ISSN 1018-9017

SCHOLIA
Studies in Classical Antiquity

NS Vol. 20 I 2011

New Zealand I South Africa

 ISSN 1018-9017

SCHOLIA
Studies in Classical Antiquity

Editor: W. J. Dominik

NS Vol. 20 / 2011

New Zealand / South Africa

SCHOLIA
Studies in Classical Antiquity
ISSN 1018-9017
Scholia features critical and pedagogical articles and reviews on a diverse range of
subjects dealing with classical antiquity, including late antique, medieval, Renaissance and
early modern studies related to the classical tradition; in addition, there are articles on
classical artefacts in museums in New Zealand and the J. A. Barsby Essay.
Manuscripts: Potential contributors should read the ‘Notes for Contributors’ located at the
back of this volume and follow the suggested guidelines for the submission of manuscripts.
Articles on the classical tradition are particularly welcome. Submissions are usually reviewed
by two referees. Time before publication decision: 2-3 months.
Subscriptions (2011): Individuals: USD35/NZD50. Libraries and institutions: USD60/
NZD80. Credit card payments are preferred; please see the subscription form and credit
card authorisation at the back of this volume. Foreign subscriptions cover air mail postage.
After initial payment, a subscription to the journal will be entered. All back numbers are
available at a reduced price and may be ordered from the Business Manager.
Editing and Managing Address: Articles and subscriptions: W. J. Dominik, Editor and
Manager, Scholia, Department of Classics, University of Otago, P. O. Box 56, Dunedin 9054,
New Zealand. Telephone: +64 (0)3 479 8710; facsimile: +64 (0)3 479 9029; e-mail:
[email protected].
Reviews Address: Reviews articles and reviews: J. L. Hilton, Reviews Editor, Scholia,
Programme in Classics, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban 4041, South Africa.
Telephone: +27 (0)31 260 2312; facsimile: +27 (0)31 260 2698; e-mail: [email protected].
New Series: Scholia is archived in ProQuest (USA), EBSCO (USA), Informit (Australia) and
SABINET (South Africa); indexed and abstracted in L’Année Philologique (France); indexed
in Gnomon (Germany) and TOCS-IN (Canada); and listed in Ulrich’s International
Periodicals Directory (USA). Scholia is listed in the Australian Department of Education,
Science and Training Register of Refereed Journals and is recognised by the South African
Department of Education for research output subsidy. Information about Scholia and the
entire volumes of the journal are available on the world wide web at http://www.otago.ac.nz/
classics/scholia. Photocopies of articles and other sections of Scholia are available from the
British Library Document Supply Centre (BLDSC no. 8092.54348). Scholia Reviews, an
electronic journal that features the pre-publication versions of reviews that appear in Scholia,
is available via EBSCO (USA), SABINET (South Africa) and the world wide web at
http://www.classics.ukzn.ac.za/reviews.
Publication and Distribution: Scholia and Scholia Reviews (volumes 1-20) have published
862 contributions by 392 scholars and academics at 193 universities and other institutions
in 36 countries. Scholia and its offprints have been distributed to institutions and scholars in
49 countries.
Cover Illustration: Drawing by E. A. Mackay (University of Auckland) based on an Attic
black-figure fragment (inv. L.1989.K) in the Museum of Classical Archaeology, University
of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban (on permanent loan from A. Gosling).
Typesetting: W. J. Dominik, G. R. B. Turner, K. G. Gervais, C. L. Sleeth
Printing: Uniprint, University of Otago Copyright: Otago / KwaZulu-Natal Classics 2012
SCHOLIA
Studies in Classical Antiquity
ISSN 1018-9017
EDITORIAL COMMITTEE (2010-11)
W. J. Dominik (Otago) Editor and Manager
J. L. Hilton (UKZN) Reviews Editor
G. R. B. Turner, K. G. Gervais, C. L. Sleeth (Otago) Assistant Editors
C. Harper (Otago) Business Manager
P. A. Hannah (Otago) In the Museum Editor
W. J. Dominik (Otago), J. L. Hilton (UKZN) Web Site Managers
EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD (2010-11)
A. L. Allan University of Otago, New Zealand
J. E. Atkinson University of Cape Town, South Africa
J. A. Barsby University of Otago, New Zealand
A. F. Basson Brock University, Canada
D. J. Blyth University of Auckland, New Zealand
R. P. Bond University of Canterbury, New Zealand
G. Calboli University of Bologna, Italy
P. G. Christiansen Texas Tech University, USA
J. M. Claassen University of Stellenbosch, South Africa
J. Davidson Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand
P. J. Davis University of Adelaide, Australia
J. S. Dietrich University of Tasmania, Australia
S. A. Frangoulidis University of Crete, Greece
P. A. Gallivan University of Tasmania, Australia
J. Garthwaite University of Otago, New Zealand
A. Gosling University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban, South Africa
R. N. A. Hankey University of Otago, New Zealand
J. C. R. Hall University of Otago, New Zealand
R. Hannah University of Otago, New Zealand
J. G. W. Henderson University of Cambridge, United Kingdom
W. J. Henderson University of Johannesburg, South Africa
V. E. Izzet University of Southampton, United Kingdom
S. B. Jackson University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban, South Africa
D. Konstan New York University, USA
B. P. P. Kytzler University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban, South Africa
E. A. Mackay University of Auckland, New Zealand
C. W. Marshall University of British Columbia, Canada
E. Minchin Australian National University, Australia
L. C. Montefusco University of Bologna, Italy
C. E. Newlands University of Colorado, Boulder, USA
S. T. Newmyer Duquesne University, USA
A. J. Pomeroy Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand
P. A. Roche University of Otago, New Zealand
M. V. Ronnick Wayne State University, USA
J. H. D. Scourfield National University of Ireland, Maynooth, Ireland
L. A. Sussman University of Florida, USA
P. M. W. Tennant University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg, South Africa
S. Thom University of Stellenbosch, South Africa
R. A. Whitaker University of Cape Town, South Africa
P. V. Wheatley University of Otago, New Zealand
M. J. Wilson University of Auckland, New Zealand
I. Worthington University of Missouri, Columbia, USA
A. V. Zadorojnyi University of Liverpool, United Kingdom
SCHOLIA
Studies in Classical Antiquity

NS Vol. 20 2011 ISSN 1018-9017

CONTENTS

Editorial Note 1

ARTICLES

Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece 4

Timothy Howe

Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady 25

Colin P. Joyce

From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity in

Post-Civil War Rome 52
Konstantinos P. Nikoloutsos

Vesta and Vestibulum: An Ovidian Etymology 72

T. P. Wiseman

Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of the Flesh in Statius’ Thebaid 80
R. E. Parkes

Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3: Branches from the Same Tree? 93
Carole E. Newlands

Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus: Disambiguating the Conflicting Accounts 112
Jacob Edwards

Der unpässliche Gast (Platon, Timaios 17a) 132

Bernhard Kytzler

v
vi Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) v-vi ISSN 1018-9017

ROYAL SOCIETY OF NEW ZEALAND AND

UNIVERSITY OF OTAGO CENTRE FOR RESEARCH
ON NATIONAL IDENTITY PRESENTATION

‘High Culture’, Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand Aotearoa:

A Position Paper 135
William J. Dominik

REVIEW ARTICLES

Self and Mother: Recent Critical Approaches to Maternity in Roman Literature 145
Antony Augoustakis, Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power
in Flavian Epic / Ellen Oliensis, Freud’s Rome: Psychoanalysis and
Latin Poetry
(Mairéad McAuley)

A Vademecum for Vergil 158

Joseph Farrell and Michael C. J. Putnam (edd.), A Companion to Vergil’s
Aeneid and Its Tradition
(Nikolai Endres)

Reviews 164

Books Received 189

In the Museum 193

J. A. Barsby Essay 208

Exchanges with Scholia 215

 EDITORIAL NOTE

Each volume of Scholia in the twenty-year series of the journal has contained
articles and reviews by scholars in several countries on different continents. This final
volume contains articles and reviews by scholars in Australia, England, Ireland, USA,
South Africa and New Zealand.1 The broad scope of classical areas covered by the
main articles in this volume reflects the wide range of scholarly content contained in
the journal over two decades: Greek animal husbandry, art, biography and history,
philosophy; Roman elegy and masculinity, elegy and etymology, epic, epigram and
occasional poetry.2 In addition, there is an article on the concept of ‘high culture’,
Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand.3
The In the Museum section features short articles by the curators of classical
collections in New Zealand.4 The J. A. Barsby Essay, the winning essay of the
Australasian Society for Classical Studies New Zealand student essay competition, is
by Alex Wilson (Victoria, Wellington) and is entitled ‘Poet, Princeps and Proem:
Nero and the Beginning of Lucan’s Pharsalia’.5
Scholia was conceived as a scholarly journal in 1991 and was first published a
year later at the University of Natal. For over the past decade Scholia has been a joint
publication of the University of Otago and the renamed University of KwaZulu-Natal.
During this latter period the main editorial and management office of Scholia has been
at the University of Otago, while Scholia Reviews, its companion electronic journal,
has been managed at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Scholia has published critical
and pedagogical articles and reviews on a broad range of subjects dealing with
classical antiquity, including late antique, medieval, Renaissance and early modern
studies related to the classical tradition. Scholia Reviews has been one of only two
electronic review journals in the world in the field of Classics. A selection of these
electronic reviews has been published in the annual printed volumes of Scholia.

1
Since volume 20 is the final volume in the series, the usual Notes for Contributors,
Forthcoming in Scholia, and the Subscription Form do not appear.
2
See pp. 4-134. Konstantinos P. Nikoloutsos’ article entitled ‘From Tomb to Womb:
Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity in Post-Civil War Rome’ (pp. 52-71) was
nominated for the US Women’s Classical Caucus award for the best article published in the
three years prior to the nominating year (2012). The Women’s Classical Caucus is an affiliate
of the American Philological Association.
3
See pp. 135-144. This article by William J. Dominik is the product of a Royal Society of
New Zealand and University of Otago Centre for Research on National Identity Symposium
on the ongoing status of European high culture in New Zealand Aotearoa held at the
University of Otago on 20 August 2011.
4
See pp. 193-207.
5
See pp. 208-214.

1
2 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 1-3 ISSN 1018-9017

In its two decades of publication Scholia and Scholia Reviews have published
158 articles,6 619 reviews7 and 85 additional pieces8 by 392 scholars and academics at
193 universities and other institutions in 36 countries.9 The overall acceptance rate of
articles submitted for publication has been 35 per cent. Scholarly articles have been
published in English, French, German, Italian, Spanish and Afrikaans. Each article has
been refereed by two editorial advisors, 68 of whom have refereed submissions to
Scholia. Scholia and its offprints have been distributed to individuals, universities and
libraries in 49 countries.10
The Scholia web site can be found at http://www.otago.ac.nz/classics/scholia.
This site includes the entire volumes of Scholia and a downloadable index of all
contributions to Scholia and Scholia Reviews; there is also a link to the Scholia
Reviews web site at http://www.classics.ukzn.ac.za/reviews. All material published
with Scholia is available via ProQuest (USA), EBSCO (USA), Informit (Australia)
and SABINET (South Africa). The contents of Scholia Reviews are available via
EBSCO and SABINET and can be accessed without charge at the Scholia Reviews
web site.
Scholia expresses its appreciation to its editorial committee members,
contributors, editorial advisors and subscribers for helping to ensure its success. The
editor wishes especially to thank John Hilton (KwaZulu-Natal) for serving as the
Reviews editor for twenty years; E. A. Mackay (Auckland) for supporting the
establishment of the journal and for being the In the Museum editor in South Africa;
Aileen Bevis (KwaZulu-Natal) for her proofreading and for allowing the editor to use
the name of her student journal Scholia; Patricia Hannah (Otago) for serving as the
In the Museum editor in New Zealand; Terrence Lockyer (KwaZulu-Natal) and
Gordon Turner (Otago) for their editorial assistance; and Corryl Harper (Otago) for
her service as business manager in New Zealand. In addition, the editor wishes to

6
This figure includes 1 Royal Society of New Zealand and University of Otago Centre
for Research on National Identity presentation, 2 inaugural professorial lectures and 1
memorial article.
7
Of the 619 electronic reviews in Scholia Reviews, 77 have been published as review
articles and 143 as reviews in a slightly revised form in Scholia.
8
The numerical breakdown is as follows: 14 In the Universities articles; 24 In the
Museum articles; 10 B. X. de Wet Essays; 10 J. A. Barsby Essays; 20 Editorial Notes;
3 In the Schools articles; and 4 Conference Proceedings.
9
Argentina, Australia, Austria, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, Cyprus, Democratic Republic of
Congo, England, Finland, France, Germany, Ghana, Greece, India, Ireland, Israel, Italy,
Malawi, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nigeria, Northern Ireland, Poland, Puerto Rico,
Romania, Russia, Scotland, Senegal, South Africa, Spain, Sri Lanka, Switzerland, USA,
Wales and Zimbabwe.
10
In addition to the countries listed above, n. 9, these are Chile, China, Czech Republic,
Estonia, Hungary, Japan, Macedonia, Malta, Mexico, Norway, Portugal, Ukraine and Vatican
City.
Editorial Note 3

thank David Konstan (New York) for encouraging him in his role as editor and
manager of Scholia.
The editor also expresses his gratitude to E. A. Mackay for drawing the sphinx
that is featured on the cover of Scholia and that has served as its logo. This sphinx is
derived from a black-figure fragment (L.1989.K) on permanent loan by M. A. Gosling
in the Museum of Classical Archaeology, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban.11
Finally, the editor wishes to thank those colleagues who have refereed more than ten
articles: John Atkinson, André Basson, Dougal Blyth, Jo-Marie Claassen, Peter Davis,
M. A. Gosling, W. J. Henderson, John Hilton, Steven Jackson, Bernhard Kytzler,
Michael Lambert, E. A. Mackay, Stephen Newmyer and Richard Whitaker. All but
two of these colleagues have been based in South Africa and/or New Zealand at some
point during their academic careers.

William J. Dominik
Editor, Scholia

11
See E. A. Mackay, ‘Poikiloidos Sphinx’, Scholia 1 (1992) 3-11.
 GOOD BREEDING: MAKING SENSE OF
ELITE ANIMAL PRODUCTION IN ANCIENT GREECE1

Timothy Howe
Department of History, St Olaf College
Northfield, Minnesota 55057, USA

Abstract. Consideration of social, environmental, and economic variables that helped to

shape ancient Greek responses to animal management allows a way beyond the
transhumance/agro-pastoralist debate. Each Greek community devised its own unique ways,
methods, and goals for keeping animals in order to meet its unique social agenda. The
differing social, environmental, and economic variables at Athens, Sparta, Thessaly, and
Arcadia and central Greece resulted in differing responses to animal management.

. . . de‹ g¦r œmpeiron eŁnai prÕj ¥llhl£ te toÚtwn [zówn] t…na

lusitelšstata, kaˆ po‹a ™n po…oij tÒpoij: ¥lla g¦r ™n ¥llaij eÙqhne‹
cèraij . . .
(Arist. Pol. 1258b15-172)
One must be expert as to which animals are most profitable compared to each
other, and also which are most profitable on what sorts of land, for different
ones thrive on different lands.

. . . e‡ tij di¦ tÕ m¾ ™p…stasqai prob£toij crÁsqai zhmio‹to, oÙdł t¦

prÒbata cr»mata toÚtJ e‡h ¥n;
(Xen. Oec. 1.9.2f.3)
. . . if a man should suffer a financial loss because he does not know how to
manage sheep, his sheep would not be a source of money for him either?

The lone cowboy, well known from television and the silver screen, evokes a
time when men roamed the wide-open ranges and cattle were king. Yet despite
this strong, semi-mythical reputation, the reign of cattle in the American middle
west was a relatively short-lived phenomenon (a decade), having little or
nothing to do with “lone cowboys.” In fact, the cattle kingdoms of the 1870s

1
I wish to thank Anne Groton and Mark Munn for their comments and advice. Also
deserving of thanks are the editors of Scholia and the anonymous readers whose critical
suggestions help sharpen many an argument. The greatest debt, however, is owed to Richard
and Carole Howe, lifelong students of animal husbandry, without whose support and practical
guidance this study would not have been possible. Of course, errors of fact or logic are my
sole responsibility.
2
Citation of Aristotle, Politica is taken from W. D. Ross (ed.), Aristotelis Politica
(Oxford 1964). Translations throughout are my own, except where stated otherwise.
3
Citations of Xenophon, Oeconomicus are taken from E. C. Marchant (ed.), Xenophontis
Opera Omnia 22 (Oxford 1971).

4
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 5

were scarcely American productions at all, depending largely on the London

financial futures’ market and huge sums of money from Scottish, English,
Dutch, and German investors for the purchase of land, livestock, fencing, and
fodder. During the 1870s and 1880s, these foreign investors were so feared that
American state and territorial legislatures even passed laws circumscribing their
influence, to little lasting effect. Inasmuch as foreign capital created the cattle
kingdoms, it also facilitated their early demise. Raising stock on the prairie was
so dependent on the international economy, in the form of continued foreign
investment and consumption, that it had no protection from the crushing
depressions of the late 1870s and early 1880s. Once the influx of foreign capital
slowed, the animals died in the fields through overgrazing, or at the stockyards,
for want of a market.4
Such a dramatic example from frontier America serves to illustrate the
extent to which animal production can be connected to specific political and
social variables, how very much tied to a specific time and place. In much the
same ways as King Cattle of the American West was a phenomenon of the
1870s financial futures’ market, the elite production of cattle, goats, and pigs in
democratic Athens was a feature of the state-sponsored sacrifice market of the
late-fifth and fourth centuries BCE. The infrastructure that makes animal
production systems possible—specialized markets, systems of landholding,
investment by elites, state involvement—is a unique cultural construct.
Consequently, largely because of these highly visible cultural characteristics, we
should speak about systems of animal husbandry as discrete, historical and
regional entities, differing from each other in significant and observable ways.
Unfortunately, social and economic historians of ancient Greece have treated
ancient Greek animal husbandry as a uniform phenomenon, differing only in
scale from producer to producer.5 Two competing models have evolved, and
become entrenched: first, transhumance, a system of mobile animal production,
in which shepherds drive free ranging herds between lowland and upland
pasture for seasonal grazing; and secondly, agro-pastoralism, the practice of
keeping animals either penned or herded close to the farm base, fed on the
residues of arable farming, and/or restrictively grazed on fallow and specially

4
R. G. Kennedy, Rediscovering America (Boston 1990) 188f.
5
S. Hodkinson, “Animal Husbandry in the Greek Polis,” in C. R. Whittaker (ed.),
Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge 1988) 35-74; J. E. Skydsgaard,
“Transhumance in Ancient Greece,” in Whittaker [above, this note] 75-86. Even recent work
such as C. Chandezon, L’élevage en Grèce (fin Ve–fin Ier s. a. C.) (Bordeaux 2003) and
L. Calder, Cruelty and Sentimentality: Greek Attitudes to Animals, 600-300 BC (Oxford
2011), which are fairly sensitive to cultural nuance, largely ignore the role of social values in
shaping management strategies.
6 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

planted fodder.6 Troubled by the transhumance/agro-pastoralist stalemate,

Forbes urges that attention should not only continue to be centered on
management typologies, but also shifted to elite production and the role of
animals in the wealth-generating activities of the elite.7 This study takes up
Forbes’ challenge, arguing that different individual elites devised unique ways,
methods, and goals for keeping animals to meet local social, political, and
economic agendas.8
While modern animal production strategies are easily observable—and
even those of the recent past, such as King Cattle, are well documented—
ancient strategies are rarely discussed or downright confusing in the literary
sources. For example, Homer alludes to transhumance and fixed-based grazing;9
while Hesiod and Xenophon, whose Opera et Dies and Oeconomicus concern
the rural lifestyle and might be expected to explain animal management
strategies, devote only minimal attention to the technical aspects of agriculture
or animal husbandry in general. Witness Hesiod’s overview of draft animals,
oxen, and mules as being useful for arable farming (Op. 405, 436, 606).
Elsewhere, Hesiod makes equally brief mention of sheep, goats and cattle
around the farm, freezing from the winter cold, and even lists certain “Days”
that are related to animal husbandry: when the ram, boar, and bull should be
6
For transhumance, see S. Georgoudi, “Quelque problèmes de la transhumance dans la
Grèce ancienne,” REG 87 (1974) 155-85; Skydsgaard [5] 75-86; S. Isager and
J. E. Skydsgaard, Ancient Greek Agriculture: An Introduction (London 1992) 99-101. For
agro-pastoralism, see P. Halstead, “Traditional and Ancient Rural Economy in Mediterranean
Europe: Plus Ça Change?”, JHS 107.1 (1987) 77-87; “Present to Past in the Pindhos:
Diversification and Specialization in Mountain Economies,” RStudLig 56 (1990) 61-80;
“Pastoralism or Household Herding? Problems of Scale and Specialization in Early Greek
Animal Husbandry,” World Archaeology 28 (1996) 20-42; Hodkinson [5] 35-74.
7
H. A. Forbes, “The Identification of Pastoralist Sites within the Context of Estate-Based
Agriculture in Ancient Greece: Beyond the “Transhumance versus Agro-Pastoralism”
Debate,” ABSA 90 (1995) 325-38.
8
S. Hodkinson, “Politics as a Determinant of Pastoralism: the Case of Southern Greece,
Ca. 800-300 BC,” RStudLig 56 (1990) 139-63, also argues that more attention be paid to
political and social systems as significant factors in shaping animal management systems.
9
For mountain grazing, see, e.g., Hom. Il. 2.749, 5.315, 12.301, 16.352, 18.598, 21.448.
For winter pasturage in the lowlands, see, e.g., 17.549f. Homer often pictures these flocks
accompanied by their doughty shepherds (13.492, 16.353, 11.106; Od. 4.413, 15.386,
24.112). The poet even tells about sheepdogs (Il. 10.183); and he painstakingly describes the
many pens, shelters and corrals necessary for protecting the animals at night and during times
of bad weather: e.g., for upland pastures and their equipment, see 18.588, cf. 8.131. For fixed
grazing, see, e.g., 2.775, 15.630-32, 20.221f. In the marshy areas of the mainland, across
from the Isle of Ithaca, Odysseus’ herdsmen grazed his twelve herds of cattle, twelve flocks
of sheep, and twelve droves of pigs, while only on rocky Ithaca itself did the hero keep his
twelve herds of goats (Od. 14.99-104).
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 7

castrated (786); when the sheep should be sheared (775); and when a heifer
should be sacrificed (590). Therefore, we see that domesticated animals do have
a place on Hesiod’s farm, but for whatever reason Hesiod simply does not wish
to elaborate on how such animals are produced. Indeed, Hesiod does not even
describe the pens and corrals in which the draft animals are housed on his farm,
nor the infrastructure for grazing sheep in the mountain pastures. This silence is
especially puzzling, since herding sheep on the slopes of Helikon played an
important role in Hesiod’s life, bringing him into contact with the Muses and
starting him on his career as a poet (Theog. 22; cf. Paus. 9.31.2 comments on
the sheep and goat pastures of Helikon). Xenophon is even less helpful than
Hesiod. Yet animals must be present on Ischomachos’ farm, for Xenophon’s
Socrates argues that the skill of animal production (probateutik¾ tšcnh) is
closely linked with arable farming (gewrg…v), and is necessary for the
production of sacrificial victims (Oec. 5.3.5).10 It is perhaps due to this lack of
detail that modern studies have overlooked the geographical diversity of animal
production, and instead come to view animal management in such paradigms as
transhumance and agro-pastoralism.
Only Aristotle’s Historia Animalium, which has been largely overlooked
by historians of animal husbandry, offers a rich, nuanced, at times even
technical, discussion of animal production. For this reason, Historia Animalium
is a good starting point not only for constructing a more balanced understanding
of animal management but also for assessing the general state of Greek practical
and theoretical knowledge about keeping animals during the classical period.
But before discussing each species, it is necessary to draw attention to some
general characteristics of Historia Animalium. First, Aristotle’s main purpose is
not to describe animal husbandry as such, but rather to present a taxonomic
classification and description of all living animals according to their similar
characteristics.11 Secondly, Aristotle has a gift for banal observation. In his
discussion of cattle, for example, he knowingly advises that larger species
require more extensive pastures (Hist. An. 522b20). Yet behind such obvious
points lay a certain depth: the ancients understood the differences in land use in

10
But perhaps not to the degree that Hodkinson [5] 35-40 would have it. Ischomachus
does not save the stubble after harvest so that his animals can graze it. Instead, he has it
burned. Further, Ischomachus does not graze the fallow, instead having it plowed and dug by
slaves (Xen. Oec. 16.10-15).
11
Consequently, Aristotle divides domestic animals into two main categories: those living
in herds, and those living in close connection to man. Horses, sheep, goats, and cattle are
examples of the former, while the dog and the pig are noteworthy of the latter. In fact, the
herds of Epirus roam so far from the settlements of men that the bulls were not seen for three
months at a time (Hist. An. 572b20).
8 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

terms of carrying capacity and individual species’ unique needs.12 While most
of Aristotle’s statements, obvious or otherwise, are useful in some respect, a
small number are painfully naïve and representative of folk tradition, such as his
assertion that if sheep mate when the wind blows from the north, the offspring
will be male, when the wind blows from the south, female (574a).13
We begin our survey of Aristotle’s Historia Animalium with sheep, goats,
and cattle, since these were essential to ancient social, religious, and economic
life as sources of sacrifice, meat, hides, hair, and wool. These ruminants are
grass eaters (pohf£ga, Hist. An. 596a14), and Aristotle observes that they need
a good deal of open range (596a14). Sheep graze the pasture intensively, eating
the grass and shrubs down to the ground (596a15); goats move around quickly
and trim only the new shoots of the plants (596a16); and cattle must have rich,
well-watered grazing in order to thrive (575b4).14 Hence, goats require more
land than sheep but are less destructive to the plants, while cattle require
irrigated land or supplemental feeding. And supplemental feeding seems to be a
necessity for all three, at least for meat production; the philosopher preferred to
eat animals that had been fattened in a controlled setting with the cereal
residues, olive shoots, wild olive branches, vetch, grape pressings, and other
types of vegetal byproducts (595b-596a.).15 While Aristotle lists many feeding
strategies, the most important is salt additives. At the end of summer, probably
to fatten for fall festivals, stockmen give their young charges salt every five

12
Perhaps equally banal is Aristotle’s statement that all quadrupeds produce milk, but
some produce more than is required for nourishing the offspring and this is used for
cheese-making (Hist.An. 522a25-30). Yet even this observation tells us that the Greeks made
cheese from the milk of certain domestic animals. In the same section, Aristotle also makes
some comments on the relative values of cheeses: the best is sheep’s milk, next goats’, then
cows’. One amphoreus of goats’ milk yields nineteen obol-cheeses, while the same amount
of cows’ milk thirty obol-cheeses. A. L. Peck and D. M. Balme (edd. and trr.), Aristotle:
Historia Animalium (Cambridge, Mass. 1970) 1.239 suggests that obol here refers to the price
of the cheese rather than to its weight or shape.
13
Modern stockmen are not immune to this sort of folklore. All have different techniques,
often passed down through families, for ensuring twins and triplets among sheep, or males
among cattle.
14
Unlike herd animals, Aristotle advises that swine should live in close conjunction with
humans, and are most efficiently raised on human refuse (Hist. An. 596a16f.), though they
can be quickly fattened for market with barley, millet, figs, acorns, wild pears, and
cucumbers (596a18-596b1).
15
But there is a risk that sheep can become too fat through overfeeding. At Leontini and
on Sicily, the shepherds do not turn out the sheep to the pastures until late in the evening, in
an effort to reduce the amount they eat (Arist. Hist. An. 520b1-3). Aristotle, it seems, can be
sensitive to regional variations in animal production, but he mentions such differences rarely,
and then only as extreme illustrations.
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 9

days at the rate of one medimnos for one hundred animals (596a10-24).
Although this technique does not result in actual meat production, it does
dramatically increase water gain, which gives the impression of a fat, healthy
animal; indeed, this may even be a means to maintain health through water
retention over the long drive from feedlot to market during the hot temperatures
of late summer.16
Sheep, goats, and cattle are dependent animals, needing constant care,
attendance, and a certain amount of protection from bad weather. According to
Aristotle, they often leave their shelters in wintry weather and must be rounded
up by their tenders.17 In order to make the roundup of sheep easier, shepherds
regularly train a castrated ram, while it is quite young, to lead the others of the
flock (Hist. An. 573b25-27). Goats, however, were not trained to follow a
leader, because they are more individualistic in their grazing; and cattle tended
to stay in herds with no designated leader (574a11, 611a7-9). The shepherds
also trained their sheep and goats to become accustomed to sudden noises, so
that they would not become unduly frightened by a thunderstorm and
consequently miscarry if pregnant (611a4f.).18 Such was the devotion of
shepherds to their flocks that at night they even slept in the shelters with their
animals in order to protect them from cold and predators (610b30f.).19
Unlike animals used for human consumption, horses, mules and asses are
not fattened. Consequently, Aristotle recommends that they graze in large herds,
out on open pasture and with only the young taken for training and sale
(Hist. An. 611a10-15). In order to ensure a good strong animal, however, the
horseman should plant and maintain alfalfa, since it makes horses sleek and
strong (596b23-29). For best results, equines are kept in large herds, and special
horse-trainers (ƒppoforbo…, 577a15-17) are employed to maintain the herds, and
to separate out young animals when their time comes for training. Unlike

16
My father, a professional stockman, knew a rancher who always fed his cattle a grain
and salt mixture a few hours before taking them to market. This man firmly believed that the
salt-induced water retention increased their weight and thus raised his profit margin. He also
left the mud on his cattle, also in an effort to increase weight. Many ranchers in the western
USA also feed their animals salt, so they will take up extra water and thus fare better during
the long, hot ride from pasture, or feedlot, to market.
17
Sheep and goats seldom know what is in their best interest. On my parents’ ranch, our
sheep would often break out of their barns, pushing the doors off their hinges, only to stand
for hours, cold and miserable in the rain and snow.
18
This is a real fear among stockmen. From my own experiences herding sheep, I can
recall losing lambs on at least three separate occasions where loud noises such as thunder or
gunshot caused pregnant ewes to miscarry, resulting in the deaths of their lambs.
19
Woolly sheep do not winter as well as the broad-tailed variety (Arist. Hist. An.
596a25-596b8).
10 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

shepherds or cowherds, horse-trainers do not choose a leader for the herd, nor
manage the herd too much; yet the trainers do supervise their charges, making
sure that their herds are healthy and manageable, forty individuals or less under
a dominant stallion (Hist. An. 572b10, 577a15-18).20
While Aristotle provides more technical information than Hesiod or
Xenophon, and offers a useful point of departure for a full view of animal
production in terms of general practice and ideal goals, he (like many modern
scholars) is only concerned with production of animals in a taxonomic sense.
In order to grasp the methods and scope of animal management strategies, as
practiced during the classical period, we need to explore the interaction of
variables such as landscape, fodder, market demand, and socio-political
systems. Consequently, we turn to the two best-studied poleis, Sparta and
Athens, and contrast them with the ethne of Thessaly and Arcadia.

Athens

¢rca‹on dł to‹j 'Aqhna…oij tÕ poleme‹n to‹j lÚkoij, belt…ona nšmein À

gewrge‹n cèran œcousi.
(Plut. Sol. 23.4.4)21
Now the Athenians of old fought the wolves, since their country was better for
grazing than farming.

The Athenians were given a land better for grazing than farming, as Plutarch
says; and fortunes could be made in both (Bacchyl. 18.9). In his typology of
wealthy Athenians, Xenophon ranks sheep ranchers equally with wine, oil, and
grain farmers (Vect. 5.3).22 And the value of Athenian sheep derived from their
high quality wool; Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, was so impressed with Attic
wool that he wanted to import Athenian animals for crossbreeding with
Milesian sheep, in an attempt to improve his own herds and thereby to compete
with, or perhaps surpass, the Athenians (Ath. 12.540d).23 Indeed, by the Roman
period, all knew the quality of Attic wool: . . . t…na tîn 'Attikîn ™r…wn ¥ll'
™stˆ malakètera . . . ; (“what other wool is softer than Attic?”, 5.219a
20
The ass is raised much like the horse, but lives on less feed. Aristotle also includes
much technical data about the proper crossbreeding of horses and asses to produce draft
mules (Hist. An. 572a12, 572b11, 576a2, 577b5-78a4).
21
Citation of Plutarch, Solon is taken from K. Sintenis, Plutarchi Vitae Parallelae 1
(Leipzig 1906). Translation of Plutarch, Solon is that of B. Perrin (ed and tr.), Plutarch’s
Lives 1 (Cambridge, Mass. 1914).
22
Lysicles “the sheep dealer,” a contemporary of Pericles, may have been a sheep rancher
(Ar. Eq. 132, cf. 739).
23
Wool is listed as a particular product of Athens by Antiphanes, a fourth century BCE
playwright (Ath. 2.43c).
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 11

[Epig. Gr. 5.60.16f.]) is recorded by Athenaeus as a most foolish question. But

in addition to wool, the Athenians also exploited their sheep for cheese, and
Athens was famous for its fresh cheese market, frequented during the fifth
century BCE by men from outlying areas as far away as Plataea (Lys. 23.6).24
The Attic orators provide some clues concerning the practical
management of these sheep. [Demosthenes] describes a herd of fifty fine-
fleeced animals, supervised by both a herdsman and assistant, which were
stolen by rustlers, while pastured out, away from the cultivated farmland
(47.52f.).25 That the speaker identifies them as wool breeds, that such a small
flock has two shepherds, and the fact that they were stolen, suggests that these
were valuable animals. But such care is not unique—wool sheep in Attica and
the Megarid usually wore leather coverings, or “jackets,” in order to protect
their wool from dirt and the elements, and thus to ensure a better price at market
(Diog. Laert. 6.41).
The orator Isaeus shows the other main concern of Athenian husbandry,
goat production. He describes the affairs of Euctemon, who owned a herd of
goats which, together with their herdsman, was valued at 1300 drachmas
(Isae. 6.33), a not inconsiderable portion of an estate worth three talents. While
the speaker of Isaeus 6 does not tell us the number of goats, or even the reasons
for which they were kept, he does suggest that they provided to their owner a
ready income with which to engage in important public duties such as liturgies.
It is likely that Euctemon was selling off young animals for the sacrificial/meat
market, and thus engaged primarily in meat and hide (perhaps also cheese)

24
It is probable that men in rural areas like Plataea raised the sheep that produced the
cheese sold at this market. Such a practice would certainly account for Plataean interest in the
Athenian cheese market. Cf. Ar. Eq. 479f., where Athenians are selling cheese as far afield as
Boeotia.
25
It seems clear that these sheep were grazing under supervision, perhaps on the nearby
hillsides, just as Aristotle recommends (Hist. An. 596b3-4); and were only loosely connected
to the farm at the time when they were seized, because as [Demosthenes] carefully observes,
the animals were taken before the rustlers could trespass on the plaintiff’s land, as Isager and
Skydsgaard [6] 102 argue (47.52f.). Hodkinson [5] 38f. argues the opposite, that the owner of
the fifty sheep was engaging in mixed, agro-pastoralist strategies (i.e., housing his animals in
stalls at night, and supplementing their grazing with agricultural byproducts), since the sheep
were grazing in close proximity to the owner’s farm when stolen. These two views are not
mutually exclusive. At the time of the crime, the sheep are disconnected from the main
agricultural base; but whether this is usual or part of some complex strategy is unknowable,
for the speaker of [Dem.] 47 is not really concerned with how the sheep were raised. Instead,
he concentrates on his main theme: the fact that the sheep and their shepherds had been taken
by force, against their owner’s will, by his creditors.
12 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

production.26 The Athenian demand for sacrificial animals was so great in the
fourth century BCE that it effectively created its own market: 6528 oxen and
15186 sheep/goats were the minimum numbers of animals required yearly for
both the deme sacrifices and the epithetoi heortai (the large state-sponsored
sacrifices of the late-fifth and fourth centuries BCE).27 And Euctemon was not
alone in recognizing the potential of this market. A miller named Nausicydes
invested the money earned from his mill in a large herd of pigs and cattle. The
income derived from selling the animals was so great that Nausicydes was able
to support his family, and even to undertake expensive liturgies (Xen. Mem.
2.7.6).28 The wealth-generation potential of animal production, and the social
power of the liturgies it could buy, seems to be the crux of Demosthenes’
complaint when Philip of Macedon rewarded several non-elite Athenian
ambassadors with a number of sheep, cattle, goats, and horses (Dem. 19.265).29
Because of their animal wealth, and the opportunities that it gave them, these
men were able to become leaders of the polis, honored and even envied.30
During the classical period, state sacrificial demand created an artificial
situation in which large profits could be made by selling sacrificial victims,
profits large enough to entice even wealthy citizens like Nausicydes to invest in
animal production.
While the forensic sources do not always specify how these animals were
raised, a great deal can be inferred from how the animals themselves were
described. The sheep and goats in the above examples are all treated separately,
as herds, usually together with their shepherds, rather than as part of a working

26
S. Hodkinson, “Imperialist Democracy and Market-Oriented Pastoral Production in
Classical Athens,” Anthropozoologica 16 (1992) 53-61. These goats were just one of
Euctemon’s many sources of income; he also rented out both city and farm property (Isae.
6.33).
27
V. J. Rosivach, The System of Public Sacrifice in Fourth-Century Athens (Atlanta
1994) 78, n. 27. In the fourth century BCE, Attica experienced the highest level of intensive
farming coupled with animal production, largely because of the sacrificial market. This was
abandoned abruptly at the end of the century; and less intensive methods, such as
transhumance, took its place. For discussion, see H. Lohmann, “Agriculture and Country Life
in Classical Attica,” in B. Wells (ed.), Agriculture in Ancient Greece (Stockholm 1992)
29-57.
28
Cf. J. McInerney, Cattle of the Sun: Cows and Culture in the World of the Ancient
Greeks (Princeton 2010) 181, who offers a different interpretation by arguing that Nausicydes
made his wealth by other means and invested the profits as a kind of hobby.
29
Isaeus probably describes the size of a typical elite holding: sixty sheep, 100 goats, and
a cavalry horse (11.40-43).
30
Plato, like Demosthenes, criticizes those who make great profits by fattening castrated
animals for the sacrificial meat market (Leg. 743d). J. K. Davies, Wealth and the Power of
Wealth in Classical Athens (Oxford 1971) discusses the social power that liturgies can buy.
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 13

farm.31 Recent archaeological evidence from the Attic countryside seems to

support such conclusions about semi-mobile herds of sheep and goats, grazing
marginal pastures at some distance from the main agricultural base. The remote
buildings and tower constructions scattered across the Attic countryside seem to
have served as herding stations, complete will corral compounds, to provide
nighttime protection.32 The Athenians would have sent their flocks into the hills
for extended periods of time in order to exploit the grazing that these areas
offered. The well-pastured mountains near the borders of Boeotia and especially
the Megarid are thick with such pastoralist sites.33
Nonetheless, the degree of mobility would have depended on the
resources that the individual owner could control, and on the number of animals
that he owned. The property boundary stones and rupestral inscriptions found in
the Attic countryside suggest that many Athenians protected grazing in
otherwise predominantly agricultural regions. These Óroi boundary stones are
usually found along the steep ridges that separate one farm from another. As
such they are in plain sight to those who approach the crest of the ridge and, as
Stanton puts it, they seem to be saying “Don’t bring your sheep or goats over
here.”34 Perhaps, if an owner could control the hillsides around his farm, he

31
The sheep and goats mentioned in the Attic stelai were also listed in this fashion
3
(IG 1 426.58f.). The sixty-seven goats and eighty-four sheep are registered with their young,
separate from other property.
32
The Cyclops in Euripides’ Cyclops grazed his animals on the slopes by day, but penned
them each night (9.216-39). This seems to have been the practice in Southern Attica, with
animals kept close to farm complexes. In the northwest, though, herding stations tended to be
remote, removed from cultivated areas and devoted primarily to animal production. For a
discussion of the debate surrounding the use of towers in southern Attica, see R. Osborne,
“‘Is it a Farm?’ The Definition of Agricultural Sites and Settlements in Ancient Greece,” in
Wells [27] 21-28; Lohmann [27] 29-47. For northwestern Attica and the Megarid, see H.
Lohmann, “Antike Hirten in Westkleinasien und der Megaris: Zur Archäologie der
mediterranen Weidewirtschaft,” in W. Eder and K.-J. Hölkeskamp (edd.), Volk und
Verfassung im vorhellenistichen Griechenland (Stuttgart 1997) 63-88.
33
Thucydides observes that the border between Attica and Boeotia at Panacton was a
recognized grazing ground from ancient times (5.42). Lohmann [31] 75 adds that the ancient
Megarid may have been even more “pastoral” than Attica; and longer distance movements,
which exploited seasonal grazing, more the norm in that area. Clearly, Megara was an
important sheep-producing region. In antiquity, the area boasted an important sanctuary to
Demeter the Sheepbringer, and was known for its quality woolens (Ar. Ach. 519; Xen. Mem.
2.7.6); see R. P. Legon, Megara: The Political History of a Greek City-State to 336 BC
(Ithaca 1981); E. Mantzoulinou-Richards, “Demeter Malophoros: The Divine Sheep-
Bringer,” AncW 13 (1986) 15-22.
34
G. R. Stanton, “Some Attic Inscriptions,” ABSA 79 (1984) 289-306 suggests that these
Óroi protected deme land. He observes that two in particular seem to mark the boundary
between coastal Lamptrai and upper Lamptrai. As a result, these particular Óroi probably
14 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

might not need to lease pasture or to move his animals farther from his
agricultural base.35
Controlling land is essential to large-scale, elite animal production; and at
Athens, as elsewhere in Greece, socio-political conventions affected the amount
of land that a man could control. At least from the time of Solon, Athenian
landholding was a complicated affair, with all citizens having potential access to
land, and most owning at least one plot, albeit small.36 As a result, because of
inheritance and other social factors, the Attic landscape became subdivided over
time to a degree seldom seen elsewhere in the Greek world, consisting of an
intricate patchwork of small, individually owned parcels.37 This hodgepodge
character is best illustrated by the property liens discussed by Finley in his
classic study of Athenian credit and landholding and the Attic stelai or lists of
property confiscated from those who mutilated the herms and profaned the
3
Mysteries with Alcibiades in 415 BCE (IG 1 426).38 Such a fragmented system
of land tenure and land use certainly had an effect on the number of animals that
Athenians could keep in any one place. Consequently, one sees individual
flocks not much larger than fifty sheep, about the amount that one shepherd (or
a shepherd and his assistant, if they were especially valued) could reasonably
herd. In practice, wealthy Athenians may well have kept many such herds of
sheep on their scattered properties, but they could not have grazed larger herds
on individual holdings. Only in the border areas, or on the uninhabited slopes of
the larger mountains such as Pentelicon, Hymettus, or Parnes, where Lohmann
identified the large herding stations, might several herds be kept.39

defined areas of public grazing leased out by the demes, not lands held by private citizens.
See also J. Krasilnikoff, “Marginal Land, Its Boundaries, and the Rupestral Horoi of Attica,”
Classica et Mediaevalia 61 (2010) 49-69.
35
For a general discussion of leased land, see D. M. Lewis, “The Athenian Rationes
Centesimarum,” in M. I. Finley (ed.), Problèmes de la terre en Grèce ancienne (Paris 1973)
187-212; R. Osborne, Demos: The Discovery of Classical Attika (Cambridge 1985) 56-59;
and J. Krasilnikoff, “Attic FELLEUS: Some Observations on Marginal Land and Rural
Strategies in the Classical Period,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 167 (2008)
37-49.
36
T. W. Gallant, Risk and Survival in Ancient Greece: Reconstructing the Rural Domestic
Economy (Palo Alto 1991) 128f.; V. D. Hanson, The Other Greeks: The Family Farm and the
Agrarian Roots of Western Civilization2 (Berkeley 1999) 125-76.
37
R. Osborne [35] 47-63; Wells [27]; N. F. Jones, Rural Athens Under the Democracy
(Philadelphia 2004) 17-47.
38
M. I. Finley, Studies in Land and Credit in Ancient Athens, 500-200 BC: The Horos-
Inscriptions (New Brunswick 1952).
39
Lohmann [27] 32-57. Perhaps it is significant that Euctemon, the owner of 1300
drachmas worth of goats, had property on the slopes of Pentelicon (Isae. 6.33).
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 15

Inasmuch as Athenian practices of landholding profoundly affected the

ways in which flocks were managed in Attica, climate and geography must also
have played a role, if only in limiting the types of animals that the Athenians
could raise. Since Attica is one of the driest regions of mainland Greece, with
very little wetland pasture, large animals such as cattle and horses, which
require abundant fodder and water, would not prosper, and certainly would not
survive in the big herds suggested by Aristotle (Hist. An. 596a).40 As a result,
Attica is goat and sheep country, with the larger animals kept only in small
numbers (Plut. Sol. 23.4). The Attic stelai reflect this reality: the estate of
Panaetius contained only two draft oxen, two unspecified oxen, four cows with
an unknown number of calves, sixty-seven goats and eighty-four sheep, together
3
with an unregistered number of offspring (IG 1 426.58-75). This lack of large
animals in Attica may explain why Solon forbade the sacrifice of oxen at
funeral feasts; and why, in the Athenian sacrificial calendar, sheep were
regularly substituted in the place of oxen (Plut. Sol. 21).41
As for horses, although a cavalryman and horse-racer like Xenophon
advises against home production (Oec. 3.10), Athenians did retain some horses;
though never in large herds, for members of the Athenian cavalry on active duty
were required to maintain their horses on their own land (about 700 to 1200
horses in total, excepting replacements). Stratocles, the man who profited from
his niece’s dowry, kept a cavalry horse (Isae. 11.40-43). He could afford to do
this because the state supplemented cavalry fodder expenses by providing a cash
advance to each horseman for the purchase of grain.42 This grain supplement
substantially reduced the amount of grazing land an owner might need, and thus
allowed Athenians to keep horses in their pasture-poor environment. Here again
40
R. Osborne, Classical Landscape with Figures (London 1987); P. D. A. Garnsey,
Famine and Food Supply in the Graeco-Roman World (Cambridge 1988) 89-106. It is telling
that Thucydides lists only draught animals and sheep when describing the livestock that the
Athenians evacuated to Euboea during the Peloponnesian War (2.14.1). For discussion of the
wartime evacuation and its effect on agricultural production, see V. D. Hanson, Warfare and
Agriculture in Classical Greece2 (Berkeley 1998). The lease inscriptions from demes and
rural sanctuaries seem to support a shortage of animals in the classical period: e.g., IG 22 493
expressly prohibits the taking of manure from the lease land, suggesting a general shortage of
manure at the time. See Osborne [32] 21-28 for further discussion.
41
For a discussion of the sacrificial calendar at Athens, see S. Dow, “The Greater
Demarkhia of Erkhia,” BCH 89 (1965) 180-213. Rosivach [27] 9-67 suggests that these
substitutions were even more common than Dow suggests.
42
I. G. Spence, The Cavalry of Classical Greece: Social and Military History with
Particular Reference to Athens (Oxford 1993) 272-86 argues that each cavalryman was given
what his particular horse might cost, up to 1200 drachmas; cf. G. R. Bugh, The Horsemen of
Athens (Princeton 1988) 53-58, 66-70, who suggests that each cavalryman received a set fee
of 1200 drachmas.
16 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

we see social institutions creating an opportunity for animal production where

environment would have discouraged it.
In the end, we can conclude that the Athenians were primarily sheep and
goat producers. Their strategies, shaped by local systems of landholding,
practical ecology, the sacrificial market and concomitant elite need for wealth in
order to fulfill their competitive liturgical obligations, seem to have been
particularly varied. Perhaps the oath of the Furies, from Aeschylus’ Eumenides,
best summarizes the agricultural cares of the Athenians:

flogmoÝj Ñmmatostere‹j futîn, tÕ

m¾ per©n Óron tÒpwn,
mhd' ¥karpoj a„a-
n¾j ™ferpštw nÒsoj,
mÁl£ t' eÙqenoànta P¦n
xÝn diplo‹sin ™mbrÚoij
tršfoi crÒnJ tetagmšnJ:
(Aesch. Eum. 939-45)43
May leaf-destroying ruin not blow
(I speak graciously)
its blasts of heat, stealing buds from plants,
lest they pass the border in these places;
may no deadly plague draw near to kill the crops;
may Pan at the appointed time
nurture the thriving flocks with twin offspring.

