of Hercules that Molorcus would have seen: tale nec Idaeis quicquam Telchines in antris nec stolidus Brontes nec, qui polit arma deorum, Lemnius exigua potuisset ludere massa. nec torva effigies epulisque aliena remissis, sed qualem parci domus admirata Molorci aut Aleae lucis vidit Tegeaea sacerdos; qualis et Oetaeis emissus in astra favillis nectar adhuc torva laetus Iunone bibebat Silv. 4.6.47–54 23 24

Morgan (1992) 538 argues that Callimachus probably did not invent the story, but rather took it from Agias or Dercylus. Thomas (1983) 103–4 and n. 67.

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Neither the Telchines in Ida’s cave nor brutish Brontes nor Vulcan, who polishes the armour of the gods, would have been able to work with the tiny lump. The statue is not grim and unsuited to a relaxed meal, but [Hercules was depicted] as the kind of hero that the home of frugal Molorcus admired, or that the Tegean priestess saw in the groves of Alea, or such as he was when he was joyfully drinking nectar – despite Juno’s anger – after he was sent to the stars from the ashes of Mount Oeta.

After this account of fictive sculptors, the poem subsequently dissociates this statue from war and stresses the peaceful environment in Vindex’s home (Silv. 4.6.96–7 hic igitur tibi laeta quies, . . . nec bella vides pugnasque feroces . . .). Molorcus’ Nemea is thus peaceful, and epitomizes craftsmanship that is antithetical to the designs of Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines. In a slightly different way, Silvae 3.1, a poem that celebrates Pollius’ temple to Hercules on his estate on the Bay of Naples, corroborates these poetic ideals. Programmatically placed at the start of the third book, Statius’ poem engages with the Callimachean Hercules from the opening of Aetia 3.25 For instance, Statius once again mentions Molorcus, though this time he suggests that that mythological figure is inappropriate here since the poverty of his hut pales in comparison with Pollius’ luxurious temple and estate (Silv. 3.1.29–30 non te Lerna nocens nec pauperis arva Molorci / . . . poscunt). But the poem’s Callimacheanism is nonetheless pervasive,26 and when Statius summons Hercules to the temple, he makes it clear that his bow, club, and lion skin – i.e. his heroic attributes – are not needed since this is a non-violent context: sed felix simplexque domus fraudumque malarum inscia et hospitibus superis dignissima sedes. pone truces arcus agmenque immite pharetrae et regum multo perfusum sanguine robur instratumque umeris dimitte rigentibus hostem. Silv. 3.1.32–6

A happy and straightforward house, ignorant of evil frauds, a most worthy dwelling for celestial guests. Put aside your fierce bow and the hostile supply of your quiver, and your club soaked with much blood of kings. Throw aside the enemy skin spread over your stiff shoulders.

The connection between this peaceful environment and the poetics of the Thebaid emerges later when Statius relates that Pollius’ temple is even 25

Ibid. 105; Newlands (1991) 439.

26

Ibid. 439–42.

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more impressive than something that Vulcan and the Cyclopes would have worked on: non tam grande sonat motis incudibus Aetne, cum Brontes Steropesque ferit, nec maior ab antris Lemniacis fragor est ubi flammeus aegida caelat Mulciber et castis exornat Pallada donis. Silv. 3.1.130–3

Not so loud does Aetna resound when the anvils move when Brontes and Steropes strike, nor does a greater clamour come from the Lemnian caves when fiery Mulciber embosses a shield and adorns Pallas with chaste gifts.

The mention of Vulcan and the Cyclopes invites consideration of this passage in conjunction with Thebaid 2 and the description of the necklace. However, the passages are different in that Pollius’ private and placid home is distinguished from the work of the creators of the necklace. Peaceful Nemea is thus once again dissociated from the work of Vulcan and his assistants. Callimachean topography also appears elsewhere in Statius’ catalogue. For example, Adrastus leads soldiers from celsa Proshymna (Theb. 4.44), a place that is mentioned in Callimachus’ Hecale (Hollis F 96).27 And Hippomedon leads men from the area around the river Lyrcius (Theb. 4.117) as well as the Asterion (Theb. 4.122),28 both of which are mentioned in the Hecale (Hollis F 95 and 98). Statius thus draws upon the Argive geography of Callimachus’ Hecale and Aetia.29 Given that the Roman reworking of Callimachean ideals typically precludes martial themes (e.g. Eclogue 6.1–9), there seems to be an incongruity between form and content in the catalogue. d el ay and callimachean nemea The tension between the progression of the narrative towards martial themes and the peaceful character of Nemea becomes more pronounced later in Thebaid 4, when the Argive march reaches Nemea and encounters delay: 27

28 29

Hollis (1990) 282–3 notes that the papyrus reads . (‘rich in barley’), but some ancient texts of the Hecale may have read .  (‘with many mountains’). The variant might be relevant for Statius’ epithet celsa. Asterion is unattested in Latin outside this instance. No other Latin writer refers to a river by the name of Lyrcius, though Ovid (Met. 1.598) and Valerius Flaccus (4.355) refer to a Mount Lyrceum. See Pfeiffer on Call. F 266 and 280.

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interea gelidam Nemeen et conscia laudis Herculeae dumeta vaga legione tenebant Inachidae; iam Sidonios avertere praedas, sternere, ferre domos ardent instantque. quis iras flexerit, unde morae, medius quis euntibus error, Phoebe, doce: nos rara manent exordia famae. Theb. 4.646–51

Meanwhile, the roaming Argives reached cool Nemea and the thickets that witnessed Hercules’ famous deed. They are already keen to carry off Theban treasure and to destroy and to plunder houses. Phoebus, say who turned aside their anger, where the delay came from, and how they got lost in the middle of the journey. There are only a few beginnings of the story for us.

Hercules’ association with Nemea is common, but, as we have seen, this Nemea and its Hercules are Callimachean.30 And it is precisely in this Callimachean locale that the march against Thebes is delayed. Bacchus sees the advance of the Argive army against his beloved Thebes and implores the rivers and streams to dry up and thus dehydrate the troops (Theb. 4.670– 96). Given that the similes of a raging river and of the ship setting out from port symbolize the commencement of martial themes, the parching dryness here may be viewed metaphorically, as a counter to that poetic agenda.31 The Argive march is brought to a standstill until Hypsipyle leads the army to Langia.32 Upon seeing the stream there, the soldiers rush into the water and foul it: . . . fremunt undae, longusque a fontibus amnis diripitur; modo lene virens et gurgite puro perspicuus, nunc sordet aquis egestus ab imis alveus; inde tori riparum et proruta turbant gramina; iam crassus caenoque et pulvere torrens, 30

31

32

Brown (1994) 41–3 argues for a Callimachean interest in Statius’ Phoebe, doce: nos rara manent exordia famae (Thebaid 4.651). Also, she rightly observes (192) that Statius creates the anticipation for a Herculean excursus only to frustrate it. Statius’ interest, as Brown points out, is in the tiny child Opheltes and the female voice of Hypsipyle, at the expense of the heroic Hercules. It is difficult to see what (if anything other than mentioning him) Callimachus did with Opheltes in the Victoria Berenices. But perhaps Statius approached the aetion, like Callimachus, by emphasizing the small at the expense of the grand. After all, the Victoria Berenices, as it survives, is about catching a mouse, not killing a lion. One of the streams that dries up is the Amymone (Theb. 4.742), which, though mentioned by other Roman poets (Prop. 2.26.47; Ovid, Am. 1.10.5), appears in Aetia 3 (F 66.7) where Callimachus dealt with Argive streams that were used for washing after childbirth. The drying up of the Argive water sources in the Thebaid may owe something to Callimachus’ account, but the poor state of preservation of the aetion makes assessment difficult if not impossible. Statius’ scene recalls Nicander’s Alexipharmica 104–5, where a nymph reveals the spring to a hero. That parallel reinforces the Hellenistic background of the Nemean episode.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War quamquam expleta sitis, bibitur tamen. agmina bello decertare putes iustumque in gurgite Martem perfurere aut captam tolli victoribus urbem. Theb. 4.823–30

The waves crash, and the long river is ripped from its source. Recently it was a gentle green and clear with pure water, now its channel, stirred from its depths, is filthy, and the ridges of the banks and the uprooted grasses foul it. Now it rushes thick from mud and dust, and, although the soldiers quenched their thirst, they nevertheless drink from the river. You would think that armies were fighting in war and that a righteous battle raged in the water, or that a city, captured, was taken by the victors.

The contrast between the pure, gentle stream (lente, gurgite puro, perspicuus) and the turbulence created by the soldiers (sordet, turbant, crassus, torrens) coheres with the water imagery that is often employed by Callimachean poets.33 Although martial interests prevail in this particular clash, it is nonetheless significant that different types of poetic approaches have been brought into conflict. hypsipyle After the army quenches its thirst, it prepares to leave (Theb. 5.1–9). At first glance, then, the delay contrived by Bacchus seems to have lasted for only 200 verses. But the departure from Nemea is actually postponed for another two books, and a simile with deep literary roots heralds the deferral of the Argive march: qualia trans pontum Phariis defensa serenis rauca Paraetonio decedunt agmina Nilo, cum fera ponit hiems: illae clangore fugaci, umbra fretis arvisque, volant, sonat avius aether. iam Borean imbresque pati, iam nare solutis amnibus et nudo iuvat aestivare sub Haemo. Theb. 5.11–16

Such as the noisy flocks, protected across the sea by Pharian calm, leave from Paraetonian Nile when harsh winter subsides. With a rushing clamour they fly, shadows on the sea and land, and the pathless air resounds. Now it is pleasing to endure the North wind and rain, to swim in melted rivers, and to summer under Haemus that has lost its snow. 33

For Callimachus and the metaphoric use of water, see F. Williams (1978) 85–99; Knox (1985b).

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Statius does not identify these birds that fly to Thrace, but the simile is modelled upon the Iliadic comparison of the rush of the Trojans against the Greeks to the noisy attack of cranes against the Pygmies: =.  8 -   L0' 0, M  &( D @5 !. ( ' ! V*, /J     &   _% :-,   T !0 ( / ! . Il. 3.3–6

Just as the noise of cranes goes to the heavens, when they flee the winter and unceasing rain and noisily fly to the streams of Ocean, bringing death and bloodshed to the Pygmaian men.

The Homeric simile in turn influenced Virgil’s description of the Trojans who welcome Aeneas back from Etruria: . . . quales sub nubibus atris Strymoniae dant signa grues atque aethera tranant cum sonitu, fugiuntque Notos clamore secundo. Aen. 10.264–6

Such as when Strymonian cranes give the battle cry under black clouds, and they pass through the air with noise, and then flee the North wind with a favorable clamour.

The parallels are clear: Statius’ rauca and clangore replicate the noise made by cranes in both epics (Il. 3.3–5; Aen. 10.266), and all three similes refer to weather conditions. Statius’ birds, it is natural to conclude, are cranes. But this simile differs from the Homeric and Virgilian models in two ways: first, Statius’ predecessors use the animals to accentuate the commencement of battle; second, their cranes fly to the south to avoid the winter and rain.34 In particular, the Iliadic birds fly against the Pygmies, who conventionally dwell along the Nile.35 Statius’ birds invert these models because they return for the summer and tolerate rain. In addition, Statius’ birds reverse the Homeric course and fly away from Egypt to Thrace, the home of Mars. Significantly, their flight pattern follows the path taken by the cranes in Callimachus’ Aetia prologue (1.1.13–14),36 where the birds, representing abhorrent poetry because of their ugly sounds, are banished from Egypt.37 In reversing the direction of the birds’ flight, the Thebaid both limits the 34 35 37

The martial connotations of Virgil’s birds are manifest in the phrase dant signa (Aen. 10.265). 36 Massimilla (1996) 213. LSJ s.v. % II. Acosta-Hughes and Stephens (2002) 247–8

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influence of these warlike birds to Thrace and proclaims the adoption of Callimachean sensibilities. The actual obstacle to the narrative pursuit of warfare arises when the Argives, preparing to leave Nemea, ask about Hypsipyle’s identity. She responds by lamenting her fate, but she stops and briefly identifies herself in order not to delay them any longer (Theb. 5.36–9). Adrastus assures her not to worry and to proceed, and she makes a remarkably long speech about the massacre of the Lemnian men by their wives and daughters. This story of familial violence has obvious relevance for Polynices and the Thebans who have joined forces with the Argives. It also makes significant points about the gods and Statius’ narrative. For example, just as she does in the Lemnian stories recounted by Apollonius of Rhodes and Valerius Flaccus, Venus features prominently in this account.38 She appears to Polyxo in a dream and urges the women to kill their husbands. The goddess even promises to bring them new ones (Theb. 5.135–8). And when the slaughter commences, even among Mars and violent, infernal deities, Venus is preeminent (Theb. 5.157–8 . . . sed fallit ubique / mixta Venus, Venus arma tenet, Venus admovet iras). The appearance of any noun or name three times in a single verse is rare,39 so the threefold repetition of Venus’ name strongly highlights her involvement. Subsequently the goddess is dubbed ‘deadly’ (Theb. 5.281 funesta) and she is even depicted in company with the Furies (Theb. 5.302–3). Valerius Flaccus’ treatment of Venus was an important model for Statius’ malevolent goddess.40 In the Argonautica, Venus goads the Lemnian women to murder their men because, in retaliation for her affair with Mars, they have neglected her shrine: . . . contra Veneris stat frigida semper ara loco, meritas postquam dea coniugis iras horruit et tacitae Martem tenuere catenae. quocirca struit illa nefas Lemnoque merenti exitium furiale movet. Arg. 2.98–102 Opposite stands the altar of Venus, always cold, after the goddess trembled at the just anger of her husband and the hidden chains held Mars. For that reason she plots evil and like a Fury stirs deadly destruction for deserving Lemnos. 38 39 40

For a discussion of Statius and his antecedents, see Vessey (1973) 171–8; Poortvliet (1991) 66–9; Dominik (1997). Wills (1996) 364. Poortvliet (1991) 76, passim; Spaltenstein (2002) 336. There are differences between Statius’ account and those of his epic predecessors.

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Although Statius’ Hypsipyle only glancingly refers to the Lemnians’ inattention to Venus and her consequent hostility (Theb. 5.57–9), the brief mention is enough to evoke the contentious marriage of Venus and Vulcan. And just as the divinities’ dysfunctional relationship prompted activity by Vulcan that operated at both the level of the story and of the narrative itself in the description of Argia’s necklace, so too here the same marital problems spur Venus to stimulate events on Lemnos, events which become Hypsipyle’s very narrative. The narratives generated by each of the divinities thus come into conflict. That is, the Lemnian narrative of familial discord pre-empts the advance of the army against Thebes and, consequently, the warfare desired by Vulcan. This delay is obviously the result of a narrative flashback that occurs before the temporal moment of the Argive march, but its impact upon the narrative is apparent because Hypsipyle’s tale delays the Argive advancement for nearly 500 verses. Marital and domestic strife on Lemnos illuminate the narrative tensions that permeate the poem.41 aetion Despite the length of Hypsipyle’s story, however, an aetiological narrative that alludes to Callimachus creates an even greater delay. Before she led the Argive army to Langia and related her story to them, Hypsipyle placed the unattended Opheltes in the grass, where he is accidentally killed by a giant snake. Opheltes is subsequently buried in an elaborate ceremony that serves as the founding moment of the Nemean games. These athletic competitions function as a prelude to the war (Theb. 6.3–4),42 but they do not simply foreshadow events. The aetion of the games greatly contributes to the Argive delay in Nemea. Statius signals the Greek background of these competitions (Theb. 6.5), and mentions of other major athletic festivals at Olympia, Delphi and Corinth evoke epinician Greek poets such as Pindar and Bacchylides.43 But Callimachus, who related the foundation of the Nemean games in Aetia 3, is the Greek author upon whom Statius draws for this aetion. Callimachus’ account was essentially unknown until the 1970s, when Peter Parsons pieced together fragments of papyrus and argued that they contain Callimachus’ celebration of Berenice’s victory in the chariot race at the Nemean games.44 41 42 43

44

Nugent (1996) 56–62 discusses martial and domestic in Statius’ Lemnian episode. Venini (1961); Lovatt (2005) 257–61. The origins of the Greek games would likely have been of special interest to Statius because his father won competitions at the Delphic, Nemean and Isthmian games (Silvae 5.3.141–3). Lovatt (2005) 54 and 166–78 discusses some broader implications of the importance of the Greek nature of the games. Parsons (1977) 1–50 discusses the fragments and their history.

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In this poem, Callimachus seemingly includes two aetia: one in which the games commemorate the victory of Hercules over the Nemean lion, the other in which the games honour the child Opheltes. The Herculean version receives much attention, but characteristically Callimachus recounts lesserknown details of that famous mythic story. In particular, he lingers on Hercules’ stay at Molorcus’ house, complete with the host’s capture of a mouse that was eating his food.45 The story is a foil to Hercules’ conquest of the lion. Callimachus’ account deeply contributed to Statius’ aetiological treatment of the games. The connection between Nemea and Hercules that emerged earlier brings to mind the second aetion for the games, and so too the association between Molorcus and Nemea is unmistakably Callimachean. Moreover, both poets elaborate upon non-heroic figures such as Opheltes and Molorcus and push heroic narratives to the background. Statius’ interest in Opheltes, then, follows more general Callimachean practice by emphasizing the small child at the expense of the larger heroic narrative. Numerous verbal parallels strengthen these thematic similarities between Statius and Callimachus. Both poets refer to the woods that have not been cut (Theb. 6.90–1 veteres incaedua ferro / silva comas; SH 257.25  E '   @),46 and the need to use wood that can be burned (Theb. 6.100 flammis alimenta supremis; SH 257.23 ( %).47 In addition, the account of the running horses in Statius’ funeral games (Theb. 6.438–9 prior Hippodamus fert ora sequentum, / fert gemitus multaque umeros incenditur aura) echoes the Hellenistic poet’s description of competing steeds (SH 254.8–10).48 It is also possible that Statius’ description of the trees that make up Opheltes’ funeral pyre owes something to Callimachus.49 Finally, Hypsipyle states that Opheltes playfully crushed the grass as he moved forward (Theb. 5.612 lascivum et prono vexantem gramina cursu). Her description, suggestive of horses racing in a plain, may self-consciously herald the games that will be held in the child’s honour, and this verbal play may derive from the Aetia.50 Statius’ Nemea thus engages the Callimachean treatment of the games in terms of diction and theme. In the workings of the poem, however, the interest in the foundation of the Nemean games disrupts the martial agenda in two ways. First, the Nemean episode illustrates positive 45 46 47 49

Livrea (1979) 37–42 connected the story of the mousetrap with the Victoria Berenices. Brown (1994) 45; 200. 48 Ibid. 144. Colace (1982) 147–8 notes the parallel in diction, if not in context. 50 Ibid. 251. Bornmann in Lehnus et al. (1980) 250.

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fraternal relationships. Hypsipyle is reunited with her sons Euneus and Thoas, both of whom then display exemplary devotion to one another as they compete in the running race (Theb. 6.433–5). In this respect, then, the Callimachean aetion creates a serious challenge to the Theban narrative that was forged by Vulcan and his assistants.51 Second, Statius calls attention to the fact that the movement towards the goal of fraternal warfare has been stopped by Callimachean topography. For example, Bacchus is said to contrive delay (Theb. 4.677 nectam . . . moras), Hypsipyle is aware that she causes the army to linger at Nemea (Theb. 5.36–7), and Amphiaraus explicitly hopes that Apollo will contrive even more delay (Theb. 5.743–4 innectere . . . moras).52 The funeral games that occupy the sixth book fulfil the prophet’s wish. Indeed, the very name of the child Archemorus, in whose honour the Nemean games are founded, may be a (false) bilingual play on the beginning of delay (@# and mora).53 Statius’ Callimachean Nemea thus self-consciously retards the pursuit of the violent narrative that was generated by Vulcan, the Cyclopes, and the Telchines.54 linus The Nemean aetion also returns to Statius’ earlier reworking of the Callimachean Linus (Theb. 1.557–668) when, before the funeral conflagration, Opheltes’ bier is described. Perfumes, plants and jewellery adorn it, but even amongst such precious goods, a picture of Linus and the dogs that killed him receives special attention: . . . Tyrioque attollitur ostro molle supercilium, teretes hoc undique gemmae inradiant, medio Linus intertextus acantho letiferique canes: opus admirabile semper oderat atque oculos flectebat ab omine mater. Theb. 6.62–6

51

52 54

Even at such a moment Statius emphasizes the precarious nature of life and its sudden reversals that can quickly turn to misery from joy. The parents of Opheltes, Lycurgus and Eurydice, obviously contrast with Hypispyle. 53 Mozley (1928) 560. Feeney (1991) 339. See also Gossage (1972) 191. Feeney (1991) 339–40 observes that Statius’ careful framing counters the criticism that the army’s stay at Nemea is an unnecessary digression that reflects the poem’s lack of unity and coherence. Thus the episode is not a flaw in the poem’s composition, as, e.g., Legras (1905) 152 and Williams (1978) 250–2 argue.

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A soft overhang of Tyrian purple is raised, and polished jewels illuminate this on all sides; Linus and the deadly dogs are woven into the middle among acanthus. The mother always hated this amazing work and turned her eyes from the omen.

The death of the young Linus forms an appropriate backdrop for Opheltes’ funeral. Indeed, the deaths of the children are similar in that aetia concerning the foundation of major Greek games – the Pythian games in Linus’ case, the Nemean in Opheltes’ – are connected to their deaths. Of course the two aetia also differ from one another. The malevolence of Apollo is not an issue in the aetion about the Nemean games, since the serpent that kills Opheltes does so accidentally (Theb. 5.535). More significant is the difference between the kings Adrastus and Lycurgus. Whereas Adrastus’ optimism leads to misinterpretation and embroils his kingdom in the Theban war, Lycurgus refuses to participate because omens had warned that his family would suffer (cf. Theb. 5.645–7; 6.45–53).55 When both leaders nonetheless experience serious losses in their households, the inevitability of fate is illustrated – a trenchant point in a story about Oedipus’ family. The most pronounced difference between the two accounts is that the Nemean aetion is about a dead child, not a god’s cosmogonic victory. By combining the games with a funeral Statius models his scene upon both the games held in honour of Patroclus in the Iliad and those in honour of Anchises in the Aeneid.56 But as he does throughout his epic, Statius perverts his epic models by drawing upon Callimachus’ poetry. The funeral games of the Iliad and Aeneid perpetuate heroic fame. Achilles, for example, makes clear that his own funeral will take place on the very mound that the Greeks built for Patroclus before the games (Il. 23.236–48), and this magnificent burial site perpetuates the hero’s glory (Od. 24.81–4). The games held in Anchises’ honour will be commemorated in the new city founded by Aeneas (Aen. 5.59–60). Both sets of games thus look toward the future and celebrate heroic activity and achievement. Although the games held in Opheltes’ honour offer one final moment of social order before its dissolution in civil war,57 the overall effect of his funeral lacks the redeeming communal prospects found in the Aeneid and the Iliad. The child’s alternative name, Archemorus (‘beginning of doom’), ominously sets up the Theban conflict, and the games that are held in his honour showcase the madness that will ensue in the upcoming battles.58 Winthrop Wetherbee rightly suspects that 55 57

Vessey (1973) 189. Wetherbee (1988) 78.

56

Juhnke (1972) 108–13; Lovatt (2005) 12–19. 58 Lovatt (2001) 103–20.

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In placing such a burden of meaning on the relatively minor event of the infant’s death Statius seeks to convey something more, something which he cannot or will not express directly: a sense, perhaps, of the spiritual needs of a world which can no longer place any real trust in the gods, and for which the existence of youth and innocence, vulnerable though they are, provides at least a tenuous means of sustaining the possibility of a better life.59

The delay at Nemea allows for reflection upon the forces that drive the poem. Indeed, when the prophet Amphiaraus desires further delay, it prompts one to realize the perniciousness of Statius’ gods. Jupiter wants Argos and Thebes to fight so that the two cities will be ruined. Vulcan has forged an awful string of violence, and in the service of these two gods, Mars is highly active. The Nemean delay stands in the way of these malicious aims, but even at such a moment Venus’ dysfunctional relationship with her husband stays at the fore when Hypsipyle relates events that took place in Lemnos. Statius’ Callimachean Nemea simultaneously deflects the narrative away from warfare and highlights the destructive forces that drive his epic world. Statius’ games – and the entire Nemean episode – also represent a grandscale inversion of Virgilian narrative norms. Aeneid 4 repeatedly emphasizes Aeneas’ need to resume his journey and to stop tarrying in Carthage (e.g. Aen. 4.235; 265–76), and despite the fact that the funeral games held for Anchises in Aeneid 5 (and for that matter, Aeneas’ visit to the underworld and Cumae in Aeneid 6) represent a slowdown in the movement of the narrative,60 the games and Aeneas’ catabasis generate an order that will emerge with the foundation of Rome.61 The teleological movement of Aeneid 4–6 presages Roman success. In contrast, Thebaid 4–6 invert the Virgilian paradigm. The army seems to start its march at the start of Thebaid 4, but ends the book mired in Nemea, thereby reversing the course of action portrayed in the central books of the Aeneid. In addition, Hypsipyle, who has numerous similarities with Dido,62 is dislocated and dominates not the fourth but the fifth book, perhaps suggesting that Virgilian structures cannot be accommodated within the Thebaid. More importantly, she becomes an important figure in the epic not for the avoidance but for the contrivance of delay. The Nemean books that draw upon Callimachean aetiology overturn Virgilian patterns of order and national progress. Yet given the particular aims of the gods in the Thebaid, this stagnation is a good thing. 59 61

Wetherbee (1988) 78. Feldherr (1995) 255.

60 Williams (1960) xii. 62 Nugent (1996) 65–8.

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The march against Thebes opened with Mars’ activity, but when the Argives reach Nemea, he becomes impotent. Given that he is an agent of Vulcan and that this is an epic about war, he needs to reclaim his authority. Following upon the tradition of seventh books in Roman epics, he does just that in Thebaid 7. His role in that book will be the focus of my next chapter.

chapter 4

Middle

The narrative interests of the Thebaid greatly depend upon Mars. In Thebaid 3, he seemed all-powerful as he resisted the entreaties of Venus and stirred the Argives to march against Thebes. This journey corresponds to the progress of the narrative towards the warfare that was desired both by Vulcan, for whom Mars has been a virtual agent, and by Jupiter, who also expects his desire for battle to be realized through the war god (Theb. 3.220). But Mars’ influence is undone when Bacchus arranges for delay at Nemea, and in fact the war god disappears from the poem. Indeed, as we have seen, in Thebaid 5 Statius uses a simile about birds of war to confine Mars’ influence to Thrace. Consequently, the narrative interest in warfare is thwarted. The Argive tarrying at Nemea angers Jupiter, however, and the ruler of the gods thus dispatches Mercury to Thrace to rebuke Mars and to urge him to complete his task of starting the war (Theb. 7.1–2). This chapter will focus on Mars and the outbreak of war in Thebaid 7. Statius was not the first to address this topic in a seventh book: Ennius’ Annales 7 describes the opening of the Gates of War at the start of the Second Punic War, and in Aeneid 7, Aeneas leaves behind the so-called ‘Odyssean’ marvels, travel and adventure in favor of a new world of ‘Iliadic’ battles (Aen. 7.41–2 dicam horrida bella, / dicam acies actosque animis in funera reges).1 This transition is punctuated by an acrostic involving Mars’ name (Aen. 7.601–4),2 and by numerous similarities between Aeneid 1 and 7 that suggest that the middle of the poem is indeed a starting point.3 Thebaid 7 follows the example of these predecessors. In fact, Statius adopts numerous formal features from Virgil and perhaps even Ennius that create expectations that he too will relate battles and warfare. Perhaps the most pronounced indication of the impending martial narrative is a catalogue of Theban 1 2 3

Servius on Aen. 7.1; Gransden (1984) 34. On the acrostic, see Horsfall (2000) 391 and bibliography cited. Fraenkel (1945) 3–4; Knauer (1964) 229–31; Gransden (1984) 36–7.

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forces.4 The location of this list in the seventh book corresponds to the position of the catalogue in Aeneid 7,5 but Statius does not restrict himself to borrowing from Roman predecessors. In fact, he incorporates numerous details and sometimes even entire hexameters that come from the Homeric Catalogue of Ships. Statius thus authenticates his transition to the ‘Iliadic’ half of his epic.6 These allusions to Homer, Virgil and (if only indirectly) Ennius shape Statius’ seventh book, and create expectations that, after the Nemean delay, combat will actually begin and that this half of the epic will focus on the war between Argos and Thebes. Statius also develops Virgilian practice by placing a narrative transition at the midpoint of the epic.7 Aeneid 7 is intensely concerned with the shift from the six books of Aeneas’ wanderings throughout the Mediterranean to the second half of the poem and Aeneas’ war in Latium.8 Thebaid 7 similarly contains a narrative transition, specifically from Callimachean aetiology to battles and warfare. During the Nemean books, an aetiological account impedes the march towards Thebes, but this dilatory narrative must yield to the martial themes of a seventh book in a Roman epic. Indeed the Argive troops seem to overcome aetiological delay and thus to foreground themes of battle. However, Statius continues to introduce aetia as well as tales of metamorphoses that challenge the realization of generic expectations and call attention to different poetic possibilities, to types of stories that could direct the narrative away from the martial themes of a seventh book. Such practice may stem from Virgilian influence,9 but details reveal that these potential narratives derive from Callimachus’ poetry and from an Ovidian tradition of epic. The conflict between different narrative interests thus 4 5

6

7

8 9

Catalogues have varied roles in their narratives since they may cause delay (Williams (1961) 147), but the context reinforces the martial implications of this list. Though it is doubtful (Skutsch (1985) 368), Ennius may have included a catalogue in his seventh book. Virgil’s (and Statius’) placement of their catalogues in Aeneid 7 would then have poetic precedent. For the catalogue, see Horsfall (2000) 68. More generally, Horsfall (2000) xix–xx, 354 ff., and 415 discusses Virgil’s seventh book and what we know – and do not know – about Ennius’ importance for it. Statius’ father was a teacher of Greek poetry (Silv. 5.3.146–59), a grammarian. Much grammatical criticism on Homer concerned geography, especially the Catalogue of Ships. Apollodorus of Athens, for instance, wrote twelve books on the Catalogue alone. Such work continued at Rome during the early empire, as we can see from the Greek grammarian Epaphroditus, who was working at Rome during the Flavian period (see Luenzner (1866) 12; Niese (1877) 276 fn. 2). Statius’ deep knowledge of the Catalogue of Ships may then be viewed both as an example and a product of an established educational process conducted by grammarians like his father. Ennius’ practice may be significant here as well. Skutsch (1985) 367 notes that Annales 7 ‘opens with a major proem in which the poet speaks of himself and his work [suggesting] we have here a new beginning . . .’ See Horsfall (2000) 354–6 for a discussion of the relationship between Ennius and Virgil concerning preparations for war. Gransden (1984) 31–9. Fraenkel (1945) 11 notes Virgil’s use of aetia in Aeneid 7 to move away from martial themes.

