Antike Mythen: Medien, Transformationen und Konstruktionen [1 ed.] 3110209098, 9783110209099 [PDF]

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Antike Mythen

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Antike Mythen Medien, Transformationen und Konstruktionen Herausgegeben von

Ueli Dill und Christine Walde

Walter de Gruyter · Berlin · New York

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

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

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

Fritz Graf zum 65. Geburtstag

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

XI

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

1

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

25

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

38

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

55

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

73

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

81

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

96

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

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

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

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

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IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New Web for Arachne sarah iles johnston

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Verbindlichkeit

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

Graf (1996) 9–12.

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

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

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

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

5 6 7

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

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

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

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

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

All translations my own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoffmann (1913) 608.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

41 Kippenberg/Rüpke/von Stuckrad (2009).

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

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

Kult und Ritual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2

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

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

3 4 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

44 45 46 47

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

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

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

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

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

1 2

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

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

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

3 4 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeglicher Beleg für einen konkreten historischen Fall des Rituals fehlt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

83 84 85 86 87

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

115 116 117 118

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

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

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

119 120 121 122

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

17 18 19 20

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

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

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

Emission de 23 ap., de 30 ap.

TR POT XXV… (Victoire assise sur un globe)

Emission au type de Pont maxim

PONT MAXIM ( Justice assise sur trône)

Emission de quadrans (date indét.)

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

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

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

Div. AVG. sur droit

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

Emission de 22–23

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

Drusus Caesar sur droit

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

Emissions de 34–35

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

Emissions de 35–36

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

Emissions de 36–37

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

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

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

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

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

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

Astrologie, Magie und Mantik

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

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

2

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

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

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

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

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

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

19 Ps.-Maneth. 4.238 y 460.

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

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

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

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

29 30 31 32 33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

98 99 100 101

102

103 104 105

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 3 4 5

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

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

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

=

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 2 3 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 2

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

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

4 5 6

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

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

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

7

8

9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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5) BM no. 384 (fig. 4)

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

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

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

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

Fig. 5: Festugiere (1961) plate I.

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

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

8) BM no. 382 (fig. 6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

ΤΑΝΤΑΛΕ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΤΝΑΛ ΕΜΑ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ

ΑΙΜΑ ΕΜΑ ΑΜΕ ΠΙΕ ΕΜΑ

ΠΙΕ ΠΙΕ ΠΙΕ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fig. 9: BM 351.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1

2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orte

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 2 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

22 23 24 25 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

43 44 45 46

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Myths and Contexts in Aphrodisias angelos chaniotis

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

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

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

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Fig. 1: Aphrodisias: the city plan.

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

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

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

a) Semiramis and Gordi(o)s.

b) Bellerophon, Pegasus, and Apollo.

c) Ninos.

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Fig. 3: Aphrodisias: reconstruction of the Sebasteieon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright Fig. 1–5 Fig. 6

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

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

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

Graf (1993).

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

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

4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

18 19 20 21 22 23

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

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

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

24 25 26 27 28 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lambros (1879–1880) vol. 1, 26.

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

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

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

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

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

Cf. Dooley (2006).

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

Kiernan (1996).

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

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

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

Kaldellis (2007a) 1–22.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3

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

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

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

4 5

6

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

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Darkness

Light

Chaos

EARTH

NIGHT

SKY Mountains

Day

Fate, Destiny, Death, etc.

Tartaros

Eros

SEA

Titans Zeus & Olympian gods

Nereids, etc.

Typhon

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

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

7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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of Hesiod, Snorri, and the Pahlavi texts) begin by positing a primordial situation that includes – either alone or as part of a relatively small set – a vague, murky, unformed, decidedly insubstantial entity, rich in potential and neutral, even benign in its disposition. This image represents neither “order”, “disorder”, nor anything of the sort: not yet, at any rate. Rather, it is simply “the chaotic”, i. e. the nebulous Etwas that mediates Non-Being and Being as the precondition of all subsequent creation. The situation is pre-cosmic and thus, a fortiori, pre-moral and pre-political. Gradually, however, each text introduces new characters, who become adversaries in a struggle for rulership over the emergent cosmos: Zeus and the Olympians vs. Ouranos and the Titans, Óðinn and the Æsir vs. Ymir and the Frost Giants, Ohrmazd and the gods vs. Ahriman and the demons36. In the course of these struggles, the relatively peaceful and egalitarian situation of primordial anarchy ends, violent conflict erupts, one party wins and one party loses, after which a monarchic regime of cosmic dimensions is established. What is more, as a crucial part of consolidating his power, the new world-ruler appropriates, transforms, and redeploys “the chaotic”, which now becomes a more specific, more limited, and more tendentious something, rather than remaining the nebulous reservoir of all potentials. In this new context, it becomes an instrument for exercising power over the vanquished, as when Chaos becomes part of the apparatus locking the Titans