Sparta

toàto młn g¦r e„ ™qšleij <e„j> toÝj Lakedaimon…wn ploÚtouj „de‹n,

gnèsV Óti polÝ t¢nq£de tîn ™ke‹ ™lle…pei: gÁn młn g¦r Óshn œcousin
tÁj q' ˜autîn kaˆ Mess»nhj, oÙd' ¨n eŒj ¢mfisbht»seie tîn tÍde pl»qei
oÙd' ¢retÍ, oÙd' aâ ¢ndrapÒdwn kt»sei . . . oÙdł m¾n †ppwn ge, oÙd' Ósa
¥lla bosk»mata kat¦ Mess»nhn nšmetai.
(Pl. Alc. 1.122d3-8)44
You have only to look at the wealth of the Spartans and you will see that
wealth here is far inferior to the wealth there. Think of all the land they have
both in their own country and in Messenia, not one of our [Athenian] estates
could even compete with theirs in extent and excellence, nor in ownership of
slaves and especially of those from the helot class, . . . nor yet of horses, nor of
all the flocks that graze in Messenia.

43
Citation of Aeschylus, Eumenides is taken from G. Murray (ed.), Aeschyli Tragoediae2
(Oxford 1960).
44
Citation of Plato, Alcibiades Major is taken from J. Burnet (ed.), Platonis Opera 2
(Oxford 1967).
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 17

Spartan animal management strategies differed greatly from those of the

Athenians, mostly because of Spartan social institutions. At Sparta, a narrowly
defined elite controlled all property and resources (Arist. Pol. 1270a15-b6).45
In addition, the well-watered river valleys of Laconia and Messenia, in contrast
to the dry plains of Attica, enabled the Spartans to keep horses and cattle on a
scale simply not possible at Athens.46 Euripides, for example, speaks eloquently
about the resources and gentle climate of the region:

. . . kat£rrutÒn te mur…oisi n£masi, kaˆ bousˆ kaˆ po…mnaisin

eÙbotwt£thn oÜt' ™n pnoa‹si ce…matoj dusce…meron, oÜt' aâ teqr…ppoij
¹l…ou qerm¾n ¥gan.
(Eur. [ap. Str. Geog. 8.5.6]47)
Watered by countless streams, furnished with good pasture for both cattle and
sheep, being neither very wintry in the blasts of wind, nor yet made too hot by
the chariots of Helios.

Consequently, because of the unique social, political, and environmental

characteristics of Sparta, large estates and large herds (rather than a patchwork
of small units) dominated the Spartan landscape.48 The Spartans also had a
compelling social market for meat and other pastoral products. The public mess,
to which every Spartiate must contribute (or lose his citizenship) seems to have
served much the same role as liturgies in Athens, providing the wealthier
Spartiates with a competitive forum in which to demonstrate the calibre of their
wealth, through gifts of meat and cheese (Ath. 4.139c, 140c-e, 141e.).49
The Spartans also competed in horse production and had demonstrated a
passion and no small skill for chariot racing; between the years 448-420 BCE, a
Spartan won the four-horse race in seven out of eight Olympiads. Aside from
raising animals for competition, Xenophon tells us that each Spartan was
expected to provide his own horses for the cavalry forces, though in practice the

45
For a discussion of the Spartan system of landholding, see S. Hodkinson, “Land Tenure
and Inheritance in Classical Sparta,” CQ 36 (1986) 378-406.
46
Homer praises the green meadows of Laconia and Messenia (Il 3.74, 4.530; Od.
4.602-04).
47
Citation of Euripides ap. Strabo, Geographica is taken from A. Meineke (ed.),
Strabonis Geographica 1-3 (Graz 1969).
48
Xenophon’s comments about his estate at Scillus in Elis, which he dedicates to
Artemis, suggest that this sort of large estate (in which agricultural land as well as pasture
was individually owned) was not uncommon in the southern and western Peloponnese
(An. 5.6.4). For the vast numbers of sheep and cattle in Elis, see Xen. Hell. 3.2.26; cf. Theoc.
25; Hom. Il. 9.707-23, 9.739-47, 11.671-80, 23.202f.
49
See S. Hodkinson, “Social Order and the Conflict of Values in Classical Sparta,”
Chiron 13 (1983) 239-81.
18 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

wealthier Spartiates often loaned out horses to their less wealthy peers as a way
of creating social obligations (Xen. Hell. 4.4.10f., 6.4.11; Lac. 6.3; Arist. Pol.
1263a35f.). Indeed, the Spartans were so successful at, and famous for, their
horse production that in the hellenistic period they even exported animals to the
Ptolemaic kingdom of Egypt (Polyb. 5.37). While the literary sources do not
provide a clear picture of how these horses were raised, it is probable that the
Spartans kept herds much as Aristotle describes, on the well-watered pastures of
their estates, complete with helot grooms and trainers (Hist. An. 577a15-17).50
Apart from their horses, the Spartiates were also famous for their cattle
(Str. Geog. 8.5.6). In fact, King Agesilaus II took such pride in his herds that he
presented each new member of the Gerousia with an unblemished ox when they
entered office (Plut. Ages. 4.3). The Spartans also seem to have possessed
smaller animals in abundance, raised primarily in large herds. In particular,
Plato’s Alcibiades contrasts the numerous flocks and the large estates of
Messenia with the smaller scale of Athenian herds and lands (1.122d-e). Yet, as
with Athens, the degree of integration between arable farming and animal
husbandry remains elusive; though the well-described estate of Xenophon at
Scillus in Elis may offer a useful context against which to evaluate the Spartan
evidence, since Scillus seems to echo the rich estates described by Plato’s
Alcibiades. Xenophon tells us that the grazing resources of Scillus were so
abundant that the visitors to the local festival of Ephesian Artemis (whose
shrine and festival Xenophon established and continued to support) could even
pasture their sacrificial livestock and beasts of burden while attending the
ceremonies; the meadows and tree-clad hillsides were excellent for raising pigs,
goats, cattle, and horses (An. 5.3.11f.). The overall impression given by
Xenophon is that all types on animals were raised at Scillus in large quantities,
each in its own distinct enclave, seemingly independent from arable farming.51
Although the Spartan estates may well have possessed all the grazing and
fodder resources necessary for onsite animal production, some form of seasonal
movements were employed for sheep and goats. Indeed, a dispute over
mountain grazing seems to have precipitated the First Messenian War, the war
ca. 743-724 BCE, in which Sparta began to subjugate Messenia. The accounts
agree that the hostilities began when the Spartans encroached on some
borderland near Mount Taygetus; the exact nature of this encroachment is
50
E.g., Agesilaus II is said to have stocked his estate with many horses (Xen. Ages. 9.1).
51
Any sort of integration between pastoral and agricultural spheres of production would
be minimal—probably even less than Forbes [7] postulated for the Argolid—because
Xenophon (and his Spartan friends) was not under the pressure to develop alternate sources
of fodder (as were the Athenians and elite producers from drier regions such as Argos).
Scillus possessed abundant, year-round grazing. Any supplement to the natural graze would
be on an ad hoc basis, when there were agricultural byproducts near at hand.
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 19

unclear, but all reports agree that the Spartans seized the borderland for their
own use and set up a shrine to Artemis of the Wetlands (Tac. Ann. 4.43; Paus.
3.7.4, 4.31.3, 4.4.2.). The fact that the Spartans dedicated the land to Artemis of
the Wetlands suggests that this area contained springs and pasturage, and that
therefore the dispute centered upon access to grazing.52
In the end, the abundant, well-watered plains of Messenia and Laconia,
with their large amounts of farming and grazing land, worked by the servile
helots, witnessed a greater separation between agriculture and animal husbandry
than existed anywhere in Attica. The Spartans had land and labor to spare, with
a relatively small landowning class competing for available resources. Indeed,
the production of animals for food was a social necessity at Sparta, since all
Spartiates had to contribute to the mess, with the wealthier citizens competing
to see who might donate the most meat and cheese and thereby gain the most
respect.

A Lowland Ethnos: Thessaly

Qessalo‹si dł kalÕn tëj †ppwj ™k t©j ¢gšlaj labÒnti aÙtîi dam£sai

kaˆ tëj Ñršaj: bîn te labÒnti aÙtîi sf£xai kaˆ ™kde‹rai kaˆ
katakÒyai, ™n Sikel…ai dł a„scrÕn kaˆ dèlwn œrga.
(Dissoi Logoi 2.11 [= Dialexeis frr. 2.19-21])53
To the Thessalians it is seemly for a man to select horses and mules from a
herd himself and train them, and also to take one of the cattle and slaughter,
skin, and cut it up himself, but in Sicily these tasks are disgraceful and the
work of slaves.54

The Thessalian elite, like their counterparts in Sparta, controlled large tracts of
well-watered land, worked by a dependent population. The one thousand cattle
and ten thousand sheep, goats, and swine that Jason, the tyrant of Pherae,
collected from his subjects in 370 BCE to offer at a single Pythian festival
suggest that Thessalians raised animals on a grand scale. And Jason’s sacrifice
would have only represented the surplus that each elite producer could give,
since the individual owners would need to retain a viable number of animals in
order to maintain the health and productivity of their herds, as Xenophon asserts

52
Before they had the rich, well-watered Messenian plain, the Spartans may have needed
the heights for their sheep. There is no indication, however, that Spartan exploitation of the
upland areas diminished after the conquest of Messenia. Fifth- and fourth-century Spartan
incursions into areas such as Thyrea suggest that acquisition of grazing land was still a major
concern (Hdt. 1.82; cf. Anth. Pal. 7.244, 7.431f.; Thuc. 2.27.2; Eur. El. 413).
53
Citation of Dissoi Logoi is taken from H. Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker 2
(Berlin 1906-1910).
54
Tr. R. K. Sprague, in R. K. Sprague (ed.), The Older Sophists (Columbia 1972) 282.
20 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

(Hell. 6.4.29). When speaking of the abundance of Thessaly, Theocritus recalls

the immense herds of the Homeric epics, and even evokes Homeric language
when he praises the attendants and cattle of the Scopadai clan and numerous
sheep raised by the Creonidai clan (16.34f.). These large, well-tended
Thessalian herds seem to be the inspiration behind many discussions in
Aristotle’s Historia Animalium.
And as with Sparta and Athens, social incentives underlay the Thessalian
animal production. The Dissoi Logoi suggest that the Thessalian elite
considered it as a point of honor to be personally involved with animal
production. Inasmuch as the social value that the Thessalian elite placed on
animal wealth determined the numbers of animals required, the environment of
Thessaly shaped the methods of that production. The marshy areas of the
Thessalian and Malian plains offered areas of superb grazing, with many
regions fit only for animal production, since they lacked the drainage necessary
to support grain crops.55 Thus, to a greater degree than Greeks elsewhere, the
Thessalians could specialize in animal production. It is, then, no surprise that
the inhabitants of Thessaly were famous for their large herds of pasture-
intensive cattle and horses.56 Indeed, Thessalian stud farms bred Alexander the
Great’s famous horse Bucephalus (Arr. Anab. 5.19.4-6), and supplied the
chariot horses that carried Orestes to victory at Delphi (Soph. El. 703f.).
The Thessalians must have been in Aristotle’s mind when he writes of
large herds of horses, cattle, and sheep, all supervised by grooms, trainers,
shepherds and cowherds (Hist. An. 575a30-b4). Yet these animals need not have
always been kept off arable land. As Aristotle observes, the ancient Greeks
often fattened their animals on agricultural refuse (595a13-b14); and the
Thessalians in particular were adept at integrating pastoralism into their other
agricultural strategies, employing the practice of tillering, or winter grazing of
grain crops, which slowed the maturation of the grains and also substantially
increased the yield (Theophr. Hist. Pl. 8.7.4).57 Consequently, small animals

55
Aristophanes speaks about the many cattle grazing in Malis along the river Spercheus
(Ran. 1384). Conversely, parts of the plain may have been too dry to graze animals, requiring
some sort of transhumance. Livy tells of regions particularly affected by seasonal drought
(42.57).
56
Many authors speak of “well-flocked” Thessaly: Bacchyl. 14b.6; Hom. Il. 2.696, 9.446;
Od. 11.257; Str. Geog. 6.5.18. Homer praises the oxen, the horses and the harvest of Thessaly
(Il. 18.573-76). For sheep and cattle, see Theoc. 16.36-39. H. D. Westlake, Thessaly in the
Fourth Century BC (London 1935) 4f., observes that the coinage of Larissa in particular
bears cattle and sheep motifs. For horses, see Soph. El. 703-06; Eur. Andr. 1229; Pl. Leg.
625d; Theoc. 18.30. For the famous Thessalian cavalry, see Hdt. 7.196; Isoc. 15.298.
57
Thessaly was also famous for its large yields of grain (Xen. Hell. 5.4.56f.). Tillering is
also known during the Roman era, and was greatly praised (Cato Agr. Orig. 30). See
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 21

such as sheep and goats grazed the lowland grain fields in winter, in addition to
the unfarmed areas, and then moved to the abundant summer pastures in the
surrounding high mountains and river basins when the crops began to mature.
Cattle and horses, however, while they might have grazed the grain fields in
winter, were in all likelihood never far from the lush pastures of cultivated
alfalfa or the year-round wetlands.

The Upland Ethne: Arcadia and Central Greece

ka… ·' Ó g' ™j 'Arkad…hn polup…daka, mhtšra m»lwn . . .

(Hom. Hymn Pan 3058)
And he [Pan] came to Arcadia, land of many springs and mother of flocks.

As with lowland Thessaly, the mountain dwellers of Phocis, Locris, and Arcadia
also possessed the necessary geographical/ecological conditions to develop
more specialized forms of pastoralism, less connected to arable agriculture than
those of the Athenians or even the Spartans. Because of the general shortage of
quality arable land outside of the lowland river valleys, the shorter growing
season, and the difficulty of raising the primitive wheats and barleys at the
higher elevations,59 the upland communities developed pastoral production. The
highland meadows offered abundant summer pasturage for sheep and goats, free
from the farmer’s plough. In fact, the ancient sources are explicit about sheep
grazing the high slopes of Parnassus from the earliest times (Eur. Andr. 1100f.;
Hymn. Hom. Ap. 303f.; Hom. Il. 9.406);60 and a recent archaeological survey
of modern and ancient settlement in the eparchy of Doris, conducted by Doorn,
has suggested that communities with a majority of territory above 1200 meters
were dependent primarily upon stockbreeding, while those below 1200 meters,

K. D. White, “Wheat Farming in Roman Times,” Antiquity 37 (1963) 209; Roman Farming
(Ithaca 1970) 134.
58
Citation of the Homeric Hymn to Pan is taken from T. W. Allen et al. (edd.), The
Homeric Hymns2 (Oxford 1936).
59
The problem is one of growing season. The primitive grains required a longer season
than the hybrids of today. P. D. A. Garnsey, “Mountain Economies in Southern Europe:
Thoughts on the Early History, Continuity and Individuality of Mediterranean Upland
Pastoralism,” in C. R. Whittaker (ed.), Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity
(Cambridge 1988) 196-209 points out that the growing season falls from 170 days at 1000
meters (Pindos in the Tetrapolis of Doris) to only ninety-five days at 2000 meters (the
highland meadows of Parnassos, Kiona and Vardousi); even modern hybrids have trouble
growing above 1800 meters. See R. Sallares, The Ecology of the Ancient Greek World (Ithaca
1991) 309f.
60
All three sources have sheep pasturing on the highlands of Parnassos. The quality of
this pasturage is disputed. For differing views, see Hodkinson [5]; Skydsgaard [5].
22 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

primarily upon arable and arborial agriculture.61 These highlanders exchanged

wool, cheese, and even the animals themselves, in return for the agricultural
produce of their lower neighbors. In fact, Doorn concludes that both lowland
and highland communities depended on these periodic exchanges of resources.62
Because of the central importance of animal production among the upland
communities, mountain pasturage was a constant source of contention. Witness
the early fourth century BCE dispute between the Locrian and Phocian
communities around Parnassus. The Oxyrhynchus Historian observes that these
two groups were in a state of continuous raiding and petty warfare, forever
stealing the sheep, and the grass, of their neighbors (P. Oxy. 842).63 Elsewhere
on the Parnassus massif, in the upland pastures near modern Arakhova, the
Ambryssians and Phlygonians carefully walled off their pastures in a fashion
that recalls the Óroi of Attica or, better yet, the barbed wire of frontier
America.64 Yet not all communities fought over pasture. The towns of Myania
and Hypnia agreed, among many other things, to set aside land for common use
in order to allow shepherds from each community to have the use of pasturage
while in transit from upland and lowland ranges.65 The pasture, however, was
common only among the citizens of the two participating communities, and
guards, paid by a special “pasture tax,” patrolled the boundaries and evicted
outsiders.
The centrality of animal husbandry to the peoples of the uplands is even
better illustrated in western Arcadia. To a greater degree than anywhere else in
Greece, the highlands of Arcadia were unpopulated, with the only permanent
structures being religious sanctuaries. Jost has observed that these isolated
sanctuaries served as community centers, as meeting areas from which the
Arcadians exploited the pastoral landscape, giving the dispersed, mobile,
Arcadians focal points for their pastoral lifestyle. Such a sense of community
would be quite different from that of more settled, urban folk such as the
Athenians. In fact, even when the western Arcadians did move into large urban
centers like Megalopolis, they did not abandon their rural shrines, but instead
created new festivals and urban sanctuaries twinned with their rural

61
L. S. Bommeljé and P. K. Doorn (edd.), The Stroúza Region Project (1981-1984):
An Historical-Topographical Fieldwork 1981-1984 (Utrecht 1985) 14f., 28f.
62
Pausanias observes how the fair that was stimulated by a festival of Isis in southern
Phocis provided all the surrounding pastoralists with a ready, seasonal market in which to sell
their animals as sacrificial victims (10.32.15).
63
In one instance, these raids escalated into a panhellenic war (the Corinthian War of 380
BCE), when each side called for support from allied states (Hell. Oxy. 18.3f.).
64
Cf. Osborne [35] 50f.
65
J. Bousquet, “Convention entre Myania et Hypnia,” BCH 89 (1965) 665f.
‘Good Breeding: Making Sense of Elite Animal Production in Ancient Greece’, T. Howe 23

predecessors, thereby continuing to stress the close connections between

Arcadian life and the pastoral countryside.66
One of the primary gods worshipped in these rural sanctuaries was Pan,
patron god of shepherds. Consequently, it is no surprise that in antiquity
Arcadia was famous for its sheep, with the epithet “rich in flocks” used from
Homeric times forward (Pind. Ol. 6.100, 6.169; Hymn. Hom. Merc. 4.2, 18.2;
Hom. Il. 2.605; Str. Geog. 8.3.6. [= Simon. fr. 104]; Theoc. 22.157; Philostr. VA
8.7; Bacchyl. 11.95).67 And from the early eighth century BCE through the
classical period, Arcadian craftsmen celebrated the region’s sheep production
by creating small bronze sheep figurines of a quality and quantity not seen in
other regions of Greece.68 Indeed, sheep production was so important and
honorable among the Arcadians that wealthy men, such as Praxiteles of
Mantineia, described themselves and their fortunes in terms of sheep
(IG 5.2.47[i]).69

Conclusions

A way beyond the transhumance/agro-pastoralist debate has been offered by

highlighting some of the social, environmental, and economic variables that
helped to shape the many distinct ancient Greek responses to animal
management. Each Greek community (indeed, each Greek) devised its own
unique ways, methods, and goals for keeping animals in order to meet unique,
social agendas. Since the rancher of Athens, the absentee stockman of Sparta,
the horse and cattle baron of Thessaly, and the shepherding clan of Arcadia did
not share similar goals, or similar physical environments, they did not share
similar production methods. At Athens, the dry nature of the Attic countryside
and the lack of year-round pasture prohibited the Athenians from raising horses
and cattle in large numbers, and also ensured that sheep and goats, which could
thrive on the scrub-covered hills, would predominate. But without the necessary
socio-economic inducements, such as the export wool market and the unusually
large state-sponsored demand for meat, animal husbandry in Athens would have
66
M. Jost, “The Distribution of Sanctuaries in Civic Space in Arkadia,” in S. Alcock and
R. Osborne (edd.), Placing the Gods: Sanctuaries and Sacred Space in Ancient Greece
(Oxford 1994) 220-23. A. Chaniotis, “Habgierige Götter, habgierige Städte: Heiligtumsbesitz
und Gebietsanspruch in den kretischen Staatsverträgen,” Ktema 13 (1988) 21-39, postulates a
similar role for mountainous shrines on Crete.
67
Bacchylides calls it “sheep-feeding” Arcadia.
68
See M. E. Voyatzis, The Early Sanctuary of Athena Alea at Tegea and Other Archaic
Sanctuaries in Arcadia (Göteborg 1990).
69
See S. Hodkinson and H. Hodkinson, “Mantineia and the Mantinike: Settlement and
Society in a Greek Polis,” ABSA 76 (1981) 271, 280.
24 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 4-24 ISSN 1018-9017

remained a small-scale affair. Moreover, without the need for capital with which
to perform socially necessary liturgies, the elite might not have pushed the
limits of their environmental constraints. At Sparta, helotage and sufficient
natural grazing allowed the Spartans to produce horses for cavalry and chariot
racing, as well as cattle, sheep, and goats for meat, cheese, hides, and wool. But
without the social need to compete through cavalry production and horseracing
or gifts of meat and cheese, large herds would not have been necessary.
In Thessaly, vast, well-watered pastures provided an unparalleled pastoral
resource; but it was a social system that encouraged elites to compete in
producing huge herds of cattle, sheep, and goats, as well as the best racing stud,
which allowed available pastures to be exploited to their fullest. In the uplands,
where many arable crops were difficult or impossible to grow, animals became
a hedge resource and medium of exchange for the products of arable agriculture.
In the end, no two communities, and no two individuals, raised animals in the
same way.
 PORNE OR PARTHENOS:
THE REPUTATION OF A PAINTED LADY

Colin P. Joyce
11 Dunkirk Street
Timaru 7910, New Zealand

Abstract. The social status of a woman painted on the tondo of the Christchurch Attic red-
figure cup AR430 has proved to be difficult to resolve. Most modern scholars interpret her
status as that of a hetaira or porne. But the painter’s visual clues allow construction of a new
and more conclusive identification as a parthenos, a virgin bride accompanying her husband
to the marital bed.

In ancient Athens, the disparity in the status of a porne and that of a

parthenos could not have been greater.1 The former was a slave girl used for sex
and the latter was an unmarried free-born girl accredited as being a virgin. It is
not easy for the modern viewer to discern the status of some of the girls painted
on ancient Athenian pottery. One case in question is that of the girl painted on
the tondo of the Christchurch Attic red-figure cup AR430, ca. 500-450 BCE
(probably 480-470 BCE2), in the James Logie Memorial Collection (figures 1
and 5).3 She is repeatedly described as a hetaira, a high-class sexual companion
with her client. However, one scholar links her with another painted girl who,

1
I am grateful to J. R. Green for encouraging me to develop this paper from my initial
suggestion for a catalogue entry and for his helpful discussion; Robert Guy and Dyfri
Williams for answering my questions on the style of the Painter of London E55; Penelope
Minchin-Garvin, curator of the Logie Collection, for supplying me with Duncan Shaw-
Brown’s photos; Roger Fyfe of Canterbury Museum, Christchurch, for giving permission to
publish the photos; Graham Zanker for corrections to a late draft; and Sian Lewis for
assisting me with some referencing. All line drawings are mine.
2
Douris’ career as a painter lasted some fifty years. On grounds of subject and style, the
Christchurch Attic red-figure cup AR430 can be dated probably to ca. 480-470 BCE, which
were the middle years of Douris’ career.
3
Christchurch, Canterbury Museum AR430; attributed to Douris (Beazley), the Painter of
London E55 (Guy); currently on loan to the James Logie Memorial Collection, University of
Canterbury, Christchurch; see J. D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters2 [ARV²] (Oxford
1963) 438.138; Beazley Archive Pottery Database [BAPD] 205184 (www.beazley.ox.ac.uk:
last accessed 31 October 2011 throughout. In e-mail correspondence, R. Guy, author of The
Late Manner and Early Classical Followers of Douris (DPhil diss. Oxford 1982), has
confirmed to me that the Painter of London E55 was a close follower of his teacher Douris,
whose late style he had fully assimilated, and that it is very likely that the painter of the
Christchurch cup would have seen the contemporary Boston Attic red-figure cup 1970.233
(figure 6).

25
26 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

without doubt, is a porne. Recently attention has been given to the significance
of her hairstyle, and it has been suggested that the scene may represent a more
private love-affair. These readings will be surveyed with particular focus on the
view that girl or woman is a porne. All the visual clues left to us by the painter
will then be reviewed and a new reading of the status of this painted lady will be
constructed.

Description of Tondo

The foot, handles and the whole circumference of the lip of the Christchurch
cup AR430 are missing. Although the heads of the figures painted on the
exterior scenes are not preserved, only a small fragment of the tondo, in the
interior of the cup, is missing. There is also a small chip out of the cup just
above the missing fragment.4 The tondo depicts a girl reaching up to embrace
the head of a young man. They gaze into each other’s eyes as he gestures, with
an open hand, to his right towards the head of the kline.5 One leg of the bed,
decorated with Ionic volutes at the top, is shown, and there is a portion of a
striped cushion atop the bed. Between the youth and the bed hangs an
alabastron, a long cylindrical jar that contained scented olive oil. It is
suspended from the wall by a red cord. In the upper left field, there is an
inscription HIKET<ES>KALOS (‘Hiketes [is] handsome’).6 The girl wears a
voluminous chiton, her hair in the bundled style, and they both wear a narrow
headband that has been painted in added red. He is nude, save for a cloak draped
over his shoulders and upper arms. His posture is relaxed, with his weight
distributed between his left leg and the knotty staff in his left hand. His flexed
right leg suggests imminent movement towards the bed. At the right of this
‘porthole’ view of the room, part of a sturdy door with its double rows of rivets
is seen; behind the girl there is the top of the leg of a chair with a cushion.

4
S. Lewis, The Athenian Woman: An Iconographic Handbook (London 2002) 121
ponders whether this is a sandal, or damage to the cup.
5
G. M. A. Richter, The Furniture of the Greeks Etruscans and Romans (London 1966)
52-63.
6
K. J. Dover, Greek Homosexuality (Cambridge, Mass. 1989) 117 comments on this
inscription that ‘it is characteristic of the genre that in a scene of heterosexual love it should
be a male whose beauty is acclaimed’. For other appearances of the kalos-name Hiketes, see
J. D. Beazley, ARV² [3] 1583f.; Paralipomena: Additions to ‘Attic Black-Figure Vase-
Painters’ and ‘Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters2’ [Paralipomena] (Oxford 1971) 506; BAPD
[3] 205184; D. Robinson and E. Fluck, A Study of the Greek Love-Names (Baltimore 1937)
116.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 27

The Scholarly Consensus

Robertson makes a sympathetic comparison of the Christchurch cup AR430

with the London Attic red-figure cup XXXX0.5144 (now lost), ca. 500-450
BCE (figure 3),7 which he attributes to the master painter Douris.8 On the
interiors of both cups there are quiet and private scenes, contrasted with more
boisterous symposiastic figures on their exteriors. The hetaira on the lost
London cup XXXX0.5144 has been described as ‘sleeping’,9 but I consider this
to be a somewhat innocent reading of what the painter has inferred by the
proximity of her head to the man’s groin. Haggo describes the embracing girl on
the Christchurch cup AR430 as probably a hetaira since she is depicted without
any of the conventional signs of a ‘good’ woman and is initiating amorous
physical contact with a nude male figure.10 This girl became notorious by
association after Peschel’s publication of the exterior scenes (figure 2) in his
survey of hetairai in symposion and komos settings.11 Reeder describes the girl
in a very similar embrace of a near nude young man on the fragmented New
York Attic red-figure cup 07.286.50, ca. 525-475 BCE (figure 4)12 in terms that
‘no woman other than a prostitute would be depicted in an embrace and in direct
eye contact with a man.’13 Neils considers her to be a hetaira.14 Mitchell
describes the scene as ‘a youth who has just entered a hetaira’s house’.15 Lewis
notes that the scene does not include a food basket or aulos case in order to
signal the symposion. She also observes that the girl’s hair is in the bundled
parthenos hairstyle and wonders if the woman’s status is of relevance here by

7
London, Collection of J. C. Robinson XXXX0.5144 (now lost); attributed to Douris
(Robertson); see ARV² [3] 436.98; BAPD [3] 205144.
8
M. Robertson, ‘A Lost Cup by Douris with an Unusual Scene’, JHS 66 (1946) 123-25.
9
Robertson [8] 123.
10
R. Haggo, ‘Catalogue’, in Ancient Celebrations (Christchurch 1985) 11; see also
A. Holcroft, ‘The Symposium’, in Ancient Celebrations 2.
11
I. Peschel, Die Hetäre bei Symposium und Komos in der attisch-rotfigurigen
Vasenmalerei des 6.-4. Jahrh. v. Chr. (Frankfurt 1987) pll. 157, 158 (A, B).
12
New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 07.286.50; attributed to the Kiss Painter
(Beazley); see ARV² [3] 177.2; BAPD [3] 201625.
13
E. D. Reeder (ed.), Pandora: Women in Classical Greece (Baltimore 1995) 192f., ill.
41, n. 7.
14
J. Neils, ‘Others Within the Other: An Intimate Look at Hetairai and Maenads’, in
B. Cohen (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal: Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek
Art (Leiden 2000) 210-13.
15
A. G. Mitchell, Greek Vase Painting and the Origins of Visual Humour (Cambridge
2009) 66.
28 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

suggesting that perhaps the scene depicts the intimacy of the bedchamber, but
she does not take it further.16
Kilmer takes us down a different track: he sees the alabastron painted
within the Christchurch cup AR430 as a sexual accessory that is a suggestive
element sufficient to tell us that something sexual is imminent.17 To appreciate
the full implications of this and Kilmer’s other observations, we need to
examine the scene within the Christchurch cup in conjunction with a painted
cup that Kilmer links to it. Kilmer’s comparison is with the Boston Attic red-
figure cup 1970.233, ca. 500-450 BCE (figure 6).18 It is a late work by Douris,
the master painter from whom the painter of the Christchurch cup AR430
learned his craft. At first glance, there are several notable elements common to
both scenes: the head of a bed is visible at the left of both scenes; the front legs
of a stool or a chair can be seen at the right in both scenes; and there is an oil-
flask in both scenes (an alabastron on the Christchurch cup AR430; an arybalos
on the Boston cup 1970.233); they both bear kalos inscriptions. However, it
should be noted that whereas the Christchurch cup AR430 praises the young
man, the Boston cup 1970.233 praises the young lady: HE PAI[S] K[AL]E
(‘the girl [is] beautiful’).
Kilmer considers that the implication of the painter’s prominent
placement of the oil-jars in both scenes would probably have been enough of a
clue for the cognoscenti to conclude that sex was about to take place, facilitated
by lubrication.19 On the Boston cup 1970.233, an inscription emanates from the
man’s mouth, HECE HESU[C]OS (‘Hold still’).20 Kilmer notes that the position
of the partners ‘show that penetration has already taken place; it is not a
question of finding the place of entry’. He also points out that there is a bed
behind the couple; ‘their method is a preference, not faute de mieux’. He
considers that the admonition, ‘which would not be appropriate with vaginal
copulation, makes eminent good sense with anal, particularly if the girl has not
tried it before’. He adds that Douris has supplied one blatant clue, the
admonition, to make sure his audience recognise it as anal intercourse. Here
Dover also observes that the point of entry (of the penis) is so high that it is

16
Lewis [4] 121.
17
M. F. Kilmer, Greek Erotica on Attic Red-Figure Vases (London 1993) 82-86.
18
Boston, Museum of Fine Arts. 1970.233; attributed to Douris (Beazley); see ARV² [3]
444.241; BAPD [3] 205288; T. H. Carpenter, Beazley Addenda: Additional References to
ABV, ARV2 and Paralipomena2 (Oxford 1989) [Beazley Addenda] 240.
19
Kilmer [17] 85.
20
ARV² [3] 444.241, BAPD [3] 205288, suggest the missing letters. The man’s
admonition for the girl to ‘hold still’ is in the nature of a command to a servant.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 29

reasonable to suppose that the painter had anal penetration in mind.21 Douris has
also included two other clues: the spurned bed and the aryballos that hangs in
front of the couple.
Kilmer suggests that the girl on the Christchurch cup AR430 is resisting
the young man’s goal of copulation on the bed, her goal being to stand bending
forward, supporting herself with her hands on the chair, for anal copulation as
seen on the Boston cup 1970.233. If this is correct, what would it tell us about
the status of the girl on the Christchurch cup AR430? Jameson informs us that
the kubda, the bent-over rear-entry posture, was on the lower scale of a
prostitute’s price range.22 The ‘three-obol position’ was the cheapest kind of
sex. Blundell has pointed out that anal penetration had the advantage of being
the most reliable contraceptive technique available to the Greeks.23 This must
have been the safest option for prostitutes, who could ill afford to get pregnant.
It might also explain the high percentage of heterosexual copulation scenes,
represented on both Attic black- and red-figure vases, being depicted in the a
tergo position. It seems probable that this mode of copulation denotes
prostitution in particular. However, we should also acknowledge that this
position would have been used for birth control by married couples. Prostitutes
in Corinth are said to present their anuses to wealthy customers on their arrival,
according to Aristophanes (Ploutos 149-52).24 Even if this is humour, it only
works if there is at least a measure of truth to it.
On the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430, the young man gestures
towards the bed; the girl leans forward to embrace him, but her feet are rooted
close to the chair. Is she holding back in an attempt to persuade him to use the
chair for the bent-over rear-entry posture? If we accept Kilmer’s linking of the
Christchurch cup AR430 with the Boston cup 1970.233 and if we speculate—as
Kilmer does—that the embracing girl on the Christchurch cup AR430 is
resisting the young man’s goal of copulation on the bed in favour of anal
copulation, then we might well conclude that we are looking at a prostitute with
her client. It is worth noting that, in the scene on the Boston cup 1970.233, the
oil flask is ovoid-shaped (that is, an arybalos), the shape carried exclusively by
males, which might suggest either that the locale is his room (she may be his
slave) or that he has taken his own lubrication to the brothel. In the scene on the
Christchurch cup AR430, however, the oil-flask is cylindrical (that is, an

21
Dover [6] 100.
22
J. Davidson, Courtesans and Fishcakes: The Consuming Passions of Classical Athens
(London 1997) 118, 169-172.
23
S. Blundell, Women in Ancient Greece (London 1995) 101, 107f.
24
Citation of Aristophanes, Plutus is taken from V. Coulon and M. van Daele (edd.),
Aristophane 5 (Paris 1963).
30 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

alabastron), which was the shape associated exclusively with women. Does this
indicate that the locale is either at a hetaira’s own premises or at the brothel
where a porne works? Or does it perhaps suggest a scene at home in the
gynaikeion (‘women’s quarters’)? More recently Green questions the status of
the girl on the Christchurch cup AR430 by asking: ‘Is she a hetaira/courtesan
taking the young man to what is clearly her room from the symposion on the
outside, or is it a more private love-affair as Lewis suggests?’25 The
overwhelming scholarly consensus is that this image represents a prostitute with
her client; her display of affection to a near-nude young man is not the expected
behaviour of a respectable Athenian girl. But Lewis and Green encourage us to
look closer: is it a more private love affair? And what is the significance of her
hairstyle?

A Closer Look at the Visual Elements

Any reading of a Greek vase scene requires a close examination of the visual
elements that go to make up the whole image. These scenes are not photographs
of everyday life; rather, they are carefully constructed images designed to tell a
story. They are also depicted in an idealised form; the Greeks believed that good
art should have vitality, beauty, sensuality and soul.26 In constructing his image,
the painter of the tondo on the Christchurch cup AR430 has drawn on both the
pictorial tradition of his predecessors and on the many other contemporary
images of his colleagues. His visual language was instantly recognised by his
contemporary viewers, but it is far from immediately decipherable to a modern
viewer. The visual elements of this image will now be analysed; by deciphering
these visual codes, a very different picture from the one presented above will be
ascertained. All the painters of Douris’ workshop were both astute and
economical with their visual clues; nowhere was this more the case than when
they were painting the small awkward concave field that is the interior of a cup,
that is, the area of the tondo. It will be seen that every element in this scene is
charged with meaning, even partially seen objects such as the chair. The painter
was acutely conscious of the viewer’s participation.

25
J. R. Green, The Logie Collection: A Catalogue of the James Logie Memorial
Collection of Classical Antiquities at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch
(Christchurch 2009) 119; Lewis [4] 121.
26
A. Stewart, Classical Greece and the Birth of Western Art (Cambridge 2008) 8-12.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 31

The Door

A prominent architectural element intrudes into the space of the tondo scene on
the Christchurch cup AR430: the door must play a vital role. In the context of
hetairai, Neils has discussed the motif of elaborate architectural entranceways
being used by vase-painters to allude to the sexual denouement of such scenes;
once inside the doorway, sexual intercourse was presumed to ensue. She draws
our attention to the Tampa Attic red-figure hydria 86.70, ca. 500-450 BCE,
which depicts a brothel with customers at the threshold.27 Neils also highlights
the Christchurch cup AR430 as a depiction of ‘a woman embracing a youth to
the left of a prominent doorway while he gestures toward a bed at the far left,
thus making it clear that once inside the doorway, sexual intercourse is expected
to follow’.28 Keuls considers the closed door to be the standard iconographic
clue that identifies the location of the women’s quarters of the private house.29
But doors feature most prominently in wedding iconography. In this
context the door motif has a very long tradition.30 In Attic black-figure it
features as early as Sophilos’ signed scenes of the marriage of Peleus and Thetis
on the London Attic black-figure dinos 1971.11-1.1, ca. 600-550 BCE.31 The
motif appears on a similar frieze painted by Kleitias on the Florence Attic black-
figure volute krater 4209 (the François Vase), ca. 600-550 BCE.32 It also marks
the points of departure and arrival of the rustic wedding procession on the New
York Attic black-figure lekythos 56.11.1, ca. 575-525 BCE by the Amasis
Painter.33

27
Tampa, Museum of Art 86.70; attributed to Harrow Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3]
276.70; BAPD [3] 202666; Beazley Addenda [18] 207. See also Neils [14] 213.
28
Neils [14] 213 n. 39.
29
E. C. Keuls, The Reign of the Phallus: Sexual Politics in Ancient Athens (New York
1986) 108-110.
30
F. Lissarrague, ‘Figures of Women’, in P. S. Pantel (ed.) (tr. A. Goldhammer), A
History of Women in the West 1: From Ancient Goddesses to Christian Saints (Cambridge,
Mass. 1992) 139-149; J. H. Oakley and R. H. Sinos, The Wedding in Ancient Athens
(Madison 1993) 31.
31
London, British Museum 1971.11-1.1; see Paralipomena [6] 19.16 bis; BAPD [3]
350099. See also Athens, National Museum 15165, ca. 600-550 BCE; Attic black-figure
dinos (fragments), signed by Sophilos; see J. D. Beazley, Attic Black-Figure Vase Painters
[ABV] (Oxford 1956) 39.15; BAPD [3] 305074.
32
Florence, Museo Archeologico Etrusco 4209; signed by Kleitias, Ergotimos Potter; see
ABV [31] 76.1: Paralipomena [6] 29; BAPD [3] 300000.
33
New York Metropolitan Museum of Art 56.11.1; attributed to Amasis Painter
(Beazley); see Paralipomena [6] 66; BAPD [3] 350478.
32 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

The door motif in wedding processions continued in Attic black-figure

and over into Attic red-figure, with a few examples in white ground. Vase
painters marked the point of departure or arrival of the wedding procession with
a door. This is perfectly illustrated on the Paris Attic red-figure pyxis N3348, ca.
475-425 BCE (figure 7).34 The image wraps around the cylindrical shape of the
pyxis (a box used exclusively by women to hold jewellery or cosmetics),
allowing the same door to be seen as both the point of departure and the point of
arrival. This ‘door to door’ frieze begins with the bride’s mother seeing her
veiled daughter off from the door of the family home. The bride stands
motionless as the groom grasps her wrist in a gesture known as cheir’ epi
karpoi, a ritual symbol of a husband taking possession of his wife.35 As he
begins to lead her away, he turns to make eye contact. The painter illustrates
divine support for the young couple by making visible Apollo, with laurels, and
his sister Artemis, identified with her bow and quiver. Apollo is the god of
arete, poetry and music, which played a major part in a boy’s training. Artemis
is the goddess who presides over the education of young girls until they reach
the threshold of marriage. The presence of these two gods conveys the good
character of the wedding couple. The frieze concludes with the groom’s parents
ready to receive the bride before the double doors of the groom’s home. The
bride leaves her childhood behind when she departs through the doors of her
parent’s home, and she begins the life of a woman when she passes through the
doors of her husband’s home. The lineal space between the doors indicates the
transition from the status of unmarried to married, with the doors symbolically
marking a young woman’s passage from parthenos to wife.
Doors commonly feature in the friezes depicted on pyxides. Roberts notes
that the iconography of Attic pyxides deals repeatedly with the features of
weddings. For instance, she describes the emblematic frieze on the Munich
Attic red-figure pyxis 2720, ca. 450-400 BCE.36 A double door takes up a major
part of the composition. A woman, fleeing from the door, turns and gestures. On
its other side, there is a Nike and a suspended fillet. Roberts concludes: ‘Surely,
here the door means the wedding’.37 Some painters, of both Attic black- and
red-figured vases, depict the door to the thalamos (groom’s bed chamber) ajar
in order to underscore the fact that the wedding ceremony culminated in the
34
Paris, Musée Du Louvre N3348 [L55]; attributed to Wedding Painter (Beazley); see
ARV² [3] 924.33; Beazley Addenda [18] 305; BAPD [3] 211247.
35
Cheir’ epi karpōi (‘[placing] the hand on the wrist’). See Oakley and Sinos [30] 137 nn.
70f.
36
Munich, Antikensammlungen 2720; attributed to Drouot Painter (Beazley); see ARV²
[3] 1223.4; Beazley Addenda [18] 349; BAPD [3] 216660.
37
S. R. Roberts, The Attic Pyxis (Chicago 1978) 182. Roberts [above, this note] 178-87
also notes that aspects of weddings are depicted repeatedly in the iconography of pyxides.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 33

sexual union of the couple. On the Boston Attic red-figure loutrophoros (a tall
jar used to carry the ritual bathwater for weddings) 03.802, ca. 425 BCE (figure
8),38 painted about fifty years after the Christchurch cup AR430, the painter
concludes the wedding procession with the double doors partly open in order to
reveal the turned leg and the mattress of the bed within the thalamos. The
scabbard hanging on the wall above the bed further defines the thalamos.
On the tondo of the Rome Attic red-figure cup XXXX0.4532, ca. 500-
450 BCE (figure 9),39 contemporary with the Christchurch cup AR430, Bérard
and Durand describe what they hold to be a young man leading his bride to ‘the
interior of the house towards the bed in the nuptial chamber’.40 Acknowledging
that the economy of signs makes this image ambiguous, they were able to
deduce this after examining ‘a richer corpus of images’, especially a series of
marriage processions, and in particular the Copenhagen Attic red-figure
loutrophoros 9080, ca. 475-425 BCE,41 which encourages them to see the
figures as newlyweds in their first moments of intimacy. Moreover, the London
Attic red-figure pyxis E774, ca. 450-400 BCE (figure 10), depicts two lebetes
gamikoi (vessels associated with the marriage ritual) placed at the door amidst
the wedding preparations.42 The image of the house door on Attic vases is
integrated with wedding scenes. The house door is also associated with
weddings in Attic classical drama. Admetos, on his return from his wife’s
funeral, addresses the door of his house:

ð scÁma dÒmwn, pîj e„sšlqw,

. . . polÝ g¦r tÕ mšson:
tÒte młn peÚkaij sÝn Phli£sin
sÚn q' Ømena…oij œsteicon œsw
fil…aj ¢lÒcou cšra bast£zwn,
polu£chtoj d'e†peto kîmoj

38
Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 03.802; unattributed; see BAPD [3] 15815.
39
Rome, Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia XXXX0.4532; attributed to Painter of
Louvre G265 (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 416.1; BAPD [3] 204532.
40
C. Bérard and J.-L. Durand, ‘Entering the Imagery’, in J.-P. Vernant, C. Bérard et al.
(tr. D. Lyons), A City of Images: Iconography and Society in Ancient Greece (Princeton
1989) 33f.
41
Copenhagen, National Museum 9080; attributed to Sabouroff Painter (Beazley); see
ARV² [3] 84.75; BAPD [3] 212254.
42
London, British Museum E774; attributed to Eretria Painter (Furtwängler); see ARV²
[3] 1250; Beazley Addenda [18] 354; Paralipomena [6] 469; BAPD [3] 216969; Oakley and
Sinos [30] figs 32-35.
34 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

t»n te qanoàsan k¥m' Ñlb…zwn

. . . nàn d' Ømena…wn gÒoj ¢nt…paloj
(Eur. Alc. 912-22)43
O visage of my house! How shall I enter you? . . . How great is the change!
Once, of old, I entered my house with marriage-songs and the torches of
Pelion, holding a loved wife by the hand, and a merry crowd followed,
pronouncing the happiness of both my dead wife and me . . . Today, in place
of marriage-songs are lamentations . . .