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persists even in this seventh book, reflecting the poem’s theme of civil war, of authority called into question and of confused boundaries. The conflict of such different poetic aims in the middle of a work poses a problem for the order sought by teleological narratives. The importance of the ‘middle’ goes back at least to Aristotle, who, in his discussion of plot, defined it as something that follows something else and that has something else follow it (Po. 1450b31). According to this Aristotelian formulation, the middle is a critical part of a teleological narrative. But there is no reason to restrict the conception of the middle to the actual midpoint of a work. Indeed, Hillis Miller argues that the middle may be a much broader concept that stands for the unfolding of the narrative.10 This expansive view certainly works for the Thebaid since the Callimachean poetic interests that emerge in the actual midpoint of the epic had been anticipated in Thebaid 4–6. The ‘middle’ of the Thebaid thus encompasses numerous books, in which the unfolding of the martial narrative is continually challenged. Such poetic tension illustrates that formal order and Aristotelian teleology are contested throughout the Thebaid. This resistance to form looks beyond the narrative itself. Seventh books represent crucial stages in the advancement of Roman hegemony: Annales 7 concerns the Second Punic War, and Aeneid 7 addresses the start of a war that, despite its ambiguous nature, ends with the imposition of an order upon the world that presages Roman control. The conflict inherent in the narrative of Statius’ seventh book resists such order, so although Flavian Rome replicates Augustan ideals and Statius invokes the Augustan epic paradigm, his narrative demonstrates the incongruity of that paradigm for his poetic world. Indeed, when Statius eventually follows his epic exemplars, he shows them to be partial or even flawed accounts of the world. He achieves this effect in part by alluding to Lucan’s Bellum civile, a potent model for deflating teleological and heroic narratives of national destiny. In particular, Lucan’s seventh book counters the ideology of the Aeneid (and the Annales) by relating the horrible civil war between Pompey and Caesar. For the start of war in Thebaid 7, Statius alludes to Lucan’s description of Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon, and thus marks the second half of the Thebaid as troubled, as a post-Lucanic war taking place in a postVirgilian Iliadic half.11 Statius follows Lucan’s example and privileges disruption and chaos at the expense of warfare and heroism. There will be no 10 11

Hillis Miller (1998) 61–77. On the relationship between Virgil and Lucan, Martindale (1993) 48 writes: ‘The Aeneid . . . constructs a possible pattern [in history], which we may approve or deplore. And what is constructed can also be deconstructed, and this too Lucan does to all the tropes, sequences and procedures of the Virgilian text.’

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victories in the Theban conflict, nor any civic order that results from such conflicts. mars’ temple and del ay At the outset of Thebaid 7, Jupiter is annoyed that the Argives have lingered at Nemea for so long (Theb. 7.1–2 Atque ea cunctantes Tyrii primordia belli / Iuppiter haud aequo respexit corde Pelasgos), and thus dispatches Mercury to rouse Mars (Theb. 7.1–33), who is at his temple in Thrace (Theb. 7.34–84). When he describes the temple, Statius thrice mentions that it is constructed of iron (Theb. 7.43–4 ferrea compago laterum, ferro apta teruntur / limina, ferratis incumbunt tecta columnis).12 This emphasis upon the building material has martial connotations since it evokes Ennius’ and Virgil’s Gates of War, two other iron structures that were also located in seventh books (Ann. 225 Skutsch postquam Discordia taetra / Belli ferratos postes portasque refregit; Aen. 7.622 Belli ferratos rumpit Saturnia postis). Statius’ description of Mars’ temple thus builds upon the literary past and creates expectations of warfare. In addition, the location of this description of a temple at the centrepiece of the poem recalls Virgil’s claim at the midpoint of the Georgics that he will build a temple: et viridi in campo templum de marmore ponam propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat Mincius et tenera praetexit harundine ripas. in medio mihi Caesar erit templumque tenebit: G. 3.13–16

In a green plain I will place a marble temple near the water, where the huge Mincius wanders with slow turnings and covers it banks with tender reeds. Caesar will be in the middle and he will have the temple.

Since the Virgilian temple functions, in part, as a declaration of future poetic themes, perhaps even martial themes,13 Statius’ temple may also point to future poetic content. However, Virgil explicitly notes that the description of his future poetic programme is a delay (G. 3.42–3 en age segnis / rumpe moras), and thus Statius’ temple might be a false start as well, and the commencement of battle narrative more complex than it first appeared. 12

13

Smolenaars (1994) 23 and 26 notes that the three references to iron evokes the threefold repetition of building materials in the description of Alcinous’ palace in Odyssey 7 and Juno’s temple in Aeneid 1. He also comments that the iron also ‘offers a sharp contrast between the glittering magnificence [of Alcinous’ palace and Juno’s temple] and the gloomy aspect of Mars’ palace’. What those themes may be is a matter of dispute. For recent treatments, see Conte (1992) 150–1; Thomas (1999) 315.

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Initially, however, delay is explicitly eradicated. After Mercury informs Mars of Jupiter’s dissatisfaction, preparations for war proceed quickly: Mars sends Fear to hasten the departure of the Argives (Theb. 7.105–30), just as the Virgilian Allecto roused troops to war (Aen. 7.638–40).14 The Argives then proceed and the earlier delay gives way to a swift march:15 praecipitant redimuntque moras. sic litora vento incipiente fremunt, fugitur cum portus; ubique vela fluunt, laxi iactantur ubique rudentes; iamque natant remi, natat omnis in aequore summo ancora, iam dulcis medii de gurgite ponti respicitur tellus comitesque a puppe relicti. uiderat Inachias rapidum glomerare cohortes Bacchus iter . . . Theb. 7.139–46 They rush forth and compensate for the delays. Thus shores resound with the rising wind when the port is left. And everywhere the sails flow, and loose ropes are tossed about. Oars float, and every anchor floats on the surface of the water. Sweet land is looked back upon from mid-sea, and so too the comrades that have been left behind by the ship. Bacchus had seen the Argive troops rapidly cover the course.

Not only does Statius mention that the soldiers do away with delay, but the metaphor of a ship leaving port replicates the simile used to describe the departure of the troops from Argos before the delay at Nemea (Theb. 4.24– 31). In addition, as he did at Nemea, Bacchus attempts to avert combat by stopping the march, but this time he fails. In fact, when Bacchus appeals to Jupiter to spare Thebes, he calls attention to Mars’ renewed strength (Theb. 7.172–3). In response, Jupiter tells Bacchus that Thebes will be destroyed (Theb. 7.207–9), a comment that replicates his statement at the start of the poem (Theb. 1.224–47). All indications, then, are that this is indeed a place for the beginning of war. The Nemean books and their concomitant narrative delay have come to an end, and the civil war may soon begin. the catalogue The Thebans pick up on the narrative cue. They respond to the Argive advance by marshalling their forces and allies on the battlefield (Theb. 7.227–42). The assembly of troops has obvious martial implications, and indeed Mars is responsible for their gathering (Theb. 7.234–6). Moreover, 14 15

Smolenaars (1994) XXXVI. Schetter (1960) 71; Vessey (1973) 318 and 321observes that these verses end the Nemean episode. See too Kytzler (1955) 71–80 on the importance of the seventh book as a transition.

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the catalogue symbolically proclaims the narrative movement towards war through its persistent use of the Iliad.16 Phorbas, for instance, stands on the walls of Thebes and tells Antigone who’s who, thus reversing the situation in Iliad 3, where a woman identifies warriors to an old man (Theb. 7.246 senem; Il. 3.181 X  -, 3.191 X 0 ).17 The cities and places mentioned in the catalogue in the Thebaid also owe a great deal to the Homeric Catalogue of Ships: of the 47 place names that Statius mentions, 31 come from the Homeric list.18 Moreover, the initial part of the catalogue (Theb. 7.254–81) is particularly Homeric in both content and manner of presentation: Statius mentions fourteen cities, of which eleven stem from the Homeric catalogue, and he replicates the style of the Homeric list by omitting extensive characterization or description.19 The initial part of the catalogue uses the Iliad to herald the upcoming martial half of the poem. helicon’s arrival Statius deviates from Homeric style, however, when Phorbas notes the allies from Helicon: vos etiam nostris, Heliconia turba, venitis addere rebus opem; tuque, O Permesse, canoris et felix Olmie vadis, armastis alumnos bellorum resides. patriis concentibus audis exultare gregem, quales, cum pallida cedit bruma, renidentem deducunt Strymona cygni. ite alacres, numquam vestri morientur honores bellaque perpetuo memorabunt carmine Musae. Theb. 7.282–9

O people of Helicon, you come to add strength to our concerns and you, Permessus and Olmius, happy in your resounding waters, you have armed your children who are so slow to war. You hear the group pour forth their native song, such as when swans sing of shining Strymon, after dusky winter fades away. Go, eager ones! Your praise will never die, and the Muses will tell of your battles in an unending song. 16

17 18 19

The leaders introduced in the catalogue play a significant role in the upcoming books, so the catalogue is nicely integrated with the second half of the poem. Smolenaars (1994) 121 is a good response to the charge that Flavian epic, in contrast to the Aeneid, tends to use catalogues as a ‘stitched on piece of decoration’ which are not ‘part of the fabric’ of the poem (Williams (1961) 146). With a debt to Euripides’ Phoenissae and Valerius Flaccus as well. See Smolenaars (1994) 120–1. Helm (1892) 14–17. Fraenkel (1945) 10–11 discusses Virgil’s use of similes and aetiology to describe people or places in similes and how that differs from the Homeric catalogue. See too Basson (1975) 126; Horsfall (2000) 417.

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This passage both introduces the Boeotian contingent of warriors and takes advantage of the mention of Helicon to call attention to the art of poetry.20 Swans, for instance, are often associated with poetic composition,21 and the word carmine explicitly refers to poetry.22 In fact, the verses are so evocative of poetic composition that Lactantius took the words Heliconia turba to refer to a group of poets coming to the aid of Thebes.23 Such a metaphorical reading is unnecessary, but the forces from Helicon do afford the poet the opportunity to comment on his poem and its poetics.24 In particular, the poem’s debt to Virgilian epic is emphasized through an allusion to the invocation of the Muses at the start of the catalogue in Aeneid 7: Pandite nunc Helicona, deae, cantusque movete, qui bello exciti reges, quae quemque secutae complerint campos acies, quibus Itala iam tum floruerit terra alma viris, quibus arserit armis; et meministis enim, divae, et memorare potestis; ad nos vix tenuis famae perlabitur aura. Aen. 7.641–6

Now open up Helicon, Muses, and start your song about which kings were roused to battle, what troops filled the plains under whose command, with what men Italy, nourishing even then, flourished, with what arms she raged. For you goddesses, you remember and are able to say. To us comes hardly a faint whisp of fame.

Statius’ Heliconia and memorabunt recall Virgil’s Helicona, meministis and memorare. In addition to drawing upon Virgil, Statius also alludes to the beginnings of other poems. Mention of the Permessus and the Olmius, for instance, recalls the proem of Hesiod’s Theogony (Theog. 5–6), and the collocation of the highly significant words deducunt and perpetuo carmine alludes to the start of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (1.4).25 Moreover, the very position of Statius’ Heliconian section nearly parallels the location of the proem that 20 21 22 23 24 25

Haslam (1993) 122 n. 22 comments on a similar circumstance in Callimachus: ‘as if the story’s arrival at the word Helicon presents the poet with an opportunity too good to pass up’. Hinds (1987) 44–8. Helicon provides inspiration elsewhere in Statius’ poetry (e.g. Silv. 1.2.4, 1.5.1). Barchiesi (1996) 53–4 discusses the poetic atmosphere of this part of the catalogue. Smolenaars (1994) 139. Ovid’s perpetuum carmen alludes to Callimachus’
    (Aetia 1.1.3), the type of poem the Telchines criticize him for not writing. Ovid seems to distance himself from Callimachus’ poetry by characterizing his epic as a perpetuum carmen, or the kind of poem the Telchines charge Callimachus with not writing. But Ovid keeps in line with Callimachean poetics through the word deducite, which introduces the idea of Callimachean refinement. So even if perpetuum carmen is interpreted as anti-Callimachean, deducite brings Callimachean poetics back into the proem. The bibliography on this point has become large. See Myers (1994) 2–4, especially 4 n. 13 for a bibliographic account and treatment of the matter.

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appears near the start of Aeneid 7 (7.37–44). That is, Virgil’s proem begins in the thirty-seventh verse of the book, and Statius’ invocation of Helicon begins in the thirty-sixth verse after the beginning of the catalogue.26 At any rate, the allusions to Hesiod and Ovid indicate that Statius engages with proems and poetic beginnings at this point in the catalogue. Though Statius’ description of Helicon’s troops is not an invocation proper, it does call attention to poetry and poetics, and thus it also functions as a virtual ‘proem in the middle’, a phenomenon among Latin poets that has been discussed by Gian Biagio Conte.27 Such proems function differently from those at the start of a poem in that they concentrate on programmatic declarations, on the ‘how’ of their poetic enterprise rather than the ‘what’.28 The description of the Heliconian contingent thus needs to be unpacked in order to gain a sense of Statius’ poetic interests. helicon’s poetics The characterization of the Heliconian troops seems to pick up where the first thirty-six verses of the Iliadic-style catalogue left off. That is, the entry of the Heliconian troops suggests that war impends. These troops are keen for battle (Theb. 7.288 alacres),29 and the Muses will sing of war (Theb. 7.289 bella). The inclusion of a simile in a catalogue is not Homeric but does recall Virgilian cataloguing technique.30 Moreover, the 26

27 29 30

Acceptance of such numerology will vary from reader to reader, but Roman poets were attuned to it. See Thomas (1983); Scodel and Thomas (1984); Smith (1990). Another jarring coincidence is that the placement of this ‘invocation’ and proemic context this far into Thebaid 7 may call attention to the importance of reading the Aeneid through an Ovidian filter. Virgil displays profound respect for the book as a structural unit except at the midpoint of the epic (Hinds (1998) 109). At the start of Aeneid 7, one might expect an invocation of some sort, as happens in the Georgics and in Apollonius’ Argonautica, which influenced Aeneid 7 (Hunter (1993) 177–8). However, the aetion of Caieta usurps the position at the midpoint of the epic (Aen. 7.1–4), leading to the notorious thirtysix-verse displacement of the invocation of the Muses (Aen. 7.37–44). Yet, Virgil links the transition between the sixth and seventh books of his epic by telling the Caieta story in two parts, one at the end of the sixth book (Aen. 6.900–1), the second at the beginning of the seventh (Aen. 7.1–4), thus creating a narrative bridge to create a sense of unity even at this moment where he ruptures the symmetry of book division. Taking Virgil’s cue, Ovid also breaks up the Caieta story into two parts. However, he does not distribute the aetion into two books but rather keeps it within Metamorphoses 14 and separates the two parts of the story by inserting a 282-verse narrative interposition between his two halves of his Caieta story (14.158–440; see Hinds (1998) 107–11). In a post-Ovidian world, then, the transition between the sixth and seventh books of the Roman epic model is no longer marked by the Caieta bridge followed by a proem that is postponed for thirty-six verses. Rather, the transition requires 282 verses. Surprisingly, it is this number of verses into Thebaid 7 that Statius brings Helicon and the Muses into his seventh book. 28 Ibid. 156–7. Conte (1992) 147–59. For the military connotations of alacer, see Harrison (1991) 247. Fraenkel (1945) 10–11; Basson (1975) 126. Indeed, quales is often used to initiate a simile in Virgil; see Harrison (1991) 97.

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song sung by Statius’ soldiers is compared to the sound of swans, a likeness that echoes the song from Virgil’s list of Italian forces (Aen. 7.699– 705). Thus, the extensive debt to Homeric geography in the earlier part of the catalogue, the evocations of the Virgilian catalogue, and the suggestions that this seventh book is a beginning all create the expectation of warfare. But the simile also contains diction and ideas that are not consonant with martial poetry. For instance, swans are inappropriate birds to sing of the Strymon, a Thracian river associated with Mars.31 The appropriate bird to celebrate the martial qualities of Thrace, and of the Strymon in particular, is the crane; Virgil, for instance, regularly associates that bird with the Thracian river (G. 1.118–20; Aen. 10.264–6; 11.578–80).32 However, since cranes were thought to make cacophonous sounds, poets avoid associations with them.33 In Statius’ case, his substitution of swans for cranes not only dissociates the poor aesthetic qualities of the bird from the Thebaid, it also reveals an incongruity between poetics and theme. The Heliconian section contains additional features that do not cohere with battles and warfare. Statius specifies that the offspring of the Permessus and Olmius have been armed (Theb. 7.284 armastis alumnos) and that their progeny are normally slow to war (Theb. 7.285 bellorum resides).34 The implication is that the Permessus is typically not found in a martial context, and indeed, in Roman poetry, the river is often used in passages that reject themes of war. Propertius, for instance, claims that since his poetry has bathed only in the streams of the Permessus, he cannot sing of Augustus’ military triumphs in the east: nondum etiam Ascraeos norunt mea carmina fontis, sed modo Permessi flumine lavit Amor. 2.10.25–6 Not yet do my songs know the Ascrean springs, but my love-poetry has bathed only in the stream of the Permessus.

The Permessus also appears in a Virgilian passage in which Gallus encounters inspirational divinities: 31 32

33 34

For swans in the Thebaid, see Ahl (1982) 387–9. The example from Aeneid 10 is a simile which – like Statius’ simile – is introduced by quales and thus seems particularly relevant for setting up the crane’s martial heritage. Virgil himself drew upon the Homeric simile that compares the noise of the inspired Trojans to the sound of cranes flying to fight with the Pygmies (Il. 3.3–6). Call., Aetia 1.1.14; Lucretius, DRN 4.181–2. For resides used to describe those uninterested in battle, see Aen. 6.813–14 residesque movebit Tullus in arma viros.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War tum canit, errantem Permessi ad flumina Gallum Aonas in montis ut duxerit una sororum utque viro Phoebi chorus adsurrexerit omnis; ut Linus haec illi divino carmine pastor floribus atque apio crinis ornatus amaro dixerit: ‘hos tibi dant calamos (en accipe) Musae, Ascraeo quos ante seni, quibus ille solebat cantando rigidas deducere montibus ornos.’ Ecl. 6.64–71

Then he sings of how one of the sisters led Gallus, who was wandering by the streams of the Permessus, to the Aonian hills; and how the whole chorus of Apollo rose up for Gallus. Then he sings of how Linus, a shepherd of divine song, wearing a wreath with flowers and bitter parsley, spoke these things to Gallus: ‘The Muses give to you these reeds – take them – which they once gave to old Hesiod, reeds with which he was accustomed to lead down the unyielding ash trees from the mountains.’

Gallus’ poetry is set in the tradition of Hesiod, whose own literary activity is described with the same verb (deducere) that was earlier used to describe Virgil’s poetic programme: Prima Syracosio dignata est ludere versu nostra neque erubuit silvas habitare Thalea. cum canerem reges et proelia, Cynthius aurem vellit et admonuit: ‘pastorem, Tityre, pinguis pascere oportet ovis, deductum dicere carmen.’ nunc ego (namque super tibi erunt qui dicere laudes Vare, tuas cupiant et tristia condere bella) agrestem tenui meditabor harundine Musam: Ecl. 6.1–8

My Muse thought it acceptable to play in Sicilian verse, and was not embarrassed to live in the woods. When I was singing of kings and battles, Apollo tugged my ear and warned: ‘Tityrus, it is right for a shepherd to feed the sheep so that they be fat, and to sing a fine-spun song.’ Now I will practise the rustic Muse on the slender reed, Varus, for there will be enough and more who would desire to sing your praise and to write about sad wars.

Since Virgil contrasts the martial themes of reges et proelia (Ecl. 6.3) and tristia bella (Ecl. 6.7) with the deductum carmen that Apollo advised him to write,35 the reappearance of deducere in Gallus’ initiation implies an 35

Deductum carmen translates Callimachus’ 9" . . .   (Aetia 1.1.24). Callimachus also mentions the Permessus, though it is difficult to see precisely what he does with the river. See Cameron (1995) 454–5.

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avoidance of martial themes.36 Statius’ use of the same verb recalls the Virgilian passage and reminds readers that the Permessus is incompatible with martial epic (Theb. 7.287). Subsequent hexameters reveal additional poetic importance in deducunt. Statius writes that ‘the Muses will relate the war in a continuous song’ (Theb. 7. 289 bellaque perpetuo memorabunt carmine Musae). This claim suggests pride in his own poetry: the Thebaid will be a lasting or eternal poem.37 In addition, the collocation of perpetuo carmine and deducunt echoes the proem of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Met. 1.4 ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen), which itself alludes to Callimachus’ Aetia prologue. In the Metamorphoses, perpetuum carmen is the object of the verb deducite,38 whereas in Statius’ poem it is not even part of the same sentence. But Statius’ terms are used in a homologous way: deducunt refers to the kind of song the swans sing, while perpetuo carmine qualifies the type of song the Heliconian Muses sing. The swans and Muses, though syntactically distinct, are related poetically because each uses one key term from a programmatic passage of the Metamorphoses. The two halves complement each other to form the poetic whole. Statius’ allusion to the Metamorphoses at this point in his seventh book strikingly introduces a different set of expectations. In his books on the Trojan exodus and Aeneas’ journey to Italy, Ovid covers much of the same material handled in the Aeneid. The catalogue in Aeneid 7, which clearly informs Statius’ scene, is also a point of contact between Ovid and Virgil, but Ovid avoids martial matters and does not show any interest in the Virgilian catalogue per se: concurrit Latio Tyrrhenia tota, diuque ardua sollicitis victoria quaeritur armis. auget uterque suas externo robore vires, et multi Rutulos, multi Troiana tuentur castra. neque Aeneas Euandri ad moenia frustra, at Venulus frustra profugi Diomedis ad urbem venerat: Metamorphoses 14.452–8 All Etruria rushes to battle with Latium, and a hard-fought victory is sought for a long time by restless struggles. Each side increases its strength with outside help. Many defend the Rutulians, many the Trojan camps. Nor did Aeneas fruitlessly 36 37 38

The contrast between elegy and martial service is reinforced at Ecl. 10.44–5, where military service keeps Gallus from his beloved Lycoris. Smolenaars (1994) 143. However, Wheeler (1999) 21 points out different possibilities for construing the sentence.

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go to Evander’s home, but Venulus had gone to the city of the exiled Diomedes to no avail.

Ovid’s Tyrrhenia pointedly recalls the first verse of Virgil’s catalogue (Aen. 7.647), but he quickly disposes of that list of troops in one hexameter. In addition, the comment that Aeneas increased his forces by going to Evander reduces a second catalogue from the Aeneid (10.163–214) to a single verse. On the Italian side, Ovid comments that Turnus sent Venulus to Diomedes to gain help. In the Aeneid Diomedes briefly mentions that his men were changed into birds (Aen. 11.271–4), but this glancing detail from the Aeneid becomes the focal point of the Metamorphoses, and Ovid explains the cause of the change and the process of metamorphosis for nearly thirty verses (Met. 14.482–511).39 The actual embassy of Venulus, in contrast, is of minimal interest to Ovid. Instead, he reshapes the attempts of Virgilian characters to augment troops in ways that direct epic away from martial enterprises into the realm of metamorphoses. Statius’ interest in the Metamorphoses is thus disruptive to the catalogue that had manifestly drawn upon Homeric and Virgilian models. This is not the only passage in which Statius turns to Ovid as a way to engage with the epic tradition. In the proem of the Achilleid, his subsequent, unfinished poem on the epic hero par excellence, Statius once again uses the word deducere to allude to the start of the Metamorphoses (Ach. 1.5–7 sic amor est . . . tota iuvenem deducere Troia). In doing so, Statius constructs a literary history in which Ovidian epic – not Homeric or Virgilian – features front and centre (at least in the extant portion).40 The allusions in the catalogue of Thebaid 7 – and indeed the remainder of the catalogue – to Ovid’s poem anticipate the interest of the Achilleid: Statius draws upon Ovidian themes to direct the narrative away from warfare.41 sudd en impact The allusions to Ovid’s Metamorphoses initiate a dramatic shift in the content of the catalogue. Immediately following the section on Helicon, Antigone asks a question about the lineage of two warriors: 39 40 41

Hinds (1998) 105 has pointed out that Ovid often backgrounds major themes or players from the Aeneid and instead focuses on themes of metamorphoses. Hinds (1998) 142–3. The aetiological component of the Metamorphoses is advertised by its allusions to Callimachus’ Aetia. See Myers (1994) vii–viii for the connection between aetia and metamorphoses.

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dixerat, et paulum virgo interfata loquenti: ‘Illi autem, quanam iunguntur origine fratres? sic certe paria arma viris, sic exit in auras cassidis aequus apex; utinam haec concordia nostris!’ Theb. 7.290–3

He spoke, and the girl briefly interrupted: ‘Those brothers – what is their origin? Their arms are similar, and the peaks of their helmets reach the same distance into the sky. I wish that my brothers got along like this.’

origo (Theb. 7.291) prompts an aetiological explanation of why the two soldiers can be taken for brothers.42 Phorbas reveals that the two warriors are not brothers, but rather one is the father, the other the son. The father, Lapithaon, was raped by the nymph Dercetis as a youth and thus looks the same age as his son Alatreus: . . . non prima errore videndi falleris, Antigone: multi hos – nam decipit aetas – dixerunt fratres. pater est natusque, sed aevi confudere modos: puerum Lapithaona nymphe Dercetis expertem thalami crudumque maritis ignibus ante diem cupido violavit amore inproba conubii; nec longum, et pulcher Alatreus editus, ac primae genitorem in flore iuventae consequitur traxitque notas et miscuit annos. et nunc sic fratres mentito nomine gaudent, plus pater; hunc olim iuvat et ventura senectus. Theb. 7.294–304

Antigone, you are not the first to misjudge the situation when looking at them. Many have said that they are brothers – for their age is deceptive. They are father and son, but blur the distinctions of age. The nymph Dercetis was driven by a passionate desire for sex, and she shamelessly corrupted the boy Lapithaon who was inexperienced of the bed and not ready for conjugal passion. Soon thereafter lovely Alatreus was born, and he follows his father in the flower of first youth and takes on his father’s features and confuses their ages. And now they take pleasure in being wrongly called brothers, more so the father, pleased by the coming years.

A number of words in this passage sit incongruously in a battle catalogue. Lapithaon was a puer, not a vir,43 when Dercetis raped him. The word ignibus (Theb. 7.299), here used of the fires of love, has erotic overtones 42 43

For origo and its aetiological connotations, see Eclogue 6.72. See too Ross (1975) 31. Arma virumque is the material of Roman epic. Keith (2000) 8–35 discusses the epic importance of vir and its cognates.

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that recall Virgil’s Dido.44 Inproba recalls the same Virgilian episode (Aen. 4.386, 412). Moreover, the collocation of expertem and crudum maritis (Theb. 7.298) brings to mind Horace’s Carm. 3.11, where he calls upon Mercury, the god who taught Amphion how to move the foundation stones of Thebes through song (Carm. 3.11.1–2), to help him move the obstinate Lyde through his verse. Horace then compares her an immature filly (Carm. 3.11.11–12 nuptiarum expers et adhuc protervo / cruda marito). The aetion about Lapithaon thus uses the language of stories of unrequited love that either retard heroic journeys or use Thebes simply as a backdrop for love poems. The catalogue has moved away from exclusively martial matters. Virgil’s Dido and Horace’s Lyde provide the language, but the flavour of verses involving a nymph, seduction and ephebic sexuality seems highly Ovidian.45 Indeed, the link between ephebic beauty (Thebaid 7.300–1 pulcher Alatreus . . . primae . . . in flore iuventae) and war anticipates the interests of the extant portion of the Achilleid, and Rosati has well argued that Statius’ reshaping of Achilles – and thus Homeric epic – owes a great debt to Ovid’s interest in the transformation of reality and in disguised appearances.46 Such themes are clear in this passage of the Thebaid as well, since Statius notes that Lapithaon’s appearance confuses viewers (Thebaid 7.294–302 errore . . . falleris . . . decipit . . . confudere . . . miscuit). Statius’ warriors cause the audience to make mistakes, to be deceived by appearances. Ovid in fact does not relate the story of Lapithaon’s rape; nor did any other author, as far as we can tell, so Statius’ ‘footnoting’ (Theb. 7.295–6 multi . . . / dixerunt) of a story that has no tradition – or at least an extant tradition – may be another deceptive move.47 At any rate, tales of nymphic rape and confused identity did not appear in the stylistically straightforward first half of the catalogue. Once Antigone asks about origins, however, Statius moves away from the style of the Iliadic catalogue and introduces non-martial themes and language. Moreover, the story of Lapithaon offers a poetic alternative to the narrative of Theban violence. The inability to recognize true familial relationships lies at the heart of the Theban conflict,48 and the aetion of this loving father and son stands in pointed contrast to the situation in Statius’ Thebes.49 Indeed, Antigone explicitly wishes that her brothers could get along like this (apparent) set of brothers (Theb. 7.293 utinam haec concordia nostris!). The explanation of Lapithaon’s ancestry thus 44 45 46 47 48

Smolenaars (1994) 144–8. Such stories develop details that are glancingly referred to in epic as early as the Iliad (e.g. 14.444). Rosati (1994) 55. See also Koster (1979) 196–7. For ‘Alexandrian’ footnoting, see Ross (1975) 78. 49 Vessey (1973) 207. Hershkowitz (1998a) 283–84.

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presents a narrative of familial (or even fraternal) unity that runs counter to both the Thebaid’s theme and the implicit agenda of this seventh book. As with Nemea, a story of origins serves as an alternative to Statius’ narrative of civil war. This time, however, Statius draws upon Ovidian themes and practices to generate such stories.50 martial agenda While the introduction of the forces from Helicon leads to a range of poetic interests, martial themes do not disappear. In fact, Phorbas resumes cataloguing in Iliadic style: . . . hi deseruisse feruntur exilem Glisanta Coroniamque, feracem messe Coroniam, Baccho Glisanta colentes. Theb. 7.306–8

They say that these soldiers left both light-soiled Glisas and Coronia, the latter is rich in the harvest, the former they cultivate with the vine.

The ‘Alexandrian footnote’ (Theb. 7.306 feruntur) refers to Homer, since Statius’ geography and the participle colentes borrow language from the Catalogue of Ships (Il. 2.503–4 M  R ( #'’ `, M  T @ = ’ M PF’ & ). This Homeric manner recalls the initial part of the catalogue and thus suggests that preparations for battles may once again be the focus of the narrative. Indeed, Phorbas reinforces the martial atmosphere by describing a warrior in clearly heroic terms: sed potius celsos umbrantem hunc aspice late Hypsea quadriiugos, clipei septemplice tauro laeva, ter insuto servantur pectora ferro, pectora: nam tergo numquam metus. hasta vetustum silvarum decus, emissae cui pervia semper armaque corporaque et numquam manus inrita voti. Theb. 7.309–14

But rather look at Hypseus casting a far shadow over his four tall horses, his left protected by a shield of seven bulls’ hides, his chest protected by triply-woven mail – his chest, for there is no fear of exposing his back. His spear is the glory of an old forest; bodies and armour are always penetrated by its course, and his hand is never frustrated in its hopes. 50

Statius’ interest in Ovid is a rich topic; Keith (2002) discusses Statius’ rewriting of Ovidian characters. Deipser (1881) lists a range of parallels between the two ancients.

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Hypseus’ shield, made from the hides of seven bulls (Theb. 7.310 septemplice tauro), has a clear epic lineage: drawing upon a Homeric adjective (Il. 7.220 $*0), Virgil seems to have coined the adjective septemplex in his description of Turnus’ shield (Aen. 12.925).51 The characterization of Hypseus’ horses as ‘lofty’ (celsos) and the mention of the shadows cast by them enhances the epic tone (Thebaid 7.309 umbrantem . . . late).52 Indeed, the very etymology of Hypseus’ name (ab ) evokes the grand style of epic.53 The Iliadic half once again seems to be on its way, and the potential difficulties raised by the aetion of Lapithaon avoided. mudd ying the water Phorbas seems to like explaining origins, however. Immediately after identifying Hypseus, he reports, without any prompting from Antigone, that Hypseus’ father is the river Asopus: Asopos genuisse datur, dignusque videri tunc pater, abreptis cum torentissimus exit pontibus, aut natae tumidus cum virginis ultor flumina concussit generum indignata Tonantem. namque ferunt raptam patriis Aeginan ab undis amplexu latuisse Iovis: furit amnis et astris infensus bellare parat – nondum ista licebant nec superis – stetit audaces effusus in iras, conseruitque manum, nec quem imploraret habebat donec vix tonitru submotus et igne trisulco cessit. adhuc ripis animosus gurges anhelis fulmineum cinerem magnaeque insignia poenae gaudet et Aetnaeos in caelum efflare vapores. Theb. 7.315–27

They say that the Asopus is his father. The river is worthy to be as such when, in full torrent, he goes forth with broken bridges in his stream or when he, swollen in anger to avenge his young daughter, drove on his waters because he was upset with Jupiter, the young girl’s lover. For they say that Aegina, snatched from her father’s waters, hid in Jove’s embrace. The river rages and prepares to wage war against the stars – for the gods were not allowed to ravage young girls yet. He had nobody to call on for help, but breaking out in daring anger, he engages in combat until, barely subdued by thunder and Jove’s three-pronged lightning, he gives way. Even now, the proud river takes pleasure to breathe forth Aetnean vapours and the ash caused by the lightning – a badge of honour – into the sky. 51

Smolenaars (1994) 150.

52

Ibid. 149.

53

LSJ s.v. 2.

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This account explains Hypseus’ paternal origins, and why even now (Theb. 7.325 adhuc) the banks of the Asopus smoke and are a source for coal. The language surrounding the aetion is of a noticeably lofty poetic register. Tumidus, for instance, is a literary-critical term evocative of the grand style,54 and since rivers are often metaphors for poetic composition (e.g. Call., h. Ap. 105–13), one that rushes wildly (Theb. 7.316 torrentissimus) and rages (Theb. 7.320 furit) is particularly suggestive of a high style.55 In this context, Jupiter’s thundering has special significance (e.g. Theb. 7.318 Tonantem; 7.324 trisulco), since the loudness of thunder was for Callimachus a metaphor for grandiose poetry (Aetia 1.1.20). The river also prepares to wage war (Theb. 7.321 bellare parat) against Jupiter, hardly a light matter. However, Statius’ Asopus is more than a marker of grand poetics. The words datur (Theb. 7.315) and ferunt (Theb. 7.319) suggest that this aetion stems from the literary tradition. Whereas the aetion of Lapithaon seems to have been invented by Statius, this account of the Asopus alludes to Callimachus’ treatment of the river. Statius reports that the Asopus tried to stop his daughter Aegina from being raped by Jupiter but the ruler of the gods beat the Asopus back with lightning bolts (Theb. 7.315–25). Approximately 100 verses later, Statius emphasizes that this Asopus is a Boeotian river (Theb. 7.424–5 iam ripas, Asope, tuas Boeotaque ventum flumina), thus explicitly locating the mythic story in that Greek region. The Boeotian Asopus is normally not the one that chased after Zeus when he tried to rape Aegina; that Asopus is located in Sicyon.56 Pindar seems to be the first to place Zeus’ rape of Aegina in Boeotia, but he makes no reference to the lightning bolts and punishment (I. 8.35–55), the point to which Statius devotes four verses (Theb. 7.324–7).57 Corinna also discusses the Boeotian Asopus, but in her account the story ends very differently.58 There is, then, some geographical variance between the poetic tradition and Statius’ Boeotian Asopus: first, in most accounts, the 54 55 56

57 58

Brink (1971) 111 comments on such words and their literary history. For another raging river, see Hor., Carm. 4.2.1–12. Zunker (1995) 55–6 discusses the Asopus and the rape, and collects evidence from Pausanias (2.5.2), Apollodorus (3.12.6), Bacchylides (9.39) and Diodorus Siculus (4.72.5). All of these authors refer to the Sicyonian Asopus. The Boeotian Asopus is mentioned as early as Homer (Il. 4.383) and is developed by the Boeotian poets Pindar (I. 8) and Corinna (PMG 654). Bacchylides 13.77–8 may also refer to the Boeotian Asopus and its rape of Aegina, but no mention of the punishment is made. Corinna has a prophet of Apollo address the Asopus, revealing the adventures and destinies of the Asopus’ daughters. Zeus, Poseidon, Apollo and Hermes have all but nine of his daughters, and Asopus should take pleasure in the fact that he will have many descendants who are children of the gods. For Corinna’s version of the Asopus, see Page (1963) 25–6.

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rape took place in Sicyon, not in Boeotia; second, even in Pindar, who alludes to the rape of the Boeotian river’s daughter, the punishment is not mentioned.59 In extant poetry, Callimachus is the only other author in whose poetry the Boeotian Asopus is punished by Zeus for interfering with the rape.60 Though no fragments survive, a scholium to Apollonius of Rhodes attests that Callimachus related the story,61 and the Hymn to Delos hints at this version of the myth: !" ( + 4 ? 0, [ ’ &!  c  C!  b#!  @ d " @  0 , X ’ M 4 V' +-4 B. , &(  5.J (75–8)

Aonia fled in the same way, and Dirce and Strophia, holding the hand of their dark-pebbled father Ismenus, followed. Asopus, slow-kneed because he was struck by a thunderbolt, followed way behind.

In Callimachus’ hymn, the Asopus ranks among Boeotian rivers, and is said to have been hit by Zeus’ thunderbolts (78 &(  5). J Rudolph Pfeiffer thus suggested that the scholium to Apollonius refers to the Hymn to Delos and its allusive reference to the story of Zeus striking the Boeotian Asopus. The reference to the thunderbolt may indeed be sufficient to recall the rape story,62 but the relation between the Hymn and scholium must remain uncertain. Nonetheless, it is clear that the scholium locates Callimachus’ account of the story in Boeotia, and no other author relates the story in that way. Thus it is reasonable to conclude that Statius’ Asopus owes its origin to Callimachus. The rival locations of the river reflect a larger tension between the competing claims of Boeotia and the Peloponnese that are most obviously represented by Polynices and Eteocles.63 Statius’ employment of myth reinforces his theme of division. In this regard, Statius follows the lead of Callimachus, whose prose and verse writings on geographic features such as rivers and 59 60 61 62

63

The Asopus and its concomitant myths generated controversies even in antiquity (see Pfeijffer (1999) 248 and fn. 21). Perhaps, then, Statius entered into the fray. See Pfeiffer on F 594: ‘Praeter Corinnam . . . ante Call. de Asopo Boeotio nemo narravisse videtur . . .’ C 1.117: +-4 4 e *5 @- E  E & +' ;. &'  <4 c4 - L4 E 4 f  8 '  L" gG. h ( R@0 ! . Callimachus’ oblique description of how the Asopus was hit by Zeus’ thunderbolt may abide by his refusal to thunder (Aetia 1.1.20). Could Callimachus ever have directly related the details of the struggle between Zeus and the Asopus? Rival claims between Boeotia and the Peloponnese on the location of myth may also be implied in the account of Linus in Theb. 1.

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mountains simultaneously linked his contemporary world to the Greek past and called attention to the gap between the two worlds (e.g. F 457– 9 Pf.). That is, in the case of places or rivers that share similar names, it is the role of the aetiological writer to explicate which account belongs to which place, perhaps only to show the plasticity of myth. Statius’ practice differs in that it lacks the Callimachean aetiological impulse to connect geography to his contemporary world, but it nonetheless uses geography to instantiate disjuncture. His geographical play may even hint at the artist’s role in selecting or even creating the mythic accounts by which a society will define itself.64 Statius’ interest in the Asopus also has an impact upon the narrative itself. The river is paradoxically Callimachean in its origins yet non-Callimachean in terms of its grand-scale poetics.65 These competing claims mirror the clash between the aim to relate the fraternal conflict and the desire to avoid it. Specifically, the catalogue adopted a poetic strategy that seemed destined to realize the goal of fraternal conflict, yet the fourteen verses on the Asopus divert the narrative interest in warfare and the epic catalogue, lingering instead on stories of Jupiter’s sexual transgressions. Moreover, this aetion about paternal devotion counters the domestic discord that pervades the Thebaid. For the second time after the introduction of the forces from Helicon and their paradoxical poetics, then, Statius lavishes attention on an aetion that depicts family relationships that are far different from those of Oedipus and his family. In addition, since the topography of the aetion stems from Callimachus’ poetry and threatens the narrative interest in civil war, this account parallels the Nemean aetiological narrative and the problems that it presented to the movement towards civil war, thus raising the possibility that the transition to the conflict between Eteocles and Polynices may be thwarted once again. return to the catalogue Despite the potential threats, the verses following the aetion perpetuate the conflict between narrative interests by returning to the style of the Iliadic catalogue. Phorbas points out the various soldiers under Hypseus’ command: 64 65

Lovatt (2005) 178–91 examines Statius’ geography and its link to national identity from a different angle. Barchiesi (1989) 60 discusses a similar case in Ovid. See too Kyriakidis (1998) 147–52 for the Tiber and Aeneid 7.

116

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War ducit Itonaeos et Alalcomenaea Minervae agmina, quos Midea et quos uvida suggerit Arne, Aulida qui Graeanque serunt viridesque Plataeas et sulco Peteona domant refluumque meatu Euripum, qua noster, habent . . . Theb. 7.330–4

He leads warriors from Itone and he leads Minerva’s troops from Alalcomenae, those whom Midea and Arne – rich in grapes – supply, those who farm Aulis and Graea and verdant Plataea and those who tame Peteon with the plough come too, and those who hold our part of Euripus with its ebbs and flows . . .

Statius’ geography derives from the Homeric catalogue. The clause Midea et quos uvida suggerit Arne (Theb. 7.331) stems from a Homeric phrase (Il. 2.507 M  ! i  @, M  9 ), and Statius follows Homer by mentioning Aulis (Theb. 7.332; Il. 2.496), Graea (Theb. 7.332; Il. 2.498), Plataea (Theb. 7.332; Il. 2.504), and Peteon (Theb. 7.333; Il. 2.500). Aetiological themes are avoided and martial interests asserted, thus suggesting that once again the narrative will pursue the account of the war between the brothers. The martial agenda, however, is subsequently deflected by stories of metamorphosis. Statius’ first transformation concerns Glaucus: . . . teque ultima tractu Anthedon, ubi gramineo de litore Glaucus poscentes inrupit aquas, iam crine genisque caerulus, et mixtos expavit ab inguine pisces. Theb. 7. 334–7

and you, Anthedon, positioned last, where Glaucus plunged from the grassy bank into the waters that called him, Glaucus, already sea-green in his hair and cheeks, and frightened at the fish tail growing from his waist.

Glaucus’ metamorphosis especially ‘appealed to Hellenistic poets and their admirers’.66 Callimachus wrote a Glaucus, and we know that Lycophron, Alexander Aetolus and the neoteric Cornificius also concerned themselves with the mythological figure.67 He seems to have been ‘particularly associated with Alexandrian aesthetics’.68 To judge from poetry that survives, however, it is clear that Statius was deeply interested in the Glaucus of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Statius’ placement of Glaucus in his customary Anthedon (Theb. 7.335 Anthedon . . . Glaucus) seemingly follows Ovid’s treatment (Met. 13.905–6), and Statius’ inguine pisces (Theb. 7.337) is reminiscent of 66

Dewar (1991) 121.

67

Ibid.

68

Myers (1994) 101.

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Ovid’s inguina piscis (Met. 13.915). In addition, both poets describe Glaucus’ colour as caeruleus (Met. 13.962; Theb. 7.337), an adjective often used to describe the sea. So both Statius and Ovid seem to pun on the fact that the sea-creature’s name derives from a Greek adjective for the sea.69 Finally, Statius’ adverb iam may allusively signal the importance of Glaucus’ account of his transformation in Ovid’s epic (Met. 13.917–65): when Scylla is repulsed by Glaucus, the sea-monster explains how his form was changed. Throughout this Ovidian account, Glaucus is remarkably attentive to time (Met. 13.920 ante; 13.921 tum; 13.922 modo; 13.923 nunc; 13.960 tum) and its relationship to his transformation. Statius’ iam simply assumes the change, and it can do so in part because the prior account in the Metamorphoses. Recollection of Ovid’s account of Glaucus raises potential problems for the martial narrative since that story, embedded within the account of Scylla’s transformation by Circe (Met. 13.730–14.74), which itself is part of the larger narrative about the Trojan migration to Italy, directs the epic narrative away from heroic accounts.70 Indeed, in the Metamorphoses, the threat posed to Aeneas’ journey by Ovid’s Scylla is not like the harrowing tale of Scylla alluded to at Aeneid 3.684–91 and related in the Odyssey (12.201–59). Rather, the ‘threat’ comes from Ovid’s lack of interest in the journey and his clear preference for the theme of metamorphosis.71 Statius’ allusions to Ovid’s Glaucus thus raise the possibility that his narrative will also be directed away from conventional heroic stories and themes. The next two hexameters, however, describe the weapons of the men from Anthedon and thus reaffirm conflicting narrative interests of this seventh book (Theb. 7.338–9 glandibus et torta zephyros incidere funda / cura. Cydoneas anteibunt gaesa sagittas).72 But the friction between martial content and the topic of metamorphosis immediately resurfaces when Statius quickly turns to the transformation of Narcissus: tu quoque praeclarum forma, Cephise, dedisses Narcissum, sed Thespiacis iam pallet in agris trux puer: orbata florem, pater, adluis unda. Theb. 7.340–2 69 71 72

70 Hinds (1998) 104–7. Smolenaars (1994) 157. Hopkinson (2000) 208 notes that in a typical movement away from Virgil’s tones and emphases, Ovid had quickly run through some episodes and skipped others from Aeneid 3. Gallic javelins, gaesa, may recall the Virgilian description of the attack on Rome by the Gauls (Aen. 8.662), and Cretan arrows may recall an Ovidian scene of war (Met. 8.22). See Smolenaars (1994) 158 for the literary heritage of Statius’ language.

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You too, Cephisus, would have given Narcissus lovely in his beauty. But the stubborn boy is already a pale flower in Thespian fields. You, father, wash the flower with a bereft wave.

Verbal parallels indicate that Ovid’s Narcissus story is important here (Met. 3.339–510). For instance, Statius’ mention of Cephisus brings to mind that he was first referred to in extant Latin literature in Ovid’s account of the rape of the nymph Liriope and the subsequent birth of Narcissus.73 In addition, Statius’ words trux puer and pallet recall Ovid’s tam dura superbia (Met. 3.354) and croceum pro corpore florem (Met. 3.509).74 But unlike the other stories of metamorphoses and youthful sexuality that offer alternatives to a narrative of civil war and familial discord, an allusion to Ovid’s story of Narcissus actually drives the narrative towards the familial violence that takes place in Thebes. In the Metamorphoses, Tiresias’ fame derives from the fact that he had foretold what would happen to Narcissus (Met. 3.511–12). Yet Pentheus refuses to recognize Tiresias’ authority. In turn, the prophet predicts that Pentheus will deny Bacchus his due honours, and that refusal leads to the young ruler’s death and dismemberment at the hands of his mother and other family members (Met. 3.721–33). The allusion to the Ovidian story of Narcissus’ metamorphosis thus works differently from the story of Glaucus, or the aetia involving the Asopus or Lapithaon, all of which disrupt the Iliadic style of the catalogue and call attention to non-martial narratives or accounts of domestic harmony. For in this postOvidian Theban narrative, the Narcissus story leads to a narrative of familial destruction.75 completion of the catalogue After the story of Narcissus, the catalogue adopts the Homeric style with a vigour that had been missing since the introduction of Helicon. In ten verses (Theb. 7.343–53), Statius takes eight place names from the Phocian section of the Homeric catalogue, even imitating a long sentence containing a series of relative pronouns (Il. 2.517–26).76 Statius also has Phorbas mention two Homeric characters, Naubolus and Iphitas (Theb. 7.354–5; Il. 2.518), but they are given new roles. Phorbas says that Naubolus was in Laius’ entourage when they ran into Oedipus and were killed (Theb. 7.355–8). This detail recasts the Homeric reference to Naubolus in a way 73 75 76

74 Ibid. Smolenaars (1994) 159. Gildenhard and Zissos (2000) 129–47 comment on ways in which Ovid ties the Labdacids into his Theban history through the figure of Narcissus. Smolenaars (1994) 160–1.

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that evokes another moment of familial murder within the Theban house. Significantly, Phorbas has a hard time with this story and has to stop for four verses: dicenti maduere genae, vultumque per omnem pallor iit, vocisque repens singultus apertum intercepit iter; refovet frigentis amicum pectus alumna senis; redit atque exile profatur: Theb. 7.359–62

His cheeks grew wet as he was speaking, and his face went completely sallow. Sudden sobs cut off the passage of his voice. His nursling revives the friendly heart of the chilled old man. He returns and weakly says . . .

The story of Laius’ murder would have been emotionally charged for his charioteer Phorbas, but the old man’s difficulty in telling his tale also seems to highlight the problems of linear narratives about Thebes and to suggest that straightforward progress through such a narrative is a challenge. Phorbas then barely resumes his account, briefly identifying the Euboean troops in Homeric manner (Theb. 7.370 Carystos; cf. Il. 2.539; Theb. 7.370 Abantiades; cf. Il. 2.536). By listing the Euboean and Phocian contingents at the end of the catalogue, Statius harks back to the verses emphasizing Mars’ role in marshalling the troops: . . . exciverat omnem Aoniam Euboeamque et Phocidos arva propinquae Mars. ita dulce Iovi. Thebaid 7.234–6 Mars had stirred up all of Aonia and Euboea and the lands of neighbouring Phocis. This is what Jupiter wanted.

This conclusion creates a nice ring composition, and also reveals that Mars was the stimulus behind the catalogue. The list of troops, then, is a symbol of the transition towards war. Indeed, after Phorbas concludes, Eteocles addresses and rouses his troops, and the Argives proceed without any rest or delay (Theb. 7.400–2 contempta quies, uix aut sopor illis / aut epulae fecere moram; properatur in hostem / more fugae) amidst horrible portents of the upcoming civil war (Theb. 7.401–23). The stage seems set: any potential delays have been eliminated and both the Thebans and Argives move towards the realization of the conflict that was announced in the first two words of the poem.

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As the Argives approach Thebes, however, another threat to their march – and thus the narrative advancement – materializes. They reach the Asopus, the Callimachean river that created the longest diversion from the battle catalogue, and dare not cross it: iam ripas, Asope, tuas Boeotaque ventum flumina. non ausae transmittere protinus alae hostilem fluvium; forte et trepidantibus ingens descendebat agris, animos sive imbrifer arcus, seu montana dedit nubes, seu fluminis illa mens fuit obiectusque vado pater arma vetebat. Theb. 7.424–9

Now they reached your banks and Boeotian waters, Asopus. The troops dared not cross the hostile river right away. By chance, the river was flowing mightily – whether the rainbow or mountain clouds had given the strength, or whether the river god wanted to do so and opposed the war – upon the trembling fields.

Rivers in spate often impede marches, especially those of heroes,77 and the Argive march on Thebes had already halted at this river in the Iliad (Il. 4.383). Statius then follows the Homeric lead by having the Argive army stop at the river, but he has prepared the scene in such a way that the Argive approach towards the Asopus has narrative implications: if the army stops, so too the poem’s movement towards its narrative of violence will be thwarted yet again. In fact, Statius offers a few reasons why the river is hostile to the march, and one is that it opposes arma (Theb. 7.429), the purported theme of seventh books (cf. Aen. 7.43).78 The Asopus in Thebaid 7 thus creates a situation similar to that created by Nemea in Thebaid 4–6: Callimachean topography threatens to halt the Argive march. The river has re-emerged as a serious threat to both the army’s progress and the narrative aim of fraternal warfare. In contrast to the Homeric account in which the Argives stop their march at the Asopus, Statius has the army advance, and the bold efforts of Hippomedon lead the way:79 77 78

79

The swollen Achelous causes Theseus to stop his march to Athens after the slaying of the Calydonian boar (Met. 8.549–50 clausit iter fecitque moras Achelous eunti / imbre tumens). Cf. Aeneid 1.1 and Fowler (1997b) 20: ‘the word arma would I think now be seen as always in postAugustan Latin verse significantly intertextual with the opening of the Aeneid . . . despite the fact that it occurs in the PHI corpus of texts nearly 3000 times . . .’ Klinnert (1970) 95–9 discusses the characterization of Hippomedon.

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tunc ferus Hippomedon magno cum fragmine ripae cunctantem deiecit equum, . . . tunc faciles saltus visaeque accedere ripae Theb. 7.430–31; 440

Then fierce Hippomedon drove his hesitating horse down the bank and caused it to collapse . . . , then the going is easier and the banks seem closer.

The crossing is not easy, and the hesitation of Hippomedon’s horse calls attention to potential delay (Theb. 7.431 cunctantem). But the crossing is accomplished, and the Argives pitch camp (Theb. 7.441–51). The significance of the river crossing is enhanced by the fact that this scene is modelled upon Lucan’s description of Caesar’s fording of the Rubicon.80 For instance, Statius’ representation of the army’s arrival at the river (Theb. 7.424–5 iam ripas, Asope, tuas Boeotaque ventum / flumina) recalls Lucan’s description of Caesar reaching the Rubicon (BC 1.185 . . . ut ventum est parvi Rubiconis ad undas). Both rivers are tumidus (Theb. 7.317, 426–7; BC 1.204),81 and each poet offers a plurality of causes for the rivers’ large size (Theb. 7.426–9 and BC 1.217–19). Finally, Lucan’s Caesar makes a speech when he has conquered the river and reached the other side (BC 1.223 superato gurgite), while Statius’ Hippomedon goes one better and delivers a speech from the middle of the river (Theb. 7.432 gurgite de medio).82 In each poem, the river crossing also has an impact upon the narrative. In the Bellum Civile, Caesar’s crossing eliminates delay:83 inde moras solvit belli tumidumque per amnem signa tulit propere. BC 1.204–5 Then he took away the delays of the conflict and quickly took the battle standards through the swollen river.

Hippomedon’s journey across the river has similar narrative implications. After the Argives cross the Asopus, the reactions of the Theban residents indicate that the war is inevitable. The theme of delay pointedly reappears in subsequent verses when Statius says that at one moment the Thebans 80 81

82

Smolenaars (1994) 189. Lucan’s river is described in two different ways. As Caesar’s army approaches the Rubicon, it is initially small (BC 1.185 parvi Rubiconis). Then as Caesar marches on Rome, the Rubicon becomes a swollen river (BC 1.204 tumidum). Masters (1992) 3 argues that the change is a programmatic statement that Lucan will introduce a large amount of delay to his narrative. The Rubicon’s change in size may have relevance for Statius’ Asopus, as it too changes size. Statius’ Asopus starts out swollen (Thebaid 7.317 tumidus) and then, in a simile, its waters become smaller (Thebaid 7.439 mollior). 83 Masters (1992) 3. Smolenaars (1994) 192.

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consider delays (morae) to be profitable, at another to be irksome because they are weary of life (Theb. 7.464–5 modo lucra morae, modo taedia vitae / attonitis).84 This claim indicates both the turmoil that has been created in Thebes and the magnitude of fear generated by the impending war: it is better for the horrors to happen quickly than to contemplate them, a reversal of Amphiaraus’ wish for more delay during the Nemean episode (Theb. 5.744). Other actions taken by the Thebans also suggests that the civil war is imminent.85 Residents are struck by the impending doom of the war (Theb. 7.453 belli suprema parantis), they make their funeral arrangements (Theb. 7.462–3) and wage war even in their dreams (Theb. 7.464–5). Oedipus himself emerges from his dark cell and calls upon the Furies for vengeance, just as he did at the start of the poem (Theb. 1.74). And as she did in the first book, Tisiphone stirs up desire for war in each of the brothers (Theb. 7.467; cf. Theb. 1.123). After the crossing of the Asopus, suggestions that the war will begin are manifest.86 The fording of the Asopus is thus symbolically important: by leaving behind the Callimachean topography – Nemea, the Asopus – that postponed the narrative of violence, Statius signals that the second half of the poem will finally address the horrific warfare that comprises this chapter of the Theban story. The transition to the Iliadic half requires that stories about aetiologies and metamorphoses yield to the Roman epic tradition of starting the battle narrative in the seventh book. So Statius’ middle book implies both a beginning and an end, though not an end of ‘Odyssean’ wanderings but rather an end of aetiological narratives that created delays. He abandons the Callimachean and/or Ovidian stories of aetia and metamorphoses that called attention to non-martial narratives and that postponed the conflict. However, Statius does not follow Homeric and Vergilian models in a straightforward way. He has the Argives cross the Asopus in a manner similar to the crossing of the Rubicon in the paradigmatic epic of civil war, 84 85

86

I follow the discussion of Smolenaars (1994) 207–8 concerning textual and syntactic difficulties in these verses. McGuire (1997) 50. Smolenaars (1994) 199–202 comments on Statius’ use of the topos of the fearstricken city. Particularly interesting are the parallels provided by Lucan’s and Petronius’ Rome at the news of Caesar in Gaul. Jocasta makes an appearance in the Argive camp (Theb. 7.470–627) and nearly succeeds in convincing Polynices not to wage war against his brother and his homeland. Her appeal may thus be seen as yet another threat to the martial narrative, especially in light of Seneca’s Phoenissae, where she succeeds in stopping the war in the extant portion of the play (cf. 434–5). On the other hand, her constant emphasis on family in her speech to Polynices and the Argives ends up reinforcing the notion that this war will be about fraternas acies. In a way, then, her speech does not impede, but rather underscores the war’s fraternal dimensions. Indeed, when the war follows immediately upon her speech, the troublesome content of her words becomes realized. And in this sense, the model of (the extant part of ) Seneca’s play is overturned.

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thereby suggesting that in the tradition of the Bellum civile, his upcoming battles and heroes will be debased. With the allusions to Lucan, the delays and threats to civil war are abandoned and Statius’ poem reaches, finally, its intended narrative goal: Lucanian fraternas acies. In the workings of the poem, these battles also realize the goals of Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines. The next chapter looks at the deaths of the Argive heroes in order to see how these battles instantiate the poetics of the manufacturers of the necklace.

chapter 5

Heroic deaths

After Thebaid 4–7 and the many impediments to the Argive march and the commencement of battle narrative, the poem takes up its theme of fraternas acies at the end of the seventh book and vigorously pursues it in Thebaid 8–11. In the central books of his epic, Statius had pitted Callimachean aetiologies against martial themes, and the battles he finally relates may thus be expected to reflect an anti-Callimachean poetic agenda that exemplifies the narrative of violence and intestine warfare created in part by the Telchines. In this chapter, I argue that the accounts of the battles that dominate the second half of the Thebaid indeed do represent an anti-Callimachean, or a ‘Telchinic’, narrative strategy. Statius’ descriptions of these heroic battles and deaths draw on themes and stories – such as the war between the Giants or stories from the so-called epic cycle – that both Callimachus himself and Roman poets who drew upon Callimachean authority had vilified or refused to address. Because his predecessors avoided such themes, there are few textual points of contact to be made between Statius and his antecedents.1 Nonetheless, the literary tradition briefly touches upon these themes and stories in ways that allow comparison. This chapter focuses on the deaths of five of the Seven – Tydeus, Hippomedon, Capaneus, Parthenopaeus and finally Polynices – that are spread out over the final third of the epic. A sixth leader, Amphiaraus, is not killed, but he does ride his chariot into hell, and his exit from the poem will be the starting point of this chapter. Propertius had marked the prophet’s descent into the underworld as an unsuitable topic for a Callimachean poet (2.34.31–40), so the literary affiliation of that scene had been established. In addition, Amphiaraus’ entry into the realm of the dead shapes the remainder of the poem in that it prompts Dis to complain about 1

The ancient poets who did handle such themes are largely lost to us, thus limiting analysis as well. Statius had access to more texts than we do, as Ahl (1986) 2815 n. 21 points out.

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the violation of universal boundaries.2 And in his objection, the god sets the stage for subsequent battles and deaths: . . . fratres alterna in uulnera laeto Marte ruant; sit qui rabidarum more ferarum mandat atrox hostile caput, quique igne supremo arceat exanimes et manibus aethera nudis commaculet: iuuet ista ferum spectare Tonantem. praeterea ne sola furor mea regna lacessat, quaere deis qui bella ferat, qui fulminis ignes infestumque Iouem clipeo fumante repellat. faxo haud sit cunctis leuior metus atra mouere Tartara frondenti quam iungere Pelion Ossae. Theb. 8.70–9

Let the brothers rush to kill each other in pleasing warfare; let there be a savage who, like a mad animal, eats his enemy’s head, and another one who prohibits the dead from the funeral pyre and pollutes the air with naked corpses. Let the fierce Thunderer enjoy the spectacle. Moreover, let the madness not provoke only my kingdom: find one to wage war against the gods and repel furious Jupiter and his thunderbolts of fire with a smoking shield. I will bring it about that everyone fears disturbing black Tartarus no less than piling Mount Pelion on leafy Ossa.

Dis prescribes the deaths of three of the seven leaders who marched against Thebes (Polynices, Tydeus and Capaneus), and essentially sets the agenda for the war. Indeed, the unusual verb faxo often has legal colouring, and seemingly mandates the upcoming conflicts.3 In particular, the ruler of the underworld wants these battles to illustrate the dangers of interfering with his realm, just as the battle between the Olympians and Giants – the Gigantomachy, the battle in which the earth-born Giants attacked the Olympian gods by piling one mountain on top of another in order to reach the heavens, thus threatening the order of the universe – indicated the hazards of assaulting Olympus. Dis suggests that the battles in Thebaid 8–11 will affect the cosmic arrangement. Dis’ comparison of these battles to the Gigantomachy works on a literary level as well. Roman poets – such as Horace (Carm. 2.12.6), Ovid (Am. 2.1.11, Tr. 2.69) and the author of the Culex (27) – were averse to accounts of 2 3

Lovatt (2005) 273–5 discusses the violation of boundaries in this scene and the resulting generic disruption. Faxo is only sporadically attested in poetry, but it is found in legal texts of this period; see Oakley (1997) on Livy 6.41.12.

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Gigantomachy.4 Callimacheanism explicitly underpins this aversion at Propertius 2.1.39–40 (sed neque Phlegraeos Iovis Enceladique tumultus / intonet angusto pectore Callimachus) and at 3.9.43–8 (inter Callimachi sat erit placuisse libellos . . . te duce vel Iovis arma canam caeloque minantem / Coeum et Phlegraeis Oromedonta iugis).5 Such aversion to this theme is so strong that Stephen Hinds has suggested that ‘to any writer with an ounce of Callimacheanism in his make-up this theme [i.e. Gigantomachy] more than any other stands for the sort of unacceptable pomposity repudiated in the Aetia preface [i.e. Aetia F 1.1.19–20].’6 Yet this grandiosity is exalted by Dis when he characterizes the upcoming battles: . . . i, Tartareas ulciscere sedes, Tisiphone; si quando nouis asperrima monstris, triste, insuetum, ingens, quod nondum viderit aether, ede nefas, quod mirer ego invideantque sorores. Theb. 8.65–9

Tisiphone, go and avenge the underworld. If you have ever been ruthless by using strange monsters, bring forth an atrocity, that is terrible, unusual and huge, which the sky has never seen before. The sort of thing that I may marvel at and your sisters begrudge.