Chair

The distinctive sabre-curved leg of the klismos, a type of chair, stands in front of
the door on the Christchurch cup AR430.44 Only the front of the chair with its
padded cushion is visible. Chairs and stools are standard features in scenes with
women; this is because not only are women often depicted as seated, but also
painters often underscored other elements with the use of a stool or a chair. On
the Boston cup 1970.233 the young woman has folded her clothes and has
placed them on the sturdy stool with lion’s-foot legs; her undressing is part of
the painter’s narrative. The New York Attic red-figure cup 23.160.54, ca. 500-
450 BCE (figure 11)45 is contemporary with the Christchurch red-figure cup
AR430 and is also from the Dourian workshop. On its tondo a slightly older
woman (defined by her taller stature) shows a younger woman how to wrap her
chiton in the distinctive fold seen in sex scenes, such as on the contemporary
Boston cup 1970.233, on the Tarquinia Attic red-figure cup XXXX0.4886 (also
ca. 500-450 BCE [figure 12]),46 and in women’s toilet scenes. The younger
woman turns to learn how the other woman finishes off the fold before she
places the bundle on the stool. The man’s clothing (his mantle) may either hang
on the wall (as in figure 12) or be draped over his knotty staff;47 the woman’s
clothing, when depicted, is placed on a stool in a distinctive fold.

43
Citation of Euripides, Alcestis is taken from J. Diggle (ed.), Euripidis Fabulae 1
(Oxford 1984). Translation is by R. Aldington (tr.), Euripides: Alkestis (London 1930). For
further literary examples see E. H. Haight, The Symbolism of the House Door in Classical
Poetry (New York 1950).
44
Richter [5] 33-37.
45
New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 23.160.54; attributed to Douris (Marshall),
Oedipus Painter (Guy and Buitron-Oliver); see ARV² [3] 441.186, 1653; Beazley Addenda
[18] 240; BAPD [3] 205231.
46
Tarquinia, Museo Nationale Tarquiniese XXXX0.3886; attributed to Triptolemos
Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 367.94; Beazley Addenda [18] 223; BAPD [3] 203886.
47
See, e.g., Tarquinia, Museo Nationale Tarquiniese XXXX0.4434, ca. 500-450 BCE;
Attic red-figure cup attributed to Briseis Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 408.36; BAPD [3]
204434.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 35

On the Paris Attic red-figure cup S3916, ca. 500-450 BCE (figure 13),48
painted by the same hand as the Christchurch cup AR430, the painter draws our
attention to a kalathos (basket of yarn) by placing it on a similar chair to the one
depicted on the Christchurch cup AR430. It is very common to see a kalathos
placed on a chair or stool in domestic and brothel scenes. The basket of wool
was a symbol of domestic virtue denoting the labours of a good woman and of
the productivity of the so-called ‘spinning hetarai’.49 Similarly, by placing on
the Christchurch cup AR430 a chair ready to receive the young lady’s folded
clothes, the painter suggests to the viewer that she is about to remove her
clothes. The reason for the painter’s wish to depict her clothed and for the
viewer to imagine at the same time that she is about to undress is addressed
below, but for now it is enough to know that the painter could suggest that she
is about to undress by the placing of a chair in the scene; its inclusion invokes
the many contemporary images of undressed women with their folded clothes
placed on either a stool or a chair (as in, for example, figures 6 and 12).

The Kline

One leg of a kline and a portion of a cushion can be observed at the left of the
scene on the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430. Other views of this type of
kline are seen in figures 2, 3, 12 and 14. They are of the type of kline with
rectangular legs tapering downwards. The posts at the top end of the kline are
higher than those at the base and are crowned with a finial in the form of an
Ionian capital.50 The kline served as both a couch and a bed in ancient Athens.
In vase painting we discern no differences in the couches used in symposion
(figure 2) from those used in erotic (figure 6) and domestic, scenes. The kline
(as nuptial bed) also appears in wedding scenes. On the New York Attic red-
figure neck-amphora SL1990.1.21, ca. 500-450 BCE (figure 14),51 the wedding
procession heads toward the bed-chamber, in which stands an elaborate kline. It
is the wedding bed of Peleus and Thetis, but the iconography is much the same
for the weddings of gods, heroes and mortals. And some painters of wedding
48
Paris, Musée du Louvre S3916; attributed to Douris (Beazley), Painter of London E55
(Guy); see ARV² [3] 432.60; BAPD [3] 205106. The laver (wash basin), mirror and scented
olive oil are attributes of beauty and hygiene, while the kalathos is an attribute of utility. This
woman, painted in the tondo of a man’s drinking cup, represents a good humoured nod to the
drinker. It prompts him to remember the beautiful and dutiful wife who is waiting for him to
return from his drinking party.
49
Keuls [29] 247f.
50
Richter [5] 52-63.
51
New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art SL1990.1.21, attributed to Copenhagen
Painter (Guy); see BAPD [3] 43937.
36 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

processions depict the door to the groom’s bed chamber ajar in order to reveal
the kline, thus adumbrating the wedding ceremony’s culmination in the sexual
union of the couple (see figure 8).

Clothing

The girl on the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430 wears a voluminous Ionic
chiton with wide sleeves, a full kolpos (the portion formed from pulling the
excess length above the girdle) and a diploidion (the overhang from the top
forming a bib, or blouse). She is well dressed. We cannot distinguish between
hetairai and respectable women on dress alone. Dalby’s survey of the dress of
hetairai and pornai, based exclusively on Greek textual evidence, concludes
that ‘in principle hetairai dress no differently from “respectable” women except
with more elaboration, more care to bring out the best—according to the current
ideal—in their appearance’.52 Hetairai could hold high status in ancient Athens
(e.g., Aspasia and Phryne); they dressed appropriately, as do today’s high-class
prostitutes. The women depicted on the outside of the Christchurch cup AR430
are hetairai (figure 2); this is apparent from their context: ‘respectable’ women
did not entertain men at symposion. The dress of the young lady on the tondo is
sufficiently dissimilar from that of the women on the exterior for us to conclude
that the painter does not intend us to see her as one of the ladies from the
symposion. The young man with her is without doubt an aristocrat; his walking
stick, kalos tag and bearing all testify to this. Perhaps something can be
construed from the fact that they each wear a narrow red ribbon in their hair:
could that suggest that they may both have participated in some ceremony
together such as a marriage? There can be no certainty.

The Alabastron

Another visual element on the Christchurch cup AR430 is the alabastron

strategically hanging on the wall between the couple and the bed. Containing
perfumed olive oil, the alabastron was essential women’s toiletry used in
bathing, anointing and as a lubricant for sex. This shape of oil flask is
exclusively used by women. Measuring between four and eight inches in length,
this slender cylindrical shaped object was small enough to hold in one hand.
Just as I find it difficult to resist a phallic innuendo above, so too it was for Attic
vase painters and for the comic playwright Aristophanes. Painters represented

52
A. Dalby, ‘Levels of Concealment: The Dress of Hetairai and Pornai in Greek Texts’,
in L. Llewellyn-Jones (ed.), Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World (London 2002)
111-124.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 37

women in domestic scenes carrying about alabastra or gazing at them hung on

the walls, suggesting, at least to a male audience, that women were constantly
thinking about sex.
In vase painting the alabastron, ubiquitous in domestic scenes, is a
standard attribute of women.53 It was also an obligatory gift carried in wedding
processions and was sometimes hung above the nuptial bed (see figure 14).
Keuls argues that the principal connotation of the alabastron is ‘dutiful conjugal
sex, not the purchased variety’. She points out that the alabastron is
infrequently shown in scenes depicting hetairai, though she is not suggesting
thereby that they did not use them but rather that they were not conventionally
associated with hetairai. This is contradicted, however, on the exterior of the
Christchurch cup AR430, where at least one of the hetairai is carrying an
alabastron. Lewis notes that most scenes of the so-called ‘spinning hetairai’ are
depicted on alabastra.54 She describes the alabastron as the courting shape par
excellence. Almost all alabastra depict two-person compositions with male-
female interaction in some form of decorous courtship gift-giving; some have
nuptial overtones. The alabastron is a significant element in the iconography of
courtship, wedding and sex scenes. In comedy, Dikaiopolis uses an alabastron
to demonstrate how to anoint (lubricate) a groom’s penis (Ar. Ach. 1063).55

The Hairstyle

The girl on the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430 wears her hair plaited
down the back with the ends tied up in a small bag wrapped round with thread.56
In Attic red-figure pottery and contemporary sculpture (that is, late archaic and
classical art), this hairstyle is peculiar to the parthenos. In mythological scenes
it becomes the style most commonly shown on the virgin goddesses Artemis
and Athena as well as Nike and the Nereids.57 It is never shown on deities like

53
Keuls [29] 120.
54
Lewis [4] 189-191.
55
Citation of Aristophanes, Acharnenses, is taken from V. Coulon and M. van Daele
(edd.), Aristophane 1 (Paris 1967).
56
Lewis [4] 27f.
57
See, e.g., (Artemis) St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B2365 [670], ca. 500-450
BCE; Attic red-figure white ground lekythos attributed to Pan Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3]
557.121; BAPD [3] 206365; Reeder [13] 309, ill. 90; also Boston, Museum of Fine Arts
10.185, ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure bell krater attributed to Pan Painter (Beazley); see
ARV² [3] 550.1; BAPD [3] 206276; (Athena) Munich, Antikensammlungen 2406, ca. 525-475
BCE; Attic red-figure stamnos attributed to the Berlin Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3]
207.137; BAPD [3] 201956; also Paris, Musée du Louvre G341 ca. 475-425 BCE; Attic
38 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

Hera and Aphrodite.58 Lewis identifies it ‘as a style of virgin goddesses and
attendants, and of human parthenoi, indicating youth (before a woman wore her
hair up) and pre-marital status’.
Lewis notes that this interpretation is complicated by two cups both
attributed to the workshop of Douris. These two cups are the Christchurch cup
AR430 (figures 1 and 5) and the New York cup 23.160.54 (figure 11), which
depicts two naked women placing their clothes on stools. Lewis sees both the
young lady on the Christchurch cup AR430 and the younger (shorter) of the two
women on the New York cup 23.160.54 with the parthenos hairstyle as
contradicting the notion that the style is appropriate only to parthenoi. Since the
New York cup 23.160.54 is the only other anomaly hindering acceptance of
there being a parthenos hairstyle, it is critical to examine this cup. On the New
York cup 23.160.54 two women are about to place their clothes on stools. The
woman on the left is much taller and her breasts are fuller, which suggests that
she is older than the girl at the right. The other girl has turned her head to watch
how the older woman is folding her clothes before placing them on her stool.
Clearly the younger woman is learning how to fold her clothes. The woman at
the left wears her hair in a style befitting a mother, while the girl has her hair in
the parthenos hairstyle. We are looking at a ritual whereby the mother shows
her daughter how to fold her clothes in preparation for her undressing on her
wedding night; perhaps this chore would have been done for the girl by a
household slave before she married and entered into the seclusion of the nuptial
bedchamber. The hairstyles of the two women seem appropriate for a mother
and an unmarried daughter.
Hetairai were most commonly depicted wearing their hair in a sakkos
(that is, a soft cap worn by a woman, with a tassel to wrap around and to cover
her hair).59 The two women on the New York cup 23.160.54 have been wrongly
labelled hetairai on the basis that they are depicted nude; brides are also
depicted bathing nude as part of the nuptial ritual.60 Contemporary scenes (that
is, after 480 BCE) were beginning to depict women nude in other bathing and
domestic scenes.61 Most hairstyles seem to indicate nothing more than fashion;

red-figure calyx krater attributed to the Niobid Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 601.22;
BAPD [3] 206954.
58
Hera and Aphrodite are depicted with many different hairstyles and headgear; however,
there is no extant example of either goddess depicted with the parthenos hairstyle.
59
See, e.g., London, Collection of J. C. Robinson XXXX0.5144 [7], fig. 3.
60
See, e.g., New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 1972.118.148, ca. 450-400 BC;
Attic red-figure pyxis unattributed; see BAPD [3] 44750.
61
See, e.g., Syracuse, Museo Arch. Regionale Paolo Orsi 21972, ca. 500-450 (probably
470-460 BCE; Attic red-figure lekythos attributed to Alkimachos Painter (Beazley); see ARV²
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 39

however, it seems clear that at least two hairstyles in late archaic and classical
Attic vase painting can be definitive indicators of the status of women. The
short-cropped style indicates a slave, though not all slaves were depicted with
short-cropped hair; most household slaves would not have been subjugated in
this way.62 Common pornai, who were of course slaves, were often shown in
vase painting with the cropped style. On the Boston red-figure cup 1970.233
(figure 6), for example, the girl being anally penetrated is the man’s slave to do
with as he pleases; and on the Tarquinia red-figure cup XXXX0.4886 (figure
12), the girl whose head is cradled by the balding man as they look into each
other’s eyes during vaginal sex is clearly either a favourite slave or a hired
porne having an intimate moment with the master.63 The short-cropped hair on
both girls is not a fashion but an attribute employed by the painter to confer
their slave status and thus give clarity to his narrative.
Although brides did not necessarily wear their hair in the parthenos style
on their wedding days in Athens, the parthenos style worn by the girl on the
Christchurch cup AR430 (see figures 1 and 5) should be seen as an attribute of a
parthenos. As part of the preparation for her wedding, the virgin bride would
make various offerings (proteleia) to different gods. Her offering to Artemis
usually included a lock of hair in the hope that the goddess of virginity and
transition would ease her passage from parthenos to wife.64 This practice
explains the origins of this peculiar hairstyle: the lock of hair, bundled in the
small bag tied with thread, would be cut off for the goddess. This hairstyle
would have been a visible caution indicating that a parthenos’ virginity is under
the protection of the goddess.
Brides did not necessarily wear their hair in the parthenos style under
their veils on their wedding day in Athens; nor did pornai always have their hair
cropped short. But the vase painters were able to confer status on their painted
girls with these two hairstyles; they can be seen as attributes. In some of the

[3] 535.2; BAPD [3] 206060; Lewis [4] 142, fig. 4.6. The scene depicts a naked woman in a
woman’s room placing clothes on a chair.
62
See, e.g., Paris, Musée du Louvre CA587, ca. 475-425 (probably 450) BCE; Attic red-
figure pyxis attributed to Louvre Centauromachy Painter (Beazley); see Paralipomena [6]
449; BAPD [3] 216046; Lewis [4] 63, fig. 2.1. This depicts a domestic scene, with two seated
women (mistresses) and five women (slaves) doing menial tasks, dressed in similar fashion
and with similar hairstyles to the mistresses of the house.
63
The locus of penile penetration is depicted so high that the painter must intend it to read
as vaginal.
64
Oakley and Sinos [30] 14; J. Reilly, ‘Naked and Limbless: Learning about the
Feminine Body in Ancient Athens’, in A. O. Koloski-Ostrow and C. L. Lyons (edd.), Naked
Truths: Women, Sexuality and Gender in Classical Art and Archaeology (London 2000) 169
n. 23.
40 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

most graphic sex scenes where two men are penetrating a woman at once65 or
where anal or oral sex is indicated, the girls are usually depicted with short-
cropped hair. It tells the viewer that the girl is only a slave; this is not a hetaira
or a free-born girl being subjected to this humiliation.66

The Walking Stick

The young man on the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430 carries a walking
stick. Does it indicate that he has just arrived, or something else? While a
walking stick was handy for the drunken walk home from a symposion or to
ward off attack, a walking stick is also an attribute of a mature man, perhaps a
young man who has just married. Here the painter seems to be ascribing both
maturity and beauty to the young man. Hiketes is not among the well-known
kaloi of his day, but he is being praised for his beauty on this cup. The head of a
family also carries a stick (as does the groom’s father in figure 7); it indicates
the authority of a free-born mature citizen. In addition, the young groom on the
Rome cup XXXX0.4532 (figure 9) carries a stick as he leads his bride towards
the bed in the nuptial chamber.67

Gestures

The girl on the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430 reaches up to cradle the
young man’s head in her hand. This gesture of affection is not uncommon in
scenes of love making (see figures 4 and 12). This same gesture, however, is
also seen on contemporary scenes where either a boy or a girl is cradling the
head of a vomiting symposiast in an attempt to provide comfort.68 This gesture
also appears in scenes suggesting reciprocal intimacy, even love. In considering
a gesture of reciprocal intimacy, it is safer to look at the erastes-eromenos
(lover-beloved) scenes, where we know the social status of the erastes is that of
a free-born Athenian citizen and his eromenos a free-born youth on his way to
becoming a citizen of Athens. These complex relationships represented the
highest form of love to the ancient Athenians. A freeborn youth was free to
reject the advances of his lover, so in these scenes this gesture must signal
65
E.g., Paris, Musée Du Louvre G13, ca. 525-475 BCE; attributed to Pedieus Paunter
(Beazley); Attic red-figure cup (exterior); see ARV² [3] 1578.16; BAPD [3] 200694.
66
The young man’s hairstyle is suitable for a young man of stature.
67
Bérard and Durand [40] 33f.
68
E.g., Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum 86.AE.285, ca. 525-475 BCE; Attic red-figure cup
attributed to Onesimos (by unknown); see BAPD [3] 46454; also Würzburg, Universität,
Martin von Wagner Museum L479, ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure cup attributed to
Brygos Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 398.1649; BAPD [3] 203930.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 41

reciprocal love. In a well-known erastes-eromenos scene, contemporary with

the Christchurch cup AR430, a boy cradles the head of an ithyphallic man who
is fondling the boy’s penis.69 We see the eromenos cradling the head of the
erastes on a number of other erastes-eromenos scenes.70 This gesture is usually
interpreted in erastes-eromenos scenes as either an indicator of reciprocal love
or an indicator that the two are preparing to kiss. This is undoubtedly what is
happening on the Christchurch cup AR430. In this quiet scene it is safe to
regard the young lady’s gesture as an indicator of her reciprocal affection, as
opposed to a procured response. The young man’s hand gesture towards the bed
is self-evident.

Conclusions

On the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430, the painter has employed a
selection of visual elements, each of which is capable of alluding to one or more
specific facets of his narrative. The door indicates both the arrival of the
wedding couple at the nuptial bedchamber and, as Neils suggests,71 sexual
denouement. The door is also a visual reference to the girl’s marriage and a
symbol of her passage from parthenos to wife. The girl’s hairstyle reminds us
that the bride is still a virgin. As she gazes into the groom’s eyes and cradles his
head, she evokes the image of a sacrificial parthenos willingly about to sacrifice
her virginity.72 The chair is also part of the narrative, for the painter not only
wishes to depict the girl clothed as a maiden but also wants the viewer to know
that she will undress (for sex). This he achieves by depicting the chair as ready
for her to place her folded clothes on. The groom’s hand gesture and stance
suggest that he is ready to move to the bed.
In this wedding scene the painter has taken us through the doors into the
nuptial chamber. He has not overloaded the scene with the clichéd ritual
symbols of the wedding night such as the loosened girdle or bridal shoes. He
has not depicted a lustful ithyphallic groom with his naked bride. He has chosen
instead to depict an intimate moment where a virgin bride responds to her
69
Oxford, Ashmolean Museum 1967.304, ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure cup
(fragments) attributed to Brygos Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 378.137; BAPD [3] 204034.
70
E.g., Paris, Musée du Louvre G278, ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure cup attributed to
Briseis Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 407.16; BAPD [3] 204415; also Malibu, J. Paul Getty
Museum 85.AE.25, ca. 525-475 BCE; Attic red-figure cup attributed to Carpenter Painter
(Bothmer); see BAPD [3] 31619.
71
Neils [14] 213 n. 38.
72
For the significance of the sacrificial parthenos in Greek myth, drama and art, see M.
R. Lefkowitz, ‘The Last Hours of the Parthenos’, in Reeder [13] 32-38; Women in Greek
Myth (London 1986) 95-111.
42 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

husband’s first advance. While two visual elements, the alabastron and the bed,
allude to all the impending excitement of sex, our bride and groom are depicted
in quiet intimacy. She is still a parthenos, a virgin in the heroic tradition of a
virgin sacrifice, and as such she is afforded the dignity of that status: she is
clothed and her hair is still bundled; presumably her virginity is intact. While
her upper body leans forward to embrace the young man, her lower body lingers
in front of the door: she is still in transition from maiden to wife. The young
man’s gesture toward the bed is a natural one for a groom on his wedding night.
The embracing couple look into each other’s eyes and display the tenderness of
a true love-match. It is a highly idealised image.
Athenian girls usually married around the age of fourteen and most
Athenian men married around the age of thirty after completing their military
service. Here and on the hundreds of marriage scenes of this period (as in, for
example, figures 7, 8 and 9), the painter has ‘matured’ the bride and
‘youthened’ the groom (that is, depicted him beardless with a youthful
physique). These couples are idealised at their sexual prime.73 Nevertheless
these were usually arranged marriages rather than love-matches. So painters of
this period often included an Eros in these scenes to personify romance (as in,
for example, figure 8). On the tondo of the Christchurch cup AR430, the
embrace conveys the same idealised inference.
Why is this charming image depicted on the tondo of a man’s drinking
cup? In ancient Athens most nuptial scenes painted in the black-figure style
depicted the public spectacle of the wedding procession, that is, the transfer of
the bride to her new home. These scenes were painted on communal vessels
such as drinking kraters, hydriai and amphorae.74 Wedding scenes only started
to appear regularly on Attic red-figure vessels after the Persian destruction of
Athens in 480 BCE, some fifty years after the introduction of that technique.
The old technique of black-figure was retained for these formal scenes in the
same way that it was retained for the Panathenaic amphorae. When wedding
scenes started to appear regularly in Attic red-figure, there was a change in both
the subject-matter and in the shapes on which these scenes were painted. In this
period, the subjects ranged from the formal wedding processions to include
dance, bath and all forms of bridal preparations, and they were now painted on
the vessels associated with weddings, namely loutrophoroi, lebetes gamikoi and
pyxides.75

73
A. Stewart [26] 176-79.
74
Oakley and Sinos [30] 44f. For examples of the shapes of communal vessels, see BAPD
[3] ‘Shape’.
75
For examples of vessels associated with weddings, see BAPD [3] ‘[Subject] Wedding’.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 43

There also appears to be a small crop of wedding scenes painted on the

tondi of men’s drinking cups. The Rome cup XXXX0.4532 (figure 9) depicts
the deeds of Theseus on the exterior. On the tondo a groom is depicted leading
his bride from the door of her home, but there are no references to either
Theseus or any mythological wedding. The same distinction applies to the
London Attic red-figure cup 1843.11-3.11 [E69], ca. 500-450 BCE76 with the
exterior scenes depicting Odysseus and Ajax fighting over Achilles’ arms and
Athena presiding over the vote for the victor. The tondo scene depicts a bride
being led by a draped groom wearing a petasos, a sun hat with a broad floppy
brim, and carrying a spear. Perhaps this is the wedding of a warrior with his
bride, but it is not a mythological wedding. The iconography of abduction
scenes is similar, so that interpretation cannot be ruled out. The Tarquinia Attic
red-figure cup RC5291, ca. 500-450 BCE,77 depicts on the exterior Theseus
leaving Ariadne, watched by Hermes and Eros, and a kingly Menelaus, with
sword drawn, pursuing Helen at an altar. The tondo scene depicts a simply
draped man with a spear leading his bride. Some modern commentators have
labelled these two figures as Agamemnon and Briseis or Menelaos leading
Helen from Troy, but this is not a depiction of a king and there are no
mythological references or inscriptions to suggest such. Why would the painters
of these cups leave out references in these tondo scenes when they have taken
pains to identify the heroes on the exterior scenes? We see young couples, very
similar to the couple in the tondo scene of the Christchurch cup AR430,
embracing on the tondi of the fragmented New York cup 07.286.50 (figure 4)
and the Berlin Attic red-figure cup F2269, ca. 525-475 BCE.78 These young
men are depicted nearly nude with well-dressed young women. These scenes
have more in common with the the tondo scene on the Christchurch cup AR430
than they do with sex scenes involving hetairai.
These ‘wedding scenes’ are painted surprisingly on the tondi of drinking
cups; so one must assume that they were aimed specifically at a male-drinking
audience and perhaps more specifically at a groom. With the Christchurch cup
AR430, the wedding scene is juxtaposed against scenes of symposion (including
hetairai) on the exterior. Could this be a groom’s drinking cup specially painted
for his buck’s night? His drinking party is depicted on the outside of the cup
76
London, British Museum 1843.11-3.11 [E69], ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure cup
attributed to Brygos Painter (Klein); see ARV² [3] 369.2; BAPD [3] 203901.
77
Tarquinia, Museo Nazionale Tarquiniese RC5291, ca. 500-450 BCE; Attic red-figure
cup attributed to Foundry Painter (Beazley), later to Brygos Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3]
405.1, 1651; BAPD [3] 204395.
78
Berlin, Antikensammlung F2269, ca. 525-475 BCE; Attic red-figure cup (tondo)
attributed to Kiss Painter (Beazley); see ARV² [3] 177.1; Paralipomena [6] 339; BAPD [3]
201624.
44 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

with entertainment by hetairai and a boy pouring the wine and playing his lyre.
The tondo area on the inside of the cup becomes visible only once the dark red
unfiltered wine has been drunk and its dregs flicked out. It is not difficult to
imagine that the groom’s name was HIKETES and that when he had drunk his
first cup he would have been greeted with the vision of his wedding night—an
opportunity to initiate a round of good-natured teasing of the groom.
Ancient mend holes on the Christchurch cup AR430 attest that it was a
treasured possession. For the painter to identify the groom and then to depict the
bride naked would have been not only offensive to the groom but also a serious
insult to the bride’s family. This is the reason that the painter was at pains to
portray the bride as a parthenos. The status of the young lady on the
Christchurch cup AR430 is that of a parthenos, a virgin bride in her last hour of
maidenhood. But judging by the young couple’s intimacy and by the young
groom’s gesture towards the bed, this status would be short-lived.

Figure 1: Christchurch, Canterbury Museum AR430.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup (fragment). Italy, Orvieto.
Douris (Beazley); The Painter of London E55 (Guy).
(Photo: D. Shaw-Brown; Canterbury Museum, Christchurch).
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 45

Figure 2: Christchurch, Canterbury Museum AR430.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Exterior of Attic red-figure cup (fragment). Italy, Orvieto.
Douris (Beazley); The Painter of London E55 (Guy).
(Photo: D. Shaw-Brown; Canterbury Museum, Christchurch)

Figure 3:
London, Collection of J. C. Robinson XXXX0.5144 (now lost).
Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Etruria, Vulci.
Douris (Robertson). Drawing by author.
46 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 4: New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 07.286.50.

Ca. 525-475 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup (fragment). Arezzo, Italy.
The Kiss Painter (Beazley). Drawing by author.

Figure 5: Christchurch, Canterbury Museum AR430.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup (fragment). Italy, Orvieto.
Douris (Beazley); The Painter of London E55 (Guy). Drawing by author.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 47

Figure 6: Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 1970.233.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Full provenance unknown.
Douris (Beazley). Drawing by author.

Figure 7: Paris, Musée du Louvre N3348.

Ca. 475-425 BCE. Attic red-figure pyxis. Athens.
The Wedding Painter (Beazley). Drawing by author.
(This horizontal, but not the cylindrical, image repeats the double doors).
48 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 8: Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 03.802.

Ca. 450-400 BCE. Attic red-figure loutrophoros. Provenance unknown.
Unattributed. Drawing by author.

Figure 9: Rome, Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia XXXX0.4532.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Etruria, Vulci.
The Painter of Louvre G265 (Beazley). Drawing by author.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 49

Figure 10: London, British Museum E774.

Ca. 450-400 BCE. Attic red-figure pyxis. Athens.
The Eretria Painter (Furtwangler). Drawing by author.

Figure 11: New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 23.160.54.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Provenance unknown.
Douris (Marshall); The Oedipus Painter (Guy; Buitron-Oliver). Drawing by author.
50 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 25-51 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 12: Tarquinia, Museo Nazionale Tarquiniese XXXX0.3886.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Etruria, Tarquinia.
The Triptolemos Painter (Beazley). Drawing by author.

Figure 13: Paris, Musée du Louvre S3916.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Tondo of Attic red-figure cup. Provenance unknown.
Douris (Beazley); The Painter of London E55 (Guy). Drawing by author.
‘Porne or Parthenos: The Reputation of a Painted Lady’, C. P. Joyce 51

Figure 14: New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art SL1990.1.21.

Ca. 500-450 BCE. Attic red-figure neck-amphora. Provenance unknown.
The Copenhagen Painter (Guy). Drawing by author.
 FROM TOMB TO WOMB:
TIBULLUS 1.1 AND THE DISCOURSE OF
MASCULINITY IN POST-CIVIL WAR ROME

Konstantinos P. Nikoloutsos
Department of Modern and Classical Languages, Saint Joseph’s University
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19131, USA

Abstract. Tibullus 1.1 not only promotes and simultaneously defies elite definitions of virtus
but also forges a new ideological space where masculine and feminine attitudes blend into an
androgynous, “queer,” poetic voice. The construction of masculinity as a site of contradiction
and contestation can be in psychoanalytical terms an attempt by the poetic subject to alleviate
the psychic pain caused by the traumatic realization that holes exist in the Symbolic Order.

Introduction

Although gender has long been established as a major interpretive tool for the
study of Latin elegy, the construction of the poetic subject in Tibullus in relation
to the Roman protocols of masculinity has so far been left unexplored.1
Scholarly attempts to historicize male desire in late republican and early
Augustan Rome have focused on Catullus and his elegiac successors, Propertius
and Ovid, but have ignored, for no justifiable reason, Tibullus.2 This article
seeks to restore a much-neglected poet to visibility in contemporary scholarship
on gender and sexuality in Roman antiquity by examining the opening poem of
book 1. The article conducts a contextualized reading of the poem by building

1
I am grateful to the anonymous referees of Scholia and to the following readers for their
comments, suggestions, and criticism, which helped me improve this article significantly:
Anthony Corbeill, Judith Hallett, Micaela Janan, Alison Keith, Maria Marsilio, Paul Allen
Miller, and Marilyn Skinner. All mistakes remain with me alone.
2
Book-length studies of Roman elegy’s gender dynamics have all omitted Tibullus: see
E. Greene, The Erotics of Domination: Male Desire and the Mistress in Latin Love Poetry
(Baltimore 1998); M. Wyke, The Roman Mistress: Ancient and Modern Representations
(Oxford 2002) 1-191; R. Ancona and E. Greene Ancona (edd.), Gendered Dynamics in Latin
Love Poetry (Baltimore 2005). The only scholar who discusses Tibullus in detail is S. James,
Learned Girls and Male Persuasion: Gender and Reading in Roman Love Elegy (Berkeley
2003). Despite its astuteness, James’ exploration of the material bases of the docta puella
does not engage with the political overtones of Tibullus’ erotic discourse. P. A. Miller,
Subjecting Verses: Latin Love Elegy and the Emergence of the Real (Princeton 2004) 95-129
also devotes a chapter to Tibullus. Although rich and compelling, his account does not
examine issues of gender fully.

52
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 53

on Miller’s thesis on the rise of the genre.3 Using psychoanalytical theory,

Miller argues that the emergence of elegy is symptomatic of Rome’s
transformation from republic into empire and should be studied with this
historical context in mind. As he has put it in Lacanian terms, “the changes
taking place in the Roman Real that led to the collapse of the republic created a
crisis in the Symbolic that also led to the emergence of the subject position we
recognize as that of the erotic elegists.”4 Changes in the social, political and
moral spheres that took place during this transitional period constitute the forces
that give shape to subjectivity and its literary expression.5 These changes, and
most importantly the individuals who produced them, provide the cultural
images against which the elegiac subject positions himself in his search for
identity and a secure ideology.
Instead of revealing a coherent subject, however, elegy gives voice to a
narrator torn between different cultural signifiers: man-woman, master-slave,
ruler-subject, civis-privatus. This oscillation of the elegiac speaker between
categories of polar opposites, and his failure to assume a purely masculine
position, are signs of an ideological confusion that resulted from a major
sociopolitical crisis in the late first century BCE. As Wyke points out, the years
of the late republic and early principate are characterized by an increase in the
number of discourses that are concerned with issues of gender and sexuality in a
manner that manifests a deep anxiety about the vir.6 This happens because the

3
Miller [2].
4
Miller [2] 6.
5
S. D’Elia, “I presupposti sociologici dell’ esperienza elegiaca Properziana,” Colloquium
Propertianum 2 (1981) 74f. attributes the emergence of elegy to the reconfiguration of the
elite value system and the new conditions for gaining status in Augustan Rome, as well as to
the youth of the poets themselves. For an application of Lacanian theory to Latin lyric and
elegy, see M. Janan, “When the Lamp is Shattered”: Desire and Narrative in Catullus
(Carbondale 1994); The Politics of Desire: Propertius IV (Berkeley 2001); R. J. King,
Desiring Rome: Male Subjectivity and Reading Ovid’s Fasti (Columbus 2006) 4-6, 38f.
6
See Wyke [2] 41. I leave vir without translation throughout because the word “man”
fails to render the connotations and restrictions applied to the Latin term. Vir does not only
mean an adult male. Most importantly, it denotes a freeborn citizen in good standing and at
the top of the social hierarchy. See, e.g., F. Santoro L’Hoir, The Rhetoric of Gender Terms:
“Man,” “Woman,” and the Portrayal of Character in Latin Prose (Leiden 1992); J. Walters,
“Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought,” in
J. P. Hallett and M. B. Skinner (edd.), Roman Sexualities (Princeton 1997) 32; M. B. Skinner,
Sexuality in Greek and Roman Culture (Oxford 2005) 195; A. Corbeill, “Gender Studies,” in
A. Barchiesi (ed.), Oxford Handbook of Roman Studies (Oxford 2010) 220-24. On vir as a
sexual/gender identity see C. A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity
in Classical Antiquity (New York 1999) 160-72. Elsewhere translations throughout are my
own.
54 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

authors of these texts use sexual asymmetry as an analogy through which to

discuss other issues such as power struggle and class structure, which are of
great concern in a period characterized by continuous civil war and increasing
social unrest. As Skinner notes, the homology of sex and power realized in the
dominance-submission model of sexual relations in antiquity “permitted
Romans writing during the troubled first century BCE to express their
perceptions of social turmoil by ringing changes on the arresting theme of
gender anarchy, allegorizing political crisis as a jarring disruption of natural
gender roles.”7
Given the civil war climate of the final years of the republic, the model of
elite masculinity that prevailed in Rome was that associated with her great
generals.8 Although dominant, this model was not immune to challenge. The
employment of war as a tool for solving the political crisis proved to be futile. It
produced more war, and led to periods of tyranny followed by periods of
domestic turmoil. Furthermore, the means used in pursuit of personal glory and
power were often deemed immoral. For example, Sallust portrays Julius Caesar
as a man who constantly sought to fight new battles in order to show off his
military skills and gain renown. By contrast he refers to the younger Cato as an
example of a vir who criticized his peers for their wealth and who questioned
the popular belief that it was the martial proficiency of Rome’s leaders that
made her such a great empire. As opposed to Caesar, Cato (as Sallust describes
him) was concerned not with his public image but with the righteousness of his
actions.9
Tibullus 1.1 participates in this dialogue between different authors and
genres on the subject of masculinity in the second half of the first century BCE.
I shall argue that the poem not only promotes and at the same time defies elite
definitions of the vir but also forges a new ideological space in which masculine
and feminine attitudes blend into an androgynous voice. Although this

7
M. B. Skinner, “Ego Mulier: The Construction of Male Sexuality in Catullus,” Helios
20.2 (1993) 116.
8
On alternative ways of achieving elite masculine status see, e.g., Cic. Off. 1.79-81;
2.45f.
9
Sallust writes about Caesar: sibi magnum imperium, exercitum, bellum novum exoptabat
ubi virtus enitescere posset (“for himself he craved great authority, an army, and a new war
where his manliness could shine,” Cat. 54.4). About Cato he notes that esse quam videri
bonus malebat: ita, quo minus petebat gloriam, eo magis illum adsequebatur (“he preferred
to be than seem good: thus, the less he sought glory, the more it pursued him,” Cat. 54.6). On
perceptions of masculinity in the late republic, see M. McDonnell, “Roman Men and Greek
Virtue,” in R. M. Rosen and I. Sluiter (edd.), Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in
Classical Antiquity (Leiden 2003) 235-61; M. McDonnell, Roman Manliness: Virtus and the
Roman Republic (Cambridge 2006).
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 55

discursive fusion of “man” and “woman” in Latin love elegy has long been
observed and analyzed by feminist critics,10 the new proposition brought here to
the academic table is the use of “queer theory” as a tool for decoding the
Tibullan narrator’s anti-identitarianism, that is, the resistance to the social
mechanisms of regulating human desire. Queer theory’s deconstructionist
approach to gender, and the emphasis that it gives to challenging binary
distinctions between men and women, can enhance the findings of feminist
classical scholarship. For if feminist critics have successfully exposed the ways
in which elegiac ideologies of gender comply with, and simultaneously deviate
from, the Roman sexual protocols, queer theory can provide the framework for
further theorization of the genre’s alignment with and contestation of normative
categories of gender in Roman society.

Rejecting Militia

Tibullus opens his first collection of elegies with a poem that presents its
Roman reader with an unconventional model of elite masculinity. In his wishful
thinking, the speaker11 poses as a man who is more eager to live a peaceful life
with his puella in a small estate in the countryside and to perform manual labor
in the fields as if he were a slave than to fight battles in distant places and
become richer through plunder. Wealth (in terms of property and gold) and a
career in the army—i.e., traditional means of sociopolitical advancement for the
Roman male citizen—are rejected for the sake of a woman named Delia. Living
with her as a farmer is more desirable than being a soldier because it entails less
hardship and danger (Tib. 1.1.7-52). The speaker, however, does not advocate a
universal acceptance of the lifestyle of the rusticus that he dreams for himself.
While he chooses to serve his mistress as a ianitor, that is, a slave, it is
appropriate, as he admits, for other men like his patron Messalla to follow the
conventional path and to seek glory and empowerment through military career:

te bellare decet terra, Messalla, marique

ut domus hostiles praeferat exuvias:
me retinent vinctum formosae vincla puellae 55
et sedeo duras ianitor ante fores.

10
On the fluidity of gender roles in Roman elegy, see, e.g., B. K. Gold, “‘But Ariadne
was Never There in the First Place’: Finding the Female in Roman Poetry,” in
N. S. Rabinowitz and A. Richlin (edd.), Feminist Theory and the Classics (New York 1993)
75-101; Greene [2] esp. 1-36; Janan [5 (2001)] esp. 19-23, 164-67; Wyke [2] esp. 155-91.
11
Following D. F. Kennedy, The Arts of Love: Five Studies in the Discourse of Roman
Love Elegy (Cambridge 1993) 13, I use the conventional term “speaker” to refer to the
first-person male persona in Tib. 1.1.
56 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

non ego laudari curo, mea Delia; tecum

dum modo sim, quaeso segnis inersque vocer.
(Tib. 1.1.53-58)12
It is proper for you, Messalla, to fight by land and sea so that your house may
exhibit the spoils of enemies. The fetters of a beautiful girl keep me bound,
and I sit as a doorman before her hard door-leaves. I care not about glory, my
Delia. So long as I am with you, I desire to be called lethargic and inactive.

Whether “Messalla” stands for the actual historical person or for an ideal figure
of power, the reference to him shows that the poem is deeply anchored in its
contemporary reality. As Kennedy points out, the text provides “its own
context, a ‘reality’ notionally ‘outside’ it against which the speaker’s identity
can be constructed, his character delineated and his perspectives assessed.”13
Yet in all major studies of Tibullus 1.1 this context or “reality” has been left
unexplored or has not received adequate attention. For example, in his line-by-
line commentary of Tibullus 1, Lee-Stecum argues that the opening of poem 1.1
“inscrib[es] itself within an ethical discussion which not only provides the
context for the poem as a whole but opens tensions and contradictions which
allow the choices and formulations of the poet in lines 1-6 to be read in a variety
of ways.”14 However, in Lee-Stecum’s analysis, despite its astuteness, the
ethical discourse in which Tibullus 1.1 participates is not linked to the poem’s
larger sociocultural context. While Lee-Stecum is right in observing that the
ethical opposition between the life of the rusticus and that of the miles is
attested in Cato (Agr. Orig.1.1), Vergil (Ecl. 1, 9), and Horace (Sat. 1.1),15 these
literary parallels are not enough to explain why the condemnation of militia is a
recurrent theme in Tibullus’ first book of elegies (cf. Tib. 1.2.65-74, 1.3, 1.10).
Nor can they explain why, although Tibullus renounces militia, he uses military
terminology to describe the relationship that he desires to have with Delia.
To be sure, this aversion to war expressed in Tibullus 1.1 and elsewhere
in book 1, would not strike the Roman reader as odd. The collection was
published presumably in 27/26 BCE,16 a few years after the end of a long period

12
Citations from Tibullus are taken from J. P. Postgate (ed.), Tibulli Aliorumque
Carminum Libri Tres (Oxford 1915).
13
Kennedy [11] 15.
14
P. Lee-Stecum, Powerplay in Tibullus: Reading Elegies Book One (Cambridge
1998) 33.
15
Lee-Stecum [14] 30-34. See also M. C. J. Putnam “Virgil and Tibullus 1.1,” CPh 100
(2005) 123-41.
16
For arguments in favor of this date, see, e.g., P. Murgatroyd (ed.), Tibullus I:
A Commentary on the First Book of the Elegies of Albius Tibullus (Bristol 1991) 11f.;
R. O. A. M. Lyne, “Propertius and Tibullus: Early Exchanges,” CQ 48.2 (1998) 521f.;
R. Maltby (ed.), Tibullus, Elegies: Text, Introduction and Commentary (Cambridge 2002) 40.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 57

of civil war (49-31 BCE). In January of 29 BCE, Octavian ordered—for the

third time since Numa Pompilius’ reign (717-673 BCE)—the closing of the
twin doors of the temple of Janus that had been open for more than two
centuries. This extremely rare act symbolized the cessation of hostilities and the
establishment of peace and stability in the empire. In the summer of 27 BCE,
however, within fewer than six months of his adoption of the honorific title
Augustus and the official inauguration of the principate, Octavian departed on a
campaign against Gaul and Spain, and did not return until three years later.17
The new phase of Rome’s history began with no changes in her expansion
policy. Although Augustus promoted himself as a bringer of peace, he
continued to nourish the empire’s perennial obsession with the idea of war by
transferring its epicenter to the western provinces. Pax referred to a period of
internal order and security after civil war but did not preclude further foreign
conquests and military activity on the borders.
The expansion of the borders of the empire required that soldiers
followed Roman generals to distant places where they had to risk their lives on
the battlefield at all times. This is precisely the situation described in the
opening lines of Tibullus 1.1:18

Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro,

et teneat culti iugera multa soli,
quem labor adsiduus vicino terreat hoste,
Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent:
me mea paupertas vita traducat inerti, 5
dum meus adsiduo luceat igne focus.
iam mihi, iam possim contentus vivere parvo
nec semper longae deditus esse viae.
(Tib. 1.1.1-8)

P. E. Knox, “Milestones in the Career of Tibullus,” CQ 55.1 (2005) 204-16 offers a

reconsideration of the book’s publication date and places it in mid- to late 29 BCE. For a
response see K. P. Nikoloutsos, “The Boy as Metaphor: The Hermeneutics of Homoerotic
Desire in Tibullus 1.9,” Helios 38 (2011) 54, n. 2.
17
Augustus saw war and conquests as necessary preconditions for peace, as illustrated by
his comment on the closing of the temple of Janus, which took place cum per totum imperium
populi Romani terra marique esset parta victoriis pax (“when peace had been achieved
throughout the entire empire of the Roman people through victories by land and sea,”
RG 13).
18
This idea is further elaborated when Delia’s iron-hearted lover has left her in pursuit of
war and plunder in Cilicia (Tib. 1.2.65-74,). Later the speaker, after following Messalla on
campaign overseas, becomes seriously sick in a foreign land (which is given the Homeric
name Phaeacia) and fears that he will not live to follow his patron across the Aegean sea
(1.3.1-3).
58 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

Let another amass a treasure of yellow gold for himself and own many acres
of well-tilled land. Let endless work terrify him when the enemy is near and
the trumpets of the war drive him from repose when they are blown. Let my
modest means lead me along a quiet path of life while my hearth shines with
everlasting fire. Now, if only now, may I be able to live for myself, happy
with my little, and not be ever given to long marching.