The god’s demand for war of the type that has never been seen before may be read from a literary-historical perspective: Statius’ battle scenes will far surpass those of earlier epic. In addition, in the actual scenes that relate these deaths, those concerning Tydeus and Capaneus are characterized in ways that align them with poetic styles or themes that are antithetical to Callimacheansim, and the mutual fratricide of Eteocles and Polynices eliminates delay, that Callimachean strategy that Statius has employed throughout the epic. The self-conscious advertisement of the content and hyperbolic extravagance that will define these scenes may thus be read as part of an anti-Callimachean poetic agenda.7 In the workings of the Thebaid, 4

5 6 7

Innes (1979) 165; Hardie (1986) 87 n. 7. Horace Carm. 3.4.42–65 and Ovid Met. 1.151–62 relate details of the struggle between Giants and Olympians, so there is no reason to assume a strict orthodoxy of poetic ideals. Poets used the topic according to their own needs and interests. Callimacheanism may underlie additional passages: Nisbet and Hubbard (1978) 189 suggest a possible Callimachean background for Horace; McKeown (1998) 10 for Ovid. Hinds (1987) 129. This is not to say Callimachus does not refer to the Giants: at F 119.3 clear mention is made of the war with the Giants, but not much else remains to contextualize the reference. On this reading, excess and hyperbole are part of a narrative strategy and thus escape the simplistic labelling of scenes as grotesque or excessive (e.g. Williams (1972) 66; Vessey (1986) 3006). Hutchinson (1993) 121–4 interestingly discusses the idea of extravagance in the Nemean episode in which the colossal snake is opposed by small Opheltes. The play between extravagance and the small Callimachean Opheltes in the Nemean books encourages a reading of excess elsewhere in a Callimachean vein.

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it becomes clear that these battles realize the designs and exemplify the literary values of the creators of the necklace. The death scenes involving Hippomedon and Parthenopaeus also make use of Callimachean poetics. Statius has the Asopus, a river of Callimachean heritage that had been encountered in Thebaid 7, join forces with his brother to overwhelm Hippomedon. As in that earlier encounter, this contest between the grand hero and the river functions on a literary level, since the river leaves behind Callimachean ideals and engages in warfare. Parthenopaeus’ death, for its part, stems from a conversation between Venus and Mars that patently builds upon earlier scenes concerning their affair and the consequent narrative of violence that results from it. These five deaths and Amphiaraus’ entry into the underworld, then, variously instantiate or realize the ‘Telchinic’ narrative that was created when Vulcan and his assistants made the necklace to destroy the children of Harmonia. amphiaraus Amphiaraus explicitly links his descent into the underworld with the creation of the necklace. In his final words, the prophet asks his patron Apollo to exact vengeance from his wicked wife: . . . nunc voce suprema si qua recessuro debetur gratia vati deceptum tibi, Phoebe, larem poenasque nefandae coniugis et pulchrum nati commendo furorem. Theb. 7.785–8

Now with my final words, if there is any favour owed to your departing prophet, Apollo, I entrust to you my deceived hearth and the punishment of my wicked wife and the beautiful madness of my son.

Amphiaraus’ betrayal by Eriphyle, his nefanda coniunx, results from her desire to possess the necklace that Vulcan and his assistants wrought for Harmonia.8 Indeed, it had been revealed earlier in the poem that Amphiaraus’ involvement in the expedition against Thebes was due to her desire for the necklace (Theb. 4.192–213). His death, then, straightforwardly illustrates the efficacy of Vulcan’s creation, and aligns this battle scene with the ‘Telchinic’ narrative strategy. In framing Amphiaraus’ descent into the underworld in such terms, Statius follows the lead of Propertius, who advises his friend Lynceus 8

Smolenaars (1994) 373.

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that stories such as Amphiaraus’ descent into hell will not help him in matters of love. Propertius then adds that Callimachean poetry will help (2.34.31–40), and he thus creates an opposition between the seer’s departure and Callimachean poetry. Significantly, however, Propertius allows that the story of Archemorus and Arion’s victory at the Nemean games is acceptable for a Callimachean.9 Statius follows Propertius’ assessments about the Callimachean parts of the Theban story: he relates Arion’s victory during the aetion of the Nemean games, an aetion that, as we have seen, is Callimachean (Theb. 6.389–512). During that episode, however, Statius calls attention to Amphiaraus’ descent by mentioning that the earth groaned even then (Theb. 6.527 iam tum), a claim that clearly anticipates the prophet’s plunge into the underworld. But that event is avoided during the aetion, as if to indicate that it cannot be related during a Callimachean moment. Rather, it must be postponed until the martial half of the poem when the Callimachean delays have been abolished and the ‘Telchinic’ narrative asserts itself. In this way, Statius builds upon Propertius’ Callimacheanism and its relation to the exit of the seer. Amphiaraus’ aristeia also reveals a manifest Callimachean background. During the prophet’s killing spree, for instance, Hypseus prays to his father to help him stop Amphiaraus:10 aspicit has longe iamdudum Asopius Hypseus palantum strages ardetque avertere pugnam, quamquam haud ipse minus curru Tirynthia fundens robora; sed viso praesens minor augure sanguis: illum armis animisque cupit. prohibebat iniquo agmine consertum cunei latus; inde superbus exeruit patriis electum missile ripis, ac prius: ‘Aonidum dives largitor aquarum, clare Giganteis etiamnum, Asope, favillis, da numen dextrae: rogat hoc natusque tuique quercus alumna vadi; fas et me spernere Phoebum, si tibi conlatus divum sator. omnia mergam fontibus arma tuis tristesque sine augure vittas.’ audierat genitor: vetat indulgere volentem Phoebus, et aurigam iactus detorquet in Hersen. Theb. 7.723–37 9 10

This makes sense since Archemorus, at least, was part of Callimachus’ treatment of the foundation of the Nemean games (SH 254–69). Smolenaars (1994) 322 observes that the aristeia of Diomedes ranks among the several models for this scene. Statius’ first aristeia in his ‘Iliadic’ half thus appropriately draws upon the first one in the Iliad.

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Hypseus, descended from the Asopus, for a while has looked from afar upon the heaps of scattered troops and is eager to turn aside the fight, even though he was routing the Tirynthian forces from his chariot. But that bloodshed seemed minor after he saw the prophet. Hypseus desires him with spirit and weapons but a tight flank of enemy soldiers kept him away. Then proudly he took a missile taken from his father’s banks and first says, ‘Rich provider of Aonian streams, Asopus, famous even now for ashes created by the thunderbolt, grant divine favour to my right hand: Your child and his oak, nursling of your stream, ask for this. It is right for me to despise Apollo, if the father of the gods clashed with you. I shall submerge in your water all the arms and the prophetic fillets that will be sad without their seer.’ His father heard, but Apollo forbids to grant his desires and turns the shot against Herses, the charioteer.

Hypseus twice mentions the Asopus’ earlier failed attempt to stop Jupiter (Theb. 7.723, 731). That story was told in the catalogue of Theban forces and had a Callimachean pedigree, so the recollection of that scene here calls attention to the poetic tradition from which the river stems. Yet the Callimachean tradition is not the only one at work in this passage. The adjective Giganteis alludes to the thunderbolt with which Jupiter beat back the Asopus, but it does so specifically by evoking his fight against the Giants.11 The fight between the Asopus and Jupiter is thus cast in Gigantomachic terms, and Hypseus aptly draws an analogy between his own attack against Apollo and that earlier fight between his father, the Callimachean Asopus, and Jupiter. This comparison implies a central point of the Gigantomachic myth – that there is a threat to the divine order – but the defeat of the Asopus and Hypseus by Olympian forces implies stability and order in the cosmic arrangement. The global impact of Amphiaraus’ perverse ‘catabasis’ is nonetheless felt for the remainder of the poem. Dis complains about the breach of conventional boundaries, a violation that replicates the descents into the underworld by Hercules, Orpheus, Theseus and his comrade Pirithous. So too Dis laments that Castor and Pollux are allowed to cross the line between the living and the dead (Theb. 8.48–58). The lord of the underworld adds that while these mortals transgress boundaries, he was partially thwarted the one time he left his kingdom in order to take Persephone to his home (Theb. 8.61–2). Since he is not allowed to control the third of the universe that was apportioned to him (Theb. 8.38–40), Dis proposes that all borders be dissolved (Theb. 8.37 pereant agedum discrimina rerum), an idea that is central to the poem as a whole. At the start of the epic, for example, Statius 11

The adjective also hints at the Cyclopes’ involvement in making Jupiter’s weapons; see Smolenaars (1994) 349.

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himself expresses anxiety about the proper limit for his poem (Theb. 1.16), and he also indicates that the brothers had confused the boundaries at Thebes (Theb. 1.136–7). But Dis’ vision has implications that go beyond civic governance. He views Amphiaraus’ incursion into the underworld as a battle between himself and one of his brothers (Theb. 8.36 uter haec mihi proelia fratrum?). Given that Neptune is virtually invisible in the Thebaid,12 there can be little doubt which brother is meant here. The descent into the underworld thus catalyses a struggle between Dis and Jupiter for control of the universe. The conflict between the divine brothers obviously reflects the larger concerns of the Thebaid. Indeed, later in the poem Dis declares that the fight between Eteocles and Polynices replicates his conflict with Jupiter (Theb. 11. 69–71 atque adeo fratres (nostrique haec omina sunto / prima odii), fratres alterna in vulnera laeto / Marte ruant). The decisive conflict between Oedipus’ sons thus involves divine hierarchies, and it concludes a chain of struggles that test Olympian authority. Statius’ battles, then, re-enact a central point of the Gigantomachy. But they perversely deviate from that mythic model because the final conflict downplays the Olympians and their role in ordering the universe. In fact, the final battle reveals that the Olympians and Jupiter have lost control. The typical outcome of the Gigantomachic myth is thus overturned, and the process by which this happens starts with Dis’ reaction to Amphiaraus’ ride to hell. Pointedly, the literary framework surrounding the seer’s departure suggests that the Callimachean tradition loses out, and that the aims of Vulcan and his co-workers have been realized. t yd eus Tydeus’ aristeia and death also illustrate Statius’ ‘Telchinic’ narrative strategy. Tydeus dominates much of Thebaid 8,13 but the verses leading up to his death are particularly marked (Theb. 8.663 Tydeos illa dies). Statius’ episode draws heavily upon epic diction and themes to enhance the hero’s final blaze of glory. For example, Statius uses the prototypical epic adjective ingens to describe Tydeus’ fight (Theb. 8.688–9 ingens / pugna),14 and epic diction characterizes his rush against the Thebans (Theb. 8.689 stricto . . . ense): ensis had become a poetic alternative to gladius,15 and the verb stringo 12 13 14 15

Feeney (1991) 350 n. 125 observes that Neptune acts only once in the entire Thebaid. Vessey (1973) 283–92 contains a good discussion of Tydeus, particularly in the first half of Thebaid 8. For the epic connotations of ingens, see Ingvarsson (1950); Skutsch (1985) 366; Harrison (1991) 94. Axelson (1945) 51 and Lyne (1989) 103–4 discuss the poetic character of ensis as opposed to gladius.

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appears for the first time in extant epic in Virgil.16 Statius also offers a brief resume of four soldiers killed by Tydeus (Theb. 8.696–8), perhaps displaying a Virgilian tendency to reduce such lists from their greater length in Homeric epic.17 The epic pedigree is reinforced by the first words of a speech Tydeus delivers in the midst of his aristeia. When he identifies himself as the one who alone vanquished fifty Thebans (Theb. 8.666–7 ille ego inexpletis solus qui caedibus hausi / quinquaginta animas), he alludes to his single-handed defeat of an ambush sent by Eteocles (Theb. 2.482–743). The implication of his boast is that the present battle will also be one against many.18 This motif of the single warrior facing the onslaught of the enemy stems from the Iliad, where Ajax, for example, fights the Trojans before finally giving way and allowing them to ignite the Greek ships (Il. 16.102–14). Ennius followed the Homeric example (Ann. 391–8 Skutsch), and, as Macrobius pointed out, his account influenced a Virgilian depiction of Turnus (Aen. 9.806–14).19 In turn, Statius’ Tydeus is partially indebted to Virgil’s character.20 Gordon Williams has demonstrated that an even stronger model for Statius’ Tydeus is Lucan’s Scaeva: Statius’ description of spears sticking in the bones (Theb. 8.702 summis haec ossibus haerent) draws upon Lucan’s diction (BC 6.195 stantis in summis ossibus hastas), and the claim that Tydeus’ shield was riddled with spears (Theb. 8.704–5 densis iam consitus hastis / ferratum quatit umbo nemus) evokes the many spears that pierced Scaeva’s chest (BC 6.205 densamque ferens in pectore silvam).21 The similarity between the two characters is also made clear through Tydeus’ opening words (Theb. 8.664 quo terga datis), which combine the words of two sentences that begin one of Scaeva’s speeches (BC 6.150–2 quo vos pavor . . . adegit impius et cunctis ignotus Caesaris armis? terga datis morti?). Finally, the emphatic repetition of illum . . . illum (BC 6.189) that underscores the universal attack on Scaeva reappears in Statius’ description of the Theban effort against Tydeus (Theb. 8.694).22 Scaeva is of course a problematic exemplar. As Lucan says: pronus ad omne nefas et qui nesciret in armis quam magnum virtus crimen civilibus esset. BC 6.147–8 16 17 18 20

21 22

Horsfall (2000) 347. Heinze (1993) 156–7 notes Virgil’s avoidance of long lists of slain warriors. 19 Skutsch (1985) 556–9 contains the relevant passages. Vessey (1973) 292. Williams (1978) 203 points out a verbal parallel between Theb. 8.705 (fatiscit) and Aen. 9.809 (fatiscunt) as well as thematic similarities (the heroes lose the crest of their helmets; the noise of stones raining down upon the heroes). Williams (1978) 203; Henderson (1991) 57. For a general discussion of the repetition of pronouns in Flavian epic, see Wills (1996) 78.

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Scaeva was ready for all atrocities and did not know how great a crime virtue was in civil war.

This passage – and indeed Scaeva’s entire aristeia – illustrates that virtus has become criminal, and concomitantly that norms of heroic epic have been perverted.23 And when Statius characterizes Tydeus as improbus (Theb. 8.693), it is clear that he too will be troublesome.24 So Tydeus’ epic credentials are well established, but the model of Scaeva represents a debasement of the Homeric and Virgilian heroes. Statius’ starkest departure from Homeric and Virgilian norms occurs just before Tydeus dies. He kills many Thebans during his aristeia, but eventually he becomes exhausted (Theb. 8.701–15). The Theban soldier Melanippus then deals the hero a deadly blow. But before he dies, the Argives pull Tydeus out of the fray. The hero then demands the head of Melanippus, and, after Capaneus brings the wounded enemy to his comrade, Tydeus eats his foe’s brains. The scene is so offensive that Tydeus’ patron, Minerva, who had turned away to see Jupiter in an effort to help her beloved (Theb. 8.715), forsakes him and decides not to bestow immortality upon him (Theb. 8.759 decus immortale).25 Minerva’s disgust with Tydeus seems misdirected in that Dis had specifically requested this atrocity (Theb. 8.71–2), and the hero is thus in some sense a victim of divine wishes. But by refusing to honour Tydeus with the kind of posthumous glory that gods could give mortals, Minerva does not benefit her favourite the way that Diana, for example, had done for Camilla (Aen. 11.845–7).26 Tydeus’ loss of immortality reflects an awkward or even perverted relationship between gods and humans in the Thebaid. This shocking scene of cannibalism also needs to be understood in light of the literary tradition. The death of Tydeus is referred to at Iliad 14.114 with no mention of his cannibalism; indeed he comes across favourably throughout the Homeric poem (cf. Il. 4.376–400; 5.800–8). And although in the Aeneid there is a graphic scene of brains splattering across a warrior’s face (Aen. 11.696), Statius’ Tydeus pushes epic to an ugly extreme. Indeed, the hero’s decadence is manifest when Statius describes him as ‘soaked in decay’ (Theb. 8.760 perfusum tabe). So Homeric and Virgilian epic do not 23 24 25 26

Conte (1974); Henderson (1987) 126; Bartsch (1997) 52; Sklenˆar (2003) 49–58. See Mynors (1990) 30 on improbus and the violation of proper behaviour. For Statius’ rendering of the Greek ' through decus immortale, see Beazley (1947) 5. The phrase surpasses the epic ideal of undying glory (e.g. Il. 9.413). Indeed the deaths of the two heroes are similar in that both Melanippus and Arruns, the killer of Camilla, slink back into the crowd after delivering the mortal blow (Aen. 11.806; Theb. 8.718–21). Such behaviour does occur elsewhere in epic, however (cf. Il. 13.528–33; 16.813–4).

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offer a model for Statius’ scene, but Tydeus’ debased actions are paralleled in the Thebais, one of the poems of the so-called epic cycle.27 Although the cannibalism scene does not survive, a scholium on Il. 5.126 preserves key details: I 3 X ^Z- - & 5J e *5J  -; <4 9 " +" &' . +!-   4 9 8 !8 &0 I % ( , L8 X I 3 4 & ! &0! 4 '". +' F  7 I % ', Z " 4 , ! L4. I 3  " & #' / '" K j 5J  ( L" @ k 8 '. f [ E ( % . (Thebais, F 9.I Bernab´e)28 Oineus’ son Tydeus in the Theban War was wounded by Astacus’ son Melanippus. Amphiaraus killed Melanippus and brought back his head and Tydeus split it open and swallowed the brains in a moment of passion. And Athena, who was bringing Tydeus immortality, saw the atrocity and turned away from him. Tydeus recognized this and begged the goddess to bestow immortality upon his son. This story is in the cyclic poets.

Statius’ account obviously differs from this version. For example, in the Thebaid Amphiaraus does not bring the head of Melanippus to Tydeus,29 and this departure from the account found in the cycle places culpability squarely upon the shoulders of Tydeus. Nonetheless, the act of cannibalism connects Statius’ scene and the epic cycle.30 Statius’ Tydeus may have additional links with the epic cycle. As if to reinforce the lack of order surrounding Tydeus, the narrative does not end with the close of the eighth book, but spills over into the first thirty or so verses of Thebaid 9.31 He is described in the first two verses of the book as ‘bloody’ (cruenti / Tydeos), an appropriate adjective given what has just happened. In addition, Statius’ diction echoes Virgil’s description of Tydeus’ son Diomedes after he slaughtered Rhesus and other Trojans (Aen. 1.471 Tydides multa vastabat caede cruentus).32 That scene is portrayed in one of the pictures that adorns Juno’s temple in Carthage, and intriguingly all of 27 28 29 30

31 32

For Thebais as epic cycle, see Bernab´e F 3, 8. Burgess (2001) 15–16 discusses the formation of the cycle. Scholia in other manuscripts cite Pherecydes as the source of the story; I follow Beazley’s assessment (1947) 3 that he was ‘likely the intermediate source, but the ultimate source was epic’. Libanius is the only other ancient source to report a version similar to Statius’ (Beazley (1947) 4). Many authors briefly mention that Tydeus devoured Melanippus’ brains (Beazley (1947) 4), but Statius and the cycle are uniquely similar in that both relate the eating and subsequent loss of immortality. This scene is common in the visual arts. Like those in the Aeneid, the conclusions of Statius’ books are normally tightly structured and allow little overlap. Fowler (2000) 251–9 considers book endings more generally. Dewar (1991) 58.

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these images have a literary background. The scene with Diomedes, for example, derives from Iliad 10, and other scenes come from poems of the epic cycle such as the Aethiopis (Aen. 1.489 concerns Memnon; Aen. 1.490–3 depicts Penthesilea) and the Cypria (Aen. 1.474–8 represents Troilus).33 In fact, as Alessandro Barchiesi has noted, the cyclic epics essentially frame these pictures: before describing these images, Virgil states that these battles scenes were now broadcast throughout the world (Aen. 1.457 bellaque iam fama totum vulgata per orbem). The Latin word orbem is equivalent to the Greek . , and vulgata resonates with post-Callimachean descriptions of the cycle in ancient poetry.34 In addition, Virgil seems to evoke the sequentially oriented narrative style of the epic cycle (Aen. 1.456 ex ordine).35 Of course, Virgil himself eschews a chronologically strict mode of storytelling, and the images Aeneas sees serve as a foil to Virgil’s own poetic enterprise. Indeed, the relationship between the Aeneid and the literary past is analogically captured by Aeneas’ recognition of himself in the pictures, a crystallization of a dynamic relationship between past representations of Aeneas and the current Virgilian scene (Aen. 1.488 se quoque principibus permixtum agnovit Achivis).36 Statius’ Tydeus has a similar moment of self-recognition just before he gnaws upon Melanippus’ head (Theb. 8.753 seseque agnovit in illo), and the verbal parallel with Aeneas’ moment of self-recognition invites consideration of Tydeus’ self-awareness: how is it that he sees himself through Melanippus? Like Virgil’s Aeneas, is it from literary past, in particular from the cyclic epics? While Virgilian mediation of the epic cycle remains possible, the cannibalism scene clearly derives from the cycle, and this literary-historical fact bears upon Statius’ narrative strategies because Callimachus had unequivocally denounced cyclic poems (Ep. 28.1  A@'- 4   4 > 0).37 Tydeus’ consumption of Melanippus’ brains thus derives from the poetic tradition that Callimachus abhorred. For the first death of the Seven, Statius draws upon the poetry of both the cycle and Lucan to amplify Tydeus’ aristeia in an effort to help realize the perverted and debased epic world that Vulcan and his assistants had hoped for. 33 34 35

36 37

Kopff (1981) and Fraenkel (1932) 242–8 discuss Virgil’s use of the epic cycle elsewhere in the Aeneid. Horsfall (2003) 465–72 is sceptical. Barchiesi (1999) 333–4. For the sequential style of the epic cycle, see Pollianus AP 11.130.1 (3  . , 3 ‘LE ’   / 5 ). Barchiesi (1999) 333–4 discusses ex ordine and its rhetorical background. Barchiesi (1999) 333. Aristotle (Poetics 1459a37–1459b2) and Horace (AP 136) also disparage cyclic epic, so criticism of these poems was not unusual.

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hippomed on Like Tydeus, Hippomedon has an aristeia that ultimately leads to his death. During his assault, Hippomedon kills his foes and subsequently tosses their bodies into the river Ismenos. One of his victims happens to be the river’s grandson Crenaeus, thus inspiring the Ismenos to exact revenge, resulting in an intense struggle. But the Ismenos does not act alone. His brother, the Callimachean Asopus, lends his strength and helps to overwhelm Hippomedon. Since big rivers often represent the sort of undesirable artistry that Callimachean poets avoid (cf. h. Ap. 108   :0 ), the puffed-up Asopus embodies that scorned literary programme (Theb. 9.449 frater tacitas Asopus eunti / conciliat vires et hiulcis flumina venis suggerit). Just as happened with the river in Thebaid 7, the Asopus’ Callimachean pedigree conflicts with its size. Other parts of the episode of Hippomedon’s aristeia also invite consideration from a Callimachean perspective.38 For example, the episode begins with an appeal to the Muses that has strong Hellenistic colouring: nunc age, quis tumidis magnum expugnaverit undis Hippomedonta labor, cur ipse excitus in arma Ismenos, doctae nosse indulgete sorores: vestrum opus ire retro et senium depellere famae. gaudebat Fauno nymphaque Ismenide natus maternis bellare tener Crenaeus in undis, Crenaeus, cui prima dies in gurgite fido et natale vadum et virides cunabula ripae. Theb. 9.315–22

Now come on, learned sisters, allow me to know what toil destroyed great Hippomedon in the raging waters, why Ismenos himself was called to arms. It is your job to go back and drive old age away from fame. Young Crenaeus, the son of Faunus and the nymph Ismenis, rejoiced to fight in his mother’s waters, Crenaeus, whose first day was in the protective stream and whose cradle was the water that gave birth to him and its green banks.

The Muses are doctae, a word that Statius elsewhere uses to refer periphrastically to Callimachus (Silv. 5.3.108 doctave Cyrene).39 Also, the repetition of Crenaeus’ name in consecutive verses is a characteristic of Hellenistic poetic style (Theb. 9.320, 321).40 Moreover, later in the episode Crenaeus is compared to Glaucus, Triton and Melicertes, three mythological figures of great 38 39 40

Delarue (2000) 57 comments more generally on the Alexandrian nature of this scene. See Dewar (1991) 120 for additional Hellenistic resonance behind doctae. Dewar (1991) 120.

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appeal to Hellenistic poets, especially Callimachus.41 Crenaeus’ Alexandrian background loosely matches that of his great-uncle, and since the river was not able to withstand Hippomedon in Thebaid 7, we may anticipate that the youth will also fail in his fight. However, whereas Hippomedon overruns the Callimachean river to help start the war in Thebaid 7, here the Asopus outdoes Hippomedon. The grandiose nature of the river is revealed by the fact that both the Ismenos and the Asopus are in full spate when they attack Hippomedon (Theb. 9.446 furentibus undis; 455–6 super ripas utroque extantior ibat / aggere; 459–60 tumidi fluctus animosaque surgit / tempestas instar pelagi; 466 cumulo maiore; 482 turbidus). Since the Ismenos was clearly a huge and mighty river even before the fight (413 tantus tumido de gurgite surgit; 418–19 stetit arduus alto / amne), its inflated strength suggests that the waters in which Hippomedon perishes are markedly un-Callimachean. And elevated language and themes permeate Hippomedon’s aristeia. In Statius’ invocation of the Muses, for instance, the words nunc age echo Virgil’s appeal to the Muses at the start of the martial half of the Aeneid (Aen. 7.37). Similarly, the word arma suggests the martial direction of the narrative (Theb. 9.316). The style is also elevated. The vocative of the past participle, for example, is a mark of high style (Theb. 9.440 oblite; cf. too 9.478 famulate; 9.479 experte).42 And when Hippomedon laments that drowning is a disgraceful death, Juno intervenes and uses archaic language to address Jupiter (9.511–12 quonam miseros, sator inclute divum, / Inachidas, quonam usque premas?):43 inclute sounded archaic even in Ennius (Ann. 146 Skutsch),44 and the syncopated genitive plural divum reinforces that tone. Moreover, the diction of the address to Jupiter varies the Homeric description of Zeus (e.g. Il. 1.544 8  5  '5) and evokes a similar description that appears in Ennius (Ann. 203 Skutsch). The elevated language is matched by the content. Hippomedon’s fight with the Ismenos shares manifest similarities with Achilles’ clash with the river Scamander.45 For instance, the Ismenos’ claim that its waters are clogged with corpses (Theb. 9.429–30) replicates the Scamander’s statement (Il. 21.218–20).46 Further, the enlistment of the Asopus as an ally is modelled upon the Scamander’s call to the Simois to help him against Achilles (Il. 21.307–23).47 It is not only the rivers that are similar: Hippomedon grabs an overhanging tree branch when the river overwhelms him 41 44 46 47

42 Ibid. 143; 147. 43 Ibid. 156. Dewar (1991) 121–2. 45 Delarue (2000) 54–5. Skutsch (1985) 302. Dewar (1991) 140; Juhnke (1972) 361 also notes a similarity to Il. 21.300. Delarue (2000) 54.

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(Theb. 9.492–6), a clear echo of Achilles’ action at Iliad 21.242–5,48 and both heroes lament the ignominy of a death through drowning (Il. 21.279– 83; Theb. 9.506–10).49 In the end, however, Statius’ Hippomedon outdoes even Achilles. Whereas Achilles was unable to gain secure footing in the Scamander (Il. 21.269–71), Hippomedon stands firm against the river (Theb. 9.473 stat terra fugiente gradus).50 In addition, Achilles’ shield was useless against the river (Il. 21.241), yet Hippomedon uses his to repel the Asopus and Ismenos (Theb. 9.463). Hippomedon may be modelled upon the Homeric Achilles, but he outstrips his predecessor in his miraculous battle with the river. These superhuman feats that could not be rivalled even by Achilles, the paragon of epic heroism, mark the extreme nature of this grand and hyperbolic episode.51 The poetic underpinning of this passage is implied by the Callimachean background of the river that unleashes its waters and joins forces with a second raging river to subdue Hippomedon. The Asopus gains a measure of revenge from the hero, but it does so by abandoning Callimachean values of small-scale streams and poetics. In a reversal of the middle books of the epic, where heroic battles were deferred by Callimachean topography, here rivers partake in battles that counteract Callimachean poetics. Statius’ Telchines have gained a literary victory in this battle. parthenopaeus Parthenopaeus may be the most Virgilian of Statius’ Seven. He is modelled upon Camilla, as is evident from his infancy spent in the woods under Diana’s care, his precocious use of weapons, and ultimately his death and the goddess’ reaction to it.52 His death also evokes that of Euryalus.53 The resemblances to a female warrior and an ephebe, each of whom dies young, reinforce his inexperience,54 and establish that this scene will not exhibit the sort of hyper-epic behaviour of Tydeus and Hippomedon, two experienced warriors. Nonetheless, Parthenopaeus dies in as scene that embodies an anti-Callimachean poetic agenda in that the episode manifestly alludes to the destructive narrative that was put in place when Vulcan, the Telchines and the Cyclopes created Argia’s necklace. 48 49 50 52 54

Juhnke (1972) 361; Dewar (1991) 152. Juhnke (1972) 362; Dewar (1991) 155; Ripoll (1998) 224 n. 114. 51 Klinnert (1970) 113–18; Delarue (2000) 55. Dewar (1991) 149. 53 Ibid. 218. Dewar (1991) 173. Parthenopaeus is introduced in the catalogue as inexperienced (Theb. 4.247), and that point resurfaces throughout his aristeia.

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After Parthenopaeus has killed numerous Thebans, Venus speaks to Mars about chasing away Diana, who has aided and inspired the young hero during his aristeia: viderat hanc caeli iamdudum in parte remota Gradivum complexa Venus, dumque anxia Thebas commemorat Cadmumque viro caraeque nepotes Harmoniae, pressum tacito sub corde dolorem tempestiva movet: ‘nonne hanc, Gradive, protervam virginitate vides mediam se ferre virorum coetibus, utque acies audax et Martia signa temperet? en etiam donat praebetque necandos tot nostra de gente viros. huic tradita virtus, huic furor? agrestes superest tibi figere dammas.’ Theb. 9.821–30

As she embraced Mars in a remote part of the heavens, Venus had been eyeing Diana for a while, so she anxiously talks to her man about Thebes and Cadmus and the descendents of dear Harmonia. Taking advantage of the moment, she stirs the resentment hidden in her heart. ‘Do you not see, Gradivus, how she, bold in her virginity, carries herself in the midst of the clashes of men, and how boldly she governs battles lines and martial standards? Look, she hands over so many of our men to be killed. Have valour and madness been handed over to her? For you it remains to shoot wild deer.’

As if to avoid being detected again by Vulcan and the other gods, Venus and Mars here meet in privacy (Theb. 9.821 caeli . . . in parte remota). Their affair is clearly implied and calls to mind their earlier conversation about the war in Thebes (Theb. 3.260–323). In fact, both conversations begin with a set of questions from Venus, after which she expresses concern about the safety of Cadmus, Harmonia and their children (Theb. 3.270; Theb. 9.823 nepotes).55 That previous conversation allusively revealed Vulcan’s intent to destroy Thebes through the necklace, and the recollection of it here underscores the immanence of Vulcan’s sinister plan. Indeed, when Mars springs to action after Venus’ urging, he is accompanied by Anger (Theb. 9.833 Ira comes), the singular form of one of the malicious forces who had helped to create the necklace (Theb. 2.287). Her presence indicates the potency of the necklace at this point. Unlike the scene in Thebaid 3, however, here Venus is worried that Mars’ inactivity – not his activity – will lead to the destruction of her children by allowing Parthenopaeus and Diana to run riot. She provokes Mars by impugning his manhood, particularly emphasizing the incongruity 55

Dewar (1991) 209.

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of a virgin’s success in war (Theb. 9.825–6 proteruam / uirginitate) amidst so many men (Theb. 9.826 virorum, Theb. 9.829 viros; cf. also virtus).56 Moreover, Mars himself is surprisingly dubbed Venus’ vir (Theb. 9.823). Her strategy works, and the war god responds to her emasculating questions by hurrying into battle. The verb desiluit (9.831) echoes his earlier leap from his chariot to hug Venus (Theb. 3.293), and just as in that previous meeting Mars showed no signs of hesitation, so too here he hurries off without any delay (Theb. 9.832–4; cf. Theb. 3.293). Although Venus has different intentions here, the scene replays the narrative implications of their earlier conversation: the cuckolder Mars unknowingly effects the narrative destruction desired by Vulcan. The family that is targeted for destruction, however, is not the Theban clan. After all, Venus implores Mars to intervene precisely in order to save the Thebans from Parthenopaeus’ attack. But Mars’ participation may be just as worrisome as at that earlier moment when he unreflectively pursued the slaughter of his Theban children. Though Statius does not indicate who sired Parthenopaeus, he does refer to the rape of Atalanta (Theb. 9.613 temerata). Servius (ad Aen. 6.480) and Apollodorus (3.9.2) reveal that some versions made Mars the rapist and thus the father of Parthenopaeus, so Statius’ silence about the youth’s father leaves open the possibility that Mars thoughtlessly pursues the destruction of his own child, a situation parallel to Thebaid 3, when Venus tried to stop him from stirring up war in Thebes.57 Vulcan has exacted revenge for the affair by devising the destruction of a host of Mars’ children. Parthenopaeus’ death also exemplifies the Gigantomachic theme that is alien to Callimachean poetics. To kill Parthenopaeus, who is a favourite of Diana, Mars stirs up Dryas, a Giant and a descendant of Orion.58 An old mythological struggle between Orion and Diana is thus replayed, but since Dryas wins he reverses that earlier outcome in which Diana kills Orion (Theb. 9.843–4 comitesque odisse Dianae / (inde furit) patrium). Various explanations exist for why Diana killed the hunter, but in one version she does so because he attempted to rape her.59 Interestingly, when he discusses 56 57

58 59

Keith (2000) 8–35 discusses the importance of the word vir and masculinity in Roman epic. Dewar (1991) 175–6 notes the possibility that Mars sired Parthenopaeus but is dubious because he believes that Statius would have elaborated further if Mars were actually going to kill his child. Yet in Thebaid 3 the only elaboration on Mars’ intention to kill his children comes from Venus. Similarities with Thebaid 3 may allusively call attention to the ramifications of Mars’ activity. Lovatt (2005) 77 also discusses this mythic ambiguity surrounding Parthenopaeus. Dewar (1991) 212 points out that in other mythic versions, Parthenopaeus is killed by others. Dewar (ibid.) relates the different accounts: Diana killed Orion either for his relationship with Eos (Od. 5.121–4), or for his attempt to rape her or her companion (Apollodorus 1.4.5).

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Orion’s pursuit of Diana, the mythographer Hyginus cites Callimachus as an authority for the myth (F 570 Pf.), and thus it seems that the poet’s version was influential. Perhaps, then, Statius’ account owes something to Callimachus.60 However that may be, Horace recounts Orion’s assault (Carm. 3.4.70) to underscore the punishments suffered by the Giants – of whom Orion was one – who attacked Olympus. The Gigantomachic dimensions that appear in Horace are replayed by Statius’ battle between Dryas and Parthenopaeus. Order is not deeply threatened, since Dryas achieves only a partial victory. In fact, he immediately perishes – presumably at the hands of Diana – after killing Parthenopaeus. Nonetheless this localized replaying of a conflict of cosmic dimensions reinforces that the battles in the latter half of the Thebaid draw upon Gigantomachic imagery, thereby fulfilling the wishes of Dis. At the same time, that mythic background may derive from Callimachus’ treatment of the myth. In drawing upon such a mythic background, Statius situates Parthenopaeus’ death in an anti-Callimachean tradition. Moreover, the reactions of Venus and Mars to the young soldier’s aristeia implicate the necklace and its heinous designs in his death. In these two ways, then, the episode reflects the narrative strategy that pervades the second half of the epic. capaneus The scene in which Capaneus assaults Olympus only to be smitten by Jupiter’s thunderbolt is ‘maintained at the highest possible pitch of hyperbole and extravagance’.61 This exaggerated scene encourages a reading from a Callimachean perspective in a few ways. First, Callimachus declared that thundering (or rather fulminating) is for Zeus, not for him (Aetia 1.1.20 *F L &0, E
0 ). No mention is made of Capaneus in the Aetia, but by Statius’ time his ascent to heaven nonetheless has a Callimachean heritage. When Propertius advises his friend Lynceus about what sort of poetry will help him in love, he recommends Callimachean themes (2.34.31–42). He specifically mentions that that the tragic story of Capaneus’ provocation of Jupiter will be of no avail (2.34.40), and in doing so he distinguishes grand mythic accounts from Callimachean poetry. Statius draws upon a range of literary predecessors to create a sense of poetic grandeur, and among them, tragedy is in fact prominent. Statius 60 61

Dewar (1991) 212 notes that Statius’ interest in the legend may stem from Hellenistic poetry; see also ibid. 213 on the adjective Telphusiacae and its display of doctrina. Williams (1972) 126. See also Delarue (2000) 85.

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seems to look back to Aeschylus’ description of Capaneus in the Septem (423–56), where Zeus’ smiting of the hero is a subtext at 423–36 and is made explicit at 452–3. Capaneus’ climb into the heavens and provocation of Jupiter recalls a similar scene in Euripides’ Phoenissae (1173), as does the mention of the ladder that Capaneus uses to climb to heaven (Theb. 10.841; cf. Ph. 1173). In addition, just like the inhabitants of Thebes in Euripides’ play (Ph. 1141–3), Statius’ Thebans use stones and stakes against Capaneus (Theb. 10.857–8). Finally, Capaneus’ great fall from the heights (Theb. 11.3) had been described by Euripides (Ph. 1186).62 While tragedy unquestionably influenced Statius’ account, epic diction and values dominate Statius’ scene. Virtus, gloria, and fama are put forth as possible enticements for Capaneus to attack (Theb. 10.834–5 seu virtus egressa modum seu gloria praeceps / seu magnae data fama neci),63 and a few verses later virtus is prominently emphasized as a motivational force (Theb. 10.845).64 Other words and phrases – such as memoranda facta (Theb. 11.10) and magnanimus (Theb. 11.1) – that describe Capaneus and his actions further underscore the heroic dimensions of this scene.65 Perhaps the most prominent marker of the epic nature of the episode is the fact that Capaneus, a contemptor of the gods, is modelled upon the Virgilian Mezentius (Aen. 7.648; Theb. 9.550).66 Capaneus, however, far surpasses the excess of Mezentius. In fact, Statius himself calls attention to the outrageousness of the upcoming scene in a proem that appears just before it: 62 63

64 65

66

On the death of Capaneus in general, however, Mastronarde (1994) 475 states that there are ‘no certainly identifiable close imitations of this passage [i.e. Eur. Ph. 1172–86]’ in Statius. Gloria is the Latin equivalent to   , and fama is closely related to the Greek term as well. Virtus enables one to win glory (Hellgouarc’h (1963) 371–2); thus Aeneas, e.g., exalts virtus at Aen. 12.435 (disce, puer, virtutem ex me) right before he stalks Turnus (Aen. 12.466–7). See Keith (2000) 8–35 on virtus in Roman epic; Ripoll (1998) 327–70 discusses the concept in Flavian epic. For Capaneus and glory, see Ripoll (1998) 229–32. The narrator ultimately grants this virtue to the dead hero, though qualifying the virtus as iniqua (Theb. 11.1). Magnanimus, a version of the Homeric ' or  !  , is an adjective used of epic heroes such as Achilles (e.g. Ach. 1.1; Ovid Met. 13.298) and Aeneas (e.g. Aen. 1.260; 5.17, 407). The phrase memoranda facta recalls Ajax’s speech to his fellow Greeks during the contest for Achilles’ armour at Met. 13.13 and well represents that accomplishments (facta) lead to praise of the type often found in epic poetry (e.g. Aen. 10.281–2; 11.791–2). An inscription beneath a bust of Ennius records that he commemorated maxima facta (Courtney (1993) 42–3 cites the passage). Capaneus seemingly calls attention to the scene’s grandeur when he disparages the carmen inbelle and the molli lyra that built Thebes, whose walls offer little oppositon. Both adjectives are suggestive of non-epic poetics; see, e.g., Wyke (2002) 168–75. Ripoll (1998) 340–1 discusses the influence of Virgil’s Mezentius (and of Aeschylus’ Tydeus) upon Statius’ Capaneus.

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So far warfare, trumpets, steel and wounds. But now Capaneus has to be taken to the starry vault of heaven for close combat. I cannot sing from the usual manner of poets; a greater madness has to be summoned from the Aonian groves. All you goddesses, dare with me.

Statius requires the aid of all (omnes) the Muses because his topic is so bold, as is indicated by the verb audete. Also, the poetic frenzy (amentia) that must be summoned has to be even greater (maior) than the madness that has been driving the epic all along.67 Daring and madness, as Fernand Delarue well notes, feature prominently in ancient discussions of poetic grandeur and thus situate this scene in the high style.68 Moreover, given the perversity of the battles thus far in the poem, Statius’ claim that greater madness is required is startling. Indeed, the words hactenus arma, the first two words of the invocation, seemingly call attention to the destruction of generic boundaries, as if to say that so far the poem has handled the material of epic (i.e. arma), but now Capaneus’ novel fight demands something more. Statius generates the required excess in part by consistently comparing Capaneus’ provocation of Jupiter to the fight between the god and the Giants.69 Both Aeschylus (Sept. 424) and Euripides (Ph. 1131) connect Capaneus with the Giants, and Statius had earlier mentioned that a Giant was depicted on Capaneus’ helmet (Theb. 4.175–6 galeaque corusca / prominet arce gigans).70 But when he actually attacks the gods, the comparisons occur more frequently, starting with the moment that Capaneus ascends the ladder: . . . quales mediis in nubibus aether vidit Aloidas, cum cresceret impia tellus despectura deos nec adhuc immane veniret Pelion et trepidum iam tangeret Ossa Tonantem. Theb. 10.849–52 67 68 69

70

Schetter (1960) 19–21; Hershkowitz (1998a) 63–4. The adjective recalls Aeneid 7.44, where Virgil suggests that the upcoming wars in Latium involve a higher poetic register (maius opus). Delarue (2000) 84; Schetter (1960) 19–20. See also Lovatt (2001) 117. Jupiter’s fight with the Titans is also a point of comparison at Theb. 10.915, where Iapetus is mentioned. See Taisne (1994) 123. The Titanomachy was regularly confused and conflated with the Gigantomachy in antiquity (West on Theog. 617–719). Harrison (1992) 251–2; he also points out Capaneus’ similarities to Turnus’ gigantic qualities.

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In such a way the upper air saw the sons of Aloeus in the clouds when the impious earth was growing as it was about to look down upon the gods. At this point, huge Pelion had not been added, but Ossa affected the worried Thunderer.

The likening of Capaneus to Otus and Ephialtes – the sons of Aloeus (Aloidas) – hints that his assault will fail, since the patronymic echoes the Virgilian description of the Giants suffering punishment in the underworld (Aen. 6.582). Jupiter himself then mentions his battle with these monsters (Theb. 10.909 quaenam spes hominum tumidae post proelia Phlegrae?), and he is followed by the narrator who compares the gods’ reception of Jupiter after Capaneus’ death to their welcoming him after he fought with the Giants and Enceladus (Theb. 11.7–8 gratantur superi, Phlegrae ceu fessus anhelet / proelia et Encelado fumantem impresserit Aetnen). The persistent correlation of Capaneus’ attack on Olympus with that of the Giants makes this episode a virtual Gigantomachy, a theme that, from the Roman literary perspective, is conspicuously alien to Callimachean poetics. Capaneus’ assault is also linked to the necklace that Vulcan and his assistants made. When Capaneus attacks Olympus, he disrupts what seems to be an assembly of the gods.71 Statius then describes the anxious reaction of the gods to Capaneus’ ascent. Prominent among them is Venus, who, as at Aeneid 10.16–62, weeps on behalf of the Thebans, who are called ‘Harmonia’s people’ (Theb. 10.893 flet Venus Harmoniae populos). This description emphasizes Venus’ perspective, but the periphrasis also turns out to be sinister. The next words indicate that she is afraid of Vulcan (Theb. 10.893 metuensque mariti), a striking reversal of her earlier claim to Mars that Vulcan’s anger serves her (Theb. 3.276 laesi servit tamen ira mariti). Yet it is not clear why she should fear Vulcan at this point. A reason emerges in the subsequent verse, in which she is said to keep away from Vulcan (Theb. 10.894 stat procul) and to look angrily at Mars (Theb. 10.894 et tacita Gradivum respicit ira). Vulcan and Venus’ troubled marriage is clearly suggested by their separation, and her look towards her lover Mars, at whom she is angry because he stirred up the war in Thebes despite her earlier attempts to dissuade him from doing so (Theb. 3.269–91), affirms the domestic strife. The familial tension in Thebaid 10 evokes the earlier scene of discord in Thebaid 2 when the cuckolded Vulcan made the destructive necklace for Harmonia, and thus the periphrastic designation of the Thebans as 71

That the gods are in an assembly is suggested by the parallels with the meeting of the gods in Aeneid 10: Statius’ pater aequus utrisque (Theb. 10.884) recalls Virgil’s rex Iuppiter omnibus idem (Aen. 10.112); fremebant (Theb. 10.883) replicates Virgil’s verb (Aen. 10.96). Servius saw a similarity between the scenes: he notes that the silence of Statius’ Juno at Theb. 10.896 inverts Aen. 10.63.

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‘Harmonia’s people’ has special point. In addition, Venus’ fear of her husband at this moment implicitly connects him to Capaneus’ assault, and readers know that the necklace is the link between Vulcan and threats to Thebes. This scene of hyperbolic excess thus instantiates the poetic designs of its creators. In this way, the narrative stands in stark opposition both to Callimachus’ own dictum of avoiding poetic thundering and to the wellestablished, Callimachean aversion in Roman poetry to the fight between the gods and the Giants. Since the Gigantomachic myth asserts the dominance of the Olympian gods and especially Jupiter, the comparison of the fight between Capaneus and Jupiter to it is apt. Indeed, Jupiter’s authority is hardly threatened by Capaneus. In his actual fight with the Giants, Jupiter was nervous (Theb. 10.852 trepidum), but here he is calm (Theb. 10.897 non tamen haec turbant pacem Iovis) and even laughs at the human (Theb. 10.908). Jupiter’s authority is further suggested at the start of Thebaid 11, where, after Capaneus’ death, he restores calm and daylight.72 In fact, Capaneus posed such a minimal threat that even Jupiter himself praised the hero’s actions: torvus adhuc visu memorandaque facta reliquens gentibus atque ipsi non inlaudata Tonanti. Theb. 11.10–11

Still grim in appearance and leaving behind to people memorable deeds that did not go without praise from the Thunderer himself

The praise conferred upon Capaneus by Jupiter is intriguing.73 On the one hand, the epithet Tonanti relates to the manner of Capaneus’ death. On the other, the epithet and the suggestion that this scene would have earned praise from ‘the Thunderer’ himself raises a more ominous point. When Dis was angered by the descent of Amphiaraus into the underworld and subsequently arranged for the types of brutal scenes that dominate the final third of the poem, he specifically hoped that these outrages might please ‘the Thunderer’ (Theb. 8.74 . . . iuvet ista ferum spectare Tonantem). Dis has got what he wanted through Capaneus’ death, driving a human to try to cross the bounds of Olympus and thus repay the dissolution of universal boundaries caused by Amphiaraus. To be sure, Capaneus’ defeat ensures that limits are still secure at this point in the poem. Nonetheless, 72

73

Statius’ language inverts the start of the storm in Aeneid 1 (Theb. 11.6 Iuppiter et vultu caelumque diemque reducit; Aen. 1.88 eripiunt subito nubes caelumque diemque). See Venini (1971a) 5, who also notes that vultu refers to Aen. 1.255 (vultu, quo caelum tempestatesque serenat). Klinnert (1970) 62.

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the attempted fulfilment of Dis’ desires keeps the underworld at the fore even at a moment of Olympian security. And the underworld will ascend in the next battle between Eteocles and Polynices, when Jupiter surprisingly abdicates control of the universe. polynices and eteocles Numerous narrative delays and obstacles throughout the poem deferred the fraternal conflict until the eleventh book. And just before the climactic duel, the narrative reaches its goal by calling attention to the possibility of even more delays.74 Early in the book Tisiphone calls upon another Fury, Megaera, to help her destroy Polynices and Eteocles. Tisiphone admits that she is tired and that her hands are now slow (Theb. 11.92–4 fatiscunt / corda, soror, tardaeque manus . . . hebet infera . . . / taxus . . . insuetos angues astra soporent). She also expresses concern that Antigone may cause delay (Theb. 11.104–5 Antigonen timeo, paulum ne nostra retardent / consilia) and that Megaera is a bit slow to help (Theb. 11.101 quid lenta venis?). The Fury recognizes that her speech delays the war (Theb. 11.108 adeo moror ipsa inrumpere Thebas) and thus provides opportunities for Adrastus and the Argives to postpone further (Theb. 11.110–11 neu mitis Adrastus / praevaleat plebesque, cave, Lernaea moretur). Megaera’s assistance, however, jumpstarts the narrative pursuit of wickedness. After Tisiphone goads Polynices to fight his brother (Theb. 11.136–54), he orders Adrastus not to obstruct him (Theb. 11.169 desiste morari). When Adrastus tries to respond, Tisiphone, in the guise of the Argive Phereclus, cuts him off and demands that they fight quickly (Theb. 11.201 abrumpe moras, celeremus). Just as Tisiphone feared, however, Antigone succeeds in slowing her brother after she addresses him from the battlements: . . . his paulum furor elanguescere dictis coeperat, obstreperet quamquam atque obstaret Erinys; iam summissa manus, lente iam flectit habenas, iam tacet; erumpunt gemitus, lacrimasque fatetur cassis; hebent irae, pariterque et abire nocentem et venisse pudet: Theb. 11.382–7 At her words his fury began to flag, although the Fury opposes and scolds him. Already his hand drops, he slowly turns the reins, and is silent. Groans burst forth, his helmet confesses tears. His anger grows dull, and it is equally shameful to depart and to have come in guilt. 74

Feeney (1991) 339.

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Particularly in light of the fact that the extant version of Seneca’s Phoenissae does not relate the conclusive battle between the brothers,75 Polynices’ hesitation raises the possibility that the war will be put off yet again. However, the next word, subito (Theb. 11.387), is harshly juxtaposed to Polynices’ languor, and when it is revealed that Megaera has forced Eteocles out into the open, the desire for battle is rekindled (Theb. 11.388–402). The two brothers spring forth (Theb. 11.404 prosiliunt) and are driven on by their comrades (Theb. 11.404 sua quemque comes stimulat) and by the two Furies (11.402 Furiis hortantibus). Delay is still a threat, however (Theb. 11.448 paulum Fortuna morata est). In fact, Piety intervenes and encourages the two armies to oppose the fraternal duel, and some respond to her plea (Theb. 11.482 nonnihil impulerat dubios). Tisiphone jumps into the fray and upbraids Piety, pointedly calling her ‘sluggish’ (11.485 iners), and Piety then abandons the battlefield. The duel then begins: tunc vero accensae stimulis maioribus irae: arma placent, versaeque volunt spectare cohortes. Theb. 11.497–8

Then the anger is kindled by stronger spurs; warfare pleases, the troops want to watch after their change of heart.

The comparative adjective indicates the increased demands upon the brothers, and their pleasure for the quintessentially epic arma hints that the duel will finally take place. And indeed it does, as the brothers swiftly and eagerly fight (Theb. 11.529–35). Such an efflorescence of threats to the realization of fraternal warfare recalls the delays of earlier books. But here those potential delays are destroyed once and for all. The fratricide ruins Oedipus’ family and asserts the dominance of the violent narrative. This destruction has been Jupiter’s aim (Theb. 1.242–3) and Dis’ hope (Theb. 8.70–1). But it is Vulcan and his helpers who made the necklace to punish the children of Mars and Venus (Theb. 2.269–88), and thus the fratricide realizes the aims of the craftsmen who forged the necklace for Harmonia. Pointedly, at the moment when their agenda is realized, delay, which Statius had consistently generated by reworking Callimachus’ poetry, is overcome.76 The fruition of the wishes of Vulcan and his assistants also upsets generic conventions concerning resolution and climactic battles. Statius patently 75 76

The ending of Seneca’s play is a hotly debated issue: Tarrant (1978) 230 argues the play is complete; Marica (1995) 11–12 discusses the problems surrounding the conclusion of the play. These chthonic forces also bring about the destruction desired by the Olympians, and the scene thus replays the dynamics of the Callimachean aetion told by Adrastus at the end of Thebaid 1 about the destruction caused by the monstrum sent by Apollo on Argos.

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models the duel between the sons of Oedipus upon the climactic duels of the Iliad and Aeneid. For instance, the scene in which Jocasta begs Eteocles not to fight (Theb. 11.315–53) recalls Hecuba’s speech to Hector (Il. 22.82– 9); indeed, both mothers appear to their sons in a state of lamentation with their breasts exposed (Il. 22.79–80; Theb. 11.317).77 Also, the verbal exchange between Eteocles and Polynices during their fight (Theb. 11.548– 51; 557–60; 568–72) matches the speeches during the duels of both Achilles and Hector (Il. 22.331–60) and Aeneas and Turnus (Aen. 12.889–95). Other parallels with the climactic fight between Aeneas and Turnus are clear as well. Polynices’ question to his brother (Theb. 11.548 quo retrahis . . .) recalls Aeneas’ question to Turnus (Aen. 12.889 quid . . . retractas). Also, early in Thebaid 11, while Eteocles sacrifices to the gods, a messenger informs him that Polynices has attacked the walls of Thebes and demands his brother (Theb. 11.248 ille vocat). Statius then likens Eteocles to a bull that perceives a threat,78 a comparison that recalls the Virgilian simile of fighting bulls at Aeneid 12.715–22.79 In addition, the noise that emanates from Cithaeron (Theb. 11.555–6) after Polynices has mortally wounded his brother replicates the sound that came from a mountain after Aeneas knocked Turnus to the ground immediately before he delivers the death blow (Aen. 12.928–9).80 Statius’ contest creates expectations of results similar to those surrounding the decisive duels in the Iliad and Aeneid, but the result of the fight between the brothers is quite different. After the brothers have killed one another, Statius apostrophizes them: ite truces animae funestaque Tartara leto polluite et cunctas Erebi consumite poenas! vosque malis hominum, Stygiae, iam parcite, divae: omnibus in terris scelus hoc omnique sub aevo viderit una dies, monstrumque infame futuris excidat, et soli memorent haec proelia reges. Theb. 11.574–9

Go fierce souls and foul deadly Tartarus with your death and take all the punishments of Erebus. You, Stygian goddesses, now spare the evils of mankind. In all lands and in every age let only a single day have seen this evil, and let the shameful horror be forgotten by subsequent generations; let kings alone remember these battles. 77 78 79

Jocasta is not simply an epic redux, since her words also recall her speech at the end of Seneca’s Phoenissae. Ahl (1986) 2826–7 analyses the bull simile at the start of the Thebaid. 80 Ibid. 142. Venini (1971a) 76–7.

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Epic typically commemorates events for posterity,81 but Statius overturns that notion and hopes that only a single day (Theb. 11.578 una dies) will commemorate the war between Eteocles and Polynices in all places and in all times (Theb. 11.577 omnibus in terris . . . omnique sub aevo). The wish that this will war be forgotten by future generations (Theb. 11.578–9 monstrumque infame futuris / excidat) runs counter to the Homeric hope that future generations will learn about heroic activity (e.g. Od. 3.204; 8.580; Statius’ futuris particularly inverts the Homeric & ). And lastly the desire that the battle will be recalled only by kings (Theb. 11.579 soli memorent haec proelia reges) condemns – or at least circumscribes – the ability of epic to commemorate events.82 The authority of the genre has been seriously diminished. Heroism itself is also perverted. Statius’ phrase ite . . . animae reproduces words uttered by Aeneas before the funeral of Pallas (Aen. 11.24 ite,’ ait ‘egregias animas), but stark differences quickly emerge. The Virgilian hero is able to mention the brilliance of the men who have died and the benefit they have brought to their homeland (Aen. 11.24–5). The same cannot be said of Statius’ heroes or battles. Also, Aeneas refers to the honour that the dead receive through burial (Aen. 11.23), but Statius’ apostrophe openly rejects this idea. Moreover, spirits that were ‘noble’ in Virgil (Aen. 11.24 egregias) have become ‘savage’ (truces) in the Thebaid, and instead of trying to accord them honour, Statius alludes to the punishments they will suffer in the underworld. Civil war has rendered traditional ideas of heroism futile. There is no personal gain for the individual warrior such as that received by Achilles (or even Hector) in the Iliad. In fact, the apostrophe to the two dead warriors clearly recalls the Virgilian apostrophe to Nisus and Euryalus about their posthumous glory (Aen. 9.446–7 Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt / nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo). But the Virgilian phrase nulla dies . . . aevo is countered by Statius’ aevo . . . una dies. Nor is there civic benefit from such a war. Aeneas’ struggle with Turnus is part of a civil war,83 and although the sense of loss in the poem is significant, his victory benefits Rome. Statius’ Thebes, in contrast, has lost most of its men, and the women remain only to mourn. Collective benefits do not compensate for personal loss, and traditional motivations and benefits of epic heroism are not possible in the context of civil war. Homeric and Virgilian paradigms are not operative in Statius’ world. 81 82

A.R. 4.1774; Aen. 9.447 (though qualified in the previous verse); Ovid Met. 15.878; Silius 4.398. 83 Rossi (2004) 165–8. Hardie (1993) 8.

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The fulfilment of Vulcan’s designs through the fratricide especially distorts generic treatments of the gods. The ruler of the gods controls the duels in the Iliad and especially the Aeneid: he weighs the fates of the contestants (Il. 22.208–13; Aen. 12.725–7), and he allows other divinities to involve themselves in human affairs and thus bring about the destruction of one of the combatants (Il. 22.185–6; Aen. 12.844). And in the Aeneid Jupiter convinces Juno to accept Aeneas’ victory. But just before the duel in the Thebaid, Jupiter makes a speech in which he abdicates control over the universe:84 ‘vidimus armiferos, quo fas erat usque, furores, caelicolae, licitasque acies, etsi impia bella unus init aususque mea procumbere dextra. nunc par infandum miserisque incognita terris pugna subest: auferte oculos! absentibus ausint ista deis lateantque Iovem; sat funera mensae Tantaleae et sontes vidisse Lycaonis aras et festina polo ducentes astra Mycenas. nunc etiam turbanda dies: mala nubila, tellus, accipe, secedantque poli: stat parcere mundo caelitibusque meis; saltem ne virginis almae sidera, Ledaei videant neu talia fratres.’ sic pater omnipotens, visusque nocentibus arvis abstulit, et dulci terrae caruere sereno. Theb. 11.122–35

‘Heavenly ones, we have seen madness that carries weapons go to the limit of what is right, we have seen permissible battles, though one entered an impious battle and dared to perish by my right hand. Now an unspeakable duel is at hand, a fight unknown to the wretched earth. Turn your eyes away! Let them dare such things in the absence of the gods and let them hide from Jupiter. It is enough to have seen the destruction of Tantalus’ feast and the wicked altars of Lycaon and Mycene bringing the hastening stars to the sky. Now daylight is to be disturbed. Earth, accept the evil clouds and let the heavens recede. It is enough to spare the world and my divinities. At least let not the star of the kindly maiden nor Gemini see such things.’ Thus the all powerful father spoke and took his sight away from the guilty plains and the earth lacked its sweet clear sky.

Jupiter’s resignation stands in stark opposition to his behaviour at Aeneid 12.790–844, where he carefully evaluates the conflict between Aeneas and Turnus. Moreover, while Megaera and other chthonic deities figure prominently in the duel in the Aeneid (Aen. 12.846), they do so at the order of 84

I follow the discussion of Jupiter’s abdication offered by Feeney (1991) 356. Delarue (2000) 369 disagrees.

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Jupiter (Aen. 12.853).85 In the Thebaid, they act in a world abandoned by Jupiter. In fact, when Eteocles sacrifices to Jupiter, he is not at the altar (Theb. 11.207),86 and Tisiphone diverts the prayers to Dis: nec pater aetherius divumque has ullus ad aras, sed mala Tisiphone trepidis inserta ministris astat et inferno praevertit vota Tonanti Theb. 11.207–9

Neither the heavenly father nor any other god was at the altar, but evil Tisiphone surrounded by the frightened attendants was there and diverted the prayers to the infernal Thunderer.

The characterization of Dis as Tonans, a word frequently used of Jupiter elsewhere,87 suggests that the god is an ersatz Jupiter and that the god of the underworld has taken control. Dis had hoped for a new divine hierarchy (Theb. 8.75–9), and this startling confirmation of his wish right before the climactic duel perverts epic norms. The overthrow of the typical cosmic arrangement is reinforced when Dis thunders three times from the underworld (Theb. 11.410–11 ter nigris avidus regnator ab oris / intonuit). Statius’ diction could just as easily be applied to Jupiter, to whom the word regnator typically refers (e.g. Aen. 2.779, 4.269, 7.558, 10.437). Moreover, Jupiter thunders three times at Aen. 7.141–2 (hic pater omnipotens ter caelo clarus ab alto / intonuit), and Statius clearly evokes Virgil’s verses through the adverb ter and the enjambment of the verb intonuit. But ultimately the similarities between the scenes in the Aeneid and Thebaid illustrate profound differences: Virgil’s caelo . . . alto (Aen. 7.141; cf. also 7.142 radiis . . . lucis) has been supplanted by nigris . . . oris (Theb. 11.410) and Jupiter is no longer pater omnipotens. He has been replaced by an antagonistic god, whose control of the world portends evil and chaos.88 When Jupiter and the other Olympians disappear, the one divinity that remains is Pietas: iamdudum terris coetuque offensa deorum aversa caeli Pietas in parte sedebat, non habitu quo nota prius, non ore sereno, sed vittis exuta comam, fraternaque bella, ceu soror infelix pugnantum aut anxia mater, 85 86 87

Though Jupiter’s use of the Dira is obviously a concern in the Aeneid as well; see Johnson (1976) 127. It is not just Jupiter who has abdicated and been supplanted, since all the other gods and goddesses had abandoned the scene at the start of the duel (Theb. 11.410–15). 88 Schetter (1960) 29. Grewing (1997) 126.

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deflebat, saevumque Iovem Parcasque nocentes vociferans, seseque polis et luce relicta descensuram Erebo et Stygios iam malle penates. ‘quid me’ ait ‘ut saevis animantum ac saepe deorum obstaturam animis, princeps Natura, creabas? Theb. 11.457–66

Piety, offended by earth and the company of the gods, was sitting for a long time in a remote part of the heavens. She did not have her usual demeanour, nor a calm face, but the fillets were gone from her hair and she wept over the brothers’ war as if she were a wretched sister or worried mother of the fighters. She cried out that Jupiter was cruel and the Fates guilty and that she would leave for Erebus, leaving behind heaven and the light of day, and that she preferred a Stygian home. ‘Why’ she says ‘did you create me, primal Nature, to oppose the cruel intentions of living creatures and the gods?’