In the opening lines the speaker presents himself as a man free from
materialistic desires and thus higher in the moral hierarchy than others19 who
see militia simply as a means for improving their financial (and hence social)
position. Instead of trying to gain honor and glory by placing themselves at the
service of the state, as dictated by the mos maiorum, these men embark on a
military career driven by greed. By exposing their base motives, Tibullus joins
other authors in a discussion on the corrosive effects of avarice on personal
morality. Balot notes: “Starting in the middle Republic, the discussion of
avarice was conditioned by Rome’s acquisition of a Mediterranean empire,
which made enormous reserves of wealth available to any Roman leaders
willing to fight for it . . . [This] influx of wealth harmed the state by destroying
Rome’s collective ideals in favor of a newly individualistic ethic.”20 As Sallust,
for example, writes about the interlocking system between wealth, status, and
power in Roman society, postquam divitiae honori esse coepere et eas gloria,
imperium, potentia sequebatur, hebescere virtus . . . coepit (“when wealth
began to be a mark of honor and with it came glory, military command, and
authority, virtus began to decline,” Cat. 12).
Distancing himself from such practices, the speaker in Tibullus 1.1 is
portrayed as a simple and hard-working farmer strictly devoted to the
cultivation of his land and to the worship of agricultural and domestic deities
(9-40). At first sight this self-representation seems in line with values such as
labor (toil), industria (activity), parsimonia (frugality), and pietas
(consciousness of duty),21 which are characteristic of the agrarian society that
Rome once used to be, and were later embedded in the mos maiorum. After his
victory at Actium in 31 BCE, Octavian undertook to restore the ancestral

19
Putnam [15] 125 examines the ironies of Tib. 1.1 and argues that the unnamed alius of
line 1 refers not only to Messalla but also to the poet himself, for in this line Tibullus
renounces practices and beliefs of the Augustan regime that he accepted in the past through
his relationship with an influential patron.
20
R. K. Balot, Greed and Injustice in Classical Athens (Princeton 2001) 15.
21
Sallust (Cat. 8-10) and Livy (praef. 8-12) argue that the Roman empire was founded
upon these (and other) virtues that the Roman forefathers displayed on the battlefield.
However, whereas war forges these virtues, it can also corrode them. Sallust, for example,
mentions Sulla, who allowed the soldiers that he led to Asia to live in luxury and excessive
freedom to ensure that they would remain loyal to him (Cat. 11.7). Cf. Janan [5 (2001)] 59f.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 59

customs through an ambitious legislative and religious program (cf. RG 8,

19-21). Tibullus 1.1 echoes, albeit indirectly, this revival of Roman institutions.
For example, the spicea corona (“wreath made of ears of corn,” 1.1.15f.) that
the speaker wishes to hang before the doors of the temple of Ceres is, as Cairns
notes,22 the main badge of the office of the Fratres Arvales, an exclusive body
of priests that was believed to have been instituted by Romulus but that had
gone into decline in the years of the late republic. To increase his authority,
Octavian, the new Romulus, revived this brotherhood, most likely in 29/28
BCE, and was even portrayed in Roman sculpture as an Arval priest wearing the
spicea corona.23 Ceres/Demeter, in whose mysteries Octavian had been initiated
while he was in Athens (cf. Suet. Aug. 93; Dio Cass. 51.4.1), became a “symbol
of the Augustan ideology of peace and prosperity won through imperial
victory.”24 Long before Octavian undertook the restoration of the temples of
Ceres, Liber, and Libera, destroyed by a fire in 31 BCE (cf. Dio Cass. 50.10.13;
Tac. Ann. 2.49), Ceres was used in the numismatic propaganda of the second
triumvirate in 43-42 BCE especially on coins with the face of Octavian on the
obverse. By appropriating the image of Ceres, goddess of farming and hence of
the plebeian class, the triumvirs were trying to appeal to Rome’s common
citizens for political support.25
Read with this sociohistorical context in mind, the first forty lines of
Tibullus 1.1 give the impression that the speaker fashions himself as a paradigm
of the piety and moral regeneration advocated by the princeps. However, a look
at the rest of the poem undermines this assumption. The motive of the speaker
for rejecting militia is as self-serving as is the motive of those men who join the
army in pursuit of plunder. As he admits, life in the countryside is desirable
because it provides him with the security and comfort that a soldier lacks
(1.1.43-52). As a farmer, he may have to do manual work and till the fields, but
at least he can take a rest to enjoy the company of his mistress or to protect
himself from harsh weather conditions. Since he is wealthy enough to own an
estate,26 and can afford to reject the riches of his ancestors, his prosperity does

22
F. Cairns, “Tibullus, Messalla, and the Spica: I 1.16; I 5.28; I 10.22, 67; II 1.4; II 5.84,”
Emerita 64.2 (1999) 224-230.
23
A bust of Augustus, as an Arval, wearing the corona spicea is at the Vatican Museum
(Sala dei Busti n. 274). Cf. D. Boschung, Die Bildnisse des Augustus (Berlin 1993) 182f.,
plate 113; Cairns [22] 226. I thank John Pollini for drawing my attention to this image of
Augustus.
24
J. Ginsburg, Representing Agrippina: Constructions of Female Power in the Early
Roman Empire (Oxford 2006) 101.
25
B. Stanley Spaeth, The Roman Goddess Ceres (Austin 1996) 99-102.
26
The speaker can afford to reject money and to choose to live a life of otium in the
country because, as an elite Roman, he has the resources for this alternative lifestyle.
60 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

not depend on his performance in the fields, as opposed to the soldier. In fact, as
long as he is with his mistress, he is happy to do nothing and be called segnis
(“lazy”) and iners (“inactive,” 1.1.58).
By refusing to perform the most important duty for a citizen, that is, to
fight for the state, in favor of inertia and comfort, the Tibullan speaker
constructs for himself a civic and national identity that excludes a concept that
is key to Roman masculinity: virtus, that is, the ability to exercise dominion
over others that is best displayed on the battlefield. Derived from vir,27 virtus is
“both etymologically and conceptually the pre-eminent embodiment of
manliness.”28 Virtus, however, does not have only military connotations. It is
also ethically vested.29 Real virtus is achieved when the personal submits to the
communal. Its inscription (along with the other three founding values of the
Roman state, clementia, iustitia, and pietas) on the golden shield, known as the
clupeus virtutis, which Octavian received from the Senate in January of 27 BCE
when he was named Augustus, illustrates its full meaning: individual distinction
placed at the service of the state.30
While the princeps is recognized, on the basis on this inscription, as the
epitome of virtus, Tibullus presents his readers with an escapist fantasy of a life
in which the constant reaffirmation of manliness on the battlefield is no longer
an obligation. To the male reader of the poem—an elite man who is identified
with Rome’s military ideal, as the address to Messalla suggests—this wishful
thinking is completely heretical since it defies, albeit indirectly, the traditional
equation between combativeness and Romanness. In moralizing discourses
from the late republican and early imperial era, virtus is viewed as a quality that

The estate that he imagines that he owns may not be grand, but it is certainly prosperous.
Although he has to perform manual labor, life with Delia in this piece of land is generally
comfortable and free from financial worries. Illustrious guests, such as Messalla, can also be
entertained satisfactorily in this estate (Tib. 1.5.21-34). Cf. Lyne [16] 532f.;
K. P. Nikoloutsos, “Beyond Sex: The Poetics and Politics of Pederasty in Tibullus 1.4,”
Phoenix 61 (2007) 73. On the contradictions of Latin elegy’s economic discourse see
S. James, “The Economics of Roman Elegy: Voluntary Poverty, the Recusatio, and the
Greedy Girl,” AJPh 122 (2001) 223-253; James [2].
27
On the derivation of virtus from vir, see Cic. Tusc. 2.43. On martial virtus see
McDonnell [9 (2003)] 238-40; McDonnell [9 (2006)] esp. 12-71.
28
Williams [6] 146.
29
On ethical virtus see McDonnell [9 (2003)] 247-51; McDonnell [9 (2006)] 110-28.
30
See, e.g., K. Galinsky, Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction (Princeton
1996) 84.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 61

the Romans possess by birthright, and in a higher degree than any other nations.
Pre-eminence in virtus is what made Rome a supreme power.31
Virtus was a value with which the Romans defined not only their relation
to other nations but also relations of power within their own society. Public
office, for example, was a way to recognize one’s virtus. In addition to wealth
that is also rejected in Tibullus 1.1, outstanding performance on the battlefield
could help a man gain entry into the elite. Military achievements were so
important for the attainment of high status that the Roman nobility was believed
to have originated from men who excelled in martial prowess (cf. nobilitas ex
virtute coepit, “nobility has its origins in manliness,” Sall. Iug. 85.17).
To preserve this order, “the descendants of nobles had both the obligation and
the privileged opportunity to reproduce the virtus of their ancestors.”32 Roman
aristocrats had to hold themselves up to high behavioral standards set by their
forefathers and display an amount of masculinity equal to their superior social
standing.
The speaker’s wishful thinking in Tibullus 1.1 violates these longstanding
beliefs and practices of the Roman elite. As he emphatically states, he does not
ask for the wealth or the rich harvests of his ancestors—an implicit avoidance of
the manual labor needed to make the land produce to its utmost capacity
(1.1.41-48).33 A small crop is enough. This is a very clever choice since it
entails less work for him in the fields, less exposure to harsh weather
31
See C. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome (Cambridge 1993) 20-22;
Williams [6] 132-37, 319 n. 36. Claims about Rome’s hegemony over other nations were
often based on the superior masculinity of her citizens. See, for example, Nepos, who begins
his life of Hannibal with the following statement: si verum est, quod nemo dubitat, ut populus
Romanus omnes gentes virtute superarit (“if this is true, which no one doubts, that the Roman
people are superior than other nations in manliness”, Han. 1.1). The elder Pliny, too, writes
that gentium in toto orbe praestantissima una omnium virtute haud dubie Romana exstitit
(“of all people in the entire world, the Roman nation undoubtedly stands out as the one most
outstanding in manliness,” HN 7.130). Cicero also notes: Ac nimirum—dicendum est enim
quod sentio—rei militaris virtus praestat ceteris omnibus. Haec nomen populo Romano, haec
huic urbi aeternam gloriam peperit, haec orbem terrarum parere huic imperio coegit (“But
without doubt—for I must say what I feel—military prowess is superior to all other qualities.
This won the Roman people the fame, this won this city its everlasting glory, this forced the
world to yield to this power,” Mur. 22).
32
A. Wallace-Hadrill, “Mutatas Formas: The Augustan Transformation of Roman
Knowledge,” in K. Galinsky (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus
(Cambridge 2006) 67.
33
The fertility of the land prompts the farmer to be more active, as Lucilius suggests
fundi delectat virtus te, vilicus Paulo / strenuior si evaserit (“the virtus of the farm pleases
you, if the overseer turns out to be a bit more energetic,” frr. 558f., in W. Krenkel (ed.),
Lucilius: Satiren 1-2 [Leiden 1970]). On the use of virtus as a designation of the excellence
and fertility of the land, see McDonnell [9 (2003)] 242; McDonnell [9 (2006)] 74f.
62 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

conditions, as he explicitly admits, and more free time with his mistress. The
Tibullan narrator poses as a man who rejects material definitions of success in
favor of simple things in life. However, this pose of simplicity is self-
damaging.34 For, as he declares, as long as he is with Delia, he will pray to be
called segnis and iners (1.1.58). To an elite Roman male this longing for social
stigma would be inconceivable not only because it denotes a man who lacks
self-respect and cares very little about his public image but also because to be
segnis and iners is, according to the Roman codes of masculine conduct,
tantamount to being mollis (“soft,” “passive,” “effeminate”).35

Holes in the Symbolic

Although the speaker rejects money and war in favor of a vita otiosa with his
mistress, he nonetheless uses military terminology to describe this kind of life at
the poem’s close:

nunc levis est tractanda venus, dum frangere postes

non pudet et rixas inseruisse iuvat.
hic ego dux milesque bonus: vos, signa tubaeque, 75
ite procul, cupidis vulnera ferte viris
ferte et opes: ego composito securus acervo
dites despiciam despiciamque famem.
(Tib. 1.1.73-78)
Tender love must now be pursued, while it is no shame to break down a door
and a joy to have joined a quarrel. Here I am a good general and soldier: you,
ensigns and trumpets, go away; to greedy men bring wounds, bring wealth as
well. I, safe in my garnered heap, will despise riches and I will despise hunger.

As the closing lines of the poem illustrate, militia is renounced only to be

reclaimed, albeit metaphorically, as a central feature of the speaker’s ideal. The
poet-lover, who previously rejected military service as a practice incompatible
with his desired lifestyle, now imagines himself as both officer and common
soldier, both commander and simple executor of orders, both autonomous and
subordinate, both active and passive. In other words, here the poet-lover adopts
34
See E. W. Leach, “Sacral-Idyllic Landscape Painting and the Poems of Tibullus’ First
Book,” Latomus 39 (1980) 60f.
35
See James [2] 230 n. 21; Nikoloutsos [26] 58. K. S. Myers, “The Poet and the
Procuress: The Lena in Latin Love Poetry,” JRS 86 (1996) 11 argues that the enervation of
the elegiac poet-lover, indicated by terms such as iners, languidus (“weak”), and inermis
(“defenseless”), is a trope meant to emphasize his suitability for writing elegy, a genre
traditionally described as mollis, tenuis (“delicate”), or tener (“tender”). On the poetic
connotations of segnis and iners in Tib. 1.1, see also Putnam [15] 125-27. On the mollitia of
the Tibullan narrator in the first three poems of book 1, see Nikoloutsos [26] 58-61.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 63

the ideology that he seeks to undermine, blurring the lines between inclusion
and exclusion. Miller has explained such incongruities in the Tibullan text as
“symptoms that point to the traumatic interruption of the ‘Real’ into the ordered
realm of language and the Symbolic.”36 This is a compelling yet obscure
reading, which I wish to elucidate and elaborate further by using Lacan’s theory
about the unconscious, language, and subjectivity. In so doing my aim is to
provide an analysis not of Tibullus’ psyche, but rather of the texture of his
discourse.
For Lacan the unconscious is not chaotic, a mere site of instinct and
desire, as Freud maintained. For Lacan, the unconscious is structured, like
language, and consists of signifying material.37 It is a meaning-creation process
that is beyond our control. It is the language that speaks through us rather than
the language that we speak. In this respect the unconscious is the discourse of
“the Other.” The Other is a shorthand for the Symbolic Order, the cultural
practices and beliefs of a given society that are mediated through language, for
language precedes us. We are born into language, the language that others use to
express their desires and we in turn are obliged to use in order to express our
own desires. For Lacan the subject is not autonomous or unified, but split and
ideologically dependent. We do not exist prior to social structures; we are
constituted in and through them. These structures operate transindividually,
through practices and institutions, and produce subjectivities independently of
any individual’s agency or volition. We cannot therefore escape the Other,
although the Other always escapes us.38 We are trapped into what Lacan calls a
circuit of discourse:

It is the discourse of the circuit in which I am integrated. I am one of its links.

It is the discourse of my father, for instance, in so far as my father made
mistakes, which I am condemned to reproduce . . . I am condemned to
reproduce them because I am obliged to pick up again the discourse he
bequeathed to me, not simply because I am his son, but because one can’t stop
the chain of discourse, and it is precisely my duty to transmit it in its aberrant
form to someone else.39

36
Miller [2] 95f.
37
As Janan [5 (2001)] 169 n. 1 astutely puts it, the subject is “a site through which social,
cultural, institutional, and unconscious forces move. The model is the grammatical subject,
governed from outside itself by rules of grammar and syntax making up a linguistic
mixture—rules that grant the ‘I’ its meaning.”
38
These ideas are formulated and reformulated by Lacan in several of his works; see, e.g.,
J. Lacan (tr. A. Sheridan), Écrits: A Selection (New York 1977); The Four Fundamental
Concepts of Psychoanalysis (New York 1981); (tr. B. Fink et al.) Écrits: The First Complete
Edition in English (New York 2006).
39
Quoted in S. Homer, Jacques Lacan (New York 2005) 44.
64 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

For Lacan identity formation is contingent on the reproduction of the paternal

law, a set of societal rules according to which our desire and communication are
organized. Desire is shaped in accordance with pre-existing words and images,
which Lacan termed “master signifiers.”40 “Master signifiers” include the
cultural icons and discourses that together constitute a dominant ideology and
play a central role in the way individual subjects define themselves as well as
their relation to others.41
Lacan’s theories on identity formation explain sufficiently why in
Tibullus 1.1.75 the speaker embraces the hegemonic model of masculinity
(most illustriously represented by Messalla)42 and casts himself as a warrior in
the erotic field. Although the number of Roman elite men, especially those of
senatorial origins, who sought to hold military office before they became
involved in politics had declined significantly by the beginning of the first
century BCE and the citizen militia had been transformed into a professional
army,43 dux and miles were not empty signifiers at Tibullus’ time.44 To the
contrary, the army and its leaders played a crucial role in politics, especially
after the collapse of the first triumvirate when civil war reached its culmination
and relations of power in Rome’s political scene were determined through a
series of battles: Pharsalus, Thapsus, Munda, Philippi, Actium, just to name a
40
In the language of psychoanalysis, these words and images are also referred to as
“primal” or “original fantasies” precisely because they provide the origins of human
subjectivity, on which see J. Laplanche and J.-B. Pontalis, “Fantasy and the Origins of
Sexuality,” International Journal of Psycho-Analysis 49 (1968) 1-18.
41
As Kennedy [11] 36 responds to attempts to construct from Latin elegiac texts an extra-
textual individual with a certain, monolithic ideology, “personality is not an essence which
pre-exists experience, but is actively being constructed and re-constructed within the
discourses in which people participate.”
42
On Messalla as a representative of the paternal law, see Miller [2] 117-28.
43
As the example of Julius Caesar illustrates, in the first century BCE young aristocrats
did not have to do a total of ten campaigns before they could enter the cursus honorum.
Some, of course, still did. Sulla and Pompey, for example, had officers from senatorial and
equestrian families in their armies. However, the long period of military service was
generally seen as an obstacle to one’s aspired political career. On the Roman army in the
middle and late republic, see J. B. McCall, The Cavalry of the Roman Republic (New York
2002); D. Potter, “The Roman Army and Navy,” in H. J. Flower (ed.), The Cambridge
Companion to the Roman Army (Cambridge 2004) 83-85; McDonnell [9 (2006)], 242-47; P.
Cagniart, “The Late Republican Army (146-30 BC),” in R. Erdkamp (ed.), A Companion to
the Roman Army (Malden 2007) 80-95; N. Rosenstein, “Military Command, Political Power,
and the Republican Elite,” in Erdkamp [above, this note] 143-45.
44
It is noteworthy that the characterization dux bonus that Tibullus adopts for himself is
applied to Augustus in Hor. Carm. 4.5.5, 37, where the poet begs the princeps to return to
Rome from war. Cf. Lyne [16] 533 n. 48. On the apo koinou use of bonus see Murgatroyd
[16] 69.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 65

few. Within this historical context, the role of dux and miles as symbols of
virtus and its concomitants (leadership, bravery, strength, endurance, discipline,
loyalty, and above all protection of the national interest) was reinforced.
Although the poet-lover inscribes his fantasy within Rome’s patriarchal
discourse (Tib. 75), he contests the empire’s militarist ideology (76-78). Dux
and miles are there rejected as role models not only because of the hardship and
suffering entailed in fighting battles and prolonged campaigning but also
because of the mercenary nature of military service. Military service is no
longer seen as an honor, duty, or responsibility; it has become an opportunity
for profit.45
Tibullus closes poem 1.1 by problematizing the Symbolic Order and by
exposing the Other’s lack of ideological integrity. Dux and miles are
deconstructed, demystified, and depicted as two weak links in the signifying
chain called vir.46 Lacan holds that the recognition that the Other is deficient
and offers an illusion of wholeness is registered as a trauma by the subject.
Fantasy undertakes to heal this trauma and alleviate the psychic pain through
displacement of the wounding images and resignification.47 Trauma causes a
reorientation of subjectivity and institutes a process of repetition-with-
difference, as illustrated by the narrator’s self-construction as both dux and
miles but in a different field, the domus—what is known in elegiac terms as
militia amoris (“the warfare of lovemaking”).

45
For the general soldier, military service was always an opportunity for profit, especially
before the establishment of a paid army, when rewards depended solely on looting. Sallust
attributes the same motive to aristocratic men who joined the Roman army, as ea tempestate
in exercitu nostro fuere complures novi atque nobiles, quibus divitiae bono honestoque
potiores erant (“at that time there were several in our army, self-made and noble, to whom
wealth was more precious than virtue and honor,” Iug. 8.1). Catullus attacks Caesar and
Mamurra for waging wars in order to feed their appetite for wealth (29). As Cagniart [43] 80
points out, the average legionary in the first century BCE was “a man who had failed in all
other walks of life and who had joined the military as the last resort . . . a man who had found
a new identity in a non-civilian life, in the society of the legions.” In joining the army,
soldiers usually sought, as M. Le Glay, J.-L. Voisin, et al., A History of Rome (Oxford 2001)
114 note, “pay, booty, distributions of gifts at the times of triumphs, and plots of land when
colonial allocations were being made.”
46
After all, during the years of the civil strife, the boundaries between dux and miles were
blurred and power dynamics between the two easily shifted. In the many battles that took
place both in and outside the Italian peninsula, upper and middle cadre officers (legates,
tribunes, prefects, and centurions), although military commanders themselves, fought like
common soldiers under the orders of quarreling leaders. On the interdependence between
army and general in the middle and late republic, see McDonnell [9 (2006)] 59-71;
K. de Blois, “Army and General in the Late Roman Republic,” in Erdkamp [43] 164-79.
47
Cf. Homer [39] 113.
66 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

Tibullus’ attitude to gender cannot be divorced from his Roman heritage.

Dux and miles are recognized as key images in the discursive production of
male identity but are emptied of moral content and cast as “holes” in the
Symbolic Order. This deconstructive representational strategy can be interpreted
as a defense mechanism against the trauma of history and against the painful
realization that in late-first century BCE Rome serving in the army is no longer
an act of patriotism and loyalty to the state. The profiteering mentality that
characterizes the dux and miles48 makes the speaker lose faith in this model of
virtus and desire an alternative, more suitable lifestyle. The speaker refuses to
serve as a soldier and safeguards himself against the possibility of dying
abroad.49 Instead of ending up a lifeless corpse buried in foreign soil, he prefers
to have a more productive relationship with his own native land and
aestheticizes the gruesome experience of war by imagining himself in the
company of a formosa puella (“beautiful girl,” Tib. 1.1.55).
The rejection of rewarding, yet potentially deadly, military action
overseas in favor of a quiet life with the mistress in the Italian countryside could
be read metaphorically as a desire to escape from the tomb and return to the
womb, to use Freudian terminology. In his essay “The Uncanny,” originally
published in 1919, Freud defines the term—in German unheimlich, the opposite
of heimlich, meaning “homey,” “domestic,” “not strange”—as “that class of the
frightening which leads back to what is known of old and long familiar.”50
Freud provides as an example for his concept of the uncanny the fear of
personal annihilation and erasure through premature death, that is, to dream
one’s self in the grave, either as a collection of severed body parts or as a whole
body buried alive. Freud maintains that this fear is a projection of another
oneiric image, which replaces dread and horror with lustful pleasure: the return
to intrauterine status.51 Anxiety about identity destruction allegorized in this
fantasy through the dismembering and extinction of the human body is
transformed into a comforting feeling of oneness and infinite connectedness
with our first “home,” the womb and the female body in general.52

48
Cf. Tib. 1.10.7f.: divitis hoc vitium est auri, nec bella fuerunt / faginus astabat cum
scyphus ante dapes (“this is the vice of rich gold; nor was there war when the beechen cup
stood besides the meal”).
49
On the fear of dying away from home, see also Tib. 1.3. For more Greek and Roman
parallels see K. F. Smith, The Elegies of Albius Tibullus (New York 1913) 234. This fear
haunts the reception of Tibullus’ image in Ov. Am. 3.9.
50
S. Freud, “The ‘Uncanny’,” in J. Strachey et al. (edd. and trr.), The Standard Edition of
the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud 17 (London 1968) 220.
51
Freud [50] 244.
52
When the speaker imagines his death in “Phaeacia” while on campaign with Messalla,
he immediately recalls his mother and the tenderness with which she would take care of his
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 67

The Tibullan dream text reflects and at the same time seeks to deflect war
trauma, displacing the uncanniness of military service onto to the canniness of a
beautiful woman and a peaceful life with her in the country. The trauma of war
is the shocking, devastating confrontation with death and violence.53 In
Freudian terms, fighting and carnage are the very opposite of the heimlich,
“what is beautiful, attractive, and sublime.”54 The speaker seeks to repress the
memories of war, to banish them from consciousness—albeit temporarily, as
they reappear later in book 1—with a dream of an ordinary life in a rural
landscape. Indulging in this type of fantasy is a mental process of healing and
self-empowerment, as it fosters a sense of sufficiency and stability, as opposed
to the errant and insecure life of the soldier; at the same time, however, this
fantasy makes the narrator look completely powerless, since he freely submits
to a woman. Delia is cast as both a tenera puella (“soft girl”) and a dura domina
(“hard mistress”)55 in this dream, a symbol of both the canny and the uncanny,
both womb and tomb. Given the changes in the public sphere in post-civil war
Rome, the narrator’s desire to submit to a woman has political overtones, and
this is what I shall now discuss.

Queer Tibullus

After his victory at Actium, Augustus established his regime and undertook to
restore the res publica. This process involved the restoration of the ancient, and
therefore better, mores through a series of laws.56 Augustus’ reforms, however,
offered the Roman people nothing but an illusion of a virtuous past. In reality,
as Miller points out, they “laid the ideological groundwork for consolidating
what was to be the most sweeping transformation of the Roman state since the
expulsion of the Etruscan kings.”57 The subjugation of the Senate to the
authority of one man, in a way analogous to that of a client to a patron or of a

dead body: abstineas, Mors atra, precor: non hic mihi mater / quae legat in maestos ossa
perusta sinus (“I beg you to keep away, black Death: I have no mother here to pick up my
charred bones in her mourning breast,” Tib. 1.3.5f.).
53
As the speaker notes in Tib. 1.10.11-14: nunc ad bella trahor, et iam quis forsitan
hostis / haesura in nostro tela gerit latere (“now I am dragged to wars, and perhaps some
enemy already carries the spear that is about to be fixed on my side”).
54
Freud [50] 219.
55
On Delia’s oscillation between teneritas and duritia, see Nikoloutsos [26] 60f.
56
Morality had traditionally been thought to be a fundamental value of the Roman state.
Cf. moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque (“the Roman state stands on ancient mores and
men,” Ennius in Cic. Rep. 5.1).
57
Miller [2] 20.
68 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

slave to a master, posed a serious threat for all members of the aristocracy,
including poets like Tibullus.
Fashioning himself as a custodian of ancestral customs, Augustus passed
a law known as lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus, with which he forced men
from the senatorial and equestrian orders to marry women of their own station
and beget children. Although Augustus did not pass this law until 18/17 BCE, it
is very possible that he declared his intention to place the institutions of
marriage and family at the core of his moral reform program as early as
28/27 BCE.58 Legislation against celibacy was attributed to Romulus.59 As the
new founder of Rome, Augustus sought to stimulate the birthrate after a series
of deadly civil wars (and thus to secure the number of administrators and
soldiers needed by the state as well as to regulate inheritance rights) by a law
that, on the one hand, punished the unmarried and rewarded those who
procreated and, on the other hand, prescribed who could marry whom.
Marriages between men of high rank and women from lower classes were
prohibited. Senators, for example, could not marry ex-slaves. Freeborn men as
well as freedmen were forbidden to marry women who carried the stigma of

58
G. Williams, “Poetry in the Moral Climate of Augustan Rome,” JRS 52 (1962) 28f.;
Tradition and Originality in Roman Poetry (Oxford 1968) 531-35; “Did Maecenas Fall from
Favor? Augustan Literary Patronage,” in K. Raaflaub and M. Toher (edd.), Between Republic
and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and his Principate (Berkeley 1990) 267 n. 19
advanced the argument (based on Prop. 2.7) that in 28/27 BCE Augustus attempted to pass,
but because of strong public reaction he retracted, his proposed marriage law. The argument
has been pursued further by F. Cairns, “Propertius on Augustus’ Marriage Law (II, 7)” GB 8
(1978) 185-204; K. Galinsky, “Augustus’ Legislation on Morals and Marriage,” Philologus
125 (1981) 126-44; Galinksy [30] 131; James [2] 229-31; Skinner [6] 204. On the other hand,
E. Badian, “A Phantom Marriage Law,” Philologus 129 (1985) 82-98, following
L. F. Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation concerning Marriage, Procreation, Love Affairs and
Adultery,” ANRW 2.13 (1980) 278-339, contends that the abolition by Augustus of a law that
he passed himself would not have escaped the notice of historians, and that Propertius 2.7
refers to the withdrawal of a Triumviral measure imposed upon unmarried men; unlike
Augustus’ later marriage law, this edict was not concerned with moral issues, but was
introduced for the purpose of raising funds for the ongoing civil wars. Badian’s thesis has
been accepted by Edwards [31] 41 n. 26; D. Konstan, Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient
Novel and Related Genres (Princeton 1994) 152; M. R. Gale, “Propertius 2.7: Militia Amoris
and the Ironies of Elegy,” JRS 87 (1997) 89f.; Miller [2] 143. However, even if we accept
Badian’s thesis, the fact that Augustus passed a law in 18 BCE by which he sought to extend
his control over private life does not mean that he could not have announced his intention to
do so at the very beginning of his reign. On this argument see Galinsky [30] 131; Miller [2]
143-45. For a more detailed discussion of modern scholarship on Augustus’ proposed
marriage law, see Nikoloutsos [16] 57 n. 41.
59
C.f. A. Wallace-Hadrill, “Family and Inheritance in the Augustan Marriage Laws,”
PCPhS 207 (1981) 60, 77 n.14.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 69

infamia such as prostitutes, procuresses, adulteresses, and actresses.60 In theory

the law promoted marriage; in reality it aimed to control and homogenize
private life61 and to reduce mobility among the classes.
Within this climate of moral revival and ideological redefinition in the
early years of the principate, Tibullus 1 marks an important point of departure.62
The collection opens with an elegy in which the poet-lover expresses a self-
abasing passion for Delia, a woman who is allocated such qualities that she
cannot be classified on the narratological level as a marriageable virgo or a
chaste matrona. In simple words, she can be neither a prospective nor an
existing wife. In poem 1.1—as well as in the other four elegies (1.2, 1.3, 1.5,
1.6) that make up the so called Delia cycle—the relationship between lover and
beloved is constructed in terms of power, the main structuring element in
Roman politics and society. The speaker is portrayed not only as a submissive
man enslaved to his desire for a woman who is promiscuous63 but also of
uncertain social status.64 By contrast she is depicted as a hard-hearted and
dominant mistress who has the ability to victimize the narrator65 and subjects
him to the torments of erotic betrayal.

60
Cf., e.g., S. Treggiari, Roman Marriage: Iusti Coniuges From the Time of Cicero to the
Time of Ulpian (Oxford 1991) 60-80; Edwards [31] 41f.
61
On the unifying ethos that Augustus attempted to impose on Roman society from the
position of the pater patriae, see Galinsky [30] 30, 61-63.
62
The relation to Augustus is not always oppositional, but rather complex. In Tib. 1.1 the
Tibullan narrator casts himself as a privatus (i.e., a private individual, a man who holds
neither military nor political office), a role with which the princeps had been identified, albeit
ambiguously, since he took his first steps into politics. Augustus found ways to bypass the
strictures of, and to intervene decisively in, public life, promoting himself as a man who was
always placed at the service of the state. Cf. K. Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of
Augustus: Inventing Private Life (Oxford 2005) 22-27. By contrast Tibullus and the rest of
the elegists, although they assume a transgressive persona in their work, observe (for their
own political reasons) the line between civis and privatus. This, of course, does not mean that
Latin elegy is a genre in which the private and the public do not intersect.
63
On Delia’s promiscuity see Tib. 1.2.63-66; 1.6.
64
The social status of the elegiac mistress is never specified in the genre. As far as Delia
is concerned, scholars do not agree if she was an adulterous married woman
(Williams [58 (1968)] 535-38), a courtesan (Murgatroyd [16] 7-9), or a freedwoman (Maltby
[16] 44f.). As Wyke [2] 30 explains about the puella, “[h]er social status is not clearly
defined because the dominating perspective is that of the male narrator. What matters is his
social and political position as an elite male citizen who, in having a mistress (however
different she may be), refuses to be a maritus or the father of milites.” On the puella as a
meretrix see James [2]; James [26].
65
The lack of symmetry in the poet’s relationship with Delia is illustrated by the fact that,
before she is even introduced by her proper name (Tib. 1.1.57), she is referred to as domina
70 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 52-71 ISSN 1018-9017

Love for Delia, an undomesticated woman who defies the constraints of

marriage and motherhood, leads the narrator to dissociate himself from cultural
practices, beliefs, and attitudes traditionally deemed to be both masculine and
Roman. Instead of affirming gender protocols and aiming at reproduction, the
affair with Delia is imagined in ways that promote male servitude and
castration. The Tibullan narrator becomes the advocate of a marginal,
non-phallic masculinity, thereby inviting the characterization “queer.” In
modern critical discourse, “queer” is used less as a label for a particular sexual
identity than as a designation of a subject position that is in sharp contrast to
normative gender roles and codes of conduct.66 As queer theorist Dean explains,
for example, “queer” stands “in opposition to the forces of normalization that
regulate social conformity.”67 Trying to understand the deviance of the Tibullan
narrator in terms of queer theory can open new hermeneutic windows onto the
ways in which gender is constructed in Roman elegy. Feminist critics have
demonstrated the construction of gender in the genre as a set of actions,
utterances, and relations constantly shifting between masculine and feminine
positions. Queer theory provides the framework for analyzing this overlap of
conflicting gender roles not in terms of the binary opposition “male versus
female,” as has been the case in classical scholarship so far, but (in keeping with
Foucault and Lacan) under the rubric of dominant fiction, that is, vis-à-vis the
discursive mechanisms “by which a society tries to institute itself [as a totality]
on the basis of closure, of the fixation of meaning, of the non-recognition of the
infinite play of differences.”68
In this respect, the queerness of the Tibullan narrator is symptomatic,
I suggest, of a crisis of faith in dominant mythologies in the first years of the
principate resulting from the historical trauma of the civil war and the sweeping
transformation of Roman society. As feminist theorist Silverman explains about
films produced right after the end of World War II, historical trauma “brings . . .
male subjects into such an intimate relation with lack that they are . . . unable to
sustain an imaginary relation with the phallus, and so withdraw their belief from
the dominant fiction.”69 Tibullus 1.1 attests to this disbelief in the dominant
fiction of war and to the horror of military life, which leaves the poetic subject

(1.1.46). On the Tibullan narrator’s emotional captivity by and enslavement to Delia, see
Tib.1.1.55f.
66
See also Nikoloutsos [16] 47-50 for my discussion of queer theory and its application
to Tib. 1.9.
67
T. Dean, “Lacan and Queer Theory,” in J.-M. Rabaté (ed.), The Cambridge Companion
to Lacan (Cambridge 2003) 240.
68
K. Silverman, Male Subjectivity at the Margins (New York 1992) 54.
69
Silverman [68] 55.
‘From Tomb to Womb: Tibullus 1.1 and the Discourse of Masculinity’, K. P. Nikoloutsos 71

drained (physically as well as ideologically), traumatized, castrated (in the sense

of surrendering his autonomy to the dux), and hence incapable of seeking to
gain a re-entry into the mechanisms of achieving virtus. The Tibullan narrator
produces his own counter-fiction in which he casts himself as a slave to a
woman, thereby allegorizing the weak, feminized, castrated position of the
Roman elite after the collapse of the republic, on account of the increased
authorities of the princeps.70 Yet, as my reading of poem 1.1 aims to show, this
fiction, although informed by its contemporary sociopolitical reality, should not
be taken to promote an anti-Augustan view, at least not in its entirety. After all,
the freedom that allows Tibullus to retreat into nature, to enjoy the company of
his mistress and to be devoted to the composition of elegy has a name: pax
Augusta. It was because of Augustus that civil war was terminated in the Italian
peninsula and that the reorganization of Roman society was made possible.
Tibullus opens his first collection with a poem that problematizes the
relationship between individual (as an autonomous entity) and the collective
national identity. If the fundamental idea behind the restoration of the res
publica by Augustus was a redefinition of the role of the vir in post-civil war
Roman society, then Tibullus 1.1 shows that virtus cannot be reduced to a single
behavioral standard. Rather, it is the site of many complex possibilities and
contradictions.71 It is through such ideological contestations in Tibullus 1 that
the Roman reader is shaped.

70
Skinner [7] 118 interprets the asymmetrical relationship between the minax
(“menacing”) Cybele and her castrated famula (“maid, slave-girl”) Attis (Catull. 63) as a
reflection of “elite despair over real decreases in personal autonomy and diminished capacity
for meaningful action during the agonized final years of the Roman Republic.” See also
Nikoloutsos [16] 49f. in which I read the power relation between lover and male beloved in
Tib. 1.9 as a metaphor for the relationship between individual and the state in the early years
of the principate.
71
On virtus as a construct whose semantic range is determined by specific sociohistorical
conditions, see McDonnell [9 (2006)] 320-84.
 VESTA AND VESTIBULUM: AN OVIDIAN ETYMOLOGY

T. P. Wiseman
Department of Classics and Ancient History, University of Exeter
Exeter, Devon EX4 4RJ, England

Abstract. Ovid’s definition of Vesta from vestibulum at Fasti 6.303 and his statement that
the goddess was addressed in the praefatio of prayers (304), though Cicero says she was
addressed last, are examined in the light of Augustus’ establishment of a shrine of Vesta in
his Palatine property (12 BC). If the shrine was sited in the vestibulum, the etymological
connection between Vesta and vestibulum would have made sense to Romans.

Ovid discusses the meaning of the name of Vesta, goddess of the hearth:

stat vi terra sua; vi stando Vesta vocatur,

causaque par Grai nominis esse potest. 300
at focus a flammis et quod fovet omnia dictus;
qui tamen in primis aedibus ante fuit.
hinc quoque vestibulum dici reor; inde precando
praefamur Vestam, quae loca prima tenet.
(Fast. 6.299-3041)
Earth stands by its own force; Vesta is named from standing by force. The
reason for her Greek name may be the same. But the hearth is named from the
flames, and because it warms everything; formerly, however, it was at the
front of the house. From this too I think the vestibulum is named; as a result, in
praying we first address Vesta, who occupies the first place.

There are two problems with this passage: vestibulum (303) and praefamur
(304).

Ovid claims the suggested etymology of vestibulum as his own idea. The only
other place in the poem where he uses reor (‘I think’) in this way relates to his
suggestion that carpenta (‘carriages’) are named after Carmentis, the mother of
Arcadian Evander: haec quoque ab Evandri dicta parente reor (‘I think these
too took their name from Evander’s mother’, Fast. 1.620). That derivation has
been described as ‘far-fetched and unparalleled’;2 the same phrase might

1
E. H. Alton, D. E. W. Wormell and E. Courtney (edd.), P. Ovidi Nasonis Fastorum Libri
Sex (Leipzig 1978). All translations throughout are mine.
2
S. J. Green, Ovid, Fasti I: A Commentary (Leiden 2004) 283.

72
‘Vesta and Vestibulum: An Ovidian Etymology’, T. P. Wiseman 73

equally be applied to the explanation of vestibulum from Vesta. What sort of

house has its hearth in the forecourt?
The nearest parallel to Ovid’s idea is the rejected definition of vestibula
in Nonius Marcellus’ book on the proper use of words:

vestibula quidam putant sub ea proprietate distincta, quod in primis

ingressibus et in spatiis domorum Vestae, hoc est arae ac foci, soleant haberi.
sed sive sic intellegi debent <sive> non, abhorret a vocabuli proprio. invenitur
etiam aput veteres doctos vestibula ob eam significantiam dicta, quod in his
locis, ad salutandos dominos domorum quicumque venissent, stare solerent,
dum introeundi daretur copia; atque ob hanc consistionem et quasi
stabulationem primos ingressus domorum vestibula nominatos.
(De Prop. Serm. 753)
Some think that vestibula are distinguished under this particular meaning that
Vestae—that is, altars and hearths—are normally kept in the outer entrances
and areas of houses. But whether or not they should be understood in this
sense, it is inconsistent with the proper use of the word. One finds in early
authorities that vestibula are so called because of this meaning, that in these
places those who had come to pay their respects to the masters of the houses
were accustomed to stand until they were given permission to enter, and from
this standing and (as it were) ‘stabling’ the outer entrances of houses were
named vestibula.

The emphasis on outer entrances (primi ingressus) makes it likely that by spatia
domorum Nonius was referring to the forecourt area immediately outside the
door, as described by a learned author of late republican or Augustan date:

C. Aelius Gallus, in libro de significatione verborum quae ad ius civile

pertinent secundo, vestibulum esse dicit non in ipsis aedibus neque partem
aedium, sed locum ante ianuam domus vacuum, per quem a via aditus
accessusque ad aedis est, cum dextra sinistraque ianuam tecta saepiunt viae
iuncta atque ipsa ianua procul a via est, area vacanti intersita.
(Gell. NA 16.5.34)
Gaius Aelius Gallus, in the second book of his work on the meaning of words
relating to civil law, says that the vestibulum is not in the house itself, nor is it
part of the house, but is an open space before the door of the house, through
which there is an approach and access to the house from the street, while on
the right and left the door is hemmed in by buildings extended to the street and
the door itself is at a distance from the street, separated from it by this vacant
space.

3
W. M. Lindsay (ed.), Nonius Marcellus: De Compendiosa Doctrina Libri 1-XX 1-3
(Leipzig 1903).
4
J. C. Rolfe (ed. and tr.), The Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius 1-3 (London 1927-1928); the
passage is Ael. Gall. fr. 7 in H. Funaioli (ed.), Grammaticae Romanae Fragmenta (Stuttgart
1969) 547; it is also quoted by Macrob. Sat. 6.8.16.
74 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 72-79 ISSN 1018-9017

According to Vitruvius, magnificent forecourts were not appropriate to qui

communi sunt fortuna (‘those persons of common fortune’, De Arch. 6.5.1); for
nobles and magistrates, however, who needed to be consulted by the citizens,
the architect must provide forecourts that were vestibula regalia alta (‘regal and
lofty’, 6.5.1).5 Such a vestibulum might contain portrait statues and have
military trophies hung on the walls.6 But it is hard to see why it should feature a
hearth.
The hearth is symbolic of the household’s privacy, as the formulaic
phrase foci penetrales (‘innermost hearths’, Cic. Har. Resp. 57.13; Catull.
68.102; Verg. Aen. 5.660) is enough to show.7 Of course it must be inside the
house. In the old days it had been in the atrium, where the family cooked and
ate together (Cato Orig. fr. 7.12;8 Serv. ad Aen. 1.726); the classic case was
Manius Curius ad focum sedens (‘sitting at the hearth’, Cic. Rep. 3.40; Sen. 56).
That may be what Ovid refers to (6.302), since the atrium of a simple old-
fashioned house would be the first room you entered. No doubt Frazer in the
Loeb edition had that in mind when he overtranslated in primis aedibus as ‘in
the first room of the house’; Bömer’s ‘vorne im Haus’ is more accurate.9
Some people in Aulus Gellius’ time evidently believed that the term
vestibulum could refer to the atrium (NA 16.5.2; Macrob. Sat. 6.18.15), but he
easily refuted them by referring to the Aelius Gallus passage quoted above.
Indeed, his learned friend Sulpicius Apollinaris provided the same derivation
that Nonius found in his ‘early authorities’: consistione et quasi quadam
stabulatione (‘from standing and [as it were] stabling’, Gell. NA 16.5.10). In
any case, it is no help for our passage. In Ovid’s time it was self-evident that the
vestibulum was in front of the house: you went in from the vestibulum and you
came out into the vestibulum (e.g., Plaut. Mostell. 817; Varro, Ling. 7.81; Cic.
Caecin. 35; Vitr. De Arch. 6.7.5; Livy 1.40.5). So why should it be associated
with Vesta?

5
R. J. Littlewood, A Commentary on Ovid’s Fasti, Book 6 (Oxford 2006) 96 is surely
mistaken in defining vestibulum as ‘a narrow passage leading to the street’.
6
Statues: Juv. 7.125f.; e.g., the houses of Tarquin (Plin. HN 34.26); Caesar (Cass. Dio
44.18.2); C. Silius (Tac. Ann. 11.35.1); Nero (Suet. Ner. 31.1). Statues and spolia: Plin. HN
35.7; e.g., the palace of Latinus (Verg. Aen. 7.177-86). Rams of warships: Cic. Phil. 2.68
(house of Pompey).
7
See F. Vollmer, in S. Clavadetscher et al. (edd.), Thesaurus Linguae Latinae (Munich
1900-) 6.1 cols 988.1-989.80 s.v. ‘focus’ for its use as the intima et sacra pars domi (‘the
private and sacred part of the house’), the home of the Lares.
8
M. Chassignet (ed. and tr.), Caton: Les Origines (Fragments) (Paris 1986).
9
J. G. Frazer (ed. and tr.), Ovid: Fasti (London 1931) 340f.; F. Bömer (ed.), P. Ovidius
Naso: Die Fasten 1 (Heidelberg 1992) 273.
‘Vesta and Vestibulum: An Ovidian Etymology’, T. P. Wiseman 75

Praefamur (304) is Heinsius’ conjecture for quae famur in the manuscripts.10

Ovid’s train of thought from primis aedibus to loca prima makes Heinsius’
reading praefamur practically inevitable, and it is accepted by Frazer; Bömer;
Alton, Wormell and Courtney; and Goold.11 Schilling, however, reads affamur
(‘we speak to’).12
If praefamur is correct, it seems to involve Ovid in a self-contradiction.
In the first book of the Fasti (1.171f.), he asks why sacrifice, which necessarily
involves prayer, is offered first to Janus. There is ample confirmation of Janus’
priority in prayer and sacrifice: Cic. Nat. D. 2.67; Mart. 8.8.3, 10.28.2; Arn.
Adv. Nat. 3.29; August. De Civ. D. 7.9; Serv. Dan. Aen. 7.610; Macrob. Sat.
1.9.3 and Or. Gent. Rom. 3.7. The earliest of our authorities, Cicero, links
sacrifice with the name of the divinity who came last—none other than Vesta
herself:

vis autem eius ad aras et focos pertinet, itaque in ea dea, quod est rerum custos
intumarum, omnis et precatio et sacrificatio extrema est.
(Nat. D. 2.6713)
Her power relates to altars and hearths, and so, because this goddess is the
guardian of the inmost things, all prayer and sacrifice ends with her.

What Ovid says is quite incompatible with that.

If we accept Heinsius’ emendation, as I think we must, then Ovid places
Vesta in the praefatio of Roman prayers. But we have very good early evidence
that the gods normally addressed in the praefatio were Janus and Jupiter, whose
respective responsibilities were what comes first and what matters most: Cato
Agr. Orig. 141.2; Fab. Max. Serv. fr. 4P ap. Macrob. Sat. 1.16.25; Varro
Antiquitates Divinae fr. 23b:14 penes Ianum sunt prima, penes Iovem summa.
How has Ovid’s Vesta found herself in that company?
It is true that, in fifth- and fourth-century Athens, prayers and sacrifices
began with Hestia (Ar. Vesp. 846; Pl. Cra. 401b1), and that Ovid in this very
passage takes for granted the equivalence of Hestia and Vesta. But since the
Athenian custom must have been as well known in Cicero’s time as it was in

10
D. Heinsius (ed.), Pub. Ovidii Nasonis Opera 1-3 (Leiden 1629-1630).
11
Frazer [9] 342; Bömer [9] 272f.; Alton et al. [1] 147; J. G. Frazer and G. P. Goold
(edd.), Ovid: Fasti2 (Cambridge, Mass. 1989) 342.
12
R. Schilling (ed.), Ovide: Les Fastes 2 (Paris 1993) 83.
13
H. Rackham (ed. and tr.), Cicero: De Natura Deorum; Academica (London 1933).
14
B. Cardauns (ed.), M. Terentius Varro: Antiquitates Rerum Divinarum 1-2 (Wiesbaden
1976).
76 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 72-79 ISSN 1018-9017

Ovid’s, that in itself is not enough to explain their mutually incompatible

accounts of the Roman situation. It seems that between (say) 45 BC and AD 5,
something must have happened to alter the Romans’ perception of Vesta and
her worship.

Ovid himself provides the startling evidence, in his item on 28 April. That was
the first day of the Ludi Florales. But since the games extended into May, he
puts Flora off to the next book:

tunc repetam, nunc me grandius urget opus.

aufer, Vesta, diem. cognati Vesta recepta est
limine: sic iusti constituere patres.
(Fast. 4.948-50)
That’s when I’ll resume; now a greater work is pressing on me. Claim the day,
Vesta! Vesta has been received at her kinsman’s threshold. So the just Fathers
have decreed.

The retiring goddess ‘of the inmost things’ has now become assertive. What
Ovid refers to is reported more prosaically in the Augustan calendars:

fer. q. e. d. sig. Vest. in domo p. dedic.15

(Fasti Caeretani)
Holiday because on that day the image of Vesta was dedicated in the . . .
house.

feriae ex s. c. quod eo di[e signu]m et [aedis] Vestae in domu imp. Caesaris

Augu[sti po]ntif. ma[x.] dedicatast Quirinio et Valgio cos.16
(Fasti Praenestini)
Holiday by decree of the Senate, because on that day in the consulship of
Quirinius and Valgius [12 BC] the image and shrine(?) of Vesta was dedicated
in the house of Imperator Caesar Augustus, pontifex maximus.

Vesta was now ‘in the house of Augustus’ in the same sense that Apollo was.17

15
T. Mommsen, in H. Dessau et al. (edd.), Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin
1863-) 12 1.213 expands domo p. as domo pontificio; A. Degrassi (ed.), Inscriptiones Italiae
13.2 (Rome 1963) 66 as domo Palatino. Perhaps it should be domo publico: see Cass. Dio
54.27.3, 55.12a.5 for Augustus’ house as partly public property in 12 BC and wholly so in
AD 3.
16
For the restoration of the text, see M. Guarducci, ‘Enea e Vesta’, MDAI(R) 78 (1971)
89-118, taf. 63.3.
17
For the parallelism, see Ovid Fast. 4.951f., Met. 15.864f.
‘Vesta and Vestibulum: An Ovidian Etymology’, T. P. Wiseman 77

The Apollo temple was not of course inside a house, and we know from
Dio and Velleius that the site on which it was built had been one of the houses
that Octavian’s agents bought to extend his property in the 30s BC (Cass. Dio
49.15.5; Vell. Pat. 2.81.3).18 But since Suetonius describes the temple as in ea
parte Palatinae domus . . . quam fulmine ictam (‘in that part of the Palatine
house which had been struck by lightning’, Aug. 29.3), it is clear that the phrase
in domu could signify ‘within the Augustan complex’.19 Augustus did not have
a palace, but owned several neighbouring houses with streets and alleys
between them.20 The Apollo temple and the new shrine of Vesta were public
buildings within this (originally) private property.
Vesta’s new situation no doubt explains why Ovid refers to the pontifex
maximus as Vesta’s priest (Fast. 3.427, 3.699, 5.573; Met. 15.778), and to the
goddess herself as Trojan (‘Ilian’ Vesta, Fast. 3.29, 3.142, 3.417f., 6.227, 6.365,
6.456), and thus related to the princeps.21 These were clearly innovations
appropriate to the goddess in her more conspicuous Augustan manifestation. So
too, perhaps, was the use of Vesta’s name in the praefatio of public prayers. If
so, then the problem of praefamur (304) is solved: something had indeed
happened to change things since Cicero’s time.

As for the problem of vestibulum (303), it may help to look at the so-called
‘Sorrento base’ (figure 1), which certainly illustrates features of the Augustan
Palatine on three of its sides: the door with the corona civica, Apollo with the
Sibyl, and Magna Mater. On the fourth side was a sacrifice to Vesta, with the
goddess’s round temple in the background.22 Some scholars still identify it as

18
See A. J. Woodman, Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative
(2.41-93) (Cambridge 1983) 208, n. 1.
19
As rightly argued by Guarducci [15] 92.
20
M. A. Tomei, ‘Le case di Augusto sul Palatino’, MDAI(R) 107 (2000) 1-36, esp. 20f.
Cf. now A. Carandini and D. Bruno, La casa di Augusto dai ‘Lupercalia’ al Natale (Rome
2008), whose attempt to reconstruct a unitary Augustan palace is quite inconsistent with the
evidence: see T. P. Wiseman, ‘The House of Augustus and the Lupercal’, JRA 22 (2009) 527-
45.
21
Cf. Ov. Fast. 3.425f.; Met. 15.865.
22
For the best photographs of the base, see Guarducci [15] Tafeln 64-69; T. Hölscher,
‘Historischer Reliefs’, in M. R. Hofter (ed.), Kaiser Augustus und die verlorene Republik:
Eine Ausstellung im Martin-Gropius-Bau, Berlin, 7. Juni - 14. August 1988 (Mainz 1988)
376.
78 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 72-79 ISSN 1018-9017

the temple in the Forum,23 but given Ovid’s evidence for Vesta at the house of
Augustus, that is neither necessary nor (I think) likely: the fourth side of the
base should also represent a Palatine site, and Guarducci’s arguments to that
effect have not been refuted.24
Because the side of the base showing Vesta and the side showing the door
with the corona civica both have an Ionic colonnade in the background, it has
been suggested that they form a single scene.25 If that is right, then the formal
entrance to Augustus’ house and the Palatine shrine of Vesta were enclosed in
the same portico, ‘perhaps in the form of a vestibulum’.26
When Ovid says that Vesta has been received cognati . . . limine (‘at her
kinsman’s threshold’, Fast. 4.949f.), he may mean no more than in domo
Augusti. But limen is a term very close to vestibulum;27 for instance, the place
where the clients waited for the morning salutatio is referred to in the sources
by both terms,28 and when Pliny describes the sort of triumphal spoils that we
know decorated Augustus’ vestibulum, he uses the phrase circa limina (‘around
the threshold’).29 So it is at least possible that Ovid was using the word
precisely.
If it is indeed the case that Vesta’s Palatine shrine was conspicuously
sited in the most celebrated vestibulum in Rome, that may provide a solution to
the problem of Fasti 6.303: after 12 BC, a suggested etymological connection
between Vesta and vestibulum would have made sense to any contemporary
Roman.

23
E.g., Hölscher [21] 375; Tomei [19] 29-31; M. Beard, J. North et al., Religions of
Rome 1 (Cambridge 1998) 190.
24
Guarducci [15] 94-98.
25
T. P. Wiseman (tr.), Flavius Josephus. Death of an Emperor: Translated with an
Introduction and Commentary (Exeter 1991) 107-09, fig. 3 (reproduced here as fig. 1).
26
Wiseman [24] 109.
27
See, e.g., Cic. Caecin. 35; Mil. 75; Verg. Aen. 2.469 (with Serv. Dan. ad Verg. Aen.
2.469), 6.575; Livy 30.12.11.
28
Limen: see L. C. Meijer, in TLL 7.2 cols 1405.21-40 s.v. ‘limen’. Vestibulum: e.g., Cic.
Att. 4.2.5; De Or. 1.200; Vitr. De Arch. 6.5.1f.; Sen. Ep. 84.12; Cons. Marc. 10.1; Stat. Silv.
4.4.42.
29
Plin. HN 35.7; cf. Ov. Tr. 3.1.33f. for Augustus’ house.
 ‘Vesta and Vestibulum: An Ovidian Etymology’, T. P. Wiseman

Figure 1. Sorrento, Museo Correale.

The ‘Sorrento base’. After 12 BC.
Combined view of two adjacent sides; drawn by Seán Goddard.
79
 TANTALUS’ CRIME, ARGIVE GUILT AND
DESECRATION OF THE FLESH IN STATIUS’ THEBAID

R. E. Parkes
Exeter College, University of Oxford
Oxford OX1 3DP, England

Abstract. Argive innocence is opposed in several ways to Theban guilt in Statius’ Thebaid.
Construction and deconstruction of these oppositions reveal disjunction between the initial
narrative portrayal of a virtuous Argos dragged into war by an unjust Jupiter and the counter-
story of past Argive sin. Cracks in Ornytus’ rhetorical attempt to condemn Creon’s behaviour
at 12.155-57 demonstrate the difficulty of assigning simple moral judgments within the
poem’s complexities.

‘Argos reflects heaven, Thebes is an earthly hell’.1 So Vessey polarised

the two cities in 1973.2 In subsequent decades some attention has been drawn to
the guilty past of Argos.3 However, there is still a widely held belief that
Statius’ Argos is an innocent city, at least until brought into the war. A key
factor driving this belief has been sceptical analysis of Jupiter’s professed
reasons for involving Argos in the conflict. The assumption that Argos is being
unjustly punished is bound up with suspicion of Jupiter’s rhetoric in the divine
council of book 1. In the words of Bernstein: ‘Many readers have observed that
Jupiter makes an arbitrary decision to punish the Argives in the present
generation and advances an unreasonably prolonged memory of Tantalus’ crime
as his pretext.’4 This article argues that verdicts of innocence and guilt should
not be so simplistically assigned. It examines the way in which oppositions
between Argive virtue and Theban vice are set up and deconstructed. The first
section draws attention to the way in which references to Peloponnesian

1
The author thanks Scholia’s anonymous referees for their helpful comments.
2
D. W. T. C. Vessey, Statius and The Thebaid (Cambridge 1973) 324; see also 92-95.
3
See P. J. Davis, ‘The Fabric of History in Statius’ Thebaid’, in C. Deroux (ed.), Studies
in Latin Literature and Roman History 7 (Brussels 1994) 469-71; S. Georgacopoulou,
‘Ranger/ déranger: catalogues et listes de personnages dans la Thébaïde’, in F. Delarue et al.
(edd.), Epicedion, Hommage à P. Papinius Statius 96-1996 (Poitiers 1996) 108f., 124;
F. Ripoll, La morale héroïque dans les épopées latines d’époque flavienne: tradition et
innovation (Paris 1998) 34-48, 140-43.
4
N. W. Bernstein, ‘Ancestors, Status and Self-presentation in Statius’ Thebaid’, TAPhA
133 (2003) 368 n. 25. For the apparent injustice of Jupiter’s decision to embroil Argos in the
conflict, see also, e.g., D. E. Hill, ‘Statius’ Thebaid: A Glimmer of Light in a Sea of
Darkness’, Ramus 18 (1989) 108; W. J. Dominik, The Mythic Voice of Statius: Power and
Politics in the Thebaid (Leiden 1994) 10.

80
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 81

criminal history quietly counter the presentation of Argos as an innocent city

corrupted by civil war, and suggests that the critical tendency to underplay
Argive sin is one fostered by an initial narrative strategy. The second part
examines how Ornytus’ attempt to distance Argive army conduct from Theban
has fault lines perceptible to the attentive reader. In conclusion, it is suggested
that guilt and innocence is necessarily a grey area in the world of the Thebaid.
An opposition between a guilty Thebes and an innocent Argos is set up
right from the beginning of the poem. The epic starts by emphasising the crimes
of the Thebans, the gentis . . . dirae (‘dreadful race’, Theb. 1.4):5 Statius’ task is
to sontes . . . euoluere Thebas (‘unfold the tale of guilty Thebes’, 1.2). Argos is
unmentioned by the text until line 1.225, appearing almost as an afterthought.
Moreover, our first view of the city is not until lines 1.381f., where it coincides
with Polynices’. Light symbolically pours from the citadel, dispelling his
darkness (emicuit lucem deuexa in moenia fundens / Larisaeus apex, ‘the citadel
of Larisa flashed forth, pouring light upon the shelving town walls’, 1.381f.).6
Adrastus’ house seems a haven of peace and virtue after the turmoil that
Polynices has left (rex ibi, tranquillae medio de limite uitae / in senium uergens,
populos Adrastus habebat, ‘there king Adrastus ruled his people, drawing from
mid-course of tranquil life into old age’, 1.390f.).7 Polynices enters the palace
and finds, in the ancestral imagines which adorn the halls (2.214-23), family
history that may be flaunted. Indeed, he is soon welcomed into this family
through marriage to Adrastus’ daughter Argia (2.152-62, 2.213-64), taking
Aeneas’ role of an externa ab sede . . . / . . . generum (‘son-in-law from a
foreign home’, Verg. Aen. 7.255f.). Argos is clearly set up as a contrast to the
city of Thebes, which is warped by its excess of familial love and hate.
This is not to deny the existence of discordant notes. We find, for
example, the Danai facinus meditantis imago (‘image of Danaus plotting
crime’, Theb. 2.222) among the ancestral figures, and Adrastus himself admits
that the house of Argos is not free from sin (nostro quoque sanguine multum /
errauit pietas, ‘my ancestors have often erred in their duty’, 1.689f.). However,
the thrust of the narrative suggests that Polynices is bringing trouble with him,
infecting the innocent Argives in a way symbolised by the disruptive effects of
Harmonia’s necklace, his family heirloom (2.265-305). Paradoxically, one
5
Citations of Statius, Thebaid are taken from D. E. Hill (ed.), P. Papini Stati Thebaidos
Libri 12 (Leiden 1996). Translations of all sources are my own.
6
On the symbolism, see Vessey [2] 94.
7
As has been noted since L. Legras, Étude sur la Thébaïde de Stace (Paris 1905) 220, the
portrayal engages with Vergil’s picture of Latinus; cf. rex arua Latinus et urbes / iam senior
longa placidas in pace regebat (‘King Latinus, now an old man, was ruling over fields and
calm cities in a long peace’, Verg. Aen. 7.45f.). Citations of Vergil, Aeneid are taken from
R. A. B. Mynors (ed.), P. Vergili Maronis Opera (Oxford 1969).
82 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

reference to Argive past crime actually increases our sense that the city is the
innocent victim. The first we hear of Argos is Jupiter’s announcement that he
intends to punish it by involving it in war with Thebes:

nunc geminas punire domos, quis sanguinis auctor

ipse ego, descendo. Perseos alter in Argos
scinditur, Aonias fluit hic ab origine Thebas.
(Stat. Theb. 1.224-26)
Now I descend to punish two houses,
of which I am the founding ancestor.
One forks into Persean Argos,
the other flows from its source to Aonian Thebes.

Argos’ crime is one committed by its distant ancestor Tantalus, the cooking of
his son Pelops for a divine feast:8

hanc etiam poenis incessere gentem

decretum; neque enim arcano de pectore fallax
Tantalus et saeuae periit iniuria mensae.
(Stat. Theb. 1.245-47)
I have resolved to assail this race also with punishment;
for deceitful Tantalus and the unlawful conduct of the savage banquet
have not been forgotten in the depths of my heart.

Far from establishing Argos’ villainous credentials, this suggests that the city
has committed only one crime of any significance, and that far back in the past.
Discussions of the first divine council have frequently remarked upon the
hollowness of Jupiter’s arguments.9 Tantalus’ villainy sounds a somewhat lame

8
Statius could have substituted an alternative crime here: for different mythical traditions
concerning Tantalus’ sin, see Apollod. Epit. 2.1 (with J. G. Frazer [ed. and tr.], Apollodorus:
The Library 1-2 [Cambridge, Mass. 1921] 2.156f.). Tantalus’ saeuae . . . mensae (Stat. Theb.
1.247) picks up the foeda Lycaoniae . . . conuiuia mensae (‘foul feasting of Lycaon’s table’)
of Ov. Met. 1.165. Citations of Apollodorus, Epitome and Ovid, Metamorphoses are taken
from Frazer [above, this note] and R. J. Tarrant (ed.), P. Ovidi Nasonis Metamorphoses
(Oxford 2004) respectively.
9
On the scene, see W. Schubert, Jupiter in den Epen der Flavierzeit (Frankfurt am Main,
1984) 75-101; F. M. Ahl, ‘Statius’ Thebaid: A Reconsideration’, ANRW 2.32.5 (1986)
2834-41; Hill [4] 105f.; D. C. Feeney, The Gods in Epic: Poets and Critics of the Classical
Tradition (Oxford 1991) 353-55; Davis [3] 479-81; Dominik [4] 4-15; D. Hershkowitz, The
Madness of Epic: Reading Insanity from Homer to Statius (Oxford 1998) 262-65; S. Franchet
d’Espèrey, Conflit, violence et non-violence dans la Thébaïde de Stace (Paris 1999) 65f.,
336f.; C. Criado, La teología de la ‘Tebaida’ Estaciana: El antivirgilianismo de un clasicista
(Hildesheim 2000) 33-44; R. T. Ganiban, Statius and Virgil: the Thebaid and the
Reinterpretation of the Aeneid (Cambridge 2007) 50-55.
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 83

excuse,10 especially given the emphasis placed upon Thebes’ guilt. For
reference to a single Argive crime falls flat after the long catalogue of Theban
misdeeds (Theb. 1.227-39); moreover, that list includes the recent outrages of
Polynices and Eteocles against their father Oedipus (at nati . . . cadentes /
calcauere oculos, ‘but his sons trampled on his eyes as they fell’, 1.238f.).
The Argive king Adrastus, by contrast, has apparently done nothing wrong.
How can he be held responsible for deeds committed (and individually atoned
for) by a long-dead relative? Juno’s response seems to underline further the
arbitrary nature of Jupiter’s decision: she notes the tardiness of the retribution,
and questions the fairness of picking this one point out of mankind’s long
criminal history:

quod si prisca luunt auctorum crimina gentes

subuenitque tuis sera haec sententia curis,
percensere aeui senium, quo tempore tandem
terrarum furias abolere et saecula retro
emendare sat est?
(Stat. Theb. 1.266-70)
But if races expiate the ancient crimes of their ancestors
and this thought occurs to you tardily in your worries,
to run your mind over the long course of history,
at what time, I ask, does it suffice to efface the frenzied deeds of earth
and purge the centuries in reverse?

The cracks in Jupiter’s rhetoric are clear to see. His words are marked by a taste
for vengeance and enjoyment of power, instead of impartiality. As Davis
remarks, ‘Jupiter . . . is an absolute prince of doubtful justice’.11
The thesis that Jupiter’s speech is constructed in such a way as to expose
its weaknesses can be further supported by an examination of the subsequent
narrative. Prominence is given later on to material that could have been
exploited by a Jupiter more concerned with justice (or at least the presentation
of a just case). Tantalus’ crime may be initially referenced in a marginalised
manner as a two line allusion tacked on at the end of Jupiter’s speech, leading
critics to comment on the deed’s remoteness;12 yet repeated subsequent
references suggest that the crime still has relevance. The characters themselves

10
See, e.g., Schubert [9] 87; Davis [3] 480f.; Dominik [4] 10-13. The validity of Jupiter’s
use of references to Theban sin has also been rightly questioned (see, e.g., Dominik [4] 9f.).
The issue of Theban guilt/innocence lies outside the scope of this paper. Suffice to say that it
proves as difficult to judge as Argive guilt/innocence.
11
Davis [3] 481.
12
So, e.g., Legras [7] 188; Franchet d’Espèrey [9] 66.
84 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

are well aware of Tantalus’ position as an Argive royal ancestor.13 So Eteocles

exploits the genealogy to direct a bitter jibe at Polynices: tibi larga (Pelops et
Tantalus auctor!) / nobilitas (‘you have nobility in abundance [Pelops and
Tantalus are your ancestors!]’, Theb. 2.436f.). And so the Argives carry an
image of Tantalus amongst their ancestral imagines at Nemea:

Tantalus inde parens, non qui fallentibus undis

inminet aut refugae sterilem rapit aera siluae,
sed pius et magni uehitur conuiua Tonantis.
(Stat. Theb. 6.280-82)
Then father Tantalus is carried, not he who leans over the deceiving waters
or snatches the barren air of the fleeing branch,
but the pious Tantalus, dinner-guest of the great Thunderer.

Even though Tantalus’ crime was committed in the distant past, the tale lingers
in mortal memories as well as divine:14 in their procession the Argives may
present a Tantalus who is a fellow-diner of Jupiter, but Adrastus’ allusion to the
scars left on Pelops following his restoration by the gods show that the Argives
remember the darker side of Tantalus’ feasting (Theb. 7.94-96). In addition, the
necromantic appearance of truncatus Pelops (‘maimed Pelops’, 4.590) acts as a
vivid reminder to the Thebans of this piece of their enemy’s history.
A second noticeable weakness in Jupiter’s reasoning is his focus on a
solitary crime. Why did he not support his case by reference to one of the many
13
The Argive army is called the Tantalidum . . . cohors (‘the army of the descendants of
Tantalus’, Theb. 10.785). The actual genealogical links are hard to pin down, despite the
efforts of F. Delarue, ‘Sur deux passages de Stace’, Orpheus 15 (1968) 13-31. We know that
Adrastus’ father is Talaus (cf., e.g., Talaionides, ‘son of Talaus’, Theb. 2.141). References to
Adrastus’ ancestral Sicyon (2.179) indicate that Statius was following the tradition whereby
Adrastus’ mother was Lysianassa and his maternal grandfather was Polybus (Paus. 2.6.6).
The simplest assumption is that Adrastus descends from Tantalus on his father’s side, through
Talaus’ mother Pero, daughter of Chloris whom Tantalus’ daughter Niobe had borne to
Amphion. Delarue [above, this note] 26 argues that this genealogy is post-Statian (Apollod.
Bibl. 3.1.6; Hyg. Fab. 10), a result of confusion with another Amphion, king of Orchomenos.
Hence he attempts to trace a connection with Tantalus on the maternal side by invoking a
genealogy found in Ibycus (Paus. 2.6.5), which makes Polybus’ grandfather, Sicyon, a son of
Pelops. The popularity of the former tradition weighs in its favour, despite the late attestation,
but the issue must remain uncertain. Citations of Pausanias, Apollodorus, Bibliotheca and
Hyginus, Fabulae are taken from W. H. S. Jones (ed. and tr.), Pausanias: Description of
Greece (Cambridge, Mass. 1918), Frazer [8] 1 and J. Y. Boriaud (ed.), Hygin: Fables (Paris
2003) respectively.
14
Jupiter’s words show that he has not forgotten (Theb. 1.246f.); note also his references
to the crimina . . . / Dorica (‘Peloponnesian crimes’, 7.208f.) and funera mensae / Tantaleae
(‘deadly feast of Tantalus’, 11.127f.). Dis presumably encounters the sinner on a daily basis
in Hades.
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 85

Argive iniquities noted elsewhere in the narrative? He could, for example, have
mentioned Pelops’ unscrupulous dispatch of Oenomaus so he could win
Hippodamia,15 or Acrisius’ brutal treatment of his daughter Danae and grandson
Perseus.16 Why omit reference to the fraternal strife between Acrisius and
Proetus,17 or that between Danaus and Aegyptus with its consequent massacre
by the Danaids of their husbands?18 Even the pious Adrastus, who is often used
as a foil to highlight characters’ villainy, seems to have a skeleton in his
cupboard: the reference to Adrastus’ stay at Sicyon (Theb. 4.49-51), a move
which he had made from Argos (transmissi, ‘sent across’, 4.49), may remind the
doctus reader of the tradition which explained his presence there: that he fled

15
Pelops bribed Oenomaus’ charioteer Myrtilus to tamper with the wheels of his master’s
chariot and hence bring about his fall (saeuo puluere sordens / Oenomaus, ‘Oenomaus, soiled
with harsh dust’, Theb. 4.590f.; and (in the procession of imagines) parte alia uictor curru
Neptunia tendit / lora Pelops, prensatque rotas auriga natantes / Myrtilos et uolucri iam
iamque relinquitur axe, ‘in another part Pelops in his chariot victoriously pulls on the reins of
Neptune, and the charioteer Myrtilos grasps at the unstable wheels and even now is being
abandoned by the swift axle’, 6.283-85).
16
Acrisius punished Danae for her impregnation by Zeus, by abandoning mother and
child in a chest on the sea. Statius gives reminders of Acrisius’ anger (indignatus . . .
Tonantem / Acrisius, ‘Acrisius aggrieved at the Thunderer’, Theb. 2.220f.; grauis Acrisius . . .
/ et Danae culpata sinus, ‘stern Acrisius and Danae blamed for her embraces, 6.286f.’).
17
Proetus . . . nocens (‘guilty Proetus’, Theb. 4.589) is one of the Argive ghosts
summoned by the necromancy. According to Apollodorus, the enmity of the two brothers
Acrisius and Proetus, which started in the womb, caused them to wage war over mastery of
the Argive kingdom (Bibl. 2.2.1). Acrisius drove Proetus from Argos, but Proetus returned
and, with the help of the forces of his Lycian father-in-law, occupied Tiryns. In Ovid’s
variant version, Perseus comes to the aid of Acrisius (Met. 5.236-41).
18
See torua . . . iam Danai facinus meditantis imago (‘grim likeness of Danaus already
planning his misdeed’, Theb. 2.222); (Hippomedon’s shield) uiuit in auro / nox Danai: sontes
Furiarum lampade nigra / quinquaginta ardent thalami; pater ipse cruentis / in foribus
laudatque nefas atque inspicit enses (‘the night of Danaus lives on the gold: fifty guilty bed-
chambers burn with the black torch of the Furies; at the bloodied doorways the father himself
praises the crime and inspects the swords’, 4.132-35); potuitne ultricia Graius uirginibus
dare tela pater laetusque dolorum / sanguine securos iuuenum perfundere somnos (‘could the
Greek father give avenging weapons to the virgins and drench the young men’s carefree sleep
with blood, enjoying the treachery’, 5.117-19); iungunt discordes inimica in foedera dextras /
Belidae fratres, sed uultu mitior astat / Aegyptus; Danai manifestum agnoscere ficto / ore
notas pacisque malae noctisque futurae (‘the brothers, sons of Belus, join discordant right
hands, but Aegyptus stands by with milder look; signs of the wicked pact and coming night
are clearly recognizable on Danaus’ feigned countenance’, 6.290-93). The myth of the
Danaids also opens up another interpretation of the reference to the light shining from Larisa
(1.381f.): Hypermnestra lit a light there as a sign to Lynceus that she was out of danger, and
this was commemorated by the Argives in a beacon festival (Paus. 2.25.4).
86 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

from civil war involving Amphiaraus.19 There is no hint of this guilty past in
Jupiter’s speech.
Thirdly, it is notable that Jupiter should be shown emphasising
punishment of past sin over prevention of future crime. He observes that for the
Argives and Thebans mens cunctis imposta manet (‘the character imposed
abides in all of them’, Theb. 1.227). And his desire to obliterate Theban stock
(1.242f.) seems to be linked to his expectation that they will carry on sinning,
with the same presumably holding true for the Argive house.20 However, this
argument is overshadowed by Jupiter’s less admirable desire to exact
vengeance. Now the subsequent narrative reveals heredity to be an important
factor governing behaviour:21 it is, for instance, surely no coincidence that
Argos, with its history of fraternal conflict, should support the war between
Polynices and Eteocles.22 Yet Jupiter’s speech in book 1 plays down this line of
potential justification—perhaps with good reason, since he admits himself to be
the ultimate progenitor (1.224f.).23
Furthermore, it is only later that we realise that Jupiter could have
rebutted some of Juno’s criticisms. As part of her objection to Jupiter’s choice
of target, Juno offers alternative sinful locations, including Pisa and Arcadia.
19
See Pind. Nem. 9.13f. with schol. 9.30a Drachmann. After the death of his grandfather
Polybus, Adrastus became king of Sicyon (Paus. 2.6.5). See also Stat. Theb. 2.179f. (where,
however, only Adrastus’ departure from Sicyon to Argos is mentioned). Citations of Pindar,
Nemean Odes and schol. Pindar, Nemean Odes are taken from W. H. Race (ed. and tr.),
Pindar 2: Nemean Odes, Isthmian Odes, Fragments (Cambridge 1957) and A. B. Drachmann
(ed.), Scholia Vetera in Pindari Carmina (Leipzig 1927) respectively.
20
Cf. Labdacios uero Pelopisque a stirpe nepotes / tardum abolere mihi (‘it is tardy for
me to obliterate the descendants of Labdacus and Pelops from the root’, Theb. 7.207f.).
21
Discussions of heredity have tended to dwell on the Theban line: see, e.g., Bernstein [4]
355-61. For Argive heredity, see Davis [3] 469-71 (focusing upon Argive historical
consciousness and similarity to Thebes); Ripoll [3] 40-43 (concentrating on the Argives’
tragic lack of awareness of the power of the past).
22
See Davis [3] 470f. There are, of course, other factors involved, not least the gods’
intervention: Apollo’s oracle (Theb. 1.494-97) is a key reason why Adrastus backed
Polynices. On divine causality, see Davis [3] 475-78. The narrative again raises the idea of
genetic impact when Tydeus urges the Argive Hippomedon to bring him Melanippus’ head
with the words Atrei si quid tibi sanguinis umquam (‘if you have anything of Atreus’ blood’,
8.742), as if kinship with this facilitator of cannibalism might precondition Hippomedon to
tolerate Tydeus’ ensuing cannibalism (see Davis [3] 470).
23
Dominik [4] 9. Jupiter’s speech in Theb. 7 also reveals scant concern paid to this line of
argument: after seeming to suggest he will efface Theban and Argive stock at 7.208f., he
moves to prophesying that their descendants will renew the fight at 7.219-21. Jupiter’s
literary model, the Ovidian king of the gods, similarly fails to obliterate races. He claims
Lycaon’s house has perished (Ov. Met. 1.240) and threatens to wipe out mankind (1.187-91).
However, we later learn that Callisto, Lycaon’s daughter (2.496), has survived.
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 87

Why, she asks, does Jupiter not scourge the homes of the would-be rapist of
Arethusa and of the suitor-killing father Oenomaus, or the fatherland of human
sacrificer Lycaon?

iamdudum ab sedibus illis

incipe, fluctiuaga qua praeterlabitur unda
Sicanios longe relegens Alpheos amores:
Arcades hic tua (nec pudor est) delubra nefastis
imposuere locis, illic Mauortius axis
Oenomai Geticoque pecus stabulare sub Haemo
dignius, abruptis etiamnum inhumata procorum
reliquiis trunca ora rigent . . .
(Stat. Theb. 1.270-77)
Now after all this time start from those places where Alpheus glides by with
wave-wandering waters, retracing his Sicilian love over a long way. Here the
Arcadians placed your shrine (nor does it shame you) on dreadful ground.
There was Oenomaus’ chariot, gift of Mars, and horses more worthily stalled
beneath Thracian Haemus: even now the heads of the suitors, maimed and
sundered from the rest of the bodies, grow stiff unburied.24

Juno’s argument is somewhat undermined by the fact that Pisa and Arcadia will
be drawn into this war and hence, following Jovian logic, punished for the
misdeeds of their ancestors. Indeed, Statius seems to draw attention to Juno’s
error by alluding to the crimes in his catalogue description of these allies:
Amphiaraus’ contingent includes Pisans, men who te, flaue, natant, terris
Alphee Sicanis / aduena tam longo non umquam infecte profundo (‘swim in
you, yellow Alpheus, a stranger to Sicilian lands who is never tainted by so long
a sea journey’, Theb. 4.239f.) and who carry on the charioteering expertise of
Oenomaus: ea gloria genti / infando de more et fractis durat ab usque / axibus
Oenomai (‘that glory endures for the race from the monstrous custom and ever
since the time of the broken axles of Oenomaus’, 4.242-44).25 Connections
between Parthenopaeus’ Arcadians and Lycaon are suggested in the allusion to
24
As H. Heuvel (ed.), Publii Papinii Statii Thebaidos 1 (Zutphen 1932) 164 observes, the
detail of the flesh-eating horses (Theb. 1.275-77) seems to be Statius’ own invention, inspired
by the myth of Diomedes (for which see Apollod. Bibl. 2.5.8 with Frazer [8] 1.200f.).
25
The myth is evoked on several further occasions: Pisaeis . . . socer metuendus habenis
(‘the father-in-law feared for his Pisaean reins’, Theb. 2.166); saeua nec Eleae gemerent
certamina ualles (‘nor would the valleys of Elis have groaned at the savage contests’, 2.185);
4.590f. (see [15]); non . . . tanta / umquam . . . Oenomai fremuerunt agmina circo (‘never so
great crowds clamoured in the circus of Oenomaus’, 6.253f.); Pisaei iuga patris habet (‘he
has the chariot of his Pisan father’, 6.349); (portent) saeuo decurrere campo / Oenomaum sua
Pisa refert (‘his own Pisa reports that Oenomaus races on the savage plain’, 7.416);
Odrysiique famem stabuli (‘the hunger of the Odrysian stable’, 12.156). See also my later
discussion of the chariot race of Thebaid 6.
88 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

the metamorphosis of Lycaon’s daughter Callisto into a bear: ille Lycaoniae

rictu caput aspersat ursae (‘that man makes his head fierce with the jaw of a
Lycaonian she-bear’, 4.304).26
So subsequent narrative details help expose the weak points in Jupiter’s
reasoning by suggesting that the god could have been given a much stronger
case if Statius had wished to present him as a sound arbiter of the innocent and
guilty. These same details also show that the initial narration itself presents a
partial view, with the emphasis on Argive innocence. Argos’ peaceful exterior
masks a history of violence, just like Latinus’ Italy.27 Although references to
Peloponnesian crime are scattered through the narrative, lacking the fanfare
given to Theban sin,28 we should not ignore the quietly persistent counter-story
which tells of the past guilt of the Argives and their allies. The initial narrative
stress on Argive innocence allows Statius to suggest the tyranny of Jupiter and
to convey the unfair impact that this war will have on the undeserving. It should
not simply be taken at face value.
The difficulty of assigning verdicts upon the sides can again be seen at
the end of the Thebaid. In the course of the poem, the Thebans are repeatedly
shown to mistreat dead bodies, disregarding their moral obligation to respect the
bodies of their enemies: so Eteocles forbids the burning of the corpse of Maeon,
a fellow Theban (3.97), and so the Thebans defile Tydeus’ body (9.184-88). The
culmination of this tendency comes in Creon’s edict which denies burial rites to
the defeated Argives (11.661-64, 12.55f., 12.94-103, 12.149-52, 12.558-61; cf.
[4.640f.] Laius’ prophecy; 8.72-74 [Dis’ curse]).29 Instead of being committed

26
The myth of Lycaon’s sacrifice of humans is again evoked when Jupiter recalls that
sat . . . / . . . sontes uidisse Lycaonis aras (‘it is enough to have seen the guilty altars of
Lycaon’, Theb. 11.127f.), thereby refuting Juno’s accusatory nec pudor est (1.273). See also
the allusion to Lycaon’s metamorphosis into a wolf as punishment for his crime: as one of the
omens of the war, Arcades insanas latrare Lycaonis umbras / nocte ferunt tacita (‘the
Arcadians say that in the silence of the night the mad shade of Lycaon barked’, 7.414f.).
27
For internal fighting in Italy, see, e.g., Verg. Aen. 8.55f. (Arcadians and Latins at war);
9.607-13 (Numanus Remulus’ boast).
28
The necromancy similarly devotes more attention to Theban crime: the ghosts who
dominate the criminal part of the underworld are of Cadmus’ line (Theb. 4.484), and this is
reflected in an extensive description of Theban shades (4.553-78). Contrast the shorter Argive
list (4.587-91). Statius could easily have included more Argive criminals here, such as
Danaus, Aegyptus and the Danaids (the latter’s underworld punishment is also missing from
the standard list [4.537-40]); furthermore, there is only a passing reference to Tantalus
(4.538), though truncatus Pelops (4.590) does remind us of his crime.
29
Proper obsequies for the Argive side only take place at the end (Theb. 12.797-807).
Prior to this the six Argive chieftains who perish endure a kind of warped burial: Amphiaraus
enters the underworld directly through the rent earth (7.1-8); Hippomedon is covered by a
shield (9.563-65); Parthenopaeus, who had earlier offered a lock of hair in lieu of burial
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 89

to the earth, their corpses are left as food for predators. As Ornytus tells the
female dependents of the Argive chieftains, solis auibusque ferisque / ire licet
(‘birds and wild beasts alone may approach’, 12.153f.).30
Now it is true that the Argives are the wronged party on this occasion.
However, it is not clear that they have previously been superior in their
treatment of the corpses of their enemies: one of their number, Tydeus, has been
shown gnawing on the head of the man who dealt him a fatal wound (Theb.
8.751-61). It might be argued that the Aetolian Tydeus’ attitude towards the
human body is not typical of his side. The Argives appear to try to stop the
cannibalism (8.762), and are said to be repulsed by Tydeus’ behaviour (9.3f.).
Nevertheless, all the chieftains are moved by their comrade’s request for
Melanippus’ body (8.745), and adhere to his wish that the head be cut off
(8.754). This is itself an outrage against the corpse.31 Their actions seem all the
more culpable given the subsequent Argive defence of Tydeus’ own body (9.89-
170): they are conscious enough of burial rites when it comes to their own side.
Statius seems to draw attention to the problems involved in the Argive
assumption of moral superiority through the rhetoric employed by Ornytus. The
defeated soldier impresses upon the Argive women that Creon will not heed
their calls for burial, and uses mythological examples to suggest that he will
treat their supplications harshly: inmites citius Busiridos aras / Odrysiique
famem stabuli Siculosque licebit / exorare deos (‘sooner may one prevail upon
the merciless altars of Busiris and the hunger of the Odrysian stable and the
Sicilian deities’, Theb. 12.155-57). Here Creon’s refusal of burial rites is
implicitly equated with Busiris’ sacrifice of strangers on an altar to Jupiter, the
eating of humans by Diomedes’ horses, and the Sirens’ devouring of strangers.32

(9.900-03), is covered over by the corpse of Dymas (10.439-41); Capaneus is consumed by

lightning rather than a conventional pyre (10.927-38); and Polynices is crushed by his dying
brother (11.573). On denied burial in the Thebaid, see V. Pagàn, ‘The Mourning After:
Statius Thebaid 12’, AJPh 121 (2000) 423-52; K. Pollmann, Statius, Thebaid 12:
Introduction, Text, and Commentary (Paderborn 2004) 32-36. Statius’ engagement with the
Iliad’s treatment of burial is explored by C. McNelis, Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of
Civil War (Cambridge 2007) 155-58; H. Lovatt, ‘Competing Endings: Re-reading the End of
the Thebaid through Lucan’, Ramus 28 (1999) 126-51 examines the Thebaid’s use of the
Bellum Civile.
30
For the idea that exposed bodies are vulnerable to being ravaged by predators, see also
Theb. 11.190f., 12.97f., 12.212f., 12.249.
31
For the brutality of decapitation, see C. Segal, The Theme of the Mutilation of the
Corpse in the Iliad (Leiden 1971) 20-23.
32
Following Pollmann [29] 128; the identification is not certain but other possible
candidates for the title (the Palici and Cyclopes) also ate human flesh. The cannibalism is
picked up in the simile of Theb. 12.169-72, which describes the women’s reaction to
Ornytus’ words: non secus adflauit molles si quando iuuencas / tigridis Hyrcanae ieiunum
90 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

The Thebans are clearly set up as villains, the Argives as victims. However, the
comparanda adopted by Ornytus open up connections which disturb a clear-cut
opposition between Argive innocence and Theban guilt.
So, for instance, this first reference is to the practice of human sacrifice
carried out by Busiris. Whilst Ornytus clearly regards this as a sign of the
barbaric ‘other’, the reader may well be reminded of the similar behaviour of
the Arcadians’ ancestor Lycaon (Theb. 11.128). Ornytus’ second example is
even closer to home. For the Argives have direct experience of Diomedes’
horses, which were ridden by Hercules’ son Chromis in the chariot race (6.346-
48). They even have experience of these horses’ gruesome habits, for Chromis
was forced to abandon his race to prevent his steeds eating up his fellow
competitor Hippodamus: Thraces equi ut uidere iacentem / Hippodamum, redit
illa fames (‘when the Thracian horses saw Hippodamus lying, that hunger
returned’, 6.486f.). Even though there is no further mention of Chromis in the
narrative, raising the possibility that he is just a visiting competitor rather than a
member of the army, the association of the Argive side with these bloodthirsty
animals undercuts Ornytus’ use of the myth to create a distinction between the
two armies. Chromis’ fellow-racer Hippodamus is similarly found only in the
games. We are, however, surely meant to class him as a serving soldier, one of
the Pisans in Amphiaraus’ contingent. As the son of Oenomaus, he Pisaei iuga
patris habet (‘has the chariot of his Pisan father’, 6.349), and his chariot, like
Chromis’, is adorned with crudelibus . . . / exuuiis (‘cruel spoils’, 6.349f.) and
diro . . . sanguine (‘frightful blood’, 6.350). The question arises whether the
Pisans will continue Oenomaus’ wicked practice of feeding human flesh to
horses. The reference at 4.242-44 suggests only that they inherit his skill in
charioteering, but the behaviour of Diomedes’ horses makes us wonder whether
Oenomaus’ steeds also retain their attraction to human flesh, and how these
horses will be used in war. Would Hippodamus let unburied bodies be mangled
by animals in the manner of his ancestor (1.276f.), which is the kind of
behaviour that we associate with the Theban side? As there are no further
references to the horses, the reader is left with unresolved suspicions about the
propriety of the army’s behaviour. Ornytus’ allusions to flesh-eating horses
reawaken our doubts about the Argives as well as underlining Theban nefas.
Subversive connections may also come to mind in the case of Ornytus’
third comparison, where the burial-denying Creon is put on a par with human-
devouring Sirens. The desecration of bodies and eating of flesh have previously
been linked in the case of Tydeus. He denies his enemy the proper funerary rites

murmur, et ipse auditu turbatus ager, timor omnibus ingens, / quae placeat, quos illa fames
escendat in armos (‘just as when the hungry roar of a Hyrcanian tigress wafted itself towards
delicate heifers, and the very countryside is disturbed at the sound, and a mighty fear falls on
all, which animal will take her fancy, which necks that hungry beast will mount’).
‘Tantalus’ Crime, Argive Guilt and Desecration of Flesh in Statius’ Theb.’, R. E. Parkes 91

by requesting that the corpse be brought to him and the head severed (Theb.
8.754). He does not even leave Melanippus’ flesh to be eaten by beasts, but
feeds on it like a predatory animal (8.760f.).33 The Thebans are as roused as if
turbata sepulcris / ossa patrum monstrisque datae crudelibus urnae (‘the bones
of their fathers had been disturbed in the tombs and their urns given to savage
monsters’, 9.10f.). At Homer’s Iliad 22.346f., Achilles dismisses as an
impossibility the idea that he might devour Hector’s flesh after he has killed
him:34 instead, dogs and birds will consume the corpse (22.354). Tydeus
actually enacts Achilles’ desire in an extreme variant of the ‘desecration of a
corpse’ motif.35
What we have seen in the subtle deconstruction of Ornytus’ distancing
rhetoric, and the emergence of a counter-narrative illustrating Argive past sin, is
the difficulty of assigning moral judgments. This is not surprising, for there are
complex forces at work in the universe of the Thebaid: heredity and the gods, as
well as human individuals, have an impact on affairs. While we are right to
suspect Jupiter’s motives, we should recognise that his indignation concerning
Tantalus is not wholly unjustified. The past is an important presence in the
world of the Thebaid: memories linger, vices resurface, and men can be made to
pay for the sins of others, particularly of their ancestors.36 This lessens in no
way our sense that the Argives are unfairly and arbitrarily caught up in the
conflict. They are guilty by reason of a history that they had no choice other

33
Tydeus thereby fulfils Dis’ wish that sit qui rabidarum more ferarum / mandat atrox
hostile caput (‘let there be one who shall gnaw his enemy’s head in the manner of raging wild
beasts’, 8.71f.).
34
On the savagery of these lines, see Segal [31] 38f. Citation of Homer, Iliad is taken
from D. B. Munro and T. W. Allen (edd.), Homeri Opera3 2 (Oxford 1920).
35
Tydeus’ scene also shows the collapse of distinctions between innocent and guilty. The
Thebans regard Tydeus’ actions with horror, but are not so different from him as they like to
think. As Pollmann [29] 34 observes, they are prompted to desecrate his body because of his
treatment of Melanippus. We might add that as they rush to seize his corpse, they are likened
to carrion birds: non aliter subtexunt astra cateruae / incestarum auium, longe quibus aura
nocentem / aera desertasque tulit sine funere mortes (‘not otherwise do swarms of foul birds
veil the stars when a breeze from afar has brought them tainted air and bodies abandoned
without burial’, Theb. 9.27-29); this simile appears some twenty lines after Tydeus was
equated with predatory beasts (9.11).
36
See, e.g., the fate of Pentheus’ descendant Phaedimus (Theb. 2.575f.), or Dryas whose
ancestor Orion roused Diana’s enmity (7.255-58) and whose death seems to have been
engineered by the same goddess (9.875f.; M. Dewar, Statius, Thebaid IX [Oxford 1991] 217).
As Dryas shows in his pursuit of Arcadians who are favoured by Diana (9.842-45), it is not
always easy to separate inherited guilt from inherited hate and tendencies towards crime.
On the theme see Davis [3] 472; Ripoll [3] 37-40; R. Nagel, ‘Polynices the Charioteer:
Statius, Thebaid 6.296-549’, EMC 43 ns 18 (1999) 386f.; Bernstein [4] 364-69.
92 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 80-92 ISSN 1018-9017

than to inherit.37 And if, as is suggested, their guilt is also demonstrated by their
willingness to support Polynices (a decision made in the first instance by their
ruler Adrastus), the fact that the gods provided the forum for the fraternal war
helps to mitigate Argive culpability. Furthermore, there are competing points of
view: as well as divine versus mortal, there are the varying perspectives of the
Argives, the Thebans, and the reader. We should therefore expect differing
judgments. Ornytus quite naturally condemns Creon’s behaviour, which fails to
honour expected obligations towards an army which has (to his mind) invaded
fairly and has happened to be defeated. He is not conscious of the dark side of
his army’s conduct, just as he seems unaware of the moral difficulties involved
in participation in the fraternal war. We, however, can see a wider picture in
which Argive and Theban behaviour has often been equally culpable. We are
able to make connections between cause and effect. The soldiers who allow
Melanippus’ body to be consumed by Tydeus have Tantalus, Atreus, Lycaon
and Oenomaus as ancestors. Moreover, they are involved in conflict between
kin. Whilst war itself poses a threat to civilised behaviour, civil war multiplies
the risk. A key determinant in the disregard for the sanctities of burial lies in the
morally warped nature of the war. The study of guilt and innocence in the
Thebaid is rewarding precisely because it provides no simple answers. Instead,
it reveals the poem’s complexities.

37
A further complication is that some of their sinful history arises from the misdeeds of
the gods; e.g., Acrisius is angry because Jupiter has raped his daughter (Theb. 6.286f.).
 MARTIAL, EPIGRAMS 9.61 AND STATIUS, SILVAE 2.3:
BRANCHES FROM THE SAME TREE?

Carole E. Newlands
Department of Classics, University of Colorado, Boulder
Boulder, Colorado 80309, USA

Abstract. Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3 provide an interesting test case for
the interaction between Martial and Statius. While both poems draw on literary topoi about
trees from Horace through Ovid and Lucan, they interact with one another in word and
theme. This intersubjective form of literary engagement involves both opposition and
complementarity; read as a diptych, these poems reveal the literary and political potential of
the “occasional” genre.