Pietas’ distance from the Olympians in terms of both location (Theb. 11.458) and attitude (Theb. 11.465) affords her some perspective on the gods. She calls Jupiter and all the gods saevum (Theb. 11.462, 467), the adjective used by Virgil for the destructive Juno (e.g. Aen. 1.4) and thereby marks the entire divine system as destructive. Eventually, even Pietas is put to flight by Tisiphone and the Furies are left in charge.89 Since Jupiter has lost control of part of his realm, the duel realizes Dis’ wish for battles that disturb the cosmic arrangement. In this sense, the battles of which Statius tells surpass even the Gigantomachy. And from a literary-historical perspective, such content must be thoroughly anti-Callimachean. Jupiter is the most obvious example of the troubled gods in the Thebaid.90 Apollo, however, who had been used in the Aeneid to mark Roman victories, acts perniciously in the aetion related by Adrastus at the start of the Thebaid, and Mars wickedly pursues destruction. Dis is also elevated to a troublingly influential position. The most startling inversion, however, is seen with Vulcan, who, as he did in the Aeneid, creates an emblem that sets forth a narrative agenda for a city founded by the illegitimate children of Venus. But in the Thebaid his handiwork destroys the city, and his intentions stem from his fraught relationship with Venus, a relationship that is addressed only indirectly in the Aeneid. Since Rome correlated its own order to that of the Olympians, Statius’ depiction of the gods raises serious questions about order and stability in the universe. A new paradigm of calm and resolution is needed, and put forth in the final book of the poem. 89 90

Hardie (1993) 44 notes that even the Furies’ control is tenuous. Ironically, Juno has not caused problems in the Thebaid.

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Jupiter’s abdication just before the Thebaid’s climactic duel precludes conventional forms of epic closure. After all, Zeus’ role is paramount in resolving the tensions of the Iliad: he tells Thetis to convince Achilles to let go of his anger (Il. 24.104–19); he has Iris inform Priam that he should journey to Achilles’ tent (Il. 24.144–58); and he then sends an eagle to encourage the old man to undertake the trip (Il. 24.314–15). In the Aeneid, too, Jupiter plays a central role in eliminating many of the problems that had been raised throughout the poem. He arranges for Juturna to forsake Turnus (Aen. 12.843–86), and most prominently, he convinces Juno to relent and to allow Aeneas’ victory (Aen. 12.791–842). It is not surprising, then, that after Jupiter has quit the scene in the Thebaid, the final duel does not lead to resolution. To the contrary, Polynices indicates that the brothers’ enmity remains and will continue even when they are in the underworld (Theb. 11.568–73). While Statius discards the central role of the gods in resolving poetic narratives, he maintains other powerful closural features of Homeric and Virgilian epic. Statius follows Homeric practice, for instance, and continues to tell of events that take place in Thebes after the decisive conflict.1 In particular, Creon forbids the burial of Polynices’ corpse and thereby replicates Achilles’ refusal to bury Hector. Since Achilles eventually relents after he recognizes that even enemies share common human values, Creon’s prohibition creates the expectation of some sort of Iliadic resolution of anger and restoration of normal modes of behaviour. Effective poetic closure ‘will always involve the reader’s expectations regarding the termination of a sequence – even though it will never be simply a matter of fulfilling them’,2 and so in the case of the Thebaid it is essential to consider how the epic 1

2

Pag´an (2000) demonstrates that historiographic accounts of aftermath are important for the Roman epic tradition as well. Without trying to downplay the close connection between epic and history, my interests lie in the epic models that Statius draws upon. Herrnstein Smith (1968) 100.

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reworks the end of the Iliad. In the first part of this chapter, I argue that expectations of the sort of resolution that is found in the Homeric poem are defeated through allusions to Callimachus’ poetry. Even as similarities with the Iliad signal that the narrative moves towards a conclusion, alternative readings emerge that question or even undermine that Homeric type of resolution. The allusions to Callimachus’ poetry frustrate the reader’s expectations and thus produce a tension similar to that which dominates the central books of the poem: a teleological narrative is hindered by one that threatens progress towards the goal. This narrative tension pulls readers in one direction and then another, suggesting that the Thebaid is neither ‘openended’ or ‘closed’, but rather that it contains a fine balance between these two extremes.3 As J. Hillis Miller has suggested: An ending that truly ends must . . . simultaneously be thought of as a tying up, a neat knot that leaves no loose threads hanging out, no characters unaccounted for, and at the same time as an untying, as the combing out of the tangled narrative threads so that they may be clearly seen, shining side by side, all mystery or complexity revealed. The difficulty in deciding whether to call a given ending an untying or a tying up arises from the way it is impossible ever to tell whether a given narrative is complete. If the ending is thought of as a tying up in a careful knot, this knot could always be untied again by the narrator or by further events, disentangled or explicated again.4

It is naturally difficult to tie into a knot any thread of the Theban myth since its problems are recurring. Yet the closural problems of the Thebaid do not originate simply from the inherent openness of the myth. Statius creates conflicting narrative interests that result from the simultaneous adherence to and divergence from generic conventions and expectations. Although the end of the Iliad and its narrative of aftermath is clearly a significant model for the close of the Thebaid, concluding moments of the Aeneid also shape the final book of Statius’ epic. The final duel of the Thebaid, for example, alludes to the fight between Aeneas and Turnus. In addition to the importance of the proper ending of the Thebaid, Augustus’ re-establishment of peace after civil war and his triumphant arrival at 3

4

Fowler (1997a) 4–5 comments on critical presuppositions in approaches to closure, but ultimately suggests that he prefers to ‘play the two tendencies [of aperture and closure] off against each other’. The bibliography on the end of the Thebaid has become large: Hardie (1997) 153 notes the balance between completion and aperture in the Thebaid; Ahl (1986), Henderson (1991), Dominik (1994), Hershkowitz (1998a) find the ending troublesome; Morton Braund (1996), Ripoll (1998) and Delarue (2000) are recent readings that are more optimistic. Hillis Miller (1998) 54.

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Rome in Aeneid 8 is another closural moment of Virgil’s epic upon which the end of the Thebaid is modelled.5 Specifically, the fact that Theseus brings resolution to a city exhausted by civil strife and celebrates a triumph over a foreign queen parallels Augustus’ triumph that is depicted on Aeneas’ shield (Aen. 8.688). The end of the Thebaid thus operates within the Virgilian tradition. Moreover, Theseus’ triumph takes place in Athens, and it is there that the Argive women see him as they appeal for help at the Altar of Clemency. The hero then takes up their cause, and in doing so he embodies clementia. Consequently, he turns out to be like a Roman emperor, who held exclusive control over the virtue.6 This Roman context surrounding Theseus’ activity suggests that the end of the Thebaid does not operate solely in the literary realm: the arrival of the Greek hero is to be read against the backdrop of the realities faced by Flavian Rome after a brutal series of civil wars. An Augustus redux is necessary to end this renewed civil strife. The final book of the Thebaid, then, parallels the use of the Augustan past by Vespasian and his sons to support their declarations about the elimination of civil war and the realization of peace.7 At the same time that he draws upon Virgilian epic and Roman political themes, Statius also alludes to the treatment of Theseus in Callimachus’ Hecale. In particular, Statius depicts the hero in ways that suggest that widespread personal losses are not easily resolved, nor are triumphant arrivals the entire story. The narrative is not tied up so neatly. Moreover, Statius alludes to the account of Theseus in Catullus 64 – a poem that works within the Callimachean tradition – in ways that raise questions about the hero’s possession of clementia.8 The Thebaid, then, counterbalances different types of narratives and makes it difficult to assess whether grand narratives that claim to have achieved resolution and thence define a culture are more potent than those that uncomfortably illustrate that resolution is not easily achieved. The poem does not offer a ‘solution’ to such questions. Indeed, the coexistence of these two perspectives on the end of civil war makes it hazardous to choose one view over the other. Rather, the dialogic viewpoints imply that accounts that emerge in the aftermath of civil war are partial 5 6

7

8

Hardie (1986) 362–4 discusses Aeneid 8 and its closural significance. The virtue was one of the four included on the Clupeus Virtutis that was awarded to Augustus in 27 bc and thence was associated with the imperial house (Syme (1958) 414; Weinstock (1971) 233–43). For the embodiment of virtues by emperors, see Fears (1981) 913–14. Sablayrolles (1994) and Levick (1999) 73 discuss the influence of Augustus on the Flavians. This is not to say that there is clear typological correspondence at work and that Theseus actually represents one emperor or another. Thomas (1983) 112.

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and tenuous – and even tendentious. The end of the Thebaid offers that any peace – whether it be the Pax Augusta or the Flavian redoing of it – that follows a civil war is fragile. Nor can that peace compensate all who have suffered. The assumption that imperial figures are central to the achievement of peace reveals that Statius does not downplay or subvert the accomplishments of the Flavians. Conversely, the ending precludes full resolution and thus suggests that the epic is not one of unbridled – perhaps even na¨ıve – optimism. Hope that political powers will bring about peace may not eliminate grave concerns about the prospects of settling conflict. Statius’ epic asks whether the children of Romulus can ever escape their fratricidal origins, origins that, at the time of the early empire, look back to the foundation of the principate. The cessation of civil war suggests that peace is possible, but the Theban myth implies that conflict will be renewed. Statius addresses the fragility of this peace in part by revisiting the end of both the Iliad and the Aeneid and their accounts of warfare and its conclusion. As he did throughout the poem, Statius illustrates that the paradigms of these culturally definitive epics are inoperative in his poetic world. To offset the inefficacy of his models, Statius redefines the idea of clementia, and makes it accessible to all irrespective of nation or status. No matter what happens in the political realm, peace can be realized. But Statius makes this point in a way that emphasizes personal means for closure rather than the national narratives that drive epic poetry.9 Indeed, those grand narratives have been shown to be flawed and limited accounts that represent a kind of heroic warfare that cannot exist in civil war. And it is Statius’ allusions to Callimachus’ poetry – and, in the case of Catullus 64, the Roman reception of it – that provide perspectives different from those offered by epic models, resulting in a dialogue between aperture and closure, between the desire for endings and the anxiety about not achieving them.

t h e b a i d 12 and i l i a d 24 More than two books of the Iliad are devoted to the events that take place after the climactic duel between Achilles and Hector, and they focus on Achilles’ anger and refusal to allow his dead foe to be buried. Lack of burial had been singled out in the proem as one of the sufferings facing heroes (Il. 1.4–5), and warriors repeatedly taunt opponents by saying that they will 9

Wetherbee (1988) 83 is excellent on the private nature of Statius’ virtue.

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not be lamented or buried.10 However, no one actually follows through on his threat until Achilles does. His actions thus create a serious moral and narrative problem that threatens to bring the poem to an end on a note of anger and outrageous actions.11 Yet, when Achilles finally relents and allows Hector to be buried, he affirms basic codes of human behaviour. As Colin Macleod has put it, Hector’s funeral functions as a ‘relief from the war’ and creates ‘a brief interval in which the rites of civilized peace are performed’.12 But this resolution is fragile: both Idaios (Il. 24.353–7) and Hermes (Il. 24.683–8) point out potential hazards that threaten to prevent the king from gaining burial for his son. And the poem ends with the suggestion that the Trojans might be attacked and the war renewed (Il. 24.799–800). Statius’ closural narrative focuses on burial and thereby clearly evokes the end of the Iliad.13 Creon, for example, swears an oath at the burial of his son that he will refuse to bury his child’s killer. This decree patently reworks Achilles’ promise to the dead Patroclus that he would not allow Hector to be buried.14 Moreover, when both Hector and Polynices are eventually buried, the steps leading to the rite are similar: in each epic a divinity helps someone reach the corpse, and then that individual makes a supplication for burial.15 In addition, the wife of the dead warrior weeps over his corpse (Il. 24.725–45, Theb. 12.322–48), which is then washed (Il. 24.784–804, Theb. 12.409–15).16 Statius also replicates the lament of Andromache, Hecuba and Helen over Hector’s body at the end of the Iliad (Il. 24.710–76) when he has the Argive women lament at the end of his epic (Theb. 12.790–6).17 Allowing Hector to be buried is the final piece in the relenting of Achilles’ anger, and it marks the hero’s return to normal behaviour after his refusal to meet human needs such as eating and having sex (e.g. Il. 19.303–9). Although Hector’s burial is of the utmost importance for the conclusion of the poem, an earlier funeral started the process of Achilles’ resolution and reintegration with the rest of the Greeks – and human society at large. For it is in the course of the funeral games honouring Patroclus that the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon formally ends (Il. 23.890–1). The dissolution of that animosity anticipates Achilles’ willingness to take a softer line and to allow Priam to bury Hector. In addition to marking the end of Achilles’ anger, the games also demonstrate the exemplary bond of friendship between Patroclus and Achilles, whose relationship had been 10 13 14 16 17

11 Ibid. 20. 12 Ibid. 30; 16. Macleod (1982) 16. For Statius’ Homeric pattern of closure, see Morton Braund (1996) 4 and Hardie (1997) 151–6. Juhnke (1972) 157–60 notes a number of thematic parallels to the end of the Iliad. 15 Ibid. 159–60. Juhnke (1972) 158–9. Ibid. 160: Argia supplicates Thebes’ walls (Theb. 12.256–67), Priam beseeches Achilles (Il. 24.486– 506); Juno helps Argia (Theb. 12.291–311), Hermes aids Priam (Il. 24.64–76). Morton Braund (1996) 5–6.

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consistently likened to that of a parent and child (e.g. Il. 16.7–11; 23.222–5). In fact, just before the funeral games held in Patroclus’ honour, his friend’s shade appears to Achilles in a dream and asks for a swift burial. When he responds, Achilles refers to Patroclus as ‘dear head’ (Il. 23.94 ='

!#). The word for ‘head’ (!#) is a synecdoche for a person,18 but more interesting is the adjective ‘dear’ (=' ), which is used elsewhere in the poem three times when someone addresses his brother (e.g. Il. 10.37; 22.229; 22.239). The word may thus be a particularly appropriate term for siblings.19 The immediate context in which this fraternal sentiment is expressed is significant for the Thebaid: Achilles makes this statement after Patroclus’ shade appears to him in a dream and requests that their bones be buried bones together (Il. 23.82–92). Achilles obeys, ordering his soldiers to build a moderate grave for Patroclus that will be made great after he himself dies: ( E  & @ k ! k (  51 ', Z l  L4 &W im  .'-. .*  L  4 &W  ' -  &  %n   ( 4 +@( L. '
And let us lay his bones in a golden jar and a double fold of fat, until I myself enfold him in Hades. And I would have you build a grave mound which is not very great but such as will be fitting, for now; afterwards, the Achaians can make it broad and high – such of you Achaians as may be left to survive me here by the benched ships, after I am gone. (tr. Lattimore)

The funeral mound illustrates that the deep and abiding friendship between Achilles and Patroclus will endure beyond the grave. The Iliadic example of enduring friendship and of resolved anger fails in the Thebaid. Days after Eteocles and Polynices kill each other, the former remains unburied. Argia and Antigone simultaneously search the battlefield in order to bury Polynices, and when they find his corpse, they place it on the only flame still burning on the battlefield (Theb. 12.312–421).20 Unbeknownst to them, this flame happens to come from Eteocles’ pyre, and after the sisters-in-law place the corpse on it, the flame splits into two parts (Theb. 12.431–32 exundant diviso vertice flammae / alternosque apices abrupta luce coruscant). This division of the flame symbolizes the undying 18 19 20

LSJ s.v. 2. Kirk on Il. 6.518–19, though there is no reason to think that the word was restricted to such usage. Aric`o (2002) 183 recounts the deep artistic – both literary and visual – background to this encounter between the sisters.

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hatred between Eteocles and Polynices (Theb. 12.440–1 cernisne, ut flamma recedat / concurratque tamen? vivunt odia improba, vivunt), and thus sharply contrasts with the resolution of Achilles’ anger towards his enemy in Iliad 24. In addition, the hatred of the two brothers that is revealed on the funeral pyre grimly perverts the friendship and virtual kinship that is represented by both the burial mound of and the language used by Patroclus and Achilles.21 Statius’ funeral pyre evokes that moment from the end of the Iliad only to achieve contrary results.22 The poetic tradition associates the split flame with Callimachus.23 In Tristia 5.5, for example, Ovid offers that nothing is certain for man. To illustrate that unbelievable things do actually happen, Ovid mentions the story of the split flame and attributes it to Callimachus: consilio, commune sacrum cum fiat in ara fratribus, alterna qui periere manu ipsa sibi discors, tamquam mandetur ab illis, scinditur in partes atra favilla duas. hoc, memini, quondam fieri non posse loquebar, et me Battiades iudice falsus erat: omnia nunc credo . . . Tr. 5.5.33–9 . . . when the common offering is made on the altar to the brothers who died by each other’s hands, the black ember, at odds with itself as if ordered by them, is split into two parts. This, I remember, I once said could not be. And in my judgement Callimachus was wrong. Now I believe everything.

Ovid’s exile among the Getae has caused him to believe everything (omnia nunc credo),24 even Callimachus’ story about the split flame. In addition to the association of the split flame with Callimachus in Ovid, the Greek epigrammatists Antiphilus (AP 7.399=GPh 947–52) and Bianor (AP 7.396=GPh 1669–74) include aetia in their treatments of the split flame, and in this respect, it seems that their accounts display Callimachean influence.25 21

22 23 24 25

Bannon (1997) 186 points out the story preserved in Tacitus (Hist. 3.51) about a brother who committed fratricide and sought rewards. Statius’ Polynices and Eteocles obviously form a marked contrast to these brothers as well, but the Homeric parallels surrounding the entire burial of the two brothers ensure that the Iliad is in play. Burck (1979) 325. For Callimachus and the split flame, see Pfeiffer (1934a) 20–2 and (1934b) 384–5; Schetter (1960) 120 n. 28; and Burck (1979) 343 n. 93. The claim may be a tongue-in-cheek reference to Callimachus’ own dictum that he sings nothing without witness (F 612 Pf.) Aric`o (1972) 312–22.

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Scholars long did not know in which work Callimachus wrote about the flame, but the discovery of a papyrus fragment that contains a plot summary for all of Aetia 4 allowed Rudolph Pfeiffer to argue from the mutilated traces of Antigone’s name (Aetia F 105 Pf., Dieg. V.24 +[]0 ) and of the verb meaning ‘to offer sacrifice’ (Aetia F 105 Pf., Dieg. V.21 & seems to be a form of &7-) that the scholiast discusses the split flame. As a parallel, Pfeiffer noted that in an account of the place to where Antigone dragged Polynices’ body (the C. +0

), Pausanias refers to Antigone, then mentions the split flame and includes in that discussion forms of the verb &7-.26 Using the varied ancient evidence, Pfeiffer reasonably argued that Callimachus told of the split flame in this part of Aetia 4. Statius’ placement of the split flame in the final book of his poem replicates its position in the Aetia. Indeed, the location of the aetion of the split flame in the last book of Callimachus’ poem and that of the aetion about Linus and Coroebus in the first book is matched by the placement of these stories in the initial and final books of the Thebaid. In addition to these structural parallels, Statius’ inclusion of the aetion about the split flame has an impact on the narrative’s movement towards closure. The union of the brothers’ bodies on a funeral pyre recalls the Homeric funeral of Patroclus and Achilles, yet the split flame indicates the lasting enmity of the brothers, precluding the sort of modulation from violent death to burial that is found in the Iliad. Moreover, Argia and Antigone, the women who seek resolution through burial, are denied it, and they must live in war’s aftermath knowing that the discord of their family lingers. They do not gain the sort of closure that the women at the end of the Iliad achieve when they lament for Hector. Indeed, the hatred that lives on in Thebes will make itself manifest in the Epigonoi – including Argia’s son, who is alluded to just before the burial takes place (Theb. 12.348). These sons of the Seven will renew the cycle of violence and thus preclude resolution of and the fulfilment of closural expectations. Epic resolution is thus thwarted by a Callimachean narrative.27 26

27

Pfeiffer (1934a) 20–2. Pausanias’ account includes the verb &70-. which parallels Callimachus’ diction (9.18.3): o( E (  [ e *% 5  - f- ( % ( &7 % ^Z   .  &70- L5 8 !0 h.-  ( 4   L/ 4 @/J '. Not all divergences from the end of the Iliad are due to Callimachus. Juhnke (1972) 157–60 has pointed out Polynices, unlike Hector, is never granted burial by the person who initially refused to grant him proper burial. Moreover, Achilles gains honour from Zeus (Il. 24.110) when he relents and allows for Hector’s burial; he even starts the burial process by lifting the bier himself. On the other hand, Creon gains no honour, since he does not learn restraint and moderation. Like the brothers,

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Nor is resolution easily found in the case of the burial of other Argives. Creon punished his enemies by denying them burial, and it is Theseus who must come to Thebes and rectify the situation. He reaches Thebes after celebrating his conquest in his home town of Athens of the Amazons. Since he has the Amazon queen Penthesileia at his side, his victory calls to mind that the defeat of these female warriors often represents the triumph of civilization over chaos.28 It seems to be implied, then, that Theseus is just the person to bring order to Thebes. Further reasons to hope that Theseus will bring satisfactory closure emerge when the Argive women, from whom Argia had separated, beseech his aid at the Altar of Clemency in Athens. This story was familiar from Euripides’ Suppliants, and creates the expectation that he will rectify the Theban troubles in a manner similar to the way he does in the play.29 Critical assessments of Theseus’ accomplishments are hardly in agreement, however. Frederick Ahl finds Theseus’ renewal of all-out war in Thebes to be tyrannical, creating a troublesome ending that reopens many questions about power and monarchy.30 In contrast, Susanna Morton Braund finds Theseus to be a deus ex machina, a self-sufficient good king who has the power to (and does) bring the narrative to a satisfying end.31 This latter view has been widely seconded,32 and indeed, the poem itself seems to ‘justify’ Theseus’ behaviour in a number of ways. For instance, Ornytus, one of the few soldiers who survives the war, happens to run into the Argive women as they journey to Thebes to bury their husbands. He informs them of Creon’s decree and suggests that they go to Athens for help, and his final words emphasize that Creon will have to be forced to comply (Theb. 12.165–6 . . . bello cogendus et armis / in mores hominemque Creon). And this is what Theseus does. Furthermore, when Theseus squares off against Creon, he is twice described as invigorated by ‘just anger’ (Theb. 12.589 iusta . . . ira; Theb. 12.714 iustas . . . iras).33 A more complicated moment, however, occurs when Statius compares Theseus to Jupiter:

28 29 30 32

he persists in his hatred and refuses to bury Polynices (and the Argives). Also, Achilles’ death, untold but frequently foreshadowed in the Iliad, will affect Thetis and Peleus. Creon’s death, in contrast, is simply recompense for his misguided actions and lacks heroic dignity. Hurwit (1999) 15–16 and 169–70, e.g., discusses the symbolism behind the Parthenon metopes that depict the Amazons. Though critics have noted few specific parallels between Euripides’ play and Statius. 31 Morton Braund (1996) 4. Ahl (1986) 2895. 33 Morton Braund (1996) 12. Ripoll (1998); Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999); Delarue (2000).

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qualis Hyperboreos ubi nubilus institit axes Iuppiter et prima tremefecit sidera bruma, rumpitur Aeolia et longam indignata quietem tollit hiems animos ventosaque sibilat Arctos; tunc montes undaeque fremunt, tunc proelia caecis nubibus et tonitrus insanaque fulmina gaudent. Theb. 12.650–5

As when Jupiter, in the clouds, stands on the northern pole and shakes the stars with first frost, Aeolia is broken open and a storm, annoyed at the long rest, raises its might and blustery Arctos hisses. Then the mountains and seas roar, and there are battles in the blind clouds and thunder and mad lightning take pleasure.

This simile seemingly marks Theseus’ righteousness, and suggests that, despite his abdication in Thebaid 11, Jupiter is involved with the human realm at the end of the poem.34 However, the depiction of Jupiter throughout the poem has been negative, so even if Theseus is likened to the god, the comparison is not straightforwardly positive.35 Moreover, the language of the simile evokes passages in which the world is depicted as stormy and turbulent. The first two words suggest that Statius has in mind the Virgilian storm simile that begins nearly identically (G. 3.196–201 quale Hyperboreis), and the mention of Aeolia calls to mind the storm that was created by Aeolus at the behest of Juno at the start of the Aeneid. The allusion likens Jupiter to Juno and calls to mind her storms, a troubling point since throughout the poem the ruler of the gods has taken on the destructive role his sister played in the Aeneid. As with the story of Coroebus earlier in the poem, then, this simile serves more to mark the need for humans to assume divine roles than it indicates the justice of the gods.36 The human realm takes over from the divine, and Theseus leads the way.37 In so doing, he becomes a source of resolution for this narrative of continuing violence. theseus and a e n e i d 12 The scene in which Theseus kills Creon and thus allows for the burial of the Argives is modelled upon Aeneas’ duel with Turnus. For instance, Theseus’ 34 36 37

35 Hershkowitz (1998a) 270–1. Ibid. 15–16. Feeney (1991) 389–91 discusses the need for humans to take over roles normally played by the gods. Vessey (1973) 315; Delarue (2000) 165. Indeed, Theseus’ employment of clementia reinforces his godlike attributes because imperial Rome had made the virtue into a divinity: Tacitus records that the Senate set up an Ara Clementiae to Tiberius (Ann. 4.74), and coins portray the virtue as deified (see Burgess (1972) 342). Delarue (2000) 162–3 discusses the divine associations of clementia in Statius and Seneca.

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exclusive focus on Creon (Theb. 12.752–3 solum . . . solum . . . Creonta) replicates Aeneas’ obsession with Turnus (Aen. 12.466–7 solum . . . Turnum . . . solum).38 Moreover, both poems cast the murder of the opponent as a sacrifice. Specifically, Statius’ reference to Creon as a victim (Theb. 12.771 hostia) recalls Aeneas’ similar characterization of Turnus (Aen. 12.948–9).39 Statius’ engagement with the ending of the Aeneid also has thematic significance. David Quint has argued that the end of the Aeneid demands that the Trojans forgive and forget in order to unify Italy (a need that is modelled upon the end of the Odyssey) and that this insistence on a fresh start is an extension of the type of clementia espoused by Augustus.40 But Quint also notes that the Aeneid ends with an act of vengeance, which he associates with pietas, another central idea for the foundation of the principate.41 Quint thus argues that Aeneas’ struggle with clementia and pietas epitomizes attempts to understand the contemporary Roman world. He concludes that ‘the poem, like the regime, has it both ways but in the process discloses the contradictions in the regime’s ideology: its promise to pardon and avenge at the same time.’42 By modelling Theseus’ actions upon those of Aeneas and by aligning Theseus with clementia, Statius revisits fundamental themes of the Aeneid and, as will be discussed later in this chapter, of Augustan Rome. However, revenge is not involved in Theseus’ killing of Creon, and the duel – and the poem – does not conclude on a vengeful note. Indeed, Statius inverts the ending of the Aeneid, where Aeneas is silent in response to Turnus’ request for burial, by stressing that Theseus will grant Creon burial: adsistit Theseus gravis armaque tollens, ‘iamne dare extinctis iustos’ ait ‘hostibus ignes, iam victos operire placet? vade atra dature supplicia, extremique tamen secure sepulcri.’ Theb. 12.778–81

Theseus stands authoritatively beside him and takes his arms saying ‘Now is it pleasing to give proper fires to dead enemies and to bury the dead? Go, you who are about to receive the dark punishments, but be sure of burial.’

As Morton Braund has pointed out, the adjective secure both counters the indignation that Turnus feels at the end of the Aeneid (12.952) and represents an ironic form of clementia.43 Statius’ ending champions the 38 40 43

39 Morton Braund (1996) 4. Morton Braund (1996) 3–4 and Hardie (1997) 153 and (1993) 46–8. 41 Ibid. 76–8; see also Barchiesi (2002) 14–22. 42 Quint (1993) 78. Quint (1993) 76. Morton Braund (1996) 13–14. Ripoll (1998) 449–50 argues that these actions are the result of iustitia.

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virtue and eliminates the types of ambiguities that emerge at the end of the Aeneid. statius’ version of c l e m e n t i a While Statius’ depiction of Theseus and of clementia taps into ideas that stem from imperial discourse and Augustan epic, his representation of the virtue itself is strikingly original. In fact, the very name that Statius assigns this virtue is unusual. The arrival of the Argive women at Athens (e.g. Theb. 12.471–2 omnis Erectheis effusa penatibus aetas / tecta viasque replent) prompts Statius’ description of the Ara Clementiae, which he locates in the middle of the city: urbe fuit media nulli concessa potentum ara deum, mitis posuit Clementia sedem Theb. 12.481–2

There was in the middle of the city an altar dedicated to none of the powerful gods; gentle Clementia established her seat there

This Athenian altar was well known in antiquity but was called the  A  B-0 , the ‘Altar of Mercy’ (Pausanias 1.17.1 ). The Greek word for ‘Mercy’ ( A  ) was typically translated into Latin through misericordia, but since the word cannot be accommodated in hexameters, Statius departs from standard practice and translates the Greek through the word Clementia.44 Statius’ description of the Altar is not unusual simply for this rendering of the Greek noun. In fact, the position of the gods is astonishing. The first verse of the description, for instance, distinguishes the virtue from the powerful gods (Theb. 12.481–2 nulli concessa potentum / ara deum), a distinction that, when one considers the awful gods of the Thebaid, seems promising. The version of Clementia offered in the Thebaid differs from the Olympian gods in additional ways: unlike other divinities in the poem, Clementia will not pursue action as a character;45 it receives no animal sacrifice or offerings of incense (Theb. 12.487–8 non turea flamma nec altus / accipitur sanguis); and it is aniconic (Theb. 12.493–4 nulla autem effigies, nulli commissa metallo / forma dei) – according to Varro the oldest and purest form of worship.46 Clementia simply dwells within the hearts and minds of individuals (Theb. 12.494 mentes habitare et pectora gaudet), thus ensuring that it is universally accessible and that it transcends borders and 44 45

Weinstock (1971) 242 n. 4; Burgess (1972) 347–8; Morton Braund (1996) 9–12. 46 Feeney (1991) 390 cites the ancient evidence. Feeney (1991) 390.

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nations (Theb. 12.506 iam tunc innumerare norant altaria gentes). Finally, a pervasive point throughout Statius’ description of this Altar is that it responds to those who suffer. Indeed the wretched established the Altar: et miseri fecere sacram; sine supplice numquam illa novo, nulla damnavit vota repulsa. auditi quicumque rogant, noctesque diesque ire datum et solis numen placare querelis . . . semper habet trepidos, semper locus horret egenis coetibus, ignotae tantum felicibus arae. . . . huc victi bellis patriaque a sede fugati regnorumque inopes scelerumque errore nocentes conveniunt pacemque rogant; mox hospita sedes vicit et Oedipodae Furias et funus (?) olynthi texit et a misero matrem summovit Oreste. Theb. 12.483–6; 495–6; 507–11

The wretched made it sacred. She is never without a new suppliant, she refuses no prayers. They are heard, whoever asks, and day and night it is allowed to come and to propitiate the goddess only with tears . . . The place always has fearful people, the place always bristles with gatherings of the needy, the altars are unknown only to the fortunate . . . people conquered in war, exiled from their ancestral land, stripped of kingdoms, and those guilty of crimes through error assemble here and ask for peace. Soon the welcoming seat conquered the Furies’ of Oedipus’ house and the ruin of Olynthus (?) and moved his mother away from wretched Orestes.