‘You know, a tree is a tree. How many more do you need to look at?’
(R. Reagan, San Francisco, 12 March 1966)

Intertextuality, a familiar term today in Latin literary criticism, generally

implies a diachronic study of the relationship between a text and its
predecessors; it looks back to the past.1 For the Flavians that past was
particularly complex; they had to reckon with the weight not only of previous
Greek and Hellenistic poetry but also of Augustan and Neronian poetry, and
they were acutely aware of their estrangement from the values promoted by
their Augustan predecessors in particular. Thomas Greene, writing of the
humanist poets who felt themselves at an unbridgeable distance from their great
predecessors, much like the Flavians perhaps, comments on ‘the pathos of this
incomplete embrace’.2 One distinct form of intertextuality, however, appears in
the Flavian age that does not reflect the problem of cultural distance and
discontinuity. In the relatively short period of Domitian’s reign (AD 81-96), we
find contemporary poets engaged in creative interplay with each other’s work,
in particular Statius and Silius Italicus in epic and Statius and Martial in
occasional poetry.3

1
I would like to thank the following for the opportunity to give earlier versions of this
paper: William J. Dominik, John Garthwaite, Kyle Gervais and the Department of Classics,
University of Otago; Anthony Augoustakis and the Department of Classics, University of
Illinois Urbana-Champaign; Martin Hose, T. Fuhrer, I. Wiegand and the Department of
Greek and Latin Philology, Ludwig-Maximilians Universität, Munich; also, as always,
J. G. Henderson.
2
T. Greene, The Light in Troy (New Haven 1982) 43.
3
On the dating of the Punica, especially relative to Statius’ work, see J. J. L. Smolenaars,
Statius Thebaid 7: A Commentary (Leiden 1994) xvii-xviii; A. Augoustakis, ‘Silius Italicus, a

93
94 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

The relationship between Statius and Martial is especially unusual and

thus rich for exploration, since they shared several of the same patrons and
sometimes wrote for the same occasions. Their relationship has often been
discussed in sociological and biographical terms: they are regarded as client
poets, working in similar conditions of patronage; they moved in some of the
same social circles; yet while they wrote on several of the same topics, they did
so in different styles: Statius’ occasional poetry is generally elevated and
epicising whereas Martial’s is often familiar and even obscene.4 They have also
been regarded as rivals since, despite sharing patrons and themes, they did not
mention one another by name. This is particularly striking in the case of
Martial, whose output is so much more extensive; moreover, Silius Italicus is
named several times in the epigrams, always in complimentary fashion (4.14;
8.66; 9.86; 11.48, 50; also 6.64.10, 7.63.1). Silius, of course, unlike Statius, did
not venture onto Martial’s territory of occasional poetry. An example often
given for hostile rivalry between Martial and Statius is Martial 10.94, which
derides as dated poets who write on mythological themes, particularly from the
Theban cycle; Martial may here be targeting Statius’ epic poetry specifically.5
On the other hand Statius may have corrected Martial for getting his marbles
wrong when he cites alabaster and serpentine as among the precious stones
adorning the baths of Claudius Etruscus (Mart. 6.42.14); Statius makes a point
of declaring that these were not used (Silv. 1.5.35).6
My interest in this article is not in pursuing these rather limited terms of
comparison between the two poets and their shared themes, but rather in
exploring what seems to be a more thorough and more sophisticated sphere of
literary and social interaction between them, a synchronic dialectic that

Flavian Poet’, in A. Augoustakis (ed.) Brill’s Companion to Silius Italicus (Leiden 2010) 6-8;
R. J. Littlewood, A Commentary on Silius Italicus Punica 7 (Oxford 2011) xviii-xix, lvi-lvii.
H. V. Lovatt, ‘Interplay: Silius and Statius in the Games of Punica 16’, in Augoustakis
[above, this note] 155-78 provides a sustained discussion of the interaction between these two
poets.
4
Shared themes are Stella’s wedding (Silv. 1.2, Mart. 6.21), the baths of Claudius
Etruscus (Silv. 1.5, Mart. 6.42), the death of Melior’s foster son Glaucias (Silv. 2.1, Mart.
6.28f.), the birthday of Lucan (Silv. 2.7, Mart. 7.21-23), Earinus and the dedication of his hair
(Silv. 3.4; Mart. 9.11-13, 16f., 36), the statue of Hercules owned by Novius Vindex (Silv. 4.6,
Mart. 9.43f.); see R. R. Nauta, Poetry for Patrons: Literary Communication in the Age of
Domitian (Leiden 2002) 88f.
5
Cf. also Mart. 4.49, which scorns mythological epic as an inflated genre, but without
reference to Thebes. Martial takes a typical epigrammatic stance; there is no need to assume
that Statius in particular is being targeted.
6
Nauta [4] 264-67 assumes the mistake must be Martial’s.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 95

complements their diachronic allusive practices.7 To illustrate the complexity of

their engagement with one another, let me first take a brief example, the poems
that Martial and Statius wrote for Lucan’s widow Polla, on the occasion of his
posthumous birthday; the poems must have been written close to the same time,
for the same patron.8 Statius’ poem, Silvae 2.7, is in hendecasyllables and 135
lines long; Martial wrote three epigrams for the same occasion (7.21-23), each
four lines long; the number of poems perhaps compensated for Statius’ gift of
one. Martial’s poems are elegantly commemorative; Statius, on the other hand,
uses the occasion of Lucan’s birthday to defend at some length Lucan’s
reputation as an epic poet which then, as now, was under attack.9 All the same,
the similarities between Martial’s epigrams and Statius’ poem are striking. Both
Martial and Statius several times make the same etymological pun between
‘Lucan’ and the words for ‘day’ (or light), dies and lux, a pun that derives from
Seneca.10 Moreover, as Alex Hardie points out, both mention Polla’s loyalty to
her husband and say nothing about Lucan’s legal or political career.11 Statius
abandons his usual hexameter for the festive hendecasyllable in honour of the
birthday occasion. His choice of metre reverses his normal relationship with
Martial; the hendecasyllable was lower in the metrical hierarchy than the
elegiac.12 The hexameter would have been traditional for epic praise; Statius
draws attention to his unusual choice of metre in the preface to his second book

7
There is no available term for this special form of intertextuality. Greene [2] 49f. briefly
acknowledges there is a problem of terminology and method in discussing the relationship
between texts close to one another in time, where there is not the issue of temporal rupture.
But he dodges the issue by claiming ‘there is no perfectly reliable rule of thumb’ for
addressing the questions such close interaction raises.
8
Nauta’s [4] Appendix 441-44 provides the publication dates for Martial and Statius and
assumes that their poems on Lucan are contemporaneous (442f.). Did they share drafts of
their poems with one another before presenting them to Polla? Did one borrow from the
other? These are unanswerable questions.
9
See C. Newlands, ‘The First Biography of Lucan: Statius Siluae 2.7’, in P. Asso (ed.),
Brill’s Companion to Lucan (Leiden 2011) 435-51.
10
J. Henderson, A Roman Life: Rutilius Gallicus on Paper and in Stone (Exeter 1998) 12
points out that Seneca puns similarly on the name Lucilius. Other specific parallels between
Statius’ and Martial’s birthday poems: Nero as a ‘hateful shade’ (Silv. 2.7.116-19, Mart.
7.21.3); pride of Lucan’s homeland in its poet (2.7.24-35, 7.22.3f.); diplomatic praise of
Lucan’s widow Polla (2.7.81-88, 7.21.2) and her interest in a poetic cult of Lucan
(2.7.120-31, 7.23.3f.).
11
A. Hardie, Statius and the Siluae: Poets, Patrons and Epideixis in the Graeco-Roman
World (Liverpool 1983) 70.
12
L. Morgan, Musa Pedestris: Metre and Meaning in Roman Verse (Oxford 2010) 105.
96 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

(2 praef. 25f.).13 Although Martial and Statius approached the same occasion
from the different generic standpoints of epigram and Silvae, their interaction
simultaneously involves provocative, unpredictable interplay and convergence.
The self-conscious, inter-subjective form of intertextuality exhibited in
these poems draws attention to the composition process, forged not only from
meditation on the past but also in ‘the cut and thrust’ of contemporary literary
politics.14 The dynamic interaction between Martial and Statius seems to have
been both oppositional and complementary. It puts the spotlight on their generic
and ideological differences but also reveals their shared principles as regards
occasional poetry. Importantly, they share a fundamental paradox of occasional
poetry, namely its ambitious aims. For instance, Lucan as well as Ovid is an
important presence in their poetry. As we shall see, the former’s influence as
epic poet goes well beyond the celebratory birthday poems;15 Lucan adds
political depth and complexity to the traditional levity of occasional themes.
Moreover, Martial and Statius are responsible for a significant innovation in
Flavian literature: both attach prose prefaces to their poetry books so that the
collected short poems present an impressive face to the outside world.16 There is
no transmitted evidence for literary prose prefaces to poetry books before
Martial and Statius.17 This suggests for one thing that both poets clearly had a
heightened sense of the ‘occasional’ poetry book as a significant literary unit
that should therefore be presented with special packaging and protection with a
preface—and with an important dedicatee to whom the poetry book is given as
a gift. Martial and Statius wrote short occasional poems, but for publication
both thought big.

13
See C. Newlands (ed.) Statius Siluae Book 2: A Commentary (Cambridge 2011) ad
Silv. 2. praef. 25f.; see also Morgan [12] 51. Morgan [12] 106-13 provides a detailed
discussion of the metrical distinctiveness of Silv. 2.7.
14
To use the term of Lovatt [3] 175.
15
If we possessed Lucan’s lost ten books of Silvae (mentioned in Vacca’s life), we might
be able to say a lot more about the Neronian poet’s influence on the short occasional poem.
On the other hand, our knowledge of these works might obscure the interesting, even
paradoxical importance of Lucan the epic poet on Statius’ and Martial’s occasional poetry.
16
Nauta [4] 374-78. He argues that Statius probably followed Martial’s example in this
regard, though Statius has prose prefaces for all four published books, whereas Martial has
prose prefaces for only books 1, 2, 8, 9, 12. N. Johannsen, Dichter über ihre Gedichte: Die
Prosavorreden in den Epigrammaton Libri Martialis und in den Siluae des Statius (Göttingen
2006) offers an in-depth study of the relationship between the two in their use of prefaces, or
‘paratexts’. For a general overview of scholarship, see Newlands [13] 57f.
17
T. Janson, Latin Prose Prefaces: Studies in Literary Conventions (Stockholm 1964)
107-12.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 97

In the rest of this article I will examine two poems that have, with a few
significant exceptions, been largely overlooked in studies of the interaction
between the two poets and yet that seem to me to have programmatic
significance both for their work and their relationship to one another:
Martial 9.61 and Silvae 2.3.18 These two poems illustrate an interest in
developing the aesthetic and political possibilities of occasional poetry and
raising it to the level of a significant literary form; the sustained interaction
between the two poems is an integral part of that process. Martial and Statius
were astute readers of one another’s work.
Silvae 2.3 and Martial 9.61 are unique in their authors’ oeuvres, for their
theme is a special tree belonging to a villa estate. A poem about a tree in the
middle of a collection called Silvae (‘Woods’), a polysemous term and
collective plural meaning ‘Wood/Woods’ and ‘poetic material’ (to be crafted
into interesting forms), not surprisingly has a programmatic quality.19 So too
when Martial writes about a tree we might suspect that he is taking on Statius
and his ‘occasional’ poetics; there is no other comparable ‘tree’ poem in
Martial’s works.20 On the other hand, when Statius in the preface to book 2
refers to Silvae 2.3 as quasi epigrammatis loco scriptos (‘written like an
epigram’, 2 praef. 15f.), we can fairly suspect that he is challenging, or
responding to, Martial’s development of the genre.
Cross-referencing between poets who were contemporaries naturally
raises questions of chronology—who is imitating whom here—and often, as we
saw with the poems on Lucan’s birthday, these are impossible to determine with
precision. With Martial and Statius we are at least more fortunate than with
Silius Italicus, whose dates of composition for individual books remain
uncertain.21 In this instance, we happen to be fairly certain that Martial’s book 9
was published late in 94 or early in 95, approximately one year after Silvae
18
The thematic and verbal similarities between the two poems have been well
documented by C. Henriksén, Martial, Book IX: A Commentary 2 (Uppsala 1999) 56; see
also P. Hardie, ‘Statius’ Ovidian Poetics and the Tree of Atedius Melior (Silvae 2.3)’, in
R. Nauta et al. (edd.) Flavian Poetry (Leiden 2005) 207-21, esp. 215-17.
19
Going by a line count, Silv. 2.3 occupies the virtual centre of book 2; moreover, as the
ninth poem of an eighteen poem collection (books 1-3), it is the central poem of the poetry
book. On the meaning of Silvae, see D. Wray, ‘Wood: Statius’ Siluae and the Poetics of
Genius’, in A. Augoustakis and C. Newlands (edd.), Statius’ Siluae and the Poetics of
Intimacy (Baltimore 2007) 127-43.
20
Interesting too is the positioning of Mart. 9.58, an epigram to the nymph of a lake; in
Silv. 2.3 the tree shelters a nymph hiding in a lake. But Martial’s lake nymph is acerbic; she
has no use for poetry (7f.). The epigram is perhaps a kind of witty ‘prequel’ to Martial’s more
‘Silvan’ effort three poems later.
21
See above, n. 3. Mart. 7.63 strongly suggests that by AD 92 several books of the
Punica were in circulation, at least through recitation.
98 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

books 1-3 were published as a set; when Martial 9.61 was composed, however,
is impossible to determine.22 Henriksén, who documents the similarities
between the two poems, assumes that Martial used Statius as a model.23 But
given the social conditions in which occasional poetry was produced in this
period, we cannot assume with certainty that Martial is alluding to Statius here,
for there is the possibility that Martial’s poem was in circulation earlier in draft
form and through recitation; it therefore would have been known by Statius,
especially since the publication of the poems was only about a year apart. And
as I suggested above, Statius seems to be challenging Martial in the genre of
epigram. These two poems offer an interesting illustration of an ongoing,
sophisticated literary interaction.
Tying the two poems closely together is not just the unusual fact that the
two poems are about a tree, but that they are about the same kind of tree, a
plane. In the ancient world this particular tree was rich in symbolism, though it
was not sacred to a deity. It was a garden tree highly prized for its shade in hot
Mediterranean climates. The elder Pliny comments disdainfully that the plane
was initially imported to Italy just for its shade (HN 12.6), for it could grow to
enormous size. As a luxury item the plane was closely associated with regal or
imperial power. Pliny lists some famous plane trees (HN 12.9-11), among them
one large enough for the emperor Caligula to entertain fifteen guests and
servants at a banquet in what he called, in rather sinister fashion, his ‘nest’.24
One of the strangest instances of a kingly fetish for a plane tree involved
Xerxes: on his way to Sardis he was captivated by a beautiful plane tree and
decorated it with golden ornaments (Hdt. 7.27), a passion commemorated in
Handel’s famous Largo from his otherwise neglected comic opera Serse.25
According to Pliny again, locals on Crete claim that a special variety of plane
which never sheds its leaves was the very tree under which Zeus coupled with

22
See Nauta [4] 287-89, who argues that each of the first three books of the Silvae was
first published separately before being collected as a set in 94; book 2, according to his
argument, was published in 93. See also K. Coleman (ed. and tr.), Statius Siluae IV: Edited
with an English Translation and Commentary (Oxford 1988) xvi-xvii. On the publication of
Martial’s epigrams late in 94 or early 95, see also C. Henriksén, Martial, Book IX: A
Commentary 1 (Uppsala 1998) 11-13.
23
Henriksén [18] 56.
24
Pliny mentions a plane tree that had fifty-foot-long roots that spread wider than its
branches (HN 12.9). He also tells of a plane tree that had a hollow cavity measuring eighty-
one feet across where a particular senator, wishing to perform a deed worthy of
commemoration for posterity, held a banquet for eighteen friends which included an
overnight stay. Caligula’s tree house seems to have been slightly smaller; it held fifteen
guests and servants (HN 12.9f.).
25
F. H. Stubbings, ‘Xerxes and the Plane Tree’, G&R 15 (1946) 63-67.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 99

Europa (HN 12.12f.). Despite Pliny’s scorn, the legend associates the plane tree
with dynastic strength and fertility; this ‘evergreen’ plane was successfully
reproduced in Italy as well as Crete. (Trees in general, of course, as our own
metaphor of ‘the family tree’ demonstrates, are traditionally associated with
family strength and lineage; as Henderson shows, the genealogical symbolism
goes all the way back to the Odyssey.26)
But there was another quite different tradition about the plane tree. It was
also a philosopher’s tree, ever since in Plato’s Phaedrus Socrates and Plato
stopped to rest and converse beneath a plane tree shading a beautiful stream
(229a-b, 230b).27 The debate in Cicero’s De Oratore over the role of oratory in
a changed world lacking republican freedoms takes place under a plane tree on
Crassus’ Tusculan estate.28 The plane tree was also a poet’s tree. Alex Hardie
has shown that the plane was associated in antiquity with the Muses and their
shrines;29 the statue honouring the Hellenistic poet Philitas, for instance,
depicted him under a plane (Hermesianax fr. 7.75-7830).31 It was a Horatian tree
also, appearing in Odes 2.11 with the pine as the symbol of an otium enjoyed in
withdrawal from politics and war (13f.).
These competing traditions about the plane are reflected in the poems of
Martial and Statius. Silvae 2.3 and Martial 9.61 are an offshoot of the villa
poem; they describe not the house, but the special tree which grows on the
estate. Statius’ tree belongs to Atedius Melior.32 As a wealthy patron of the arts
who has withdrawn from politics to his villa on the Caelian hill in Rome, Melior
is an example of a common phenomenon of the imperial period, the man of
wealth who pursues a learned, virtuous form of otium within the confines of his
own property; virtue could be more securely cultivated when it was detached

26
J. Henderson, ‘The Name of the Tree’, JHS 117 (1997) 87-116.
27
Gardens, of course, were strongly associated with philosophy through the Gardens of
Epicurus; see D. Spencer, Roman Landscape: Culture and Identity (Cambridge 2011) 109.
28
See J. Linderski, ‘Garden Parlors: Nobles and Birds’, in R. I. Curtis (ed.), Studia
Pompeiana et Classica 2 (New York 1989) 105-27. In Silv. 3.1.64-67 Pollius Felix with
Statius and other friends study philosophy and poetry under a tree of spreading shade that is
probably a plane. On the influence of the Phaedrus on later literary topography, see also
A. Hardie, ‘Philetas and the Plane Tree’, ZPE 143 (1997) 28-30.
29
Hardie [28] esp. 27-30. Plato was buried in the Mouseion at Athens, probably near a
grove of plane trees; see also A. Hardie, ‘The Statue(s) of Philetas’, ZPE 143 (2003) 27-36.
30
J. U. Powell (ed.), Collectanea Alexandrina (Oxford 1925) 96-106.
31
See Hardie [28] 24-26, 32f.
32
Our information about Melior comes solely from the Silvae of Statius and the epigrams
of Martial; cf. Mart. 2.69, 4.54, 8.38.
100 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

from civic ambition.33 In its connection with intellectual friendship and ethical
withdrawal from political life, the poem lightly draws on the philosophical
associations of the plane; Statius also gives it an erotic dimension. The occasion
for his poem is Melior’s birthday; a plane tree of unusual shape in his garden
inspires Statius to invent an aetiological myth explaining that the tree was
planted by a remorseful Pan after his attempted rape of a nymph; the nymph in
question hid in what was to become Melior’s lake, and the new tree shaded and
protected her hiding place, amorously dipping down to the water and then
chastely soaring aloft, a symbol of both objectivized desire and guardianship.
The narrative departs from its Ovidian model by avoiding the violence and rape
that almost inevitably accompanies such narratives.34 The eulogy of Melior in
the final part of the poem (Silv. 2.3.62-77) associates him with the tree as a
generous and protective friend. As Hardie points out, Statius balances here
Ovidian models with Horatian ethics and poetics.35 Martial’s plane tree on the
other hand draws on its political associations with dynastic strength and
stability. In Statius’ poem the god Pan plants the tree, but in Martial’s epigram
the planter is Julius Caesar. Martial thus brings politics and history to the tree
poem.
Despite the different symbolism of the tree in the two poems, there are
many points of contact. Both poets enhance the significance of the tree through
mythology, but Statius to a far greater degree than Martial. Verbal parallels
stress the debt of one to the other: for the act of ‘planting’ both poets use similar
verbs, deposuit (Silv. 2.3.41), posuere (Mart. 9.61.22); more strikingly, Fauni
(Silv. 2.3.7, Mart. 9.61.11) and the phrase per agros (2.3.13, 9.61.13) are in the
same metrical position at line end in each poem. Appropriately enough, in the
middle section of his epigram (9.61.11-14), Martial refers to a nymph hiding
from Pan, the basic mythological situation of Silvae 2.3. Thus distinctive themes
of Statius’ Silvae, villa description and the intermingling of the human and
mythological realms, are woven into Martial’s epigram.
Curiously both poems are set in locations that seem contrary to their
respective political orientations. Whereas Statius’ plane tree grows in the very
centre of imperial Rome, in Melior’s Ovidian garden on the Caelian Hill,
Martial’s plane tree grows in Spanish Tartessus, a byword for the far west:
in Tartesiacis domus est notissima terris (‘there is a most notable house in the
territory of Tartessus’, Mart. 9.61.1). Notissima is ironic, given the great

33
K. S. Myers, ‘Doctia Otia: Garden Ownership and Configurations of Leisure in Statius
and Pliny the Younger’, Arethusa 38 (2005) 103-29; R. Gibson and R. Morello, Reading the
Letters of Pliny the Younger: An Introduction (Cambridge 2012) 172-87.
34
On the Ovidian models for this poem, see Newlands [13] 157f.
35
Hardie [18] 217-21.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 101

distance of the region from Rome; moreover, unlike Statius, who identifies the
owner in the first line (stat quae perspicuas nitidi Melioris opacet / arbor aquas
complexa lacus, ‘there stands a tree which overshadows the clear waters of
brilliant Melior’s lake with its embrace’, Silv. 2.3.1f.), the owner of the Spanish
house is never named, adding to the sense of remoteness; there is no question of
one of the Roman notables here.36 The house stands out, it emerges, for the tree
that Caesar planted, but it is ‘most notable’ surely only from a local
perspective—or at least until the poet explains why it is worthy of our attention
too.
Indeed, Martial’s epigram, which is a thematic anomaly in his work, has
an air of mystery about it. As an occasional poem, it has no clear occasion. The
importance of the plane and the identity of its planter are not fully revealed until
the end (9.61.19-22); we do not know who owns the house in the present. The
poem was written after a party the night before (15-18), but the host and the
guests remain unnamed; taking a leaf out of Statius’ book, for the poet liked to
intermingle humans with gods, Martial uncharacteristically names only Fauns,
Pan and nymphs as the revelers (11-14).
The political nature of Martial’s poem is thus not immediately clear. The
poem seems to begin as a description of a luxury villa, like Martial 3.58 on
Bassus’ villa, and indeed the introduction of the tree (aedibus in mediis totos
amplexa penates / stat platanus, ‘there stands in the middle of the house a plane
tree, entirely embracing its sacred interior’, Mart. 9.61.5f.) echoes, or is echoed
in, Statius’ opening lines. The first word of Statius’ poem is likewise stat;
Statius inscribes his name in the opening word, a hint of the programmatic
nature of this ‘tree poem’, despite its description in the preface as ‘lightweight’
(Silv. 2 praef. 15). Stat perhaps also wittily alludes to Horace, the Roman
founder, so to speak, of the ‘tree poem’, though Horace was almost killed by the
tree that crashed down on his estate (Carm. 2.11, 3.22); Statius’ tree by contrast
is in no danger of toppling but is firmly rooted! Enjambment in Martial’s poem
also draws particular attention to stat, surely a sly allusion to Statius and his
‘woodsy’ poetry, if not to Silvae 2.3 in particular.37 Martial’s tree embraces the
penates as Statius’ tree ‘embraces’ (complexa, Silv. 2.3.2) a lake. The tree
growing in the middle of the house has a parallel in Statius’ villa poem Silvae
1.3.59-63, where a sturdy tree grows in the middle of Vopiscus’ beautiful home
at Tibur, offering shelter to the nymphs (mediis seruata penatibus arbor, ‘a tree
preserved in the very middle of the house’, 59).
36
See Henriksén [18] ad Mart. 9.61.1.
37
J. G. Henderson, Writing Down Rome (Oxford 1999) 123f. shows the influence of
Horace’s tree poems upon Statius and Martial. Silv. 2.3 probably alludes not only to the
falling tree but to Carm. 2.11 which unites the plane and the pine (13f.). The pine is sacred to
Pan, the planter of the plane tree in Silv. 2.3.
102 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

Yet it is precisely at the point where he alludes to Statius that Martial’s

poem takes a surprising turn of direction, by contrast to Silvae 2.3, into the
political; this tree is ‘Caesarian’:

stat platanus densis Caesariana comis,

hospitis inuicti posuit quam dextera felix,
coepit et ex illa crescere uirga manu.
auctorem dominumque nemus sentire uidetur:
sic uiret et ramis sidera celsa petit.
(Mart. 9.61.6-10)
There stands a plane tree, Caesar’s, with thickly leaved foliage,
which the fortunate hand of the unconquered guest planted.
As a shoot it began to grow from that man’s hand.
A virtual grove, it seems to acknowledge its author and master
in the way that it flourishes green and seeks the stars with its branches.

In fact line 5 of Martial’s poem subtly prepares for this political turn with its
allusion to two Vergilian passages about ‘political trees’. Amplexa penates
alludes to the description of an ancient laurel that ‘embraced the penates’ of
Priam’s palace: iuxtaque ueterrima laurus / incumbens arae atque umbra
complexa penatis (‘close by was a very ancient laurel tree curving over the altar
and embracing the penates with its shade’, Verg. Aen. 2.513f.). But that laurel
was very old, a symbol therefore of Priam’s collapsing dynasty. In the second
Vergilian reference a laurel grows in Latinus’ palace that has this time been
carefully preserved; and like Martial’s plane, it grows in the middle of the
house: laurus erat tecti medio in penetralibus altis / sacra comam multosque
metu seruata per annos (‘a sacred laurel was in the middle of the house, deep
inside, sacred in its leaves and preserved by reverence for many years’, Aen.
7.59f.). Statius too with his prominent use of the word complexa (Silv. 2.3.2)
may also be alluding to these Vergilian passages, but if so, it is to make the
point that by contrast, his tree is resolutely unepic and non-political.38
The ‘Caesarian’ tree of Martial’s poem, however, has grown from a shoot
(9.61.8) to seek the stars (10), a symbol therefore of a healthy dynasty and a
reference to Julius Caesar’s apotheosis.
Yet it is clear only at the poem’s end (Mart. 9.61.19-22) that Julius
Caesar planted the tree. When introduced, the plane is simply called
Caesariana (‘Caesar’s’, 6), an epithet often used of Julius Caesar, but also of
any emperor; Martial uses it elsewhere of Domitian (cf. Pallas Caesariana
[8.1.4], i.e., Domitian’s Minerva). Indeed dominum at line 9 could also evoke

38
Likewise Silv. 1.3.59 probably alludes to Verg. Aen. 7.59f. and thus establishes the
cultural and political distance between the palace and the villa.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 103

that emperor, for Martial quite often uses it of Domitian in the third person.39
Even though the Julio-Claudian dynasty had come to an end, the epithet
Caesariana allows Martial to stress the continuity between the Julio-Claudians
and the Flavians. Thus Domitian is in a sense behind this poem and behind the
figure of Julius Caesar. Since book 9 has considerably more epigrams
concerning Domitian than any other book of Martial, he is also an implied
reader of this epigram.40
The political turn has a playful note. As Nisbet commented, ‘trees are like
people’—and the Latin vocabulary for trees emphasises the similarity: trees
have a ‘trunk’ (truncus); their leaves are called ‘hair’ (comae); their ‘branches’
are called arms (bracchia).41 As Hardie notes, the juxtaposition of Caesariana
comis ‘activates the Caesar-caesaries (“hair”) pun, although this tree’s foliage
is perhaps not the best match for this man’s notoriously thin head of hair’.42
Domitian too, of course, was known for his baldness (caluus Nero, ‘the bald
Nero’, Juv. 4.38). As Hardie notes, the playful pun is appropriate for the
pastoral and symposiastic setting of the tree (9.61.11-18), yet it also keeps in
play the ambiguity of Caesariana—which Caesar?
The association here between Julius Caesar and Domitian is odd, since
Caesar’s general reputation in the first century AD was that of a cruel autocrat
whose main political contribution was posthumous; as the first diuus he
established the principle of imperial deification.43 For Henriksén this is the
justification for Martial’s poem; the tree is ‘a symbol of the eternal succession
of divine Roman emperors’;44 and the Flavian dynasty is thus a happy
continuation of the Julio-Claudians. Yet the final four lines of the poem, where
the political ramifications are made more explicit, put into question the principle
of ‘eternal succession’. Individual trees, like rulers, can flourish, but they can
also be cut down.
The particular surprise in the epigram relates to the delay in clearly
identifying Julius Caesar as the person who planted the tree. The identification
is made in the unexpected context of his civil wars with Pompey and sons, and

39
Henriksén [22] 119-21.
40
Henriksén [22] 21-23.
41
R. G. M. Nisbet, ‘The Oak and the Axe’, in S. J. Harrison (ed.) R. G. M. Nisbet,
Collected Papers on Latin Literature (Oxford 1995) 202-12; see also E. Gowers, ‘Talking
Trees: Philemon and Baucis Revisited’, Arethusa 38 (2005) 331-65 on Ovid’s development
of trees’ anthropomorphic possibilities.
42
Hardie [18] 217.
43
Hardie [11] 190f.
44
Henriksén [18] 54f.
104 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

his assassination; the tone here changes abruptly from the preceding festive
scene:

o dilecta deis, o magni Caesaris arbor,

ne metuas ferrum sacrilegosque focos.
perpetuos sperare licet tibi frondis honores:
non Pompeianae te posuere manus.
(Mart. 9.61.19-22)
O tree of great Caesar, beloved of the gods,
may you not fear the axe or sacrilegious hearths.
You may expect eternal honours for your foliage:
Pompeian hands did not plant you.

Martial plays with the identity of the planter to almost the end of the poem, for
magni, of course, is Pompey the Great’s epithet. With this transference of
Pompey’s epithet to Caesar, Martial indicates Caesar’s victory over his rival,
while hinting at their tragic similarity or even interchangeability, and he
anticipates the last line of the poem: non Pompeianae te posuere manus
(‘Pompeian hands did not plant you’, 9.61.22). Yet line 20, where Martial
expresses the hope that this tree will not need to fear the axe or sacrilegious
hearths, is also a reminder of the ruler’s vulnerability, for is there not a
reference here to Julius Caesar’s eventual assassination? A fundamental, uneasy
oxymoron underlines these last lines. Caesar, unlike his tree, succumbed to
weapons and sacrilege—a reminder of the vulnerability of power but also,
through the flourishing tree he planted, of dynastic resilience through
deification.
In this epigram Martial has reversed a key image from the start of
Lucan’s epic, the comparison of Pompey to a great but decaying oak
(Luc. 1.130-43). Martial has appropriated Lucan’s image of a tree and used it
for Pompey’s rival, Julius Caesar, though this tree, by contrast to the decaying
Pompeian oak, grows tall and seeks the stars. Yet the covert analogy with
Pompey’s tree raises the question of whether Caesar’s tree will be an exception
and not succumb either to the natural laws of mutability or to human passions.
In presenting Julius Caesar as the planter of trees, Martial has also
reversed Lucan’s epic portrayal of Julius Caesar as an evil, sacrilegious tree
cutter. In book 3 of the Bellum Civile (399-45), Caesar cuts down a sacred grove
of the Gauls. Lucan here connects deforestation explicitly with imperialism. Not
only did Caesar violate the local gods; he caused the local economy to suffer
also when the harvest was left to rot after their oxen were taken by the Romans
to transport the wood for Caesar’s war. Caesar seems to violate the grove with
impunity, but Lucan’s poem implies that fate, or the gods, will catch up with
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 105

him later.45 Surely there is some irony involved in making history’s most
notorious tree feller associated ‘for eternity’ with a living tree. Caesar’s plane
tree is a symbol of dynastic resilience and success, to be sure, but the epigram
also does not let the reader forget that trees too can be cut down; the symbol and
its referent can cohere.46 Since trees, moreover, lend themselves easily to
anthropomorphic imagery, the poem blurs the distinction between the tree as a
symbol of dynastic strength and as a figure of Julius Caesar, particularly in
these last four lines; Caesar’s dual role as both sacrilegious tree cutter and the
victim of sacrilege is interwoven. Allusions to Ovid’s myth of Erysichthon
(Met. 8.738-878), which underpin Lucan’s tree-felling episode, hint at the
vulnerability of even the tallest, most sacred of trees. Martial’s apostrophe to
Caesar’s tree (o dilecta deis, ‘o beloved of the gods’, 9.61.19) alludes to
Erysichthon’s scornful words addressed to Ceres’ tree (dilecta deae, ‘beloved of
the goddess’, Met. 8.755); the pastoral scene of Fauns playing under the tree
(saepe sub hac madidi luserunt arbore Fauni, ‘often under this tree the tipsy
Fauns played’, 9.61.11) evokes the pathos of the Dryads who used to dance
under Ceres’ sacred tree (saepe sub hac Dryades festas duxere choreas, ‘often
under this tree the Dryads led their festive dances’, Met. 8.746-48). But divine
protection could not save Ceres’ tree from Erysichthon’s random act of
sacrilegious violence.
Line 20 of Martial’s poem may allude also to Statius’ tree of Silvae 1.3,
which ‘is destined not to suffer the cruel axe under this master’ (quo non sub
domino saeuas passura bipennes, 61). Statius’ expression saeuas . . . bipennes
alludes to Erysichthon’s ‘cruel axe’ (saeuamque . . . bipennem, Met. 8.766).
The Julio-Claudian dynasty, of course, as well as its founder, did collapse; it is
imperialism that continues to flourish through the tree. As Henderson
comments, ‘marking the end of the Republican world at its farthest Western
edge, this tree plants on the map, for keeps, the symbolic stock of an “eternal
life token” for the domus Caesariana’.47 But given the poem’s earlier, subtle
association between Julius Caesar and Domitian Caesar, there seems to be a
contrapuntal reminder, or warning, of memento mori running through the
epigram’s coda. In 9.61 Martial takes a fresh look at the epic topos of
‘tree cutting’ and cuts it down to epigrammatic size; the appropriation and
compression of epic themes give particular point and nuance to the complex
semiotics of ‘Caesar’s tree’.

45
See A. Augoustakis, ‘Cutting Down the Grove in Lucan, Valerius Maximus, and Dio
Cassius’, CQ 56 (2006) 634-38.
46
Martial’s poem also plays upon a theme in epic poetry whereby the comparison of a
warrior killed in battle to a fallen tree was a recognized trope (cf. Hom. Il. 4.482-87).
47
Henderson [37] 124.
106 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

When might Julius Caesar have planted the tree? He campaigned twice in
Martial’s home territory of Hispania Ulterior, once in 49 BC at the start of civil
war with Pompey Magnus, and then again with Pompey’s sons in 46-45 BC in
the final reckoning of that war, a struggle that, according to our sole source,
De Bello Hispaniensi, was notable for its savagery. The region of Tartessus
(southwest Spain) was close to the thick of the fighting; Corduba, mentioned in
the epigram’s second line in pastoral-idyllic terms, was the centre of Pompeian
operations and saw a massacre of over twenty thousand of the Pompeians after
Caesar’s victory at Munda (B. Hisp. 32-34); at Hispalis, another major city of
the region, the head of Gnaeus Pompey was displayed after his capture and
execution (B. Hisp. 39). Presumably the tree, if it actually existed, could have
been planted in either 49 or 45. Martial cleverly fudges the issue in the last line
of 9.61 with the reference to ‘Pompeian hands’, which could refer either to
Pompey Magnus or to his sons. In Martial’s time, Corduba was famous also as
the hometown of Seneca and Lucan, victims of Nero, the last of the Julio-
Claudian dynasty. On the one hand, the opening of the poem (in Tartesiacis . . .
terris, ‘in the territory of Tartessus’, 9.61.1) sets the poem in a seemingly
remote area far from the Caesars; on the other hand, it connects the poem with
some of the most savage fighting of civil war history. Non Pompeianae te
posuere manus (‘Pompeian hands did not plant you’, 22) recalls line 7 (hospitis
inuicti posuit quam dextera felix, ‘which the fortunate hand of the unconquered
guest planted’), but the poem raises the question of whether Caesar in Spain
was welcome guest or enemy, hospitis or hos(pi)tis?
Thus far, Martial’s shorter poem seems far more complex than Silvae 2.3.
It is time then to return to Statius and to the point at which these two poems
converge, in their exploitation of the tree’s literary significance as a stable
symbol of poetic immortality; here, too, despite Melior’s withdrawal from the
political scene, we surprisingly find Julius Caesar acting as a foil for the poet’s
self-positioning in the Flavian age. Like Martial, Statius emphasises the
longevity of the tree. Thus Pan commands the tree, uiue diu nostri pignus
memorabile uoti (‘live a long time, memorable pledge of my desire’, 2.3.43).
The god here echoes Lucan’s Julius Caesar who, on his visit to the ruins of
Troy, addresses the Palladium as Pallas . . . pignus memorabile (‘Pallas . . .
memorable pledge’, Luc. 9.994). By wresting the allusion away from politics
and a ruined landscape to a garden, Statius emphasises not only the enduring
power of poetry but also the importance of the theme of political withdrawal. It
may be significant that Pallas Minerva was Domitian’s patron deity. By
diverting the address from Pallas to Melior’s tree, Statius suggests the symbolic
importance of the plane as a living object with nonetheless a long cultural
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 107

lineage, a master-trope of the cultural shift represented by doctum otium.48 The

imperative uiue also here echoes Lucan’s famous address to Caesar and to
poetry, a few lines earlier (9.980-86), where Lucan emphasizes that only poetry,
not potentates, can confer immortality, concluding Pharsalia nostra / uiuet
(‘our Pharsalia will live on’, 985—Caesar’s battle, but Lucan’s poem), an
important, but uneasy statement that poetic immortality comes at a cost and,
although his poem will outlive Caesar, it will always be tainted by the narrative
of Caesar’s deeds.49 Pan’s Lucanian mandate for long life for the tree is echoed
towards the end of Silvae 2.3 in the explicit analogy that Statius draws between
his poem and the tree: haec tibi parua quidem genitali luce paramus / dona, sed
ingenti forsan uictura sub aeuo (‘I am preparing this gift for your birthday;
small though it may be, it will perhaps live for a very long time’, 62f.). There
may be here an implicit apology for co-opting Lucan’s famous words for a short
birthday poem, but Statius thus emphasises also the poet’s power to create and
preserve memory in even so-called minor poetry; moreover, although he draws
on the prestige of his patron, his hope for immortality lacks the taint of Lucan’s
tormented relationship with Caesar.
Moreover, the allusion to Lucan may point to a political underpinning,
after all, of Statius’ poem. Statius departs from conventional praise of his friend
by emphasising that Melior lives a life without fraud, without the need to hide:
qua nunc placidi Melioris aperti / stant sine fraude lares (‘where the open-
doored home of peaceful Melior now stands, without deception’, 2.3.15f.).50
Stant connects Melior’s home with the plane tree (stat, 1); both have the virtues
not just of peacefulness but of protection from violence, of safe shelter. Critics
have suggested that Melior may have been in political trouble and for that
reason had withdrawn to his villa in Rome; the suggestion was prompted by the
poem’s concluding reference to Melior’s friend Blaesus (77).51 We are not
entirely sure who this Blaesus was, but a likely candidate is a legate who had
been a close supporter of Vitellius in the civil wars of AD 68-69, on the losing

48
On the idea of ‘learned leisure’ see above, n. 33.
49
See on this passage E. Narducci, Lucano: Un’epica contro l’impero (Rome 2002)
171-83, esp. 179f. The lines, of course, as Narducci [above, this note] 183 n. 47 points out,
also echo Vergil’s famous apostrophe to Nisus and Euryalus (Aen. 9.446f.) and the
triumphant Ovid’s conclusion to his epic (Met. 15.879), where the poet joins and overtakes
his Caesar, Augustus, in the eternity stakes with flight above the stars. But Lucan’s
conjunction of Pharsalia as the instrument of poetic immortality suggests the impossibility of
uncoupling Caesar from the poet’s fame. See M. Malamud ‘Happy Birthday, Dead Lucan:
(P)raising the Dead in Silvae 2.7’, Ramus (1995) esp. 14: ‘Caesar and his bard, together for
ever, for better or worse . . .’.
50
See also 2.3.69 with Newlands [13] ad loc.
51
E.g. Hardie [11] 66f.; Nauta [4] 226f., 239.
108 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

side therefore to Vespasian.52 As a friend of Blaesus, Melior may have thought

it prudent to retire from public life under the Flavians. Vessey suggests that
Melior was involved in the mutiny of Saturninus in AD 88/89, a virtual civil
war.53 But whatever the precise historical background to this poem, critics have
picked up on the poem’s particular emphasis on withdrawal and safety that
makes it seem plausible that there were political reasons for withdrawal;
Melior’s openness means that he is a generous patron and friend but also that
politically he has nothing to hide. The presence of Lucan in the poem—and in
book 2, where he, like Melior, is accorded his own birthday poem (Silv. 2.7)—
perhaps helps uncover a hidden political transcript in Statius’ poem.54 So may
also the poem’s relationship with Martial 9.61.
In Silvae 2.3 the intertwined hope for the enduring memory of Melior and
Statius’ poetry is also mediated through the most famous of Ovid’s poetic trees,
the laurel of the Daphne and Apollo myth (Met. 1.452-67). In Pan’s prayer for
the tree’s longevity, he hopes too that it will surpass in fame Phoebi frondes
(‘Phoebus’ foliage’, 51), an allusion to the concluding line of Apollo’s prayer in
which he predicts eternal honours for the laurel, the metamorphosed Daphne:
tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores (‘you too always bear the
eternal honours of foliage’, Met. 1.565). By putting this wish into the mouth of
Pan, Statius avoids the political associations of the Apolline laurel, two of
which guarded Augustus’ house (Dio Cass. 53.16.4) and formed the crown in
Roman triumphs, an ambivalent symbol in Ovid’s poetry.55 His tree of quiet
virtues—moderation, protection, reflection and also controlled desire—a figure
both of Melior and of Statius’ poem about Melior, will be superior to and more
enduring than the Caesarean laurel. The comparison allegorises Statius’ position
in his occasional poetics; the political helps define and justify the non-political.
Martial virtually echoes this line of Ovid in the second last line of his
epigram: perpetuos sperare licet tibi frondis honores (‘may you hope for eternal
honours for your foliage’, 9.61.21). Martial thus closely connects his plane tree
with Ovid’s Augustan, Caesarean laurel. In both the Metamorphoses and
Martial’s epigram the long life of the tree is connected with the fame and
immortality of the ruler, the flourishing of his dynasty, and in Martial’s case its
52
On Blaesus see Newlands [13] ad Silv. 2.1.191f.
53
D. W. T. Vessey, ‘Atedius Melior’s Tree: Statius Siluae 2.3’, CPh 76 (1981) 46-52; see
the response of Nauta [4] 312-15.
54
On the concept of the ‘hidden transcript’, a form of communication which comments
on the ‘public transcript’ produced by hierarchies of power, see S. Bartsch, Actors in the
Audience: Theatricality and Doublespeak from Nero to Hadrian (Cambridge, Mass. 1994)
esp. 150-52.
55
On the political and poetic significance of the metamorphosed Daphne, see, e.g.,
A. Barchiesi, Ovidio: Metamorfosi 1 (Rome 2005) ad Met. 1.560-63.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 109

continuation under the Flavians. But there is possibly further irony here too in
Martial’s allusion, in addition to the undertones of Ovid’s Erysichthon myth. As
many critics have observed, in Ovid’s poem Augustus’ laurel is created from
the suffering and violence involved in Apollo’s attempted rape of Daphne and
her subsequent metamorphosis. Martial’s final line referring to the Pompeys
hints at the vast suffering and brutality involved in the foundation of a new
dynasty in the late stages of civil war in Spain; no wonder perhaps the grass
around Caesar’s tree is an ambiguous red (17).56
Martial brings politics back openly to the tree poem. And in so doing, he
may subtly invite readers to recognize the political underpinning of Statius’
poem, to read history back into that poem and to understand the political
conditions that made the quiet life enjoyed by Melior a necessity. He also may
engage in a subtle piece of one-upmanship in claiming poetic immortality.
Whereas in Silvae 2.3.43 it is Pan, god of rural music, who voices the hope for
immortality, Martial at 9.61.21 co-opts the voice of the god of poetry himself,
Apollo! As Garthwaite observes, Martial frequently boasts of the paradox that
his short poems have brought him undying fame throughout the world.57 But
Martial also, I suggest, acknowledges a debt to Statius in this line. In addressing
the tree, not Caesar, he may be making a tribute to Statius’ Silvae and the
central metaphor of his occasional, silvan poetics, trees. Apollo, after all, was
the god of pastoral poetics (e.g., Verg. Ecl. 6.3-5), before Augustus elevated
him to the post of personal deity.
Indeed, despite their different aesthetic programmes, Martial and Statius
converge in their exploitation of the associations of the plane tree with poetic
immortality. Despite his politicization of the plane tree, Martial also engages
here with the idea of political withdrawal. Caesar’s plane tree does not flourish
outside an imperial palace, like Augustus’ laurel, but flourishes in a villa, the
traditional site for elite retirement from politics in the first century AD. And the
villa is far from Rome, in Spain, Martial’s homeland. Martial ultimately
appropriates Caesar’s tree and accommodates it to his personal geography and
his personal festive poetics of pleasure and leisure. Caesar’s tree too is in
retirement!—not much danger to anyone any more, over a hundred years after
the slaughter of Caesar’s campaigns on Spanish soil. Caesar’s tree has become
Martial’s tree too, a symbol of his ‘famous’ (9.61.1) and enduring poetics.
Indeed, there is a curious relationship between this poem and Martial 9.60,
56
It is possible Martial may have known the story reported in Herodotus (7.27) about the
plane tree worshipped by Xerxes; the tree did not, however, prove a lucky omen for him. See
Stubbings [25] 63-67.
57
A central part of book 9 is his defence of his gifts of poetry; J. Garthwaite, ‘Patronage
and Poetic Immortality in Martial Book 9’, Mnemosyne 51 (1998) 161-75 shows that poems
48-60 in particular play with this theme. To this list we should add poem 61.
110 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 93-111 ISSN 1018-9017

which is also about poetry; the central image of 9.60 is the corona of flowers
that Martial offers his friend Sabinus, but corona is also a metaphor for a
collection of poetry.58 Martial 9.60.2 (seu rubuit tellus Tuscula flore tuo, ‘or the
Tusculan land has grown red with your flower’) is echoed in line 17 of Martial
9.61 (hesternis rubens . . . herba coronis, ‘the grass red with yesterday’s
wreaths’). Does Martial mean not only the discarded crowns of last night’s
revellers but also yesterday’s poetry in the sense of poetry of a past, more
violent, turbulent age?
The phenomenon of Martial and Statius, two poets writing occasional
verse at the same time and in the same cultural and political milieu, invites the
reader to interpret the two poems in relation to one another and to see them
afresh through this process of cross-reading. From the vantage point of Martial
9.61, the absence of Caesar in Silvae 2.3 is striking and invites the reader to
explore the political basis for withdrawal; what may be the hidden political
transcript of Silvae 2.3 thus gains added weight. From the vantage point of
Silvae 2.3, the absence of any addressee in Martial 9.61, or any equivalent to
Melior, is in turn striking. Such absence draws attention to the geographical
location and invites the reader to ask, ‘why Spain’? The poem from the start is
linked to the memory of civil war. The absence of owner and occasion also
draws attention to the tree itself and its symbolic possibilities, in particular its
complex use of the metaphor explored by Statius whereby ‘wood’ and ‘tree’ are
programmatic for the writer’s own poetry. This may be Caesar’s tree, but it
ultimately belongs to epigram and to Martial, Spain’s newest literary talent.
Martial and Statius therefore offer two different but not unrelated models
for talking about imperial politics and poetics. Their semiotic, if not their
rhetorical, systems are not far apart. The plane tree has contradictory
associations with both death and perpetual life, with dynasties and political
withdrawal. Ultimately, for both poets the plane tree is a rich, complex figure of
poetic survival and immortality in a politically turbulent age. Lucan is the
important figure who stands between these Flavian poets and the Augustans,
especially Ovid, and offers them a significant discourse for talking about
Caesarism. But Lucan’s poetic career was cut short by Nero; he did not cultivate
the poetics of withdrawal. In his next to last line Martial underlines the power of
even occasional poetry when he states (addressing the tree, not Caesar),
perpetuos sperare licet tibi frondis honores (‘it is allowed for you to hope for
immortal honours’, 9.61.21), thereby acknowledging his debt in his epigrams to
Ovid and its subtle blend of politics and erotics; to Lucan; and also, as I have
suggested, to Statius’ Silvae and the central metaphor of his occasional poetics,
trees.

58
I am grateful to John Garthwaite for pointing this connection out inter litteras.
‘Martial, Epigrams 9.61 and Statius, Silvae 2.3’, C. E. Newlands 111

Martial 9.61 and Silvae 2.3, two poems about an extraordinary plane tree,
invite us to read them together and against one another. In the process of
reception the priority of the one over the other ultimately does not matter; each
poem of this diptych richly informs the other and teases out hidden meanings.
There is clearly far more to the relationship of Martial and Statius than a process
of mutual criticism. Reagan’s statement cited at the start of this article came to
circulate as ‘if you’ve seen one redwood you’ve seen them all’. Not the case
with either redwood or the Flavian plane.
 PLUTARCH AND THE DEATH OF PYRRHUS:
DISAMBIGUATING THE CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS

Jacob Edwards
Classics and Ancient History, University of Queensland
Brisbane, Queensland 4072, Australia

Abstract. Plutarch’s portrayal of Pyrrhus’ death cannot be uncritically accepted as accurate.

By assessing without prejudgement of merit what the so-called ‘unreliable’ counter-tradition
records of Pyrrhus’ actions at Sparta and then Argos, a more consistent and plausible account
of Pyrrhus’ death—one more favourable to Pyrrhus’ generalship—can be reconstructed than
the version that may be gleaned solely from a reading of Plutarch.

Plutarch’s representation of Pyrrhus’ demise at Argos in Life of Pyrrhus

(31-34),1 though it differs somewhat from the other extant accounts, appears to
have gained acceptance in modern scholarship. I will consider the plausibility of
Plutarch’s account, the reliability of Plutarch as a source of information about
Pyrrhus, and the contributions that other ancient writers make to our knowledge
of Pyrrhus’ death. Finally, an attempt will be made to postulate what may really
have happened at Argos. What follows does not endeavour to repudiate
Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus on any intrinsic level (that is, solely through analysis
of the text and of the author’s methods), and yet it is in no way intended as a
challenge to accepted methodology. Rather, I seek to draw together and
interpret all the extant information that pertains to Pyrrhus and his actions at
Argos, and via this process conjecture that (in the absence of intrinsic textual
analysis validating Plutarch’s account) there may be cause to reassess—or at
least be wary of—the commonly accepted portrayal of Pyrrhus’ death.

1
The text of Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus is that of K. Ziegler (ed.), Plutarchi Vitae
Parallelae2 3 (Leipzig 1971). The other classical texts are as follows (in order of appearance,
other than to avoid repetition): the text of Curtius Rufus is that of K. Müller (ed.), Q. Curtius
Rufus Geschichte Alexanders des Grossen (Munich 1954); of Arrian, Anabasis A. G. Roos
and G. Wirth (edd.), Flavii Arriani Quae Exstant Omnia 1 (Leipzig 1967); of Diodorus
Siculus, Bibliotheca Historica F. Vogel and K. T. Fischer (edd.; post I. Bekker and
L. Dindorf), Diodori Bibliotheca Historica3 5 (Stuttgart 1964); of Justin, Epitome O. Seel
(ed.), M. Iuniani Iustini Epitoma Historiarum Philippicarum Pompei Trogi (Stuttgart 1972);
of Valerius Maximus C. Kempf (ed.), Valerii Maximi Factorum et Dictorum Memorabilium
Libri Novem cum Iulii Paridis et Ianuarii Nepotiani Epitomis (Leipzig 1888); of Pausanius,
Graeciae Descriptio F. Spiro (ed.), Pausaniae Graeciae Descriptio 1 (Stuttgart 1967); and
of George Synkellos, Ecloga Chronographica A. A. Mosshammer (ed.), Georgii Syncelli
Ecloga Chronographica (Leipzig 1984).

112
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 113

The Plausibility of Plutarch’s Account

There can be no doubt that some ancient writers are seen as more reliable
sources of information than others. The nature of an author’s work, his
proximity to events, the sources upon which he draws, and his previous record
for accuracy—all are used in some measure (consciously or otherwise) to
preordain his trustworthiness. Even those ancient authors who claimed to be
writing history had different standards of the historical method than do their
modern counterparts, however, and in most cases lived centuries after the events
that their works describe. Out of necessity they relied on even earlier writers,
who in turn were not always contemporaneous with events. Given the
complexities and uncertainties inherent within the historiography, it seems
unwise to typecast authors as either reliable or unreliable, let alone then to use
this assessment in predetermining their worth on any given occasion.
Plutarch’s version of the events that took place at Argos, though
uncorroborated and indeed contradicted by other extant accounts, has gained
almost universal acceptance amongst modern scholars.2 The only stated reason
for the pre-eminence afforded to Plutarch is that his account seems to derive
largely from Hieronymus, who is advocated as both a trustworthy historian and
a contemporary who knew the actions of Antigonus Gonatas.3 Furthermore,

2
For instance: G. N. Cross, Epirus: A Study in Constitutional Development (London
1932) 86; R. M. Errington, A History of Macedonia (Oxford 1990) 167; P. R. Franke,
‘Pyrrhus’, CAH 7.22 (1989) 484; P. Garoufalias, Pyrrhus: King of Epirus (London 1979)
134-140; N. G. L. Hammond and F. W. Walbank, A History of Macedonia 3 (Oxford 1988)
266; N. G. L. Hammond, The Macedonian State: The Origins, Institutions, and History
(Oxford 1992) 307; Kienast, ‘Pyrrhos von Epeiros’, RE 24 (1963) 160f.; P. Lévêque, Pyrrhos
(Paris 1957) 608-26; H. H. Scullard, A History of the Roman World 753 to 146 BC4, (London
1992) 124; W. W. Tarn, Antigonos Gonatas (Oxford 1913) 272-74. The only historical
commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus is by Dutch scholar Arie Nederlof, Plutarchus’
Leven van Pyrrhus: Historische Commentaar (Amsterdam 1940), of whose critique only
pages 215-32 deal with the siege of Argos. Nederlof examines some minor issues
in considerable detail but is largely acquiescent with regard to Plutarch’s portrayal
of Pyrrhus’ death. Lastly, although seeming of relevance to the present study, M. Piérart,
‘La Mort de Pyrrhos a Argos’, Études Classiques 1 (1990) 2-12 considers not the death of
Pyrrhus per se but rather the possibility that extant accounts drew upon local sources when
writing about events at Argos. This question has no great bearing upon the current work.
3
Hammond [2] 266; Kienast [2] 161; Lévêque [2] 615; Nederlof [2] 217; Tarn, [2] 449.
Assessments of Hieronymus’ worth as a historian are hampered somewhat by the fact that his
work is almost entirely non-extant. The most comprehensive piece of scholarship on the
subject is by J. Hornblower, Hieronymus of Cardia (London 1981), who concludes that
Hieronymus’ precision lies in numbers and statistics more than in accurate characterization
(17), that Hieronymus omitted or at least downplayed events such as Pyrrhus’ defeat
114 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

there are a number of unstated—perhaps not consciously recognized—reasons:

Plutarch is perceived as being generally more trustworthy than the authors who
offer conflicting accounts; these accounts seemingly can be dismissed as
corrupted variations of Plutarch’s (or Hieronymus’) more detailed ‘original’;
Plutarch’s version is longer and—perhaps due to being part of a work dealing
specifically with Pyrrhus—more widely known; and Plutarch’s portrayal of
Pyrrhus’ elephants is both vivid and realistic. This last point is of relevance, for
to some degree it is the depiction of the elephants that lends believability to an
account that otherwise might seem somewhat implausible.
Plutarch describes the operation against Argos as follows (Pyrrh. 31-34):

Argos wished to remain neutral in the conflict between Antigonus and

Pyrrhus. Whereas the former respected this arrangement and offered his son as
hostage, the latter contrived to occupy the city. Knowing Aristeas had opened
the Diamperes gate for him, Pyrrhus marched there by night and sent the
Gauls through to occupy the marketplace. The gate, however, was too low for
his elephants to pass through unhindered, so Pyrrhus delayed, first to have
their howdahs removed, and then again to replace these once inside the city.
This allowed time for the alarm to be raised, whereupon the Argives
proceeded not only to rush to the city’s strong points but also to call upon
Antigonus for help. Pyrrhus persisted with his attempt but, after engaging in
confused fighting that lasted until dawn, he then decided to retreat. He sent
word to Helenus to break down the city wall, but Helenus misunderstood this
command and instead brought reinforcements into the city, thereby hindering
Pyrrhus’ withdrawal. Matters were complicated further by a dead elephant
blocking the gate and by another running wild with grief for its dead mahout.
During the chaos Pyrrhus was struck on the head with a roof tile (thrown by a
woman) and subsequently killed by a sword thrust. Antigonus burned Pyrrhus’
body and sent Helenus back to Epirus.

Plutarch’s portrayal is compelling through dint of being highly evocative and

additionally derives a veneer of realism from its depiction of Pyrrhus’ elephants.
These animals can move silently through dense forest and rely on touch, smell
and sound far more than they do on sight.4 They actually would have been
ideally suited to a surreptitious infiltration through the narrow streets of Argos.
Elephants, however, lose their stealth when panicked or wounded,5 and tend

of Gonatas outside Argos (104), and that Hieronymus may have distorted the truth of events
(specifically at Argos) so as to favour Antigonus Gonatas (248).
4
U. T. Gale, Burmese Timber Elephant (Rangoon 1974) 13; L. L. Rue III, Elephants:
A Portrait of the Animal World (New York 1994) 19; H. H. Scullard, The Elephant in the
Greek and Roman World (Cambridge 1974) 16; S. K. Sikes, The Natural History of the
African Elephant (London 1971) 28, 43.
5
Gale [4] 26.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 115

thenceforth to run raucously along the path of least resistance. Given that
ancient cities were not designed to accommodate elephants, it would be
unsurprising for a fully equipped elephant to flee through the wider of the
streets, to arrive at but not fit under the city gate, and indeed to be killed from
behind while desperately trying to force an exit. Furthermore, over years of
training and working together, elephants often develop a strong bond with their
mahouts.6 It would not be out of character for a grieving elephant to search for
the body of its deceased driver and to carry it around in just such a manner as
that referred to by Plutarch. In short, there is nothing in the described behaviour
of the elephants to suggest that Plutarch’s account is anything other than
accurate.
The same cannot necessarily be said of Pyrrhus’ behaviour, however, or
at least that of the Pyrrhus to whom Hannibal allegedly referred as the second-
greatest general (behind Alexander) of antiquity (Livy, Epit. 35.14.6-11).7
Pyrrhus enjoyed a reputation in ancient times as an outstanding tactician,8 and
although his grasp of grand strategy has tended to elicit disparagement on the
part of modern scholarship,9 there is nothing to suggest that he was so tactically
inept as to mismanage a relatively simple infiltration and indeed to be killed
while capturing a city that was being betrayed to him. Although not completely
implausible, Pyrrhus’ actions throughout Plutarch’s account do appear quite out
of character for a man who—as Plutarch himself earlier notes—left writings on
military tactics and leadership (Pyrrh. 8.3) and who was rated by Antigonus as
(potentially) the best general of his contemporaries (8.4).10 Pyrrhus’ alleged
deployment of the elephants, though lent realism by the recorded behaviour of
these animals, was not only tactically unsound but also atypically unpragmatic.
Where previously Pyrrhus had employed elephants successfully but without
relying on them, at Argos (by Plutarch’s reckoning) he seemed determined to
involve them. Whereas it would be reasonable for Pyrrhus to have considered

6
Gale [4] 83; Scullard [4] 237.
7
Franke [2] 468 notes that Hannibal repeated Pyrrhus’ elephant deployment from
Tarentum at Trebia in 218 BC. According to Plut. Pyrrh. 8.5, Hannibal ranked Pyrrhus first,
Scipio second and himself third.
8
Cross [2] 78, 86.
9
Franke [2] 463.
10
Tarn [2] 115 believes that this passage actually evidences Antigonus Gonatas’
‘contempt’ for Pyrrhus, but such a conclusion seems unnatural given the context in which
Plutarch explicitly details proof of Pyrrhus’ tactics and leadership. Cross [2] 55 suggests that
‘Antigonus’ refers not to Antigonus Gonatas but rather to his grandfather Antigonus
Monophthalmus. If this were to be the case, Pyrrhus was then being ranked (potentially)
above Alexander’s most capable generals.
116 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

the use of elephants for stealthy infiltration, it would be unreasonable for him
not to have changed his plan to meet the circumstances at hand. The success of
Pyrrhus’ venture relied not only on stealth but also on speed. It seems most
unlikely that he would have delayed entry into the city merely to accommodate
one particular branch of his army. Much more sensible—especially given that
the elephants were not required to break down the gate—would have been to
keep them well out of proceedings and instead to occupy the city solely with
foot soldiers.
The scholarly interpretation of this point warrants discussion. Kienast,
without expressing any misgivings with regard to Plutarch, merely concludes
that it is unclear what Pyrrhus was hoping to achieve by deploying his elephants
at Argos.11 Nederlof finds something amiss in the description but misconceives
the elephants’ aptitude for stealth, and hence their usefulness, consequently
damning Pyrrhus while implicitly accepting Plutarch.12 To adopt Plutarch’s
characterization of Pyrrhus—as does the scholarly consensus of which Nederlof
and Kienast are representative—would perhaps constitute no great stretch of
credibility as long as the portrayal of Pyrrhus’ generalship were to remain
internally consistent. From a disabusing of common misconceptions about
elephants, however, it becomes evident that this is not the case. If the fallacious
notion that these animals are loud and ungainly is taken as a starting point, then
there may seem no reason not to follow heedlessly after Plutarch, to wit, that
Pyrrhus conceived a faulty deployment of his elephants, carried it out with quite
some obstinacy, and was killed during the confusion that resulted from this error
of judgement. Thus, with Plutarch affording little consideration to his own
former espousals of Pyrrhus’ tactical acumen, the impression one receives at the
end of the Life is that Pyrrhus was brought undone solely through his own
incompetence. If the elephants are given their due, however, then Pyrrhus’
initial plan may be recognized as having had some merit, and this shift in
perspective is important to recognize. If Plutarch can be seen to convey a false
impression, then the possibility arises that his account is in some way deficient.
It may be, of course, that Pyrrhus’ generalship was in fact marred by lifelong
tactical deficiencies that only became evident during the siege of Argos. Given
the existence of contrary accounts (discussed below), however, it seems unwise
merely to assume uncritically this aspect of Plutarch’s characterization; indeed,
the following analysis would suggest that Plutarch’s penchant for literary
manipulation may well have rendered his Life of Pyrrhus actively untrustworthy
as a source of information with regard to Pyrrhus’ death.

11
Kienast [2] 60.
12
Nederlof [2] 220.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 117

The Reliability of Plutarch

When attempting to evaluate Plutarch’s reliability as a source of historical

information, it is important not to over-estimate the value of his having drawn
upon an author contemporary to Pyrrhus. The historian Hieronymus indeed may
have had knowledge of events from Antigonus’ side, but that did not necessarily
provide him with a detailed understanding of Pyrrhus’ activities. Furthermore,
Hieronymus was a friend of Antigonus and, despite modern assertions of
trustworthiness,13 cannot be assumed to have provided an unbiased record of his
contemporary’s actions.14 Moreover, Plutarch was no mere epitomiser. It is
paramount to acknowledge that he wrote with a distinct literary purpose and not
simply to rehash earlier works.15
In the prologue to his Life of Alexander, Plutarch styles himself as writing
biography, not history (Alex. 1.2),16 and whenever we draw upon his works it is
perhaps worthwhile to stay mindful of that particular maxim. Although we are
often dependent on Plutarch for historical information, still we must remember
that he wrote for literary effect; however much we malign the historical
accuracy of the authors discussed below, we must bear in mind that Plutarch
composed his works in no more reliable a genre. This is not to criticize Plutarch
or to challenge the integrity of his work. Indeed, it has the opposite intent: to
acknowledge and appreciate his literary craftsmanship and thence to retain
objectivity when reading the Life of Pyrrhus in a context and for a purpose that
differ significantly from those which Plutarch intended. Given Plutarch’s
prolific output and that for many historical incidents he alone provides an
extensive account, we also should acknowledge the possibility that our
accustomed want of information has somewhat predisposed us to trust

13
G. L. Barber, ‘Hieronymus’, in N. G. L. Hammond and H. H. Scullard (edd.),
The Oxford Classical Dictionary2 (Oxford 1970) 515; A. B. Bosworth, ‘Hieronymus’, in
S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth (edd.), The Oxford Classical Dictionary3 (Oxford 1996)
706; Nederlof [2] 220. For further discussion see T. S. Brown, ‘Hieronymus of Cardia’, AHR
52 (1947) 684-696.
14
Indeed, Paus. 1.13.9 specifically says that Hieronymus wrote a favourable account to
please Antigonus. For a detailed examination of Hieronymus, see Hornblower [3].
15
T. E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Melbourne 1999) 101f.
stresses Plutarch’s creativity—particularly with regard to his choices when selecting from a
variety of different writers—and concludes that the negative aspects, which are evident
throughout the Pyrrhus/Marius pairing, are quite deliberate and not merely the result of
Plutarch unwittingly following ‘hostile’ source material.
16
Duff [15] 8, 13-15, 25 cautions against taking this prologue as generally representative
of the Lives, but nevertheless acknowledges that Plutarch selectively molded source material
with a view to revealing character.
118 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

Plutarch’s accounts—in matters of fact if not necessarily characterization—over

those of lesser-known and more fragmentary authors.17 This practice is
demonstrably dangerous in respect to the Argos incident, for the Life of Pyrrhus
contains a number of themes that are linked intrinsically to the manner of
Pyrrhus’ death.18
First, Plutarch draws attention to the similarities between Pyrrhus and
Achilles, deliberately recording the former’s reputation as a healer (Pyrrh. 3.7),
his intention to earn the glory of Achilles through single combat (7.7), and the
restless desire for action that prompted him (fatally) to turn down a life of peace
(13.2).19 This comparison no doubt was prompted by Pyrrhus’ own emphasis on
his heroic ancestry. The Molossian Kings claimed descent (through
Neoptolemus and Lanassa respectively) from both Achilles and Heracles (Just.
Epit. 17.3.2-4), and Pyrrhus exploited the former connection in a coin-based
propaganda campaign: just as the Greeks had conquered the Trojans, so too
would the descendant of those Greeks (Pyrrhus) defeat the descendants of the
Trojans (Rome).20 Indeed, it would seem that Pyrrhus was so successful in
pressing his ancestral claims that his name almost universally was substituted
for that of Neoptolemus in the genealogical tradition;21 in other words, he quite
literally was recognized as the son of Achilles.
Plutarch, however, appears in a number of ways to question Pyrrhus’
right to this title. While detailing the legendary Molossian heritage at the
beginning of the Life, he does not substitute the word ‘Pyrrhus’ for

17
As a notable example, Nederlof [2] 219f., when confronted with the various
inconsistencies pertaining to Pyrrhus’ death, explicitly favours Plutarch’s account for being
extensive in comparison to the brief snippets provided by other writers.
18
Analogously the Life of Nicias may be of some interest here, given the analysis made
by A. G. Nikolaidis, ‘Is Plutarch Fair to Nicias?’, ICS 13 (1988) 330, who identifies Plutarch
as having interpreted the protagonist’s death in such a way as to manifest a theretofore more
subtle prejudice against Nicias.
19
Duff [15] 112, 121f. contends not only that Plutarch generally likens Pyrrhus to
Achilles in terms of temperament and military prowess, but also that he selectively chose to
record (otherwise unknown) references to Pyrrhus’ single combat as a means by which to
stress this comparison. G. Schepens, ‘Rhetoric in Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus’, in L. Van Der
Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Namur 2000) 413-41, acknowledges
Plutarch’s skill at manipulating minor details (425) and notes that in the Life of Demetrius
(41.2f.) Plutarch himself records a less heroic interpretation of Pyrrhus’ single combat with
Pantauchus (426).
20
Franke [2] 465; E. S. Gruen, ‘The Advent of the Magna Mater’, in Studies in Greek
Culture and Roman Policy (New York 1990) 12.
21
Cross [2] 102. Hence from the time of Pyrrhus onwards, the word ‘Pyrrhus’ was used
instead of ‘Neoptolemus’.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 119

‘Neoptolemus’. Rather, he leaves ‘Neoptolemus’ as Achilles’ son and merely

bestows upon this personage the surname ‘Pyrrhus’ (Pyrrh. 1.2).22 In Plutarch,
therefore, Pyrrhus is named after the son of Achilles but has not retrospectively
taken his place in the Molossian genealogical tradition. Furthermore, Plutarch
lingers on this conflict between names. Androcleides and Angelus are forced to
flee from Epirus with the baby Pyrrhus—who in the course of the flight is held
by a man named Achilles (2.8)—when the sons (unnamed) of Neoptolemus are
brought to power (2.1).23 At twelve years of age Pyrrhus is restored to his throne
by Glaucias (3.5), but at age seventeen is driven from his kingdom once again
when the Molossians unite in favour of Neoptolemus (4.2). Six years later
Pyrrhus is returned to his throne for a second time, on this occasion by Ptolemy,
and rules as joint king with Neoptolemus (5.3), whom after a short time he kills
(5.14). The identification of each Neoptolemus referred to is uncertain,24 but
Plutarch’s intent is not: he presents the struggle for kingship as an on-going
conflict between Pyrrhus—who is aided by outsiders and a false Achilles—and
the original lineage of Achilles (that is, the various individuals named
Neoptolemus). Pyrrhus, as portrayed by Plutarch, is not born the legitimate heir
of Achilles. He is, rather, attempting to take this mantle by force and subvert the
existing genealogy. We might well expect the Life at some stage to draw a
conclusion as to his success or failure in this endeavour.
The second theme in Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus, closely related to the
first, is the comparison between Pyrrhus and Alexander. The latter was not only
the foremost general of his age but also—a precursor to Pyrrhus—the self-styled
descendant of both Achilles and Heracles.25 Pyrrhus apparently was likened by
his contemporaries to Alexander (Pyrrh. 8.2) and played upon this comparison
to further his own interests (11.4f.).26 He ‘inherited’ Alexander’s swiftness of
action (8.2), fought in the front line while simultaneously directing the battle
(16.11), bequeathed his kingdom (as did Alexander to his generals) to
whichever of his sons ‘kept his sword sharpest’ (9.5), wore a helmet with goat’s

22
From an extensive study of the Lives, Duff [15] 310 concludes that Plutarch
customarily has a literary motive for detailing the ancestry of his protagonists.
23
Surely it is significant that Plutarch names the father but not the sons.
24
Cross [2] 106.
25
J. M. Mossman, ‘Plutarch, Pyrrhus, and Alexander’, in P. A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and
the Historical Tradition (London 1992) 92f. suggests additionally that Plutarch utilized epic
and tragic motifs specifically with the intention to incite comparisons between Pyrrhus and
Alexander.
26
Mossman [25] 91; A. Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic
Politics (Oxford 1993) 284f., examines the manner in which Pyrrhus’ coinage drew upon the
imagery of Alexander’s.
120 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

horns (11.11), and (as with Alexander and Darius) prompted Demetrius to take
ignominious flight (11.13).27 Even so, men saw in Pyrrhus only ‘shadows of
Alexander’s impetuosity and might’ (8.2). Hence, whereas Alexander crossed to
Asia and hurled a spear to claim the land as his own, Pyrrhus is caught in a
storm while crossing to Italy, and swims to shore only to arrive half-drowned
(15.3-8).28 Pyrrhus receives injuries in a manner similar to that of Alexander
(21.13, 24.3) and is conspicuous in his armour (16.11), but unlike Alexander is
prompted by a near miss to don less conspicuous attire (17.1).29 Alexander’s
enemies, in an attempt to further his illness, wrongfully accused his physician of
planning to poison him, whereas Pyrrhus conversely is saved by his enemies
when they warn him of a genuine poisoning attempt (21.1-5).30 Finally, the
Romans, persuaded by the speech of Appius Claudius, decide upon war with
Pyrrhus supposedly because they believe not only that they would have met and
defeated Alexander (if he had not died prematurely) but also that Pyrrhus is a
much lesser man than was Alexander (19.2f.).31
This verdict appears at first to epitomise Plutarch’s stance, but the issue is
not quite so clear. In actual battle Pyrrhus is presented as Alexander’s equal,
perhaps even his superior. When, for example, he is first to mount the scaling
ladders at Eryx—an action similar to Alexander’s at the Malli (or Sudracae)
capital—he kills many of the besieged while himself coming to no harm.
Alexander, conversely, was very nearly killed during his assault (Pyrrh.

27
Franke [2] 466 suggests that the Alexander Mosaic in Naples shows the horned helmet
lying on the ground beneath Alexander. Schepens [19] 428 points out that Pyrrhus’ ‘swords
sharpest’ comment was made in such a context that it could be taken simply as
encouragement, if not for Plutarch’s excessively tragic colourizing. Alexander is recorded
more temperately as bequeathing his kingdom to the optimus (Curt. 10.5.5), the krat…stoj
(Arr. Anab. 7.26.3; Diod. Sic. 17.117.4), or the dignissimus (Just. Epit. 12.15.8). For
Alexander in the front line see Plut. Alex. 20.8, 60.10f.; Curt. 3.11.1-9, 4.6.17, 4.15.1-16.3,
8.14.14f.; Diod. Sic. 17.33.1-5, 17.46.2f., 17.60.1f.; and Arr. Anab. 2.10.3f., 3.13.1-15.3. For
Darius’ flight see Plut. Alex. 20.10, 33.8; Curt. 3.11.11, 4.1.2, 4.15.30-32; Diod. Sic.
17.34.6f., 17.37.1, 17.60.3f.; Arr. Anab. 2.11.4f., 3.14.3; and Just. Epit. 11.9.9; Ael. NA. 6.48.
28
For Alexander see Diod. Sic. 17.17.2 and Just. Epit. 11.5.10.
29
Mossman [25] 99f. For Alexander’s armour see Plut, Alex. 32.8-14, Curt. 4.4.10f., and
Arr. Anab. 6.9.5.
30
Mossman [25] 94. For references to the incident with Alexander’s physician see Curt.
3.6.117, Diod. Sic. 17.31.5f., Arr. Anab. 2.4.8-11, Just. Epit. 11.8.3-9 and Plut. Alex. 19.
31
While propounding that Plutarch’s motives with regard this speech are tied to far more
complex literary strategies, J. Mossman, ‘Taxis ou Barbaros: Greek and Roman in Plutarch’s
Pyrrhus’, CQ 55 (2005) 509-12, does reiterate that Plutarch is comparing Pyrrhus
(unfavourably) to Alexander and suggests furthermore that Plutarch has in all likelihood
either invented or liberally adapted the specific content of Appius Claudius’ speech.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 121

22.9-11).32 This aspect of Plutarch’s portrayal, given the apparent negativity of

the overall comparison between Alexander and Pyrrhus, suggests that the latter
is being measured against the former not so much in terms of military ability but
rather—in light of the third theme (below)—as the rightful heir of Achilles.
Plutarch’s Pyrrhus is a general of similar calibre to Alexander, displaying
outstanding individual prowess on the battlefield and fighting against opposition
(both human and divine) that is no less powerful than that faced by the
Macedonian. Indeed, it would seem that Pyrrhus, as portrayed by Plutarch, is
struggling not only to supplant the mythological Neoptolemus as Achilles’ son
but also to supplant Alexander as Achilles’ successor. With regard to the
success or failure of this latter venture, we may well accept as Plutarch’s own
the verdict delivered by Appius Claudius.33 Additionally, however, we may
expect the Life to draw some conclusion—non-tactical in light of Pyrrhus’
obvious ability—as to why he failed in his attempt.
Plutarch on two separate occasions criticizes Pyrrhus’ grasp of grand
strategy, attributing his overall mediocrity to a more specific failure to
consolidate the objectives that he so easily achieved (Pyrrh. 26.1f., 30.3).
Certainly this could be interpreted solely in military terms, but equally it may
relate to a third theme: the failure to pursue the heroic ethos. Pyrrhus is
presented as wandering from one opportunity to the next, never embracing a
single cause and standing by it until the end. He may claim descent from
Achilles, but he appears almost whimsical in comparison with the Greeks who
infamously besieged Troy for ten years. He may take after Alexander in ability,
but clearly he lacks this man’s single-minded determination. Pyrrhus, if
anything, was something of an opportunist, and Plutarch at one stage criticizes
him for this, saying ¢pobalën Makedon…an ú trÒpJ paršlaben (‘he lost
Macedonia precisely as he acquired it’, 12.11), that is, through unfaithfulness
and treachery.34 The pursuit of heroic ideals is linked intrinsically with the first

32
For Alexander see Plut. Alex. 63.2-12, Curt. 9.4.30-5.29, Diod. Sic. 17.98.4-99.5 and
Arr. Anab. 6.9.3-11.2.
33
B. Buszard, ‘The Decline of Roman Statesmanship in Plutarch’s Pyrrhus-Marius’,
CQ 55 (2005) 485-87, suggests that Appius Claudius’ speech is intended by Plutarch to
depict a unified Roman state in contrast to that presented in the Marius and hence serves a
distinct literary function (rather than reflecting Plutarch’s own opinions). From textual
analysis, however, Buszard also concludes that this colourization does not derive from
Plutarch’s sources.
34
Of relevance to Pyrrhus’ apparent opportunism prior to Argos, Buszard [33] 488 notes
that the Pyrrhus omits all reference to an existing military alliance between Pyrrhus and
Tarentum—an alliance that Plutarch knew about from having read Dionysius—and that
Pyrrhus’ commitment to the conflict with Rome thus is falsely depicted as having been made
rashly and without any real basis.
122 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

two themes (the comparisons between Pyrrhus and both Achilles and
Alexander), and the ultimate judgement as to Pyrrhus’ success or failure in this
area will, as with all heroes, depend largely upon the manner of his death. This
is where Plutarch must be seen as potentially unreliable, for his depiction of the
Argos incident forms a vital conjunct to the three themes—all negative in
tone—that are developed throughout the Life.
The culmination of Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus—the unsuccessful sieges of
Sparta and Argos—reads very suspiciously, for it both contradicts the other
authors (discussed below) and emphasizes Pyrrhus’ failure to measure up
against Achilles, Alexander and the heroic ideal. Pyrrhus, according to Plutarch,
plundered Spartan territory on his way to the city (Pyrrh. 26.22), had his attack
thwarted when the Spartan women and elderly men built a trench overnight
(27.5-7), and then ravaged the countryside in preparing to winter there (30.1).
The destruction of Spartan territory, however, makes little sense as a
provocative measure against an unfortified city. Far more likely is Pausanias’
claim that Sparta (during the war with Demetrius in 294 BC) already had been
fortified with trenches and stockades, and even with stone walls at its more
vulnerable points (Paus. 1.13.5).35 Plutarch, then, falsely represents Sparta—a
city that in fact had never been captured—as being far weaker than Troy,36 and
even portrays Pyrrhus in unfavourable contrast not only to Achilles but also to
the Spartan women. The latter comparison is repeated at Argos—when Pyrrhus
is killed as the result of a tile thrown by a woman—while the former
comparison is taken up again immediately. Pyrrhus, once more abandoning one
project for another, marches out of Spartan territory, but is harassed continually
by the Spartans under Areus (Pyrrh. 30.3f.). On a previous occasion when his
rearguard was threatened, Pyrrhus appeared there in person (24.2f.), but in this
instance he echoes the mistake of Achilles (with Patroclus) by sending
Ptolemaeus in his place (30.5). Ptolemaeus is killed, and although Pyrrhus is
enraged by the death of his son and wrathfully kills many Spartans (30.7f.),37 he
takes no terrible vengeance on Sparta in toto but rather proceeds as planned to
35
P. Garoufalias [2] 130; P. Levi (ed. and tr.), Pausanius: Guide to Greece 1 (London
1979) n. 72 observes that parts of these walls are still standing. Nor does it seem
unreasonable that the Spartans, when faced with Demetrius ‘the Besieger’, might have
abandoned the wall-less defence policy that Plutarch attributes to them through the sayings of
Agesilaus the Great (Mor. 210 e), Antalcidas (Mor. 217e) and Lycurgus (Mor. 228e; Lyc.
52.19.4). Indeed, Archidamus III, king of Sparta from 361 to 338 BC, was said by Plutarch
(Mor. 191e, 219a) to have exclaimed mournfully—upon witnessing the operation of a
catapult—that man’s valour had been lost.
36
Even if, as claims Tarn [2] 448, Plutarch actually is referring only to the fortification or
refortification of the area immediately opposite Pyrrhus’ camp.
37
Lévêque [2] 612 notes the heroic exaggeration inherent in this passage.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 123

Argos (31.1). Plutarch, then, once again compares Pyrrhus unfavourably with
Achilles, and yet Justin (epitomising Pompeius Trogus) gives the contradictory
account that Ptolemaeus was converged upon and killed having fought his way
into Sparta itself (Just. Epit. 25.4.9f.).38 There may be no conclusive evidence as
to which account is correct, but there can be little doubt that Plutarch’s version
serves a literary purpose.
If Plutarch’s interpretation of the expedition against Sparta appears
doubtful, then his treatment of Pyrrhus at Argos should certainly be considered
somewhat suspect since it contains much detail that is both uncorroborated and
capable of serving a thematic purpose. Pyrrhus, according to Plutarch, arrives at
Argos not so much as a heroic Achilles-figure but as a wandering and wily
Odysseus. He offers a false pledge to recognize Argos’ neutrality, and then
when Antigonus turns down his challenge to Achillean combat outside the walls
(Pyrrh. 31.3f.),39 infiltrates the city by night in a bizarre reworking of the Trojan
horse theme. Whereas the Neoptolemus of mythology accompanied the wooden
horse that precipitated Troy’s downfall, Pyrrhus (the would-be Neoptolemus)
attempts to bring elephants into the city, only to have them bring about his
downfall when they—like the Trojan horse—fail to fit beneath the city gates.
The elephants are Pyrrhus’ Achilles’ heel—a concept first alluded to by Statius,
a contemporary of Plutarch’s40—and it is with some irony that he dies as a result
of unthinking over-reliance on the very animals that previously had contributed
so much to his fame. Additionally, it seems perhaps beyond coincidence that
Pyrrhus survives while he fights heroically but dies soon after making the
decision to retreat. In Plutarch’s estimation, Pyrrhus has failed to live up to the
heroic ideals of Achilles and Alexander, and so meets an undignified and
ignominious end without (unlike Achilles and Alexander) first having achieved
his objective. In a grotesque parody of the Achilles’ heel notion, Plutarch has
Pyrrhus’ big toe survive cremation (3.9).41 Whereas Achilles was vulnerable
38
Furthermore, Pyrrhus is presented as accepting the death—which, given Ptolemaeus’
recklessness, was not unexpected—quite calmly. Kienast [2] 159 asserts that Justin’s version
is erroneous, but does not say why. The present article will follow R. Develin, ‘Introduction’
in J. C. Yardley (tr.), Justin: Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus (Atlanta
1994) 1-11 (esp. 4-6, 9) in treating Justin and Pompeius Trogus as a single work rather than
trying to evaluate Justin’s historical soundness by separating him from Trogus and
speculating as to the latter’s source material.
39
Lévêque [2] 616; Hornblower [3] 195.
40
H. J. Rose and C. M. Robertson, ‘Achilles’, OCD2 (1970) 5.
41
Notably, Plutarch describes Pyrrhus’ toe not at the end of the Life, where Pyrrhus’ body
is burned (34.9), but rather at the beginning (3.5), where Pyrrhus’ heritage is detailed. Indeed,
the previous passage (3.4) links the toe directly with Pyrrhus’ healing ability, thereby
suggesting a comparison between Pyrrhus and Achilles.
124 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

only in his heel, Pyrrhus was a much lesser hero and invulnerable only in his
toe.
Of course, it cannot be proven that Plutarch wrote the Life of Pyrrhus
with a mind to eliciting the interpretations drawn above. It is possible, however,
to conclude that the presence of literary themes makes his writing (purely in
terms of its historical exactitude) every bit as suspect as that of the sources
discussed below. Plutarch may not have invented detail but, where contrary
accounts existed, he certainly appears to have selected material with a view to
furthering his characterizations.

The Other Accounts

It has been suggested above that Plutarch presents a less than fully plausible
account of Pyrrhus’ death and that his writing is not necessarily a reliable source
of information in this matter. A number of other authors mention Pyrrhus’
demise and, though their contributions could be dismissed as corrupted versions
of Plutarch’s ‘original’, so too could the reverse be true. The testimonies of the
authors discussed below share the common feature of brevity, and we may
suspect that this in itself has contributed to their being discarded in favour of
Plutarch’s more elaborate rendition. Lack of detail is not necessarily a hallmark
of the ill-informed,42 however, and on occasion may indeed render an account
less susceptible to criticism. The following is a summary of the extant
information and divergences that authors other than Plutarch recorded with
regard to Pyrrhus’ death in 272 BC:

Cornelius Nepos writes that Pyrrhus was struck by a stone in battle against
Argos and that his body was brought back to Antigonus (De Viris
Illustribus 21.2).
Strabo (8.376c) suggests that Pyrrhus was outside Argos and that he was
killed when a woman dropped a stone on his head.
Justin, epitomising Pompeius Trogus, writes that Antigonus was within Argos
when Pyrrhus assaulted the city and that Pyrrhus was killed when struck
on the head by a stone that was thrown from the walls (Epit. 25.5.1f.).
Pyrrhus’ head was brought to Antigonus, who then sent his (as yet
unburied) remains home with Helenus.
Valerius Maximus notes that Pyrrhus died having ‘forced his way inside’
(invasisset) Argos (5.1.4).

42
Lévêque [2] 613-15 dismisses the Strabonic tradition as being the result of ‘hasty
interpretation’, Justin’s Epitome of Pompeius Trogus for conveying a ‘false sense’ of events,
and Pausanias for relying on local traditions, but his evaluation of these authors appears to
rest firmly on the assumption that Plutarch is accurate.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 125

Ovid claims that the descendant of Achilles was killed by a tile and that
Pyrrhus had his bones scattered through the roads of Ambracia (Ibis
301-05).
Quintilian records that Pyrrhus was killed by a courageous woman (5.11.10).
Pausanias writes that Antigonus was about to move his army from Argos to
Lacedaemon but that Pyrrhus then left Sparta and came instead to Argos
(1.13.6-8). Here Pyrrhus was ‘again victorious’ (kratîn dł kaˆ) and
entered Argos in pursuit of ‘fugitives’ (to‹j feÚgousin), only to be
wounded in the head by a tile (commonly said to have been thrown by a
woman). The Argives themselves claimed that the tile was thrown by the
goddess Demeter (in the likeness of a mortal woman). Pausanias notes that
they built a sanctuary of Demeter on the spot of Pyrrhus’ death and then
buried Pyrrhus there.
Polyaenus suggests that Pyrrhus was invited by Aristaeus to take Argos, that
the Epirots were driven back by women who threw stones and bricks from
the roof-tops, and that Pyrrhus was struck on the head with a brick and
killed (8.68).
Aelian records that Pyrrhus was killed at Argos and that an elephant rescued
its driver (who had fallen off) and brought the man back to safety (NA
7.41).
Servius claims that Pyrrhus was killed in a temple and that somebody else
captured Argos and Mycenae (in Aen. 6.839).
Aurelius Victor records that Pyrrhus assaulted Argos, was struck by a roof-tile
and killed, and that his body was given a magnificent funeral by Antigonus
(Vir. Ill. 35.10).
Orosius notes that Pyrrhus died at Argos when struck by a rock (4.2.7).
George Synkellos (Chron. 327) records that Pyrrhus entered Argos through a
small gate, ‘took the city by force’,43 and was killed when struck on the
head by a roof tile (thrown by an Argolian woman).
Zonaras claims that Pyrrhus was celebrating a victory parade when a woman
fell on his head and killed him (8.6).

As with Plutarch, of course, there is no intrinsic basis for believing that any of
these authors must be historically accurate in their depiction of Pyrrhus at
Argos. Some of them mention his death only in passing—which may be seen as
lessening or simplifying any deliberate attempt at literary manipulation—but in
terms of the facts presented and the sources from which these were drawn, there
can be no compelling historiographical grounds for trusting one account to the
exclusion of others. The following section, therefore, endeavours to piece
together all the existing information and thence to explain any discrepancies,

43
W. Adler and P. Tuffin (trr.), The Chronography of George Synkellos (Oxford 2002)
394f., citing the specific text: ¢pÕ stšgouj di¦ pul…doj, e„sbalën tÍ pÒlei kaˆ b…v tÕ
”Argoj ˜le‹n. Comma moved to follow stšgouj and ˜le‹n emended to ˜lèn, as per Adler
and Tuffin.
126 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

not through inherent distrust of any particular author but rather through (an
admittedly subjective) bias towards military likelihood.
Before embarking upon such a hypothetical reconstruction of what took
place at Argos, however, it is perhaps worth making a few comments on the
points made above, specifically with regard to Pyrrhus’ remains and to the
portrayal of Antigonus. The less reputable authors appear at first to be divided
in their depiction of Pyrrhus post mortem, recording his ‘body’ as being either
buried or cremated, and his ‘remains’ as being stored at either Argos or
Ambracia.44 If unchecked, these seeming inconsistencies can do little but count
against the collective credibility of the sources in question. We may suspect,
however, that the issue has been unpropitiously confused by the aforementioned
substitution of the word ‘Pyrrhus’ for ‘Neoptolemus’ in the genealogical
tradition. It appears likely that Ovid thus refers to the mythological
Neoptolemus as ‘Pyrrhus’ and that consequently he differentiates Pyrrhus the
man by calling him ‘the descendant of Achilles’. Although this may seem
counter-intuitive to the modern reader, it appears that Servius made a similar
substitution, referring to Neoptolemus as ‘Pyrrhus’ and Pyrrhus merely as
‘somebody else (named Pyrrhus)’.45 If we re-read Ovid and Servius with this in
mind, then it transpires that it was Pyrrhus who captured Argos and Mycenae,46
whereas it was the mythological Neoptolemus who was killed at a temple47 and
whose bones were strewn across the streets of Ambracia. Such a conclusion is
not inconsistent with the fact that Pyrrhus took Ambracia as his capital—
especially given Pyrrhus’ efforts to meld his identity with that of
Neoptolemus—nor with Polybius’ observation that Ambracia contained the
‘Pyrrheum’ (Polyb. 21.27.2). Modern scholars have identified this word as
referring either to Pyrrhus’ palace, a fortified suburb or to a funeral
monument,48 but even under this latter interpretation there is no reason to
assume that it was Pyrrhus and not Neoptolemus cum Pyrrhus being held in
memorium. Even if Nederlof is correct in omitting all reference to Neoptolemus
and declaring categorically that the ‘Pyrrheum’ evidences Pyrrhus’ burial in

44
Franke [2] 484.
45
Syncell. Chron. 321 likewise refers to the mythological Neoptolemus as ‘Pyrrhus’ but
clarifies by adding: ‘also known as Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles’.
46
G. E. Mylonas, ‘Mycenae’, OCD2 (1970) 714 notes Mycenae had been re-established
by Argos in the third century BC.
47
Indeed, as noted by Rose and Robertson [40] 727f., there is a strong mythological
tradition that Neoptolemus was killed at Delphi.
48
E. T. Sage, Livy: History of Rome 11 (London 1965) 14 (Livy 38.5.); Hammond and
Walbank [2] 584; Tarn [2] 274.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 127

Ambracia,49 still there is no inherent inconsistency in the source material.

Aurelius Victor implies that Pyrrhus was buried at Argos, and Pausanias avers
as such, but it could be that Pyrrhus—in light of his cremation—was buried
there initially and that his ashes then were removed to Ambracia at a later date.50
Admittedly Pausanias is the only author to have Pyrrhus dying on the (future)
site of a temple—a claim that might read like a rehashing of the Neoptolemus
tradition—but Pausanias was a traveller and took interest in such snippets of
information; he might as easily be noting a curiosity or coincidence as
committing an error to paper. In short, none of the extant accounts are
fundamentally unreasonable in their claims with regard to Pyrrhus’ remains, and
the seeming discrepancies in our source material need not evidence anything
more than a pervading confusion brought about by the entanglement of Pyrrhus
within the mythological tradition—an intertwining, it should be noted, that
Plutarch himself would have encountered in no less measure writing four
centuries after Pyrrhus’ death.
Plutarch’s portrayal of Antigonus, when contextualized through
comparison with less widely acknowledged accounts, reveals not merely
confusion but in fact a distinct (if subtle) slant in favour of Antigonus and hence
against Pyrrhus. According to Plutarch, Argos wanted to remain neutral in the
conflict between Pyrrhus and Antigonus. If Pausanias is to be believed,
however, Argos already had sided against Pyrrhus by sending help to the
Spartans. Furthermore, though Antigonus is said to have shown his good faith to
Argos by giving up his son as hostage (Pyrrh. 31.6),51 Plutarch later has him
send this very son into the city with a relief force to aid the Argives against
Pyrrhus (32.3).52 Furthermore, the Spartan king, Areus, is noted by Plutarch to
have arrived in support of Argos (32.4), which suggests not only that the city
was not neutral but also that Pyrrhus had been besieging Argos openly and for
some time. Plutarch admits that Pyrrhus marched on Argos upon seeing an
opportunity there (30.2f.), yet is the only author who explicitly places

49
Nederlof [2] 231.
50
For this argument, see Tarn [2] 274. Justin/Pompeius Trogus is the only account to
state directly that Pyrrhus’ remains were sent home with Helenus, and even here we may
speculate that—due to the confusion evident in Ovid and Servius—bodily remains have been
confused with material possessions. Hence Helenus, because his father was yet to be buried,
was able to remove his personal effects and take them with him.
51
An offer, notes Kienast [2] 160, that Antigonus would probably have made only
because he believed in Argos’ loyalty.
52
Nederlof [2] 217 suggests that Antigonus averred willingness in the negotiations, but
did not actually hand over his son, under which interpretation Plutarch’s account would
appear subtly duplicitous.
128 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

Antigonus outside Argos during the siege. Although Justin/Pompeius Trogus is

the only source to state the opposite, it would seem that this opportunity actually
may have entailed besieging Antigonus within the city.
Plutarch is the first (extant) author to have Pyrrhus infiltrating Argos and
also the first to mention the use of elephants. He is supported in the former
assertion only by Polyaenus (who does not include elephants) and in the latter
only by Aelian (who offers no context for the behaviour of the elephant
mentioned). Although modern scholarship has tended to perceive other ancient
accounts as differing from Plutarch, it seems equally valid to consider that in
places it may be Plutarch who differs. This, of course, is to propound not an
ostracism of Plutarch, but rather a conscious recognition that the Life of Pyrrhus
contains inconsistencies and biographical devices that may serve to detract from
its historical accuracy. It is debatable whether Plutarch has deliberately selected
from differing versions with a view to biographical effect, whether he has
creatively (but erroneously) filled in the details of a previously incomplete
picture, or whether he simply has been misled. In any case, however, it seems
prudent to acknowledge Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus as being not above suspicion,
and thence to entertain the possibility of affording so-called ‘unreliable’ sources
a more prominent place in any reconstruction of the events surrounding
Pyrrhus’ death.