The Altar is so effective that even Oedipus gained resolution at it. Indeed, John Burgess has pointed out that the six groups whom Statius claims were welcomed at the Altar – i.e. people conquered in war, exiled from their ancestral land, stripped of kingdoms, those guilty of crimes through error, those suffering from the Furies of Oedipus’ house and of Orestes’ mother – represent different characters in the epic.47 Clementia, then, provides assistance for victims of forces beyond their control, and in doing so, it obviously contrasts with the gods that wreak havoc on Statius’ epic world. The emergence of Clementia stands in counterpoint to the charge made by Coroebus that inclementia is pleasing to the gods who plague humans (Theb. 1.650). At long last, the problems that surfaced at the start of the poem, and that were reinforced by the aetion told by Adrastus, are quelled. So too forces such as Irae, Luctus and Dolor that helped create the necklace 47

Burgess (1972) 347. Delarue (2000) 162–5 usefully discusses similarities between Statius’ conception of clementia and that of a fragment preserved by Lactantius. Thus the ‘originality’ of Statius’ treatment of the virtue may be less than Burgess argues for, but nonetheless his assessment of how the idea works within Statius’ poem as a whole still stands.

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and thus the narrative of violence that plagues Thebes (cf. Theb. 2.287– 8), must surrender in the face of Clementia. Irae are kept at a distance (Theb. 12.504), and the comfort that the Argive women receive at the Altar rejects the narrative of violence that was created with the help of Luctus and Dolor. This force for comfort and order, however, does not depend upon heroic accounts of monster-slaying or the installation of divine or earthly hierarchies. Clementia is universally accessible, and in the threatening world depicted throughout the Thebaid, it is a redeeming force that supplants the conventional epic gods and represents a new way to live with hope and meaning. Because the Altar provides a means of confronting the horrors of the world, it has been read as a triumph over evil and a redemption of most – if not all – that has been wrong in the epic world of the Thebaid.48 But Statius makes it clear that problems remain. For instance, communities may continue to be plagued by evil rulers (Theb. 12.504–5). In addition, Winthrop Wetherbee has pointed out that the prevailing gloom of the Thebaid ‘is continually being broken by [Statius’] impulse to make contact with the purer world’, and he identifies this ‘purer world’ as green lands and rivers – such as those we see in Nemea – that are constantly transgressed and violated throughout the poem.49 In his depiction of the Altar of Clemency, too, Statius breaks away from the horrors of his tale and offers a place of comfort and serenity. The Altar allows individuals who come to it to hope for peace. In this concern with the private rather than public pursuit of resolution, however, Statius moves away from the universal claims for peace that are offered in the Aeneid.50 Nor, as we shall see, is this the only way in which Statius deviates from the closural model of the Aeneid. a d iverse poetic trad ition Statius’ version of the Altar of Clemency may stem from Callimachus’ poetry. When Statius discusses the origins of the Altar, he reports that the Heraclids established it (Theb. 12.497–8 fama est, defensos acie post busta paterni / numinis Herculeos sedem fundasse nepotem). Fama est and such expressions often mark an allusion,51 and in this case that phrase may look towards Callimachus. Rudolph Pfeiffer notes that no poet or writer before 48 50 51

49 Wetherbee (1988) 76–7. Vessey (1973) 315; see also Kytzler (1955) 176–7. Statius pointedly dissociates regna from the Altar, a word that in epic poetry evokes the Rome’s national destiny (e.g. Aen. 4.106, 275). Norden (1957) 123–4; Hinds (1998) 1–5.

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Callimachus links the foundation of the Altar with the Heraclids,52 and although it is not clear that Callimachus himself wrote about the foundation of the Altar in this way, Pfeiffer hypothesizes that such versions of the myth may derive from the Aetia.53 If Pfeiffer should be right, Statius’ fama est would be a nod towards Callimachus. Moreover, the meagre testimony we have indicates that Callimachus discussed the Altar of Clemency in the last aetion of Aetia 2.54 This location of the aetion would have had – as it does in the Thebaid – a significant closural aspect, since the Aetia was bipartite: Aetia 1–2 and Aetia 3–4 ‘form distinct wholes, one united by the Muses, the other by Berenice’.55 But it remains uncertain whether or not Callimachus related the foundation of the Altar. To some extent, the origin of the version that has the Heraclids found the Altar merely serves as a foil because, in true Alexandrian fashion, Statius subsequently clarifies that the fama is not quite right: fama minor factis: ipsos nam credere dignum caelicolas, tellus quibus hospita semper Athenae ceu leges hominemque novum ritusque sacrorum seminaque in vacuas hinc discendentia terras, sic sacrasse loco commune animantibus aegris confugium . . . Theb. 12.499–504 The story falls short of the facts. For it is right to believe that the gods themselves, to whom Athens was always a hospitable land, just as they gave laws and a new man and rites of religious ceremony and seeds that came down into the empty earth, so too they sanctified in this place a common refuge for souls in travail. . .

Statius offers that divine dispensation was involved in granting humanity this gift that parallels agriculture and laws. His word for the gods – caelicolas – is a compound that is found in Roman poetry as early as Ennius (Ann. 445 Skutsch), and it thus lends an archaic feel to the description, and, perhaps, a sense that this is a way for the gods to be reconciled with Statius’ 52

53

54 55

On Call. F 51 (Massimilla (1996) F 60), Pfeiffer writes: ‘fort. mythographi, qui vel Heraclidas . . . ad hanc aram confugisse vel ipsos eam condidisse . . . et Adrastum eo supplicem venisse . . . narrant, ad Call. Aet. redeunt. Nemo priorum poetarum vel scriptorum Misericordiae aram cum his fabulis coniunxit.’ Pfeiffer’s suggestion rests upon an ancient discussion of a Sophoclean play that merely states that Athens alone knows how to take pity. The scholion says  / 0,

] h   / ( 5 +' 5 @.

0,

l  !-  G ( [ 0 n ( X R % a Z p  0 -  & 5J   " *q 5 gZ-. The scholion locates the aetion & 5J  " *q 5 gZ-. Parsons (1977) 50. Further, if, as Knox (1985a) 59–65 (see too (1993) 175–8) and Cameron (1995) 162 have argued, the Epilogue of the Aetia was originally at the end of Book 2 (instead of the end of Book 4, where it is preserved only in P.Oxy 1011, a fourth-century ad codex), then the distinction between Aetia 1–2 and Aetia 3–4 would have been even more marked.

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vision of Clementia.56 But this description had been ambiguously qualified by the phrase credere dignum. As T. C. W. Stinton has argued, such claims do not show that the poet either believed or did not believe a given story, but they do put pressure on the authority of the discourse.57 And in this case, the stakes are indeed high when Statius draws attention to the issue of credibility. Moreover, Denis Feeney has pointed out that though Clementia had been bestowed by the gods, they themselves have abandoned Statius’ world and are thus no longer agents.58 The human realm is the only one left for Clementia to work in.59 Far from being an endorsement of the power of the gods, then, this archaizing description suggests that the gods are vestiges of an old, lost world. Despite the uncertainty surrounding literary antecedents of the Altar, the ‘Alexandrian footnotes’ call attention to the importance of the poetic tradition in this episode.60 And the particular importance of the Callimachean tradition appears more clearly when Statius draws upon the depiction of Theseus found in the Hecale.61 The catalogue of soldiers who accompany Theseus into battle, for instance, takes much of its geography from Callimachus’ poem. Statius has Theseus lead soldiers from the deme of Melaenae (Theb. 12.619 Icarii Celeique domus viridesque Melaenae),62 a place that was mentioned in the Hecale (F 84 Hollis 5  9).63 Also, Statius lists three Attic mountains that recall places mentioned in Callimachus’ Hecale: Icarii Celeique domus viridesque Melaenae, dives et Aegaleos nemorum Parnesque benignus vitibus et pinguis melior Lycabessos olivae venit atrox Alaeus et olentis arator Hymetti . . . Theb. 12.619–22

The homes of Icarius and Celeus which entertained their native gods send troops to battle, so too green Melaenae and Aegaleos, rich in forests, and Parnes, which is kind to vines, and Lycabessos, richer in the juicy olive. Violent Alaeus also, and the farmer of perfumed Hymettus . . . 56 57 60 61 62

63

ceu (Theb. 12.501) is also an archaic word; see Pollmann (2004) 208. 58 Feeney (1991) 391. 59 Ibid. 391–2. Stinton (1990) 242. For the term, see Ross (1975) 78. Delarue (2000) 136–8 briefly considers these allusions to the Hecale. Icarii (Thebaid 12.619) is a tantalizing reference since the story of Icarius welcoming Dionysos is not attested before Erathosthenes, Callimachus’ pupil, who wrote of this hospitality scene in his Erigone (Powell, Collectanea Alexandrina F 22–7). That poem was itself indebted to the Hecale (see Fraser (1972) 623–4). There may be another instance of Statius’ borrowing from the geography of the Hecale in order to shape his Theseus. Hollis suggests that F 52 (  † &( c0' . ) could be emended to +/ , which would then correspond nicely to Thebaid 12.622 atrox Alaeus. See Hollis (1992) 6 fn. 26.

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This collocation of Aegaleos, Parnes and Hymettus recalls the description of the storm which forces Theseus into Hecale’s hut:64  V!  D     , '   @' 0!    < ! L4 Ub L  '  ( <!,    Z'# [] ! [     X[0 4 Z7.   @%   , /   &,.[.] . . . [ 5 < T[ ' ,] &4  F &  gZ - '0 , -   <0.  n 5  &[(] 0 .[  @  \ r [ Hecale Hollis F 18

While it was still midday and the earth was warm, for so long the gleaming sky was more brilliant than glass, nor was there a wisp of cloud visible, and the heaven stretched cloudless . . . lacuna . . . (Some people???) ask for their evening meal and take their hands from work, then . . . first over Parnes, and then further onwards and larger on the summit of thyme-covered Aigaleos stood (the cloud?) bringing much rain. . . . of rugged Hymettos . . .

If Lobel’s supplement of T[ ' ] is right, then in the space of four lines, Callimachus mentions Parnes, Aegaleos and Hymettos. Statius also mentions these three mountains in close proximity, and the lack of Latin parallels suggests that his Attic topography derives from Callimachus’ poem.65 More significant points of contact between the Thebaid and the Hecale emerge when Evadne, speaking on behalf of the Argive women, pleads with Theseus to help them. She appeals to him by mentioning, among other things, his earlier aid to Hecale, the heroine of Callimachus’ poem: da terris unum caeloque Ereboque laborem, si patrium Marathona metu, si tecta levasti Cressia, nec fudit vanos anus hospita fletus. Theb. 12.580–2 64 65

Livrea (1992) 147–51 and Hollis (1998) 72 offer additional supplements to F 18. The mention of all three mountains in close proximity is found only in Statius and Callimachus. In Latin, the only other attested usage of a form of Aegaleos is in Pliny’s description of Attica at NH 4.24 (in Attica . . . montes Brilessus, Aegialeus . . .). Pliny also mentions Hymettus and Lycabessos, two mountains which Statius lists, but he does not include Parnes, which is attested in Latin only in this passage of Statius. Nor does Statius’ topography correspond to any other extant Greek work. As a parallel to the Hecale passage, Pfeiffer cites psuedo-Theophrastus’ De signis tempestatum (3.43) and its description of the role of Attic mountains in weather prediction. Parnes and Hymettos are mentioned in this account, but Aegaleos is omitted. Pausanias, too, lists only Parnes and Hymettos in his catalogue of Attic mountains (1.32).

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Grant this one labour to heaven, hell and earth, if you rid your ancestral Marathon and the houses of Crete of fear, and if the welcoming old lady did not shed tears in vain.

The words anus hospita refer to Hecale,66 and it seems that the entire phrase fudit vanos anus hospita fletus alludes to Callimachus’ comment that ‘a salty tear fell from her’ (Hecale F 57 Hollis 64 [  ).67 The allusion to the Hecale appropriately establishes that Theseus responds to female lament. Statius’ interest in mourning women parallels the focus of Callimachus’ poem, which places the heroism of Theseus in the background and is more concerned with its female heroine. In fact, the poem begins with Hecale and almost certainly ends with her posthumous honours. Moreover, Hecale makes a substantial speech in which she explains her desolation and the losses that she has suffered: the loss of her fortune, the death of her husband, and of her two sons (Hollis F 47–9). As Alan Cameron puts it, ‘at bottom the Hecale is the story of the last day in the life of an old woman who had once enjoyed wealth and happiness, now reduced to grief and poverty.’68 Indeed, one fragment reveals that Hecale’s grief is still strong – she says that she will soon rend her cloak (F 49.2–3 Hollis =0  '     " / 8 E 8 M ( ( & #, @5;) and she expresses her desire to take revenge by eating raw the murderer of somebody (we are not sure who it is) close to her (F 49.14–15 Hollis . . . 7    &#, /  S!'%  , Z '  , sE  ). The rending of garments is a standard part of lament,69 and though the threat of cannibalism is perverse, it is modelled upon Hecuba’s hatred towards Achilles (Il. 24.212–13). Hecale is cast in the tradition of bereaved women who desire revenge.70 When Statius’ Evadne mentions the grief that Hecale felt, she anticipates the end of the epic and its focus on the lamentation of the women who survive the Theban conflict:71 66 67

68 70

71

Hecker (1842), Kapp (1915), Hollis (1990). Hollis (1990) 208. Hollis (1982) 469–73 has suggested another possible allusion to the Theseus of the Hecale: Hecale F 17 contains Theseus’ request to his father Aegeus that, since he will safely return to his father, he should be allowed to fight the Marathonian bull. Hollis posits that the source of Theseus’ confidence is the aid of Athena, promised for every labour (17.3   ' ), and that this claim may lie behind Statius’ sic tibi non ullae socia sine Pallade pugnae (Theb. 12.583). 69 Lightfoot (1999) 191. Cameron (1995) 446. The motif is discussed by Alexiou (1974) 22–3 and Foley (2001) 145–71. Hecuba provides the paradigmatic example of this motif (Il. 24.212). Statius’ own Eurydice is another example: she has excessive grief (Theb. 6.33–6) and a desire for revenge (Theb. 6.138–76). See Brown (1994) 78. Hardie (1997) 153.

170

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War . . . medio iam foedera bello, iamque hospes Theseus; orant succedere muris dignarique domos. nec tecta hostilia victor aspernatus init; gaudent matresque nurusque Ogygiae, qualis thyrso bellante subactus mollia laudabat iam marcidus orgia Ganges. ecce per adversas Dircaei verticis umbras femineus quatit astra fragor, matresque Pelasgae decurrunt: quales Bacchea ad bella vocatae Thyiades amentes, magnum quas poscere credas aut fecisse nefas; gaudent lamenta novaeque exultant lacrimae; rapit huc, rapit impetus illuc, Thesea magnanimum quaerant prius, anne Creonta, anne suos: vidui ducunt ad corpora luctus. Theb. 12.783–96

In the midst of the war a treaty is struck and Theseus becomes a guest. They beg him to come inside the walls and to honour their homes. The victor, not rejecting them, enters the enemy residences. Ogygian mothers and nurses rejoice, just as the Ganges, quelled by the warring wand and now languid, praised rites that were not warlike. Look, a womanly clamour through the shade of Dirce’s heights shakes the stars and the Pelasgian mothers run down like mad Thyiads that have been called to Bacchic wars. You might believe the women were demanding some huge crime or had committed one. Laments rejoice and fresh tears exult. Their urges pull them this way and that: should they seek Theseus first, or Creon, or their loved ones? The mourning of widows leads them to the bodies.

The Theban women celebrate and rejoice at Theseus’ arrival (e.g. Theb. 12.783, 793 gaudent; Theb. 12.794 exultant). And the idea that the women want Theseus to honour their households not only recalls the Callimachean reception of the great Attic hero in Hecale’s humble home, but also suggests that they appreciate his actions. This passage thus caps a series of allusions to the Hecale that build upon the theme of lamentation.72 At the same time, these allusions to Callimachus’ poem raise troublesome issues, however. First of all, the motif of mourning is a cause for concern. Though lament is part of death – and thus the ultimate form of closure – Statius calls attention to the impossibility of capturing all the sorrow that fills the end of the poem. Specifically, he employs a famous epic topos to convey his inability to articulate the women’s grief: 72

Earlier episodes of female grief also prepare us for closural moments. Ide mourns her dead sons (Theb. 3.135–68) in a scene which is remarkably similar to the end of the fratricide; the struggle between Eurydice and Hypsipyle over the right to mourn the dead Opheltes anticipates the rivalry of Argia and Antigone; Hypsipyle’s individual grief anticipates the collective female grief at the end of the poem. See Brown (1994) 74–93; 126. Dietrich (1999) and Lovatt (1999) both discuss the role of lament at the end of the Thebaid.

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Non ego, centena si quis mea pectora laxet voce deus, tot busta simul vulgique ducumque tot pariter gemitus dignis conatibus aequem: Theb. 12.797–9

If some god should expand my breast with a hundred voices, I wouldn’t match with worthy efforts so many funerals of leaders and commoners, so many lamentations shared . . .

The topos in which a poet says he cannot report something even if he had many mouths is used to express incapacity to articulate a huge theme (cf. Il. 2.488–92; Aen. 6.625–7).73 Though Statius does in fact try to give a voice to some of the grief, the enormity of the implied lamentation brings to mind that excessive mourning may lead to the desire for revenge.74 In the Theban saga, revenge is obviously a concern because the Epigonoi renew war to avenge their parents, and Statius had referred to the sons of the Seven (Theb. 7.788; 12.348 ). In addition to the problems caused by excessive mourning and its concomitant desire for revenge, the employment of the topos at this moment indicates that there is more to the story than Theseus’ triumphant arrival. Epic, Statius’ epic at least, cannot give a voice to the lament of those who have survived the conflict of civil war, nor to all those who have suffered from it.75 Moreover, Statius’ version of the many mouth topos strikingly varies the Homeric original, in which the poet expresses his inability to mention how many leaders and great men led the expedition of the Greeks against Troy (Il. 2.487 f0 . . . ( ). Statius expands the range of people affected by this war and includes the masses as well as the leaders (Theb. 12.789 vulgique ducumque), and thus emphasizes that the resolution of civil war cannot focus solely on the highest levels on society. The poem offers an end to conflict, but not to its consequences, and thus points out a gap between the grand narratives of martial valour and heroism and more mundane stories about those who live non-heroic lives. The closure brought about by Theseus is counterbalanced by the poet’s inability to express the enormous impact of civil war on society.76 Statius’ allusions to the Hecale, then, not only foreshadow his emphasis on female lament, but they prompt new, unsettling questions about whether 73 74 75 76

Hardie (1997) 155 notes that the topos at the end of the poem is unusual and ‘the effect is to leave the poem as a whole open-ended’. Alexiou (1974) 22–3; Foley (2001) 145–71. Hypsipyle is an exception; see Brown (1994) ch. 4. But even Hypsipyle’s ability to express grief leads to the death of the child Opheltes and renews a cycle of loss and lament. Hardie (1997) 154 points out a problem with the triumph from another point of view. He says that the movement of the Argive women from the wilds to the city reverses the normal escape of frenzied women, thereby ‘seriously infringing the integrationist thrust of triumph and funeral as closural rituals’.

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one person can bring a satisfactory end to a long narrative of civil war, and what kind of resolution that would actually entail. In the workings of Statius’ narrative, epic claims conflict with treatments of loss and grief that rework Callimachean poetry.

neoteric c l e m e n t i a Just as triumphant narratives do not constitute the entire story, so too Theseus’ employment of clementia appears to be a partial account. And in order to make this point, Statius once again returns to the Callimachean poetic tradition. As Theseus prepares for war, he gazes at his shield: at procul ingenti Neptunius agmina Theseus angustat clipeo, propriaeque exordia laudis centum urbes umbone gerit centenaque Cretae moenia, seque ipsum monstrosi ambagibus antri hispida torquentem luctantis colla iuvenci alternasque manus circum et nodosa ligantem bracchia et abducto vitantem cornua vultu. terror habet populos, cum saeptus imagine torva ingreditur pugnas: bis Thesea bisque cruentas caede videre manus; veteres reminiscitur actus ipse tuens sociumque gregem metuendaque quondam limina, et absumpto pallentem Gnosida filo. Theb. 12.665–76

But Theseus, in the distance, dwarfs the ranks with his enormous shield. On its boss he carries, the prelude to his renown, the hundred cities and the hundred walls of Crete, and himself in the windings of the awful cave, twisting the struggling bull’s shaggy neck, wrapping around it both his hands and sinewy arms, while holding his own head back away to avoid the horns. As he goes forth to battle, shielded by that grim image, fear grips the people to see Theseus twice, and twice his hands bloodied with slaughter; and he himself, gazing at it, remembers his old feats, the group of colleagues and the doorway once feared, and Ariadne, pale because she found the guiding thread all unwound.

Theseus looks at his past on the shield and remembers his old battles, friends, and Ariadne (Theb. 12.674–6). When Theseus and Ariadne are involved, verbs of remembering have deep significance. In Catullus 64, for example, Ariadne had charged Theseus with being forgetful (Catullus 64.135 immemor a!). Ovid exploits this claim by connecting memory and poetic allusion when he has Ariadne claim to ‘remember’ that Theseus abandoned

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her in a passage that clearly alludes to Catullus 64 (Fasti 3.473).77 Theseus’ memory thus has a literary-historical lineage that goes back to Catullus 64,78 and indeed both Statius and Catullus write about or refer to the relationship between Ariadne and Theseus in an ekphrasis. It is unsettling, however, that Statius’ Theseus would remember Catullus 64 at this moment. After all, when Catullus’ Ariadne realizes that Theseus has deserted her, she asks a series of rhetorical questions: sicine me patriis avectam, perfide, ab aris perfide, deserto liquisti in litore, Theseu? sicine discedens neglecto numine divum, immemor a! devota domum periuria portas? nullane res potuit crudelis flectere mentis consilium? tibi nulla fuit clementia praesto immite ut nostri vellet miserescere pectus? Catullus 64.132–8

So have you left me, faithless Theseus, on the lonely shore after having borne me away from my father’s altars? Departing like this, with the will of the gods forgotten – oh forgetful man – do you carry home cursed perjury? Could nothing bend the purpose of your cruel mind? Did you have no mercy that your hard heart wish to pity me?

Ariadne accuses Theseus of not possessing clementia (64.137–8) nor wishing to show pity (64.138 miserescere). Moreover, she describes his heart as ‘hard’ (64.138 immite pectus). Finally, she questions Theseus’ clementia and trust in the context of her own unburied corpse, stating that she saved Theseus from death, but in return he leaves her for dead, unburied, and food for beasts and birds: pro quo dilaceranda feris dabor alitibusque praeda, neque iniacta tumulabor mortua terra Catullus 64.152–3

In return, I’ll be given to the birds and beasts to be torn apart as a plaything, nor will I be buried with some earth sprinkled on top of me.

The contextual parallels between the depiction of Theseus in the Thebaid and that in Catullus 64 introduce a troublesome perspective on the hero. Ariadne’s claim that he has a hard heart (64.138 immite pectus), for example, suggests that Theseus does not represent the values of Clementia, which 77 78

Conte (1986) 60–8; Hinds (1998) 3–4. See also Miller (1993) 163: ‘an appeal to memory . . . may similarly alert the reader to poetic allusion.’ Taisne (1994) 281 n. 272 notes the importance of Catullus 64 here.

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is described as mitis (Thebaid 12.482). Indeed, she claims that he does not have clementia and that he does not know how to show mercy. The memory of Ariadne thus calls into question Theseus’ embodiment of the virtue of clementia. Statius’ evocation of Catullus’ Ariadne raises additional closural concerns. For instance, Ariadne is ultimately rescued by Bacchus (64.251–64), and this interaction is part of the poem’s broader interests in the relationship between gods and humans that is reflected in both the wedding of the mortal Peleus to the divine Thetis and the intermingling between divinities and heroes that took place in the golden age.79 Of course, Catullus’ poem ends with the collapse of golden age (64.397), meaning that the gods have departed from the earth and no longer openly interact with humans. And it is with the dissolution of this age that horrific actions such as warfare between brothers (64.399 perfudere manus fraterno sanguine fratres) and disturbed sexual relations within a family emerge (64.402–4). These very topics, symbolic of degenerate human life, lie at the core of Statius’ epic. In light of these contextual similarities, it is also relevant that pietas had yet to be rejected in Catullus’ golden age – though the implication is clear that the virtue will be spurned (64.386 nondum spreta pietate) – because in the Thebaid the collapse of pietas (Theb. 11.493–4 ) drives brothers to kill one another. Statius, then, seemingly follows Catullus’ chronology and suggests that there is no chance of recovering that idealized moment in the past, or of relying upon the gods to salvage the situation. However, Catullus’ Theseus is part of the golden age, whereas his actions in the Thebaid occur after it, and we are left to wonder about the efficacy of his actions in a post-lapsarian world. In this regard, Statius’ evocation of Ariadne heightens the tensions surrounding Theseus and his attempts to bring closure to the poem. Though we need not privilege the vision of Theseus contained in Catullus 64, Statius’ allusions to Catullus’ poem underscore a gap between current and past narratives about the hero that makes it difficult tie up the narrative in an easy knot and to find resolution. In terms of the closural strategies of the Thebaid, this alternative perspective on Theseus derives from the Callimachean tradition and embodies one strategy that permeates the final book of the epic.80 It remains to consider the competing strategy that stems from Theseus’ epic models.

79 80

Townend (1983) considers the multiple levels of divine and human interaction throughout the poem. Thomas (1983) 112–13 discusses Catullus 64 and the Callimachean poetic tradition.

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theseus and a e n e i d 8 While Aeneas’ duel with Turnus is a model for Theseus’ conflict with Creon, a second closural moment from the Aeneid also shapes the ending of the Thebaid and Statius’ examination of civil war. The Shield of Aeneas that is described at the end of Aeneid 8 is an ‘ending’ to the poem in the sense that it both depicts an end to civil war at Rome after Augustus’ victories and suggests that this victory concludes the historical narrative outlined on it.81 Statius’ representation of Theseus’ triumph evokes this Virgilian account of Augustus. Philip Hardie points out that when Theseus arrives at Athens after conquering the Amazons, he resembles a Roman imperator as he drives in a chariot pulled by four horses (Theb. 12.532–3 niveis victorem . . . vectum / quadriiugis).82 Like the scene in Aeneid 8, this triumph celebrates a victory over foreign (eastern) barbarous people ruled by a queen. In addition, the hero’s triumph over the Amazons looks ahead to Theseus’ victory over Creon, and after Theseus kills him, his ‘entry into Thebes and the joy of the Theban women reworks topics from the triumph of Augustus at the end of the Virgilian Shield of Aeneas . . .’83 Theseus’ procession, then, ‘evokes the picture of Augustus on the shield of Aeneas at the end of Aeneid 8, celebrating his triple triumph over the barbarian peoples of the world.’84 The arrival of the Greek hero at Thebes is to be read in light of Aeneid 8, and thus lends Roman resonance to the scene in which he resolves a long narrative of civil war.85 These triumphs, however, work differently in relation to the accounts of civil war that are contained within the respective epics. In the Aeneid, Vulcan and his fellow workmen created the narrative in which Augustus ends civil war. In the Thebaid, however, Vulcan and his entourage generate the civil war. Moreover, while the narrative forged by Virgil’s Vulcan reaches its fulfilment with Augustus, Theseus can only temporarily hinder the narrative of violence that was generated by Vulcan. For the Theban myth ensures that civil war will reappear. In this sense, a city’s ability to move beyond its origins of fratricide and civil war is worrisomely predetermined. 81 83

84 85

82 Hardie (1997) 153 n. 51. Hardie (1986) 362–4; Quint (1993) 31–2. Hardie (1997) 153. It is striking, however, that when Theseus first arrives, his shield creates terror (Theb. 12.672 terror habet populos . . .). Aeneas’ shield, in contrast, has people who are celebrating (Aen. 8.717 laetitia ludisque viae plausuque fremebant). Morton Braund (1996) 12. Suetonius, Nero 25.1 notes that Nero rode in the chariot that Augustus had used when he celebrated his triumphs, so Augustan celebrations had already been exploited by later emperors. See Champlin (2003a) 214.

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The relevance of such points for Rome are reinforced in two ways. First, by Statius’ time, triumphs were the special prerogative of the imperial household.86 Theseus’ triumphant arrival by chariot thus links him to Roman rulers. In addition, the fact that Theseus seems to exemplify clementia places this ending within a Roman context.87 Clementia, originally a virtue exhibited by the Roman state towards a conquered enemy, seems to have been avoided in political discussions until the late republic, when Julius Caesar transformed it by appropriating it for himself and extending it towards fellow citizens after the civil wars.88 It reappears in the context of civil war on numerous Augustan coins and as one of the four virtues celebrated on the Clupeus Virtutis awarded to Augustus in 27 bc, just a few years after the battle at Actium. From then on, Clementia became a primary virtue of the emperor, and Vitellius’ use of the virtue on his coinage may evoke the fact that he spared Otho’s brother and did not punish those who revolted against his government.89 The close tie between Theseus and clementia thus not only Romanizes him, but also characterizes him in terms that were used primarily for Roman rulers in the aftermath of civil war. The parallels between Theseus and imperial figures encourage a reading of his actions in light of Roman emperors. Indeed, since the Flavians presented themselves as following the example of Augustus,90 the similarity between the imperial triumphs in Aeneid 8 and the ‘triumph’ of Thebaid 12 takes on special point. Statius’ mythological construct blends with Roman political realities and revisits both the original Pax Augusta and that which had been re-established by the Flavians. Clementia reassumes prominence and new triumphs indicate that a peace has once again been achieved. Yet while the Augustan theme of vengeance is not central to the end of the Thebaid, a fresh set of concerns remain because resolution eludes some, especially the women who have to confront the aftermath of civil war. Argia and Antigone, for example, are denied closure when the flame splits into two and the hatred of Polynices and Eteocles persists. The allusions to Hecale (and the Hecale) at the end of the epic also call attention to the persistence of grief and the desire for revenge. These points contrast with the female celebration depicted on Aeneas’ shield (Aeneid 8.718; they also contrast with the lament for Hector in Iliad 24). Once again, then, epic models are challenged by allusions to Callimachus’ poetry. 86 87 88 90

Tacitus, Ann. 3.74. Snijder (1968) 17–21; Ahl (1986) 2895–6; Morton Braund (1996) 9–16; Hardie (1997) 153. 89 Syme (1958) 414. Syme (1939) 159; Weinstock (1971) 233–43. Hannestad (1988) 119; Sablayrolles (1994); Levick (1999) 70.

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In Thebaid 12, the teleological force of epic models has been thwarted and/or challenged, thus suggesting the fragile nature of any claim – even claims that define a society – to have brought an end to civil war. The Thebaid illustrates the difficulty of reaching satisfactory endings in epic, and in actual history. To counter that troubling idea, the poem allows that individuals may gain comfort from a source that, though not dissociated from the state, is not dependent upon it. By investing Clementia with such new power, Statius provides a means of resolution that can work anywhere, even in a city plagued by recurring civil war. Statius’ Altar of Clemency appealed to Dante and other medieval Christians in part because it offered an epic ending that depended not upon the pagan gods but rather the ability of individuals to break away from the horror of civil war and seek refuge in a different sort of divinity.91 Statius’ depiction of the virtue has long been read from a Christian perspective,92 and in fact, Dante characterizes Statius’ reading of Virgil’s fourth Eclogue and his consequent supposed adoption of Christianity in terms suggestive of Clementia (Purgatorio 22.70–4).93 Dante’s rewriting of Clementia as a means of salvation counters his earlier use of the Thebaid as a model for hell throughout the Inferno. Statius and his poetry are thus employed by Dante to accentuate the division between two distinct parts of the Commedia, and, given the presence of Virgil in the scene in Purgatorio, it seems clear that the literary tradition, represented in this encounter by the three epic poets, underpins Dante’s treatment of the saved and the damned, of pagan and Christian. In turn, Statius’ own epic also articulates its vision of civic and literary strife and even a sort of salvation by extensively and intensively drawing upon the literary tradition. However, the eventual loss and ignorance of Greek literature in medieval Europe meant that Dante and his contemporaries, for all their familiarity with the Thebaid, could not have been aware of a fundamental way in which Statius generates internal conflict in his epic that considers the place of the gods, the state and the individual in the context of civil war. That is, Statius plainly makes sustained and serious use of both Callimachus’ poetry and its legacy at Rome. At the end of the epic in particular, Statius reworks Callimachean mythic figures as well as aetia in ways that, while not refuting the potency of heroic narratives, both illustrate the incomplete and partial nature of such accounts and offer a universal means of closure and resolution. 91

Lewis (1998) 99.

92

Wetherbee (1988) 72.

93

Ibid. 82.

Epilogue

Martial, a contemporary of Statius, explicitly states that Greek myth and Callimachus’ Aetia are irrelevant to Roman life: Qui legis Oedipoden caligantemque Thyesten, Colchidas et Scyllas, quid nisi monstra legis? Quid tibi raptus Hylas, quid Parthenopaeus et Attis, Quid tibi dormitor proderit Endymion? Exutusve puer pinnis labentibus? aut qui Odit amatrices Hermaphroditus aquas? Quid te vana iuvant miserae ludibria chartae? Hoc lege, quod possit dicere vita ‘Meum est.’ Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas Harpyiasque Invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit. Sed non vis, Mamurra, tuos cognoscere mores Nec te scire: legas Aetia Callimachi. Epigram 10.4 You who read about Oedipus and Thyestes in the dark and the women of Colchis and Scyllas, what do you read except monstrosities? What good will ravished Hylas be to you, or Parthenopaeus and Attis, or Endymion, he who sleeps? Or the boy stripped of his wings that drop, or Hermaphroditus who hates the amorous waters? Why do the empty pretences of a wretched page please you? Read this, about which life is able to say ‘It’s mine.’ Here you will not find Centaurs or Gorgons or Harpies: my page knows people. But, Mamurra, you do not want to know yourself or your own behaviour: you should read Callimachus’ Aetia.

In particular, the Thebaid seems to be taken to task. Parthenopaeus and Oedipus, for example, call to mind Statius’ epic, and specific words evoke Statius’ style.1 On the one hand, Martial’s claim that Greek myth is irrelevant to Roman life must be understood within the context of his generically motivated strategies to confront the gritty Roman realities that define his poems. After all, he elsewhere cites Callimachus as the model Greek epigrammatist 1

Watson and Watson (2003) 96–7.

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(4.23), and although he relegates his Greek forebear to a position behind himself and another Latin epigrammatist named Bruttianus, his programmatic agenda has been revealed. And in light of the prevalent practice of using Greek myth to address Roman concerns, we can also see that epigram’s denigration of Greek myth distinguishes the genre from other forms of literature. On the other hand, Martial’s comment does invite consideration about the role of mythic narratives in poetry and in life, and Roman literature took up this topic in numerous ways. In the case of the Thebaid, I have argued that the poem analogically engages with contemporary Roman realities. The poem offers hope for the aftermath of civil war but the challenges made to Homeric and Virgilian norms preclude the adoption and replaying of grand narratives.2 New ideas are needed. The Callimachean tradition, with its intense interest in origins, the epic past, narrative form and the relevance of myth for a contemporary context, provided Statius with the perfect means of examining the origins of his epic world. 2

Lovatt (2005) 15 n. 41 seems to me to be right in saying that a straightforward reading of the expressed deference to the Aeneid that is found in the epilogue of the Thebaid ignores what actually happens in the text.

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Index

Adrastus 25–6, 27–9, 40–4, 81, 82, 86, 90 Aeschylus 141, 142 aetia 9, 12, 13, 25–7, 28–9, 30–46, 77, 84, 91–2, 98, 108–11, 112–13, 115, 124, 128, 158–9 ‘Alexandrian footnote’ 110, 111, 113, 165, 167 allusion 1–2, 14–15 Amphiaraus 77–9, 93, 127–30 Antimachus 20, 41, 74 Apollo 6, 7, 9–10, 25, 29–30, 32, 33, 34–6, 44–6, 47–8, 106, 113, 127, 129 Ariadne 172–4 Argia 80–1, 157–9 necklace of 11–12, 51–6, 57–61, 74, 83, 91, 138, 143–4, 146 Argos 25, 34–6, 86 and Thebes 37, 41, 42, 76, 77, 82 Asopus 112–14, 115, 120, 122, 129, 135–7 burial, closural significance of 14, 155–159 Cadmus 63–4 and Harmonia 51 Callimachus 2, 22, 23, 91, 114–15, 116, 135, 140, 144 Aetia 8–9, 13, 19, 27, 33, 40, 43, 46, 73, 75, 77, 89, 159, 165–6, 178 Statius’ use of 12, 15, 20, 21–2, 33–5, 38–40, 75, 77, 79, 83–6, 91–3, 114, 120, 153–72, 177 Roman Callimacheanism 15, 20, 88, 128, 135, 144 Anti-Callimacheanism 12, 13, 20, 70, 73, 75, 124, 126, 130, 134, 136, 137, 143 Capaneus 78–9, 82, 132, 140–4 Catalogue Of Seven against Thebes 82–6 Homeric Catalogue of Ships 82, 98, 102, 111, 115–16, 118–19 Of Theseus’ troops 167–8 Catullus 14, 20, 172–4 Cinna 23

Civil war 154, 175 at Florence 1 at Rome 2, 6–7, 17, 155, 175 Clementia 2, 8, 10, 14, 45–6, 48–9, 154, 155, 162, 165–7, 173, 176 Altar of 45, 75, 154, 160, 163–5 See also inclementia Cranes 105 Crenaeus 135–6 Creon 46, 152, 156, 160, 162 Cyclopes 51, 54, 70–4, 77, 86 Dante 1, 177 Delay, narrative 66, 76–7, 79, 81, 83, 86–93, 95, 98, 101, 120–1, 123, 145–6 Delphi 30, 42 Apollo and Python 25, 29–30, 32, 33, 47–8 Dis 124–6, 129–30, 144–5, 146, 150, 151 Domitian 5, 6, 10, 48, 71, 72 Ekphrasis 11–12, 51–2 Ennius 11, 97, 131, 136, 166 Epigonoi 18, 159, 171 Eriphyle 55–6, 83, 127 Eteocles 4, 46–7, 66, 119, 131, 145–8, 157 Euripides 3, 4, 64, 141, 142, 160 Evadne 168, 169 Games, funeral 19, 91–3, 94, 156–7 Gigantomachy 17, 48, 66, 124, 125–6, 129, 130, 139–40, 142–3, 144, 151 Political dimensions of 47–8 Glaucus 116–17, 135 Gods Olympian vs. chthonic 9, 25–7, 28, 30–1, 36, 37, 41, 45, 46–7, 165 and Rome 9–10 Gorgon 55, 58–9 Helicon 102–8 Hercules 28, 58, 69, 82, 83–5

192

Index Heroism 123, 131–2, 148 Hesiod 8, 29, 38, 40, 62, 71, 103, 106 Hippomedon 86, 121, 135–7 Homer 12–13, 14, 19, 44–6, 59, 62, 89, 112, 115–20, 131, 132, 136–7, 147, 148, 152–3, 156–7, 159 Catalogue of ships 13, 82, 98, 102–8, 111, 115–16, 118–19 Horace 21, 22, 51, 110, 125, 140 Hymns 43, 44, 49 Hypsipyle 76, 87–91, 92–3 Inclementia 45, 48, 164 Juno 7, 29, 62, 76, 80, 136, 161 Jupiter 7, 9–10, 130, 144–5, 146, 149–51, 152, 160–1 Lapithaon 109–11 Laius 118–19 Lament 156, 169, 170–1 Lemnos 61–3, 64, 65, 76, 90–1 Linus 33, 37–9, 93–4, 106, 159 Lucan 4, 12, 32, 77, 99, 121–3, 131–2 Mars 62–5, 66–7, 76, 89, 90, 97, 100, 101, 119, 138–9, 143 Martial 48, 178 Metamorphosis 16, 108, 117, 118 Middle 99, 122 Minerva/Athena 53, 58, 59, 72, 132 Molorcus 21, 33, 69, 84–5, 92 Myth at Rome, Greek 2–4, 176–9 Naevius 9, 29, 47 Narcissus 117–18 Narrative In medias res 51 teleological 11–14, 153, 156–77 in Annales 11 in Aeneid 11 disruptive elements in 108–11, 115, 117, 120–2 Nemea 12, 19, 20, 76, 84–6, 89–90, 100–1 Aetion of Nemean games 91–3 Noise, poetic 73–4 Oedipus 2, 35, 36, 50, 51, 56, 75, 83, 94, 115, 118, 122, 164 Opheltes 76, 91, 92, 93 Ovid 4, 11, 16, 29–30, 63–4, 66, 103–4, 107–8, 110, 116–17, 158, 172

193

Parthenopaeus 82, 137–40 Pausanias 33, 35, 113, 159, 163 Permessus 105–7 Piety 146, 150–1 Pindar 48, 55, 113–14 Polynices 4, 25, 27, 40, 42–3, 46, 52, 66, 80, 82, 145–8, 157, 158 Posidippus 57, 70 Propertius 17–20, 37, 47–8, 55, 105, 124, 126, 127–8, 140 Rome Use of Augustan past by Flavians 5–6, 15, 162, 175–6 Civil war 6–7 and Thebes 4–5, 176–9 Scamander 136–7 Silius Italicus 9 Similes 79, 81, 88–9, 104, 161 Statius and Dante 1, 177 and Domitian 10 and his father 22 Silvae 77, 84–6 Characterization of Thebaid in 21–2 Achilleid 108, 110 Swans 105, 107 Telchines 12, 13, 51, 68, 69, 70, 73, 75, 84, 124, 137 Conflict with Callimachus 68 Martial interests of 70 Impact upon narrative 127 Thebes Origins 50–1 Relevant to Rome 4–5, 8, 67–8, 154, 175–6 and Roman poetry 17–20 Theseus 2–3, 14, 154, 160–3, 167–71, 172–6 Thrace 89, 105 Tisiphone 4, 36, 46, 56–7, 83, 146, 151 Triumph 2, 154, 175–6 Tydeus 1, 25, 58, 82, 130–4 Valerius Flaccus 3, 62–3, 90 Venus 7, 9, 11, 61–7, 76, 77, 79, 90–1, 138–9, 143–4 Virgil 6–7, 12–13, 27–9, 30–1, 37–8, 54, 55, 56, 60, 62, 67, 70, 74, 78, 95, 97–8, 103, 105–7, 110, 131, 132, 133–4, 137, 141, 143, 147, 148, 149, 150, 152, 153–4, 161–3, 175–7 Aeneid and Augustus 7, 14 Vulcan 7, 11–12, 51, 54–6, 61–7, 77, 81, 85, 86, 91, 95, 127, 138–9, 143–4

Index locorum

Aeschylus Sept. 423–56: 424: Antimachus Thebaid F 13: Antiphilus GPh 947–52 Apollonius 2.698–713: 2.706–7: 4.1774: Aristotle Poetics 1450b31: 1454b22: 1459a37–b2:

141 142 41 158 29 29 148 99 50 134

Bianor GPh 1669–74

158

Callimachus Aetia 1.1.1: 1.1.1–4: 1.1.3: 1.1.10: 1.1.13–14: 1.1.14: 1.1.17: 1.1.20: 1.1.24: 1.1.29–32: 1.28–34: 1.28.1: 1.28.1–2: 1.30.3: 1.30.5: 1.30.8: 1.30.10: 1.30.11: 1.30.12: 1.30.14: 2.50.53:

12 68 13, 103 18 89 105 73 114, 140 38, 106 73 33 34 34 35 38 38 35 35 35 35 68

2.51: 3.66.7: 3.75.65: F 87–9: F 89: F 105: F 119: SH 254.8–10: 257.23: 257.25: 259.37: Ep. 6.1: 27.4: 28.1: Hecale F 17: F 18: F 49.2–3: F 49.14–15: F 52: F 57: F 84: F 95: F 96: F 98: h. Ap. 105–13: h. Del. 31: 75–8: h. Di. 68–75: F 570: F 594: Catullus 64.132–8: 64.135: 64.137–8: 64.138: 64. 152–3: 64.251–64: 64.386: 64.397: 64.399: 64.402–4:

194

166 87 68 33 30 159 126 92 92 92 84 21 21 134 169 168 169 169 167 169 167 86 86 86 79, 113, 135 68 114 71 140 114 173 172 173 173 173 174 174 174 174 174

Index locorum 95: Cicero Att. 2.25.1: 7.11.1: Cinna fr. 11: Dante Inferno 14.63–75: 20.31–130: 32.124–33.78: 32.130–1: Purgatorio 21.7–9: 22.70–4: Dio 52.1.1: 53.11.4: 58.24.3: 66.19.3: Dionysius Halicarnassus On Literary Composition 2.96.15–19, 2.98.9: Imit. 2.204.3: Ennius Ann. F 146: F 203: F 225: F 225–6: F 391–8: F 445: Euripides Bacchae 1302–26: Ion 76: 80: Ph. 1131: 1141–3: 1173: 1186: Hesiod Theog. 5–6: 27: 116: 139–40: 617–719: [Hesiod] Sc. 224: 224–40: 231: 233–6: Homer Iliad 1.4–5: 1.5:

20 4 4 23 1 1 1 1 1 177 8 8 3 6 74 74 136 136 100 75 131 166 64 30 30 142 141 141 141 103 40 29 71 142 58 58 54 55 155 26

1.44–6: 1.48: 1.49: 1.51: 1.52: 1.472–4: 1.493–611: 1.530: 1.544: 2.487: 2.488–92: 2.496: 2.498: 2.500: 2.503–4: 2.504: 2.507: 2.517–26: 2.518: 2.536: 2.539: 2.603: 2.604: 2.605: 2.606: 3.3–6: 3.181: 3.191: 4.376–400: 4.383: 4.452–5: 5.87–92: 5.734–5: 5.736–52: 5.741: 5.742: 5.800–8: 7.220: 8.349: 10.37: 11.36: 11.37: 13.528–33: 14.114: 14.444: 16.7–11: 16.102–14: 16.112–13: 16.813–14: 19.303–9: 21.218–20: 21.241: 21.242–5: 21.269–71: 21.279–83: 21.307–23:

195 44 44 44 44 44 44 27 65 136 171 171 116 116 116 111 116 116 118 118 119 119 82 82 82 82 89 102 102 132 120 79 79 58 59 58 58 132 112 58 157 58 58 132 132 110 157 131 60 132 156 136 137 137 137 137 136

196 Homer (cont.) 22.79–80: 22.82–9: 22.208–13: 22.229: 23.239: 22.331–60: 23.82–92: 23.94: 23.222–5: 23.236–48: 23.243–8: 23.890–1: 24.44: 24.64–76: 24.104–19: 24.110: 24.144–58: 24.212–13: 24.314–15: 24.353–7: 24.486–506: 24.683–8: 24.710–76: 24.725–45: 24.784–804: 24.799–800: Odyssey 1.26–95: 3.69–74: 3.204: 4.118–54: 5.121–4: 8.266–366: 8.283: 8.301: 8.326: 8.343: 8.348: 8.356: 8.580: 12.201–59: 24.81–4: Horace AP 136: 147: 291: Carm. 2.12.6: 3.4.42–65: 3.4.70: 3.11.1–2: 3.11.11–12: 3.30.12–14: 4.2.1–12: 4.2.5–8: 4.12.3–4:

Index locorum 147 147 149 157 157 147 157 157 157 94 157 156 45 156 152 159 152 169 152 156 156 156 156 156 156 156 27 41 148 41 139 62 62 62 62 62 62 62 148 117 94 134 51 21 125 126 140 110 110 22 113 79 73

Josephus BJ 7.73: Lucan BC 1.185: 1.204: 1.217–19: 1.223: 1.552: 4.551: 5.80: 5.81: 5.111–14: 5.134–6: 6.147–8: 6.150–2: 6.189: 6.195: 6.205: 6.395: 6.409: 7.144: Lucretius 4.181–2:

5 121 121 121 121 4 4 32 32 32 32 131 131 131 131 131 32 32 32 105

Martial 4.23 10.4

179 178

Ovid Am. 1.10.5: 2.1.11: Fasti 3.473: Met. 1.1–4: 1.3–4: 1.4: 1.7: 1.151–62: 1.163–252: 1.176: 1.200–5: 1.400–28: 1.434–9: 1.436–51: 1.438–40: 1.441: 1.445–9: 1.456: 1.459: 1.460: 1.560–5: 1.598: 3.131–7: 3.132: 3.134:

87 125 173 16 11 103, 107 29 126 27 10 10 29 30 29 29 29 29 29 30 29 31 86 63 64 64

Index locorum 3.339–510: 3.354: 3.509: 3.511–12: 3.511–731: 3.721–33: 4.176: 4.185: 4.564: 4.595–601: 7.365–7: 8.22: 8.549–50: 8.618–78: 13.13: 13.298: 13.730–14.74: 13.789–869: 13.905–6: 13.915: 13.917–65: 13.920: 13.921: 13.922: 13.923: 13.960: 13.962: 14.158–440: 14.452–8: 14.482–511: 15.855–60: 15.860: 15.878: Tr. 2.69: 2.533: 5.5.33–9: Pausanias 1.17.1: 1.43.7: 1.43.8: 2.16.5: 9.18.3: 10.5.9: Pindar P. 1.13–20: 4.244: I. 8.35–55: Pliny NH 4.24: 37.63: Propertius 2.1.17–28: 2.1.39–42: 2.10.25–6:

118 118 118 118 64 118 63 62 59 55 68 117 120 16 141 141 117 72 116 117 117 117 117 117 117 117 117 104 107 108 10 16 148 125 7 158 163 35, 36 33 72 159 30 48 55 113 168 55 17 17, 126 105

2.13.8: 2.16.43–6, 29: 2.26.47: 2.34.31–2: 2.34.31–40: 2.34.33–8: 2.34.39–40: 3.9.37–42: 3.9.43–6: 3.9.47–56: 4.1.64: 4.6.27–36: Quintilian 10.1.53: Silius Italicus 3.557–629: 4.398: Statius Ach. 1.1: 1.5–7: Silv. 1. Pref. 17–18: 1.1.1: 1.1.1–7: 1.1.32: 1.1.41: 1.1.44–5: 1.1.52–4: 1.1.56–8: 1.1.63–5: 1.1.71–2: 1.1.84–90: 1.2.4: 1.5.1: 1.6.25–7: 3.1.29–30: 3.1.32–6: 3.1.130–3: 3.2.143: 3.5.35–6: 4.2.11: 4.2.55–6: 4.3.128–9: 4.4.58: 4.4.88–9: 4.6.47–9: 4.6.47–54: 4.6.48: 4.6.50–4: 4.6.59–88: 4.6.91–3: 4.6.96: 4.6.97: 4.7.26:

197 37 55 87 19 124, 128, 140 19 20 18 18, 126 17 22 47 20 10 148 141 108 72 72 71 72 72 72 72 72 73 72 72 103 103 10 85 85 71, 86 21 21 10 48 10 10 82 69 84 71 69 70 70 70, 85 70 21

198 Statius (cont.) 5.3.108: 5.3.141–3: 5.3.146–58: 5.3.195–8: 5.3.233–7: Theb. 1.3: 1.4: 1.4–16: 1.7: 1.11: 1.16–17: 1.29–31: 1.74: 1.90: 1.101: 1.106: 1.123: 1.123–30: 1.136–7: 1.214–47: 1.217–18: 1.224–7: 1.224–47: 1.242–3: 1.292–302: 1.138–43: 1.398–9: 1.438–9: 1.447–67: 1.493–4: 1.495: 1.509: 1.543–51: 1.553–5: 1.559: 1.559–60: 1.560: 1.562: 1.563: 1.567: 1.568: 1.569: 1.570: 1.578–84: 1.587–90: 1.590–4: 1.594–5: 1.596: 1.597–8: 1.597–604: 1.601: 1.601–4: 1.623: 1.627:

Index locorum 135 91 22, 98 5 21–2 59 61 50 59 59 51, 130 10 122 56 35 56 122 46 130 9 54 42 101 42, 146 36 43 42 28 41 42 42 42 41 30 28 28, 40 28 36 29 30 30 32, 33 33 34 35 35 35 26 36 42 47 34 28 44

1.629: 1.631: 1.635: 1.643–8: 1.648–51: 1.650: 1.668–72: 1.673–4: 1.688–9: 1.689–90: 1.690: 1.696: 1.696–720: 1.697: 1.698: 1.699: 1.701: 1.703: 1.705: 1.708: 1.709: 1.711: 1.712: 1.717: 2.213–64: 2.265–7: 2.267: 2.267–8: 2.268: 2.269: 2.269–76: 2.269–88: 2.269–96: 2.271: 2.273: 2.273–4: 2.274–5: 2.275: 2.276–85: 2.277: 2.278: 2.279–80: 2.280: 2.281: 2.282: 2.282–3: 2.283: 2.284–5: 2.285: 2.286–8: 2.287: 2.292: 2.294: 2.294–5: 2.296:

44 44 44 45 45 164 40 41 41 41 41 42, 43 28, 43 43 43 43 43 43 43 43 43 43, 44 43 43 52 53 11, 59, 60 59 61 60, 61, 65 61 146 11 62, 63, 65 62 70 61, 68 68 53 54 41, 58 57 54 54 54 56 54, 56, 68 56 54 74, 165 67, 74, 138 60 60 60 11, 60

Index locorum 2.482–743: 2.715–17: 3.135–68: 3.220: 3.260–323: 3.269–70: 3.269–91: 3.270: 3.272: 3.273: 3.274: 3.275–80: 3.276: 3.293: 3.294: 3.304–10: 3.305–6: 3.308–9: 3.317–23: 3.470–575: 3.575–91: 3.598–9: 3.651: 3.671–6: 3.687–710: 3.691–2: 3.701–3: 3.718–19: 4.24–30: 4.44: 4.38–73: 4.76–83: 4.86: 4.102: 4.117: 4.122: 4.145–51: 4.157: 4.159–64: 4.161: 4.168–9: 4.175–6: 4.189–90: 4.193–212: 4.212: 4.213: 4.247: 4.286: 4.288: 4.291: 4.295: 4.296: 4.345: 4.646–51: 4.651:

131 58 170 64, 97 64, 79, 138 64 143 138 66 76 64 65 143 66, 139 66 65 66 65 65 77 78 79 79 79 80 80 80 81 81, 101 86 82 82 82 82 86 86 83 83 84 84 82 142 83 55, 127 83 83 137 82 82 82 82 82 64 87 87

4.670–96: 4.677: 4.742: 4.823–30: 5.11–16: 5.36–9: 5.57–9: 5.135–8: 5.157–8: 5.281: 5.302–3: 5.535: 5.612: 5.645–7: 5.743–4: 6.3–4: 6.5: 6.33–6: 6.138–76: 6.45–53: 6.62–6: 6.90–1: 6.100: 6.389–512: 6.433–5: 6.438–9: 6.527: 7.1–2: 7.1–33: 7.34–84: 7.43–4: 7.48: 7.105–30: 7.139–44: 7.172–3: 7.207–9: 7.227–42: 7.234–46: 7.246: 7.254–81: 7.282–9: 7.284: 7.285: 7.287: 7.288: 7.289: 7.290–3: 7.291: 7.294–304: 7.295–6: 7.299: 7.300–1: 7.306–8: 7.309–14: 7.310:

199 87 93 87 87–8 88 90, 93 91 90 90 90 90 94 92 94 93, 122 91 91 169 169 94 39, 93 92 92 128 93 92 128 97, 100 100 100 100 67 101 82, 101 101 101 101 101, 119 102 102 102 105 105 107 104 104, 107 109 110 109, 110 110 109 110 111 111 112

200 Statius (cont.) 7.315: 7.315–27: 7.316: 7.317: 7.318: 7.319: 7.320: 7.321: 7.324: 7.325: 7.330–4: 7.331: 7.332: 7.333: 7.334–7: 7.334–55: 7.335: 7.337: 7.338–9: 7.340–2: 7.343–53: 7.355–8: 7.359–62: 7.370: 7.400–2: 7.401–23: 7.424–5: 7.424–9: 7.426–7: 7.429: 7.430–40: 7.432: 7.439: 7.441–51: 7.453: 7.462–3: 7.464–5: 7.467: 7.467–9: 7.470–627: 7.723: 7.723–37: 7.731: 7.785–8: 7.788: 8.36: 8.37: 8.38–40: 8.48–58: 8.61–2: 8.65–9: 8.70–1: 8.70–9: 8.71–2:

Index locorum 113 112 113 121 113 113 113 113 113 113 116 116 116 116 116 118 116 116 117 117 118 118 119 119 119 119 113, 121 120 121 120 121 121 121 121 122 122 122 122 56 122 129 128 129 127 171 130 129 129 129 129 126 146 125 132

8.74: 8.75–9: 8.663: 8.664: 8.666–7: 8.688–9: 8.693: 8.694: 8.696–8: 8.701–15: 8.702: 8.704–5: 8.705: 8.715: 8.718–21: 8.739–62: 8.753: 8.759: 8.760: 8.762–4: 9.1–2: 9.315–22: 9.316: 9.320: 9.321: 9.413: 9.418–19: 9.429–30: 9.440: 9.446: 9.449: 9.455–6: 9.459–60: 9.463: 9.466: 9.473: 9.478: 9.479: 9.482: 9.492–6: 9.506–10: 9.511–12: 9.550: 9.613: 9.657: 9.821: 9.821–30: 9.823: 9.825–6: 9.826: 9.829: 9.831: 9.832–4: 9.833: 9.843–4:

144 150 130 131 131 130 132 131 131 132 131 131 131, 133 132 132 1 134 132 132 58 133 135 136 135 135 136 136 136 136 136 135 136 136 137 136 137 136 136 136 136 137 136 141 139 44 138 138 138, 139 139 139 139 139 67, 139 138 139

Index locorum 10.827–36: 10.834–5: 10.841: 10.845: 10.849–52: 10.852: 10.856–7: 10.883: 10.884: 10.893: 10.894: 10.896: 10.897: 10.908: 10.909: 11.1: 11.3: 11.6: 11.7–8: 11.10: 11.10–11: 11.57–69: 11.68: 11.69–71: 11.92–4: 11.101: 11.104–5: 11.108: 11.110–11: 11.122–35: 11.136–54: 11.169: 11.201: 11.207–9: 11.248: 11.271: 11.273–5: 11.315–53: 11.317: 11.382–7: 11.387: 11.388–402: 11.402: 11.404: 11.410–11: 11.410–15: 11.448: 11.457–66: 11.458: 11.462: 11.465: 11.467: 11.482: 11.485: 11.493–4:

142 141 141 141 142 144 141 143 143 143 143 143 144 144 143 141 141 144 143 141 144 56 57 130 145 145 145 145 145 9, 57, 149 145 145 145 150 147 46 46 147 147 145 146 146 146 146 150 150 146 150–1 151 151 151 151 146 146 174

11.497–8: 11.529–35: 11.548: 11.548–51: 11.555–6: 11.557–60: 11.568–72: 11.574–9: 11.577: 11.578: 11.578–9: 11.579: 12.165–6: 12.256–67: 12.291–311: 12.312–421: 12.322–48: 12.348: 12.409–15: 12.431–2: 12.440–1: 12.471–2: 12.481–2: 12.481–518: 12.482: 12.483–6: 12.487–8: 12.493–4: 12.494: 12.495–6: 12.497–8: 12.499–504: 12.501: 12.504: 12.506: 12.507–11: 12.532–3: 12.580–2: 12.583: 12.589: 12.619: 12.619–22: 12.622: 12.650–5: 12.665–76: 12.672: 12.674–6: 12.714: 12.752–3: 12.771: 12.778–81: 12.783: 12.783–96: 12.789: 12.790–6:

201 146 146 147 147 147 147 147, 152 147 148 148 148 148 160 156 156 157 156 159, 171 156 157 158 163 163 45 174 164 163 163 163 164 165 166 167 75, 165 164 164 175 168 169 160 167 167–72 167 161 172 175 172 160 162 162 162 170 170 171 156

202 Statius (cont.) 12.793: 12.794: 12.797–9: 12.809: 12.810–19: 12.811: 12.816: Suetonius Dom. 6.2: 10.4: 13.2: 20: Nero 57.2: Tacitus Annales 1.1: 3.74: Dialogus 3.4: Hist. 2.8: 2.77.1: Thebais F 3, 8, 9: Valerius Flaccus 2.85–9: 2.99–102: 2.100: 2.101: 4.355: 4.605: 6.175–6: 6.402–9: Virgil Aen. 1.88: 1.124–56: 1.257–96: 1.260: 1.279: 1.456: 1.457: 1.471: 1.474–8: 1.488: 1.489: 1.490–3: 1.640–2: 1.657–94: 2.304–8: 2.206: 2.250–1: 2.602: 2.615–16: 2.779: 3.75:

Index locorum 170 170 171 23, 82 22–3 65 7 5 3 10 6 6 8 2, 176 3 6 5 133 62 63, 90 81 62 86 58 58 3 144 7 7 141 9 134 134 133 134 134 134 134 59 7 79 55 57 80 58 150 29

3.684–91: 4.106: 4.235: 4.265–76: 4.269: 4.275: 4.386: 4.412: 5.17: 5.59–60: 5.250–7: 5.407: 5.815: 6.14–36: 6.275–81: 6.582: 6.625–7: 6.813–14: 6.900–1: 7.1–4: 7.37: 7.37–44: 7.41–2: 7.44: 7.141–2: 7.312: 7.315: 7.319: 7.346–7: 7.351–2: 7.421–74: 7.558: 7.601–4: 7.622: 7.626–40: 7.636: 7.638–40: 7.641–6: 7.647: 7.648: 7.699–705: 7.785–6: 8.112: 8.185: 8.185–8: 8.188: 8.201: 8.265: 8.285–302: 8.288–9: 8.414–53: 8.424–5: 8.426–8: 8.435–8: 8.454:

117 165 95 95 150 165 110 110 141 94 41 141 10 77 74 143 171 105 104 104 136 104 97 79, 142 150 9 76 80 56 55 56 150 97 100 78 78 101 103 108 141 105 57 28, 41 28 28 28, 30 30 28 28 29 54 70 54 58 62

Index locorum 8.629: 8.662: 8.688: 8.704: 8.717–18: 8.729: 8.731: 9.77–9: 9.446–7: 9.806–14: 9.809: 10.63: 10.96: 10.16–62: 10.112: 10.163–214: 10.264–6: 10.281–2: 10.313–14: 10.437: 11.23: 11.24: 11.25: 11.271–4: 11.578–80: 11.696: 11.773: 11.791–2: 11.806: 11.845–7:

11 117 154 7 8, 175, 176 7 67 60 148 131 131 143 143 143 143 108 89, 105 141 78 150 148 148 148 108 105 132 78 141 132 132

12.336: 12.435: 12.466–7: 12.715–22: 12.725–7: 12.790–844: 12.843–6: 12.846: 12.853: 12.889: 12.889–95: 12.925: 12.928–9: 12.948–9: 12.952: Ecl. 4.1: 6.1–9: 6.3: 6.7: 6.64–71: 6.69–73: 6.72: 10.44–5: G. 1.118–20: 1.181: 2.176: 3.1–48: 3.13–16: 3.42–3: 3.196–201:

203 67 141 141, 162 147 149 149, 152 152 149 150 147 147 112 147 162 162 70 86, 106 106 106 106 37 109 107 105 54 22 16 100 100 161