What May Really Have Happened at Argos

If the historicity of Plutarch’s version of events may be brought into question,

then there nevertheless remains a need to form some conclusion as to the
probable circumstances surrounding Pyrrhus’ death at Argos. The following
reconstruction, though speculative, attempts to draw together all the extant
material and hence to form not only a plausible account of Pyrrhus’ death itself
but also an explanation for the various interpretations of his operation against
Argos. In order to view the siege of Argos in some context, it is necessary to
begin with a summary of Pyrrhus’ siege of Sparta (Pyrrh. 30f.):

Pyrrhus ravaged Spartan territory in an attempt to provoke a battle, but when

this failed, he assaulted the city (which already was fortified), and Ptolemaeus
was killed. Learning that Antigonus had arrived at Argos and that Aristeas
was willing to betray the city, Pyrrhus proceeded there.

As discussed previously, the accounts of Pausanias and Justin/Pompeius Trogus

appear to offer an explanation for Pyrrhus’ actions that is both inherently sound
and free of literary motif (Pyrrh. 31):
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 129

Arriving at Argos, Pyrrhus found Antigonus to have occupied the city’s

citadel.

As noted above, there is reason to believe that Plutarch relied on a source that
was pro-Antigonus. Hence it may be possible that Plutarch has been confused or
misled into thinking that Antigonus commanded an (aggressive) position of
strength outside the city rather than a (defensive) position of strength inside the
city (Pryyh. 32):

Pyrrhus arrived at the Diamperes gate by night, but—perhaps due to the

problem of the elephants but more likely to the betrayal simply not taking
place—was forced to abandon his attempted infiltration.

We may suspect Plutarch here either of working from incomplete knowledge or

of omitting events that did not suit his purpose. Hence he passes over the next
part of the operation and instead presents a narrative that progresses directly
from the aborted betrayal to Pyrrhus’ death (Pryyh. 32-34):53

Pyrrhus besieged Argos, which called upon Sparta for assistance. Having
repulsed a sally, Pyrrhus seized upon an opportunity to pursue fugitives and
thereby enter the city.

This is the interpretation most consistent with Pausanias and George Synkellos.
Servius, too, despite the confusion surrounding his account, does say that Argos
was captured (Pyrrh. 32-34):

Having taken the city except for the citadel (which was still held by
Antigonus), Pyrrhus conducted either a victory parade or a show of force.

53
Duff [15] 314 and C. B. R. Pelling, ‘Plutarch’s Adaptation of His Source-Material’, in
B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford 1995) 127, note Plutarch’s wider
propensity for distorting chronology, particularly through a process of compression, and
Schepens [19] 431 has identified a particularly noteworthy instance of this within the Life of
Pyrrhus: Plutarch presents Pyrrhus’ loss of Macedonia (Pyrrh. 12.9-11) and subsequent
ambitions against Rome as contiguous (13.1), whereas actually they were separated by three
(not insignificant) years. With this example in mind, it seems incontrovertible that Plutarch’s
search for dramatic effect induced him at times misleadingly to condense or even omit
historical detail.
130 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2010) 112-31 ISSN 1018-9017

There seems no reason to dismiss Zonaras on this point, even though his
account might attract disparagement for its claim that Pyrrhus was struck by a
falling woman rather than by a roof tile (Pyrrh. 32-34):54

The Argives, however, were spurred on to further resistance when Areus

arrived unexpectedly and attacked the bulk of Pyrrhus’ army, which was
stationed outside the city under the command of Helenus.

It would certainly be possible to explain the Strabonic tradition by saying that

Pyrrhus died while assaulting the walls of the citadel. More consistent with the
arrival of Areus, however, is that Pyrrhus died during the confusion that resulted
from a Spartan attack on the city walls (Pyrrh. 32-34):

In essence, events then took place as recorded in Plutarch (33f.), with the
minor (but significant) alterations that Antigonus’ forces came not from
outside the city but rather from inside the citadel and that Helenus retreated
rather than advanced into the city (32-34).

Plutarch notably describes the elephant Nicon as proeiselhluqÒtwn ›teroj

(‘one of those which had gone on into the city’, Pyrrh. 33.5.3). This suggests
that the elephants had been divided into two groups: possibly (a) those that were
to participate in the victory parade or as a show of force within the city, and (b)
those that were to remain with the bulk of the army outside the city. Hence the
elephant that blocked the gateway and thwarted Pyrrhus’ withdrawal may well
have come from the force attacked by Areus, and was not itself attempting to
retreat from inside Argos.
Of Pyrrhus’ operations against Argos, Plutarch’s portrayal is vivid and
compelling in its detail and yet disquieting in the manipulation of its focus,
whereas the other extant authors offer versions that are perturbing in their
brevity and disjointedness and yet ameliorated somewhat through dint of being
largely guileless. The preceding reconstruction attempts not only to present
events as they may really have occurred but also to show that the so-called
‘unreliable’ tradition, rather than being dismissed out of hand, should perhaps
be used in toto to temper Plutarch’s elaborate and persuasive yet potentially
misleading account.

54
W. D. Barry, ‘Roof Tiles and Urban Violence in the Ancient World’, GRBS 37 (1996)
64, attests to the greater plausibility of the latter interpretation.
‘Plutarch and the Death of Pyrrhus’, J. Edwards 131

Conclusion

One of the more notable features of Plutarch’s Life of Pyrrhus is that it

engenders quite an unfavourable impression of its protagonist, particularly in
respect to his generalship. If it could be assumed that Pyrrhus actually was a
general of considerable ability, then Plutarch’s account of his death would read
quite suspiciously—indeed, it might even be designated ‘hostile’—but such a
conclusion is difficult to reach because much of the historical detail pertaining
to Pyrrhus has had to be gleaned from Plutarch’s biographical interpretation.
This presents the modern scholar with something of a conundrum, for although
the Life on one hand contains incontrovertible evidence of Pyrrhus’ capabilities,
on the other hand it seems to colourize his actions in rather negative a hue. In
short, the Life of Pyrrhus plays host to a perplexing inconsistency, the nature of
which lies in a subtle conflict between biography (in which genre the work was
composed) and history (in which genre our need for information necessarily has
placed it). The crux of the matter rests upon Plutarch’s depiction of Pyrrhus’
death at Argos, for this climactic event not only forms a vital conjunct to
biographical themes developed throughout the Life, but also encapsulates an
apparent discrepancy between the historicity of Plutarch’s account and that of
the various authors who mention Pyrrhus more fleetingly. The fragmentary
nature of the information presented in these works makes them seem a poor
alternative to Plutarch’s highly detailed portrayal, but they cannot merely be
dismissed, for the Life of Pyrrhus itself, although superficially compelling, plays
host to a literary manipulation that in fact renders it no more liable to be read
without criticism. This is not to suggest that Plutarch be cast aside but rather
that any material drawn from his biography of Pyrrhus be treated with greater
caution, and that due consideration be given to material contained within the
works of so-called ‘unreliable’ authors. Even though the siege of Argos can be
reconstructed only tentatively, it is possible to explain the multitude of
discrepancies that appear to divide the extant authors and in doing so to posit a
scenario that is not inconsistent with any of their accounts. If the validity of this
process may be recognized, then there would seem grounds to reconsider the
traditional acceptance of Plutarch’s characterization and hence perhaps to afford
Pyrrhus more credit as a general.
 DER UNPÄSSLICHE GAST: PLATON, TIMAIOS 17a

Bernhard Kytzler
College of Humanities, University of KwaZulu-Natal
Durban 4041, South Africa

Abstract. Plato’s Timaios begins with the question about a missing member of the group of
interlocutors. His name is not mentioned and has not been found. A similar situation is
described at a similar place in the Phaedo. It seems possible to use the name from the earlier
dialogue also for the later one since the missing member in both cases is the author himself:
Plato.

In der Einführung zum tiefgründigen Gespräch des Dialogs Timaios lässt

der Autor Platon seine Gestalt des Sokrates unmittelbar zu Beginn die
Teilnehmer zählen: EŒj, dÚo, tre‹j: Ð dł d¾ tštartoj ¹m‹n, ð f…le T…maie,
poà tîn cqłj młn daitumÒnwn, t¦ nàn d' ˜stiatÒrwn; (‘eins, zwei, drei,—
aber wo, lieber Timaios, bleibt uns der vierte der gestrigen Gäste und heutigen
Gastgeber?’, 17a1-3). Im Dialog Timaios antwortet ihm daraufhin die Titelfigur
Timaios: 'Asqšnei£ tij aÙtù sunšpesen, ð Sèkratej: oÙ g¦r ¨n ˜kën
tÁsde ¢pele…peto tÁj sunous…aj (‘irgend ein Unwohlsein hat ihn befallen,
Sokrates, denn freiwillig würde er diesem Treffen nicht fernbleiben’, 17a4f.).1
Die Kommentatoren Paulsen und Rehn bemerken dazu im Nachwort,
dass ‘Wer die fünfte während des Gesprächs fehlende Person ist, auf die
Sokrates zu Beginn des Dialogs anspielt, ist nicht zu ermitteln’.2
Man wird auch nicht fündig, wenn man andere frühere Stellungnahmen
zum Problem untersucht. Cornford zum Beispiel geht auf die Frage nach der
Person des fehlenden Gastes gar nicht erst ein;3 Taylor kommentiert durch einen
Verweis auf Axiochus 364c8, wo von der Genesung nach einem
Krankheitsanfall die Rede ist, jedoch zum Namensproblem nicht beigetragen
wird;4 bei Wright finden wir die Charakterisierung von Platons Text als
‘deceptively simple opening’, jedoch wiederum nichts zu unserer
Fragestellung.5

1
Text: T. Paulsen und R. Rehn (Hrsgb. und Übs.), Platon: Timaios (Stuttgart 2003).
2
Paulsen und Rehn [1] 242.
3
F. M. Cornford (Hrsgb. und Übs.), Plato’s Cosmology: The Timaeus of Plato Translated
with a Running Commentary (London 1937) 9.
4
A. E. Taylor (Hrsgb.), A Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus (Oxford 1928) 45.
5
M. R. Wright (Hrsgb.), Necessity and Reason: Essays on Plato’s Timaeus (London
2000) ix.

132
‘Der unpässliche Gast: Platon, Timaios 17a’, B. Kytzler 133

Den verschwiegenen Namen der fünften Person, d.h. des vierten Gastes
sozusagen aktenkundig zu ermitteln, mag in der Tat heutzutage nicht mehr
möglich sein. Sie ist schliesslich nicht aus dem athenischen Alltag der
Wirklichkeit ins Buch hergebeten, sondern entstammt der kreativen, aber eben
nicht amtlich registrierten Phantasie ihres gedankenreichen Schöpfers. Eine
begründete Vermutung mag indessen wohl verstattet sein.
Seine Antwort auf die Frage nach dem Namen der Person des infolge
seiner Unpässlichkeit an der in Aussicht genommenen Teilnahme verhinderten
Gastes hat der antike Autor schon zuvor anderen Ortes selbst formuliert:
Pl£twn dł oŁmai ºsqšnei (‘Platon war, meine ich, unpässlich’, Pl. Phd.
59b10).6 So heisst es dort ebenfalls bei der wiederum ganz am Anfang
gegebenen Musterung der Teilnehmer, gerade so wie im Timaios. Nur ein
halbes Dutzend Zeilen später beginnt dann die eigentliche Erzählung. Beide
Aussagen über die Verhinderung eines erwarteten Gesprächsteilnehmers
gleichen sich formal und funktional: eine bestimmte, rechtens erwartete und
dennoch ausgebliebene Person ist verhindert, und zwar durch irgend eine
‘Unpässlichkeit’, durch den Mangel an ‘Kraft’, an Stärke, an Fähigkeit, an
Vermögen. Einmal, im Timaios, erfahren wir den Namen dieser Person nicht;
ein anderes Mal, im Phaidon, wird er genannt. Für den Grund der Verhinderung
wird beide Male derselbe griechische Wortstamm eingesetzt: die ¢sqšneia
(‘Kraftlosigkeit’), das Unvermögen. Diese ‘Unpässlichkeit’ erhält keine nähere
Erläuterung. Die Abwesenheit wird nur kurz registriert und nicht weiter
diskutiert. Allerdings schließt sich im Timaios der Hinweis an, dass es nun also
die Aufgabe der drei anderen Teilnehmer sei, auch den Part des Abwesenden zu
übernehmen. Die Reaktion darauf ist kurz und eindeutig: P£nu młn oân, kaˆ
kat¦ dÚnam…n ge oÙdłn ™lle…yomen (‘Natürlich; und wir werden es dabei
nach Möglichkeit an nichts fehlen lassen’, 17b1).7
Akzeptiert man die hier vorgeschlagene Identifikation des
wohlbekannten, aber hier im Timaios ungenannten unpässlichen Gastes, so ist
Platons persönliche Autorität für die folgenden Aussagen von Hermokrates,
Kritias und Timaios im Dialogverlauf des Timaios entschieden eingefordert.
Ihre Worte im Gespräch sind an den nicht wörtlich wiedergegebenen, aber
inhärent vorauszusetzenden Reden Platons selbst zu messen. Von ihm gilt: Dum
tacet, clamat (‘sein Schweigen ruft laut’).
Das steht im Einklang mit der weitgehend verklausulierten Aussage der
‘Wahrheit’, wie sie im Höhlengleichnis (Pl. Resp. 7.514a-517a) vor Augen

6
Text: K. Hülser (Hrsgb.), F. Schleiermacher (Übs.), Platon: Phaidon (Stuttgart 1987);
vgl. auch F. Schleiermacher (Übs.), Platon: Phaidon (Frankfurt 1991).
7
Paulsen und Rehn [1].
134 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 132-34 ISSN 1018-9017

gestellt ist, jener ‘verdeutlichenden Parabel’.8 Nicht direkt, nicht ummittelbar ist
dem Menschen die Sicht auf die Wirklichkeit, die Ein-Sicht in das Wesen der
Welt möglich. Er ist dazu ‘unvermögend’. Nur Schatten auf einer Höhlenwand
vermag er zu sehen, die Umrisse nur von sich selbst und von anderen. Und um
nun den Gedanken-Sprung zu vollziehen: nur Schatten seiner Vorstellungen
vermag Platon zu vermitteln, erkennbar gemacht allein durch den Wider-Schein
seines Wissens, den Wider-Hall seiner Erkenntnisse in den Worten der (an
seiner Statt und auch in seinem Namen) philosophierenden Freunde. Das
Verständnis der Welt und ihrer Wirklichkeit ist nur mittelbar, nur verhüllt
wahrnehmbar in all dem, was sie miteinander zu Tage bringen. Platons Präsenz
beim Dialog aber ist durch den Hinweis bekräftigt, dass der Gast, dem die
‘Kraft’ fehlt, offen mitzuwirken, selbst hinter den Bemühungen seiner Herolds-
Figuren steht, und dass es seine eigenen Gedanken sind, die ihren Worten
zugrunde liegen.
Friedländer hat in seinem Platon-Buch betont, dass über den fehlenden
vierten Gast ‘seit den Neuplatonikern viel verhandelt worden’9 ist, wobei er auf
Proclus verweist; Burnet verlautbart in seinem Kommentar zu Plato's Phaedo,
dass ‘many strange things have been written about this simple statement’.10
‘A simple statement’ und ‘many strange things’ als Echo: ob die jetzt hier
vorgeschlagene einfache Antwort auf eine alte Frage Akzeptanz finden mag?

8
P. Friedländer (Hrsgb.), Platon 3: Die platonischen Schriften zweite und dritte Periode2
(Berlin 1960) 124; vgl. auch K. Vretska (Hrsgb. und Übs.), Platon: Der Staat4 (Stuttgart
2004).
9
Friedländer [8] 313f., 495 Anm. 8 (‘Proclus in Tim. 9, 213sqq. Diehl’).
10
J. Burnett (Hrsgb.), Plato’s Phaedo5 (Oxford 1949) 59.
 ROYAL SOCIETY OF NEW ZEALAND AND
UNIVERSITY OF OTAGO CENTRE FOR RESEARCH
ON NATIONAL IDENTITY PRESENTATION

The following is an edited version of a presentation that was delivered in Dunedin on

20 August 2011 by William J. Dominik at a symposium on the ongoing status of European
high culture in New Zealand Aotearoa.

‘HIGH CULTURE’, CLASSICS AND THE HUMANITIES

IN NEW ZEALAND AOTEAROA: A POSITION PAPER

William J. Dominik
Department of Classics, University of Otago
Dunedin 9016, New Zealand

Abstract. Classics may be considered by some New Zealanders to be a product of ‘high

culture’, but it is relevant along with the rest of the Humanities to the contemporary world
and part of the mix that makes up the cultural scene and educational practice of New Zealand
Aotearoa. Classics has made contributions to New Zealand Aotearoa society in a number of
cultural areas and has a role to play in an increasingly multicultural environment.

When the details of a symposium entitled ‘“Talking of Michelangelo . . .”:

A Symposium on the Ongoing Status of European High Culture in New Zealand
Aotearoa’ were publicised,1 the unwitting similarity to the Roman rhetorical exercise
known as the thesis was apparent in some of the questions posed by the organisers:
‘Are the products of European high culture still significant in the contemporary
world? What is the appropriate place for them in the mix that makes up our cultural
scene, and in the education and cultural policies of New Zealand Aotearoa? How does
their presence—or absence—affect the collective memory?’ These questions invite a
response and explanation similar to Roman theses, for example, questions of abstract
thought such as: ‘Is Virtue an end in itself? How is Virtue to be attained—by nature or
by training? Should Virtue be sought for its own sake or for the advantage it brings?
Can Virtue in a man ever become vice?’ and so on.2
The question ‘Are the products of European high culture still significant in the
contemporary world?’ invites a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer and an explanation of the type
that Romans addressed in the process of developing their rhetorical skills. The answer

1
This Symposium, which was held at the University of Otago, was sponsored by
The Royal Society of New Zealand and The Centre for Research in National Identity.
2
On the Roman thesis see M. L. Clarke, ‘The Thesis in the Roman Rhetorical Schools of
the Republic’, CQ 1 (1951) 159-66.

135
136 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 135-44 ISSN 1018-9017

the question is of course ‘yes’, though such a response demands qualification. This
question will be addressed mainly from the disciplinary perspective of Classics, a
discipline that is often assumed to represent ‘high culture’. At the same time it should
be pointed out that Classics has never been a discipline with a theoretical purity that
ensures its intellectual distinctiveness from other disciplines. Classics has long had an
interdisciplinary basis with most of the other disciplines and areas represented in
so-called ‘high culture’, for example, English, including such figures as Shakespeare
and Austen; western music, including its history and philosophy; Māori, Pacific and
European art; and the literature and philosophy of continental Europe.
The use of the phrase ‘high culture’ is not an appropriate phrase, however, to
describe the aforementioned disciplines and areas. The phrase ‘high culture’ is used in
many different ways, often in regard to cultural elements that a particular society, or
part of society, often the most highly educated and/or economically prosperous, values
the most. The use of the phrase ‘high culture’ immediately raises the question of what
constitutes ‘low culture’, presumably the culture of those less educated and less
prosperous economically. And the term ‘low culture’, of course, immediately invites
the question of what its opposite is, that is, ‘high culture’. In any case, these terms are
relative and shift over time. Shakespeare would have been considered popular culture
by critics during his own time, whereas for at least a couple of centuries now he has
been thought to represent the essence of high culture.
The conceptual distinctions between high and low culture increasingly have
narrowed over time particularly in the academic environment as scholars have
increasingly focussed on mass culture, for instance, in the media. Academic
investigation of popular culture that at one time may have been considered frivolous
now is the norm. The boundaries between so-called high and low cultures have
become increasingly blurred so that the investigation of them has become more an
examination of different types of culture rather than of an investigation of so-called
high and low aspects of a society with the attendant positive and negative associations
attached to these labels. Forms of popular culture seem to respond instinctively to the
general needs and interests of the public, and they often absorb elements of so-called
high culture, just as high culture sometimes appropriates elements of popular culture
so that in the end in both instances it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to
distinguish between the various cultures.

The Case of Classics in New Zealand Aotearoa

Classics has often been thought to be of ‘high culture’ even within the university
environment partly because of the large number of literary, art, archaeological and other
works that Graeco-Roman culture produced that are appreciated throughout much of the
world. The classical tradition still holds its special value partly because of its
longstanding influence upon the cultures of various countries, including New Zealand
Aotearoa. While the methodological similarity between the questions raised by the
organisers of the Symposium on ‘high culture’ and those of the Roman thesis discussed
above are purely coincidental, Classical culture as a whole has had a demonstrable
‘“High Culture”, Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand’, W. J. Dominik 137

impact on New Zealand Aotearoa culture. Along with Māori and Pacific Islands culture
Classics must be considered to be one of the formative influences of contemporary New
Zealand Aotearoa culture in a whole host of areas.
One of the most obvious ways in which Classics demonstrates its relevance to
New Zealand Aotearoa culture is through its contribution to the vocabulary and
linguistic structures of English, about seventy per cent of which is derived ultimately
from Latin and ancient Greek. In New Zealand Aotearoa the influence of classical
architecture is obvious in the numerous buildings of a neoclassical style that survived the
modern movement in architecture, for instance, the Parliament House in Wellington, the
Auckland War Memorial Museum, Christchurch Catholic Basilica,3 and the Dunedin
Town Hall.4
Classical mythology and the classical poets have had a strong influence on some
New Zealand Aotearoa poets, including James K. Baxter, many of whose poems are
inspired by classical myth and the Roman poetry of Catullus and Horace,5 and Fleur
Adcock, whose outputs include poems modelled upon not only the Roman poets Horace
and Propertius but also a host of Greek poets.6 Other New Zealand Aotearoa poets who
have been influenced by classical mythology and poets include E. M. Blaiklock, Alistair
Campbell, A. F. T. Chorlton, Denis Glover, Bernadette Hall, Charles Howden,
G. Lincoln Lee, R. A. K. Mason, Richard J. H. Matthews, Vincent O’Sullivan,
C. K. Stead, and David More.7 The unique synthesis of classical and Māori aspects
evident in Harry Love’s Hurai,8 a play that draws on Euripidean elements and Māori
prophetic movements, illustrates the possibilities of the fusion of Māori and European
elements, which is surely more significant than any attempt to use value-laden labels to
describe the use of Euripides by a New Zealand Aotearoa playwright.
Although the label of ‘high culture’ is sometimes pinned to Classics, there is little
reason today for this to be the case. Perhaps at one time it was considered to be ‘high

3
This building was badly damaged in the February 2011 earthquake.
4
For some discussion of neoclassical buildings in New Zealand Aotearoa, see P. Shaw,
A History of New Zealand Architecture3 (Auckland 2003).
5
See J. Davidson, ‘James K. Baxter and the Classics’, Islands 14 (1975) 451-64;
‘Catullus, Horace and Baxter’, Islands 15 (1976) 86-94; ‘Odysseus, Baxter and New Zealand
Poetry’, Landfall 134 (1980) 107-19; G. Miles, J. Davidson and P. Millar, The Snake-haired
Muse: James K. Baxter and Classical Myth (Wellington 2011). See also R. J. H. Matthews
(ed.), Classical New Zealand Poetry: Based on Greek and Latin Models (Dunedin 1985)
20-37.
6
See Matthews [5] 103-09.
7
Some of the poems of these and other New Zealand Aotearoa poets and their classical
models appear in Matthews [5]; on the use of mythological figures by New Zealand Aotearoa
poets, see J. Davidson, ‘Some New Zealand Poetic Faces of Dionysus’, in J. Davidson and
A. Pomeroy (edd.), Theatres of Action: Papers for Chris Dearden (Auckland 2003) 224-37;
J. Davidson, ‘Venus/Aphrodite and James K. Baxter’, in J. L. Wilkinson, E. Parisot and
D. McInnis (edd.), Refashioning Myth: Poetic Transformations and Metamorphoses
(Newcastle 2011) 203-18.
8
H. Love, Hurai (Wellington 2011).
138 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 135-44 ISSN 1018-9017

culture’. If a label must be attached to Classics, it is, though not ‘low’ culture, rather
more ‘middle culture’. The academic environment has expanded increasingly to include
elements of popular culture, which is always a combination of so-called ‘low’ and ‘high
culture’. Classics is no different in this respect. In classical Athens even a figure such as
Euripides was a popular dramatist—in the two senses of the word ‘popular’—during his
own day and his tragedies were intended for the consumption of the entire population of
the state. As suggested above, the situation in the case of Shakespeare during the English
Renaissance does not seem all that different.
If Classics is in some sense perceived as ‘high culture’, one must still concede
that so much of it that has become part of popular culture, as exemplified not only in
the large number of films such as Troy and Alexander that have captured the popular
imagination and become hits at the box office but also in such media as comics and
video games.9 The use of the descriptive phrase ‘popular culture’ or even ‘mass
culture’ is preferable to a value-laden phrase such as ‘low culture’. The phrase ‘high
culture’, though it contrasts with ‘popular culture’, does not necessarily need to
suggest an opposition to popular culture; nor should ‘high culture’ be viewed as being
opposed to traditional or indigenous culture. In general, the use of terms such as ‘high’
and ‘low’ to refer to culture are unhelpful. Even the general term ‘culture’ to describe
cultural phenomena of any type is preferable to these value-laden terms of ‘high’ and
‘low’.

Open and Closed Cultures

As a member of New Zealand Aotearoa society and a university lecturer, the extent to
which parts of a culture are perceived as being ‘open’ or ‘closed’ to others is an issue
that concerns me. During a decade of teaching Classics in South Africa in the 1990s
and my visits during and after that time to countries such as Nigeria and Malawi,
which have universities that teach Classics, it has been always apparent to me that an
attempt to integrate indigenous African elements into my teaching of Classics to
highlight aspects of classical culture generally were appreciated by my students and
the broader African society, though there were tinges of anti-colonial sentiment that
existed toward the study of Classics and other western forms of culture. Africans
themselves have borrowed heavily from western cultural forms in the production of
their own literature. The resulting hybridic forms of African literary production
proudly assert the Africanness of their literature even as it adopts and appropriates
these western literary forms.10 Insofar as I have been able to sense, my research into
classical elements in African literary forms and my incorporation of African aspects in
9
On comics see G. Kovacs and C. W. Marshall (edd.), Classics and Comics (Oxford
2011). No similar book on the influence of Classics upon video games exist, though the video
games with classical themes number in the dozens (e.g., Hercules, Warriors: Legends of
Troy, God of War: Ghost of Sparta, Age of Mythology: The Titans, Rise of the Argonauts,
Rome: Total War, The Battle of Olympus, Kid Icarus: Of Myths and Monsters).
10
See W. J. Dominik, ‘Africa’, in C. Kallendorf (ed.), A Companion to the Classical
Tradition (Oxford 2007) 117-31, esp. 131.
‘“High Culture”, Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand’, W. J. Dominik 139

my teaching of the Classics on a comparative basis generally has been valued and has
been perceived to be a reflection of my respect for African cultures and traditions.
Since I arrived in New Zealand Aotearoa ten years ago, I have always been
(rightly or wrongly) self-conscious about discussing anything Māori in my classes, so
I have only done so occasionally even though opportunities have presented themselves
in the classes I have taught, especially in mythology, where many of the classical
elements bear comparison with aspects of Māori folklore and mythology. I maintain
that mythology meets the deeply rooted need to know about ourselves and the ancient
cultures we have inherited, and this need naturally extends to the indigenous and
modern cultures around us. After examining the nature and meaning of classical
mythology, it is possible to proceed to a comparison of classical myth with the mythic
systems of other peoples in other cultures in virtually any place in the world, including
the Māori in New Zealand Aotearoa. Such a comparison of mythic systems between
cultures reveals that bodies of mythic thought and practice, including rituals, creation
stories, heroes, notions of time, the relationship between the temporal and spiritual
worlds, and the origination of tribes and clans belonging to peoples widely separated
in time and space, reflect not only sharp differences but also striking similarities
suggestive of a common ancestry.
Despite the aforementioned similarities between aspects of classical and Māori
culture, since my arrival in Dunedin in 2002 I have had the sense that I should not be
discussing Māori culture in my classes; in addition, I am aware that if I were to do any
research on Māori issues related to Classics that I would need to go through the formal
University of Otago process of consulting Māori,11 something that the noted classical
scholar Agathe Thornton did not need to do when she explored Māori oral literature
from her perspective as a classicist a quarter of a century ago.12 My reticence to
engage with Maori culture and my feeling of it being a ‘closed culture’, despite the
encouragement we are given to study the Māori language, results in part from a desire
to respect Maori cultural forms, to avoid treating them in a trivial fashion and thereby
to offend Maori sensibilities, and the need to consult formally with Maori regarding
any Maori-related research.

High, Low and Other Cultures

I sometimes wonder whether my reticence to use relevant Māori elements in my

classes may reflect in some way the exclusiveness of Māori culture, which from my
perspective would be unfortunate for the same reason that I reject the use of the label
‘high culture’ to refer to the exclusive notion involved in the study of the Classics.
I certainly do not think of Māori culture or classical culture as high, middle, low or
popular since such a distinction seems to me to be unhelpful and artificial, not to
mention value-laden and therefore regressive. Māori culture has provided inspiration

11
For the University of Otago Research Consultation with Māori Policy, see
http://www.otago.ac.nz/research/maoriconsultation (30 September 2012).
12
A. Thornton, Maori Oral Literature as Seen by a Classicist (Dunedin 1987).
140 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 135-44 ISSN 1018-9017

to so-called Pakeha artists and academics, some of whom have helped to revive or
maintain Māori art forms, for instance, Brian Flintoff,13 Richard Nunns14 and Mervyn
McLean15 in music. Other Pakeha artists such as Colin McCahon16 and Gordon
Walters17 have combined western art forms with traditional Māori art forms. Some
Māori have become well-known exponents and artists of European art forms in the
area of literature, music and art such as the Keri Hulme,18 Kiri Te Kanawa19 and Ralph
Hotere20 respectively. Are the resultant artistic products of ‘high culture’ or ‘popular
culture’? Since we should be loath to suggest anything that would seem to undercut
the cultural value of these art forms, any attempt to label western or European art
forms with such terms is equally inappropriate and unhelpful.
Universities in various countries, including New Zealand Aotearoa, may seem
to serve as an important instrument of promoting the concept of high culture despite
the popularisation of the curriculum that has increasingly occurred in the past twenty
or so years. High culture or not, universities must never lose sight of what is one of
the purposes of higher education: the preservation of whatever there is in civilisation
worth preserving. Not many non-Classicists realise that the Classics have a strong
tradition at universities in numerous countries outside Europe, not just Australasia and
North America. There are over 700 departments in over fifty countries on six
continents in which Classics is taught on the university level in these non-European
and non-Australasian countries, including China, Japan, Russia, Sri Lanka, Egypt,
Democratic Republic of Congo, Ghana, South Korea, Zimbabwe, Venezuela, Brazil,
Israel, Nigeria and Malawi. No culture can lay sole claim to the discipline of Classics.
Classics today belongs to everyone.
Humanities courses may also seem to serve a role in the promotion of the
concept of ‘high culture’, but generally shun the use of the term itself in the interests
of popularisation. The relationship between high culture and popular culture has been
the subject of much interest among cultural theoreticians in cultural and media
studies.21 High culture can be viewed as a means of social control by the politically
13
E.g., B. Flintoff, Taonga Pūoro. Singing Treasures: The Musical Instruments of the
Māori (Nelson 2003).
14
E.g., R. Nunns, He Ara Pūoro (A Pathway of Song) < http://www.radionz.co.nz/
concert/audiofeatures/hearapuoro> (30 September 2012).
15
E.g., M. McLean (and M. Orbell), Traditional Songs of the Māori (Auckland 2004).
16
E.g., C. McCahon, Urewera Mural (1975), Auckland Art Gallery, L2008/2.
17
E.g., G. Walters, New Zealand Landscape (1947), Museum of New Zealand / Te Papa
Tongarewa, 1991-004-1.
18
E.g., K. Hulme, The Bone People (Wellington 1984), a novel; The Silences Between
(Moeraki Conversations) (Auckland 1982), poetry; Te Kaihau: The Windeater (Wellington
1986), short stories.
19
E.g., K. T. Kanawa, The Best of Kiri Te Kanawa, Audio CD, Hip-O/Decca (2005),
classical music.
20
E.g., R. Hotere, painting of Christ, Te Ao Hou 29 (1959) 39, expressionism.
21
See, e.g., H. J. Gans, Popular and High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste2
(New York 1999).
‘“High Culture”, Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand’, W. J. Dominik 141

and economically most powerful and influential sections of society, a notion

characteristic of the Gramscian notion of hegemony involving the infiltration of a
system of values into a society with the aim and result of buttressing the political
status quo.22 But some national theorists, for instance, Ernst Gellner, have also argued
that so-called high culture is an important aspect of a robust national identity.23 The
presence of the so-called European forms of high culture is an important aspect of
New Zealand Aotearoa identity and along with Māori culture forms the distinctive
national identity of the country. It is impossible to remove either form of culture—
Māori or western—without significantly altering the national identity. The collective
memory of New Zealand Aotearoa is represented by the ‘monuments’ that it has
constructed in the various areas of its culture—literary, architectural, artistic and so
on. To remove any of these would be to alter significantly the elements that make up
the national identity of New Zealand Aotearoa.
While the national identity of New Zealand Aotearoa is likely to change in the
future because of the increasing influence from Asia, and thus is likely to affect the
representational cultural forms that exist in the country, that the forms that represent
so-called European culture will abate since much of the world outside New Zealand
Aotearoa has increasingly adopted them—whatever we may label them. Both Māori
and western art forms have been memorialised in New Zealand Aotearoa culture. And
the so-called European high cultural forms, however we may define them (if we
choose to do so at all), will continue to exist in New Zealand Aotearoa culture and
therefore in the collective memory of the nation.

The Value of Humanities and Classics in New Zealand Aotearoa

The issues raised here essentially have more to do with the value of Humanities in
New Zealand Aotearoa, whether these forms are European, Māori, Pacific or a
combination of these or any others, than the notion of European high culture in New
Zealand Aotearoa. If the Humanities are considered to be ‘high culture’ in whole or
part, then this notion is unfortunate since the disciplines represented by the
Humanities are inherently human and humanising, as is suggested in the Latin word
humanitas, which literally means ‘human nature’. The role of Humanities is partly to
preserve the heart and soul of humanity, which is hardly just the concern of ‘high
culture’. Ultimately we need the Humanities precisely because they provide a kind of
truth that has its origins in the human spirit.
The term ‘Humanities’ is relatively modern, but the Humanities themselves
have their roots in the classical world, in the artes liberales of the medieval
universities, and in the studia humanitatis of the Renaissance. The ancient Greek idea
was that education should acquaint young minds with a basic understanding of human
achievement in various intellectual and creative fields such as the languages,

22
See A. Gramsci (trr. Q. Hoare and G. N. Smith, Selections from the Prison Notebooks
(New York 1971).
23
E. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford 1983).
142 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 135-44 ISSN 1018-9017

literature, history, arts, mathematics and the natural sciences. The Greeks argued that
the primary purpose of education was to exercise and to expand the mind; according
to Aristotle, the chief importance of education was to train the mind to think (Pol. 8).
During the past three millennia this concept of a humanistic education has formed the
core of educational philosophy in different parts of the world, including New Zealand
Aotearoa.
In some respects the Greek conception of the Humanities is not all that much
different from our understanding today. But at universities internationally there is
pressure to teach what is relevant. Indeed, I maintain Classics only has a role in higher
education in this new millennium because of its relevance, but it must be based in the
real world. Classicists carry a particular responsibility to preserve the past. Kwame
Anthony Appiah has asserted, ‘In the Humanities . . . we are always engaged in
illuminating the past; it is the only way to make a future worth hoping for’.24 Indeed
the past is our inheritance and is inherently interesting to many of us, as it was to the
Romans. One of the defining features of Roman cultural achievement is its awareness
of its own place in the cultural movements of history. This awareness is evident in the
self-conscious references of its literature and material remains to things past, to past
works, past styles and past achievements, especially those of the Greeks. As the
Romans themselves realised, the past provides many valuable lessons, but it has little
meaning without reference to the present. Another way of expressing this is that the
present is a function of the past, but once the present has passed it becomes the past
and is gone forever unless resurrected. Is this need to preserve the past really the
concern only of ‘high culture’?
It is in the area of comparative social and political history that Classics has a
demonstrable link to contemporary social and political developments in many parts of
the world. The ancient world is paradoxically modern in its articulation of social and
political issues due to the close parallels between modern, indigenous and classical
civilisations, especially in social and political history, oral tradition, myth, religion
and ritual. The parallels between the fate of subject peoples in the Graeco-Roman
world and the experiences of politically oppressed races under apartheid in South
Africa during the decade I lived there have made it easier for me to appreciate some of
the political issues raised in the writing of Roman imperial literature.25 So sometimes
the process works the other way; in other words, the process is bidirectional: the
modern world can be as equally helpful in appreciating aspects of the ancient world as
the ancient world can be in helping to understand the modern world.

Classics and Multicultualism

A topic I have always liked to discuss when I talk about Classics is multiculturalism,
which is a contentious topic in many societies around the world. I not only maintain

24
K. A. Appiah, Experiments in Ethics (Cambridge, Mass. 2008) 1-2.
25
See, e.g., W. J. Dominik, J. Garthwaite and P. A. Roche (ed.), Writing Politics in
Imperial Rome (Leiden 2009).
‘“High Culture”, Classics and the Humanities in New Zealand’, W. J. Dominik 143

that multiculturalism and the study of classical antiquity are complementary interests
but also like to highlight the phenomenon of multiculturalism by drawing attention to
the similarities and differences between Greek, Roman and other cultures as a means
of helping to define them. Although I loosely describe this approach as multicultural, I
prefer to refer to it as intercultural because of this referential aspect to other cultures.
Teaching and research in this area brings the meaning and pervasiveness of
multiculturalism into vivid focus and illustrates how a culture borrows and adapts
aspects of a foreign culture even as it asserts a distinctive place within a broader
cultural environment.
The modern perception of Classics is somehow that it is a bicultural discipline
involving just Greeks and Romans. But the worlds of Greece and Rome comprised
two of the most multicultural societies in antiquity. Juvenal, a Roman satirist, and
Dio Chrysostom, a Greek orator and popular philosopher, were moved to comment
upon the multicultural features of Rome and Alexandria in the first century. Juvenal
mentions or remarks disparagingly on the multiculturalisation of Rome through the
presence of more than a dozen cited nationalities (Juv. 3, esp. 61-83), while Dio
Chrysostom similarly cites that the inhabitants of Alexandria were composed of a
dozen nationalities ranging from Greeks to Indians and Arabs (Or. 32.40). As happens
in a society like New Zealand Aotearoa to a greater or lesser degree, these minorities
defined themselves in relation to the mainstream culture without yielding completely
to it. The Greeks in Rome, for instance, expressed an identity distinct from Roman
culture in the process of adapting themselves to that dominant culture. Rome and
Alexandria were not melting pots but rather culturally pluralistic worlds in which their
inhabitants were drawn from a host of other societies, as is the case in many parts of
the world today, including New Zealand Aotearoa.
In New Zealand Aotearoa the extent to which Māori should be culturally and
politically independent from or aligned with the dominant colonial society to which
they have accommodated themselves is a cultural and political issue that preoccupies
the collective psyche. But the differences in ancient Rome between the dominant
culture and subordinate cultures seemed all too apparent to Juvenal, who scorned the
internationalisation and multiculturalism of ancient Rome. Yet it is precisely these
differences that helped a sense of cultural distinctiveness to emerge among the
Romans, especially in relation to the Greek culture they inherited. In part the cultural
identity of the Romans developed out of them engaging with, becoming familiar with,
borrowing from, adapting and exploiting aspects of Greek culture even as they felt
inferior to and sometimes resented this foreign culture. This phenomenon seems
paradoxical: the Romans defined themselves by reference to the ‘other’, namely the
Greeks, even as they appropriated their culture.
This ancient model of cultural differentiation and appropriation is relevant to
an examination of multicultural issues in New Zealand Aotearoa. Multicultural issues
are increasingly part of the debate on the national identity of New Zealand Aotearoa,
while multicultural skills are more essential than ever in today’s world. We are today
increasingly living in a world without clear borders in which it is essential to be able
to understand, to appreciate and to communicate with a variety of other cultures
144 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 135-44 ISSN 1018-9017

consisting of different races, languages and religions. Classical culture, like Māori
culture, is part of the general cultural heritage of all humankind. With its array of
cultural, national, religious and intellectual traditions, classical antiquity provides
valuable lessons for the modern world, including that of New Zealand Aotearoa.
Multicultural study is possible in a variety of areas in Classics, including the oral
tradition and, as mentioned above, the classical tradition and reception.
Ideologically I believe that the different humanistic enterprises sometimes
referred to as ‘high culture’ should join forces to reconstruct and to preserve the past
as part of the continuous heritage of humankind. In a letter written in 2011 to the
Pacific, European and Asian Languages Advisory Group (PEALAG), I argued that a
coordinated approach to the issues affecting languages would be beneficial to all
languages offered on the tertiary level in New Zealand Aotearoa, not just the
European and Asian languages, and that all the languages be represented in any
discussions that PEALAG may have with the Humanities Advisory Panel of the Royal
Society of New Zealand, including on issues related to delivery and finance,
particularly since languages are greatly underfunded by the New Zealand Aotearoa
government. Consistent with my view on such issues as the role of the Humanities in
New Zealand Aotearoa and the place of multiculturalism in New Zealand Aotearoa
society, I have suggested to PEALAG that we should be focussing on what is common
to our languages rather than on what is different about them.
In the multicultural world of New Zealand Aotearoa we should all contribute to
preserving a multicultural past. In our community our sensitivity to multicultural
issues should better enable us to engage in a constructive dialogue with other
members of our community, to appreciate the different perspectives raised, to embrace
these differences as a positive phenomenon, to empathise with and to support the
aspirations of different sections of New Zealand Aotearoa, and to pursue the common
goals of the nation with a shared sense of purpose.

Conclusion

Why are Classics and the Humanities, part of so-called ‘high culture’ or not, important
(or ought to be important) in New Zealand Aotearoa? Why should New Zealand
Aotearoa society and the university curriculum deal with the ideas and values of the
past when the trend is to focus on what is immediate and in the present? My own
instinct tells me that in a world of constant and accelerating flux we all have a deep
yearning to know our origins and to connect with the past. Humankind has had the
tendency to view history as a sequence of events, but I find it more helpful to view the
common experience of humanity from synchronic and multicultural perspectives
rather than from diachronic and unicultural perspectives. To be truly whole, we need a
context, a frame of reference, and a sense of the enduring ideas and shared humanistic
values common to all ages. The past helps to provide all these elements. And the study
generally of the Humanities, though it may include disciplines considered by some to
be of ‘high culture’, ultimately helps to increase our understanding and appreciation of
New Zealand Aotearoa society.
 REVIEW ARTICLES

Scholia has published solicited (and occasionally unsolicited) review articles during the
twenty years of the series.

SELF AND MOTHER: RECENT CRITICAL APPROACHES TO

MATERNITY IN ROMAN LITERATURE

Mairéad McAuley
King’s College, University of Cambridge
Cambridge CB2 1ST, England

Antony Augoustakis, Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power in

Flavian Epic. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Pp. xii + 314. ISBN 978-0-19-
958441-3. GBP60.
Ellen Oliensis, Freud’s Rome: Psychoanalysis and Latin Poetry. Roman Literature
and Its Contexts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Pp. xi + 148. ISBN
9780521846615. GBP55.

The relation of mothers to Rome’s martial ethos was oppositional,

complementary and hierarchical: emblems of the ‘home front’, the private, domestic
and feminine sphere as opposed to the public arena of the battlefield, yet at the same
time they are responsible for the production of warriors for the state. While Roman
literature frequently represents mothers as irredeemably ‘other’ and potentially
dangerous to civic order (for example, in their capacity for excessive mourning or for
ambition), the enduring fame of tough, wealthy, republican matronae like Cornelia,
mother of the Gracchi, testifies to the sanctified place accorded a certain stereotype of
maternity within Rome’s patriarchal ideology.
As breeders and buriers of warriors, as well as mourners and memorialisers,
mothers occupy a similarly sanctioned role within the genre of martial epic. The
goddesses Thetis and Venus, for example, bestow arms on their respective sons
Achilles and Aeneas, so authorising their bloody exploits while also remaining
separate from them, thus preserving the gender binary of home front and battlefield,
central to the discourse of war. Yet despite their symbolic import, mothers in Roman
epic (and in particular the Aeneid) have often appeared as no more than a series of
shadowy, marginalised voices and figures, ignored by critics (until relatively recently)
in favour of more glamorously transgressive females such as Dido or Camilla.
Feminist critics have argued that at best epic mothers provide the ground for the
reproduction of virtus and for the continuity of civilisation but are denied agency or

145
146 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

subjectivity themselves (which seems especially true of human mothers such as

Creusa or Lavinia) and are often displaced into symbolic maternal entities, such as the
land; and these same critics have argued that at worst epic aligns mothers with
madness, death and the obstruction of masculine achievement (one thinks here of
Vergil’s Amata or Euryalus’ mother) and rapidly dispatches them to enable the
narrative—and the hero—to progress.1 So, when Hecuba pleads with Hector not to
fight Achilles, she exposes her breast to him as a reminder of how she nursed him and
of his duty to her (Hom. Il. 22.79-84). Hector ignores this symbol of his nurture—and
therefore of his vulnerability—as he must, for, as Murnaghan argues, ‘to succumb to
his mother’s care is to stay out of the arena of heroic life and action and thus to earn
an obscurity that might as well be death’.2 It would seem that heroic glory is achieved
by surmounting the presence of the mother, whether she is Thetis, Hecuba or Creusa,
as much as by surmounting the terrifying inevitability of death itself. Indeed, as
Murnaghan claims of Homeric poetry, mothers’ very association with childbearing
and nurturing often so aligns them with mortality and death as to become almost
responsible for it.
Given the well-documented androcentric ideology of martial epic and of the
context of its production and reception as formative texts for young Roman men,3 it is
hard to question the structural validity of such conclusions. But it also indicates the
difficulty facing the critic who wants to talk about Roman epic mothers without
reproducing the essentialising and oppressive gender norms of the texts themselves. In
identifying, however critically, the locus of the maternal at the margins of epic action,
criticism risks justifying the way in which mothers and maternity are persistently
circumscribed, taken for granted or ignored by interpreters of ancient texts. As I have
suggested above, mothers offer a unique category of analysis in epic as figures
marginal to its narrative structures yet central to its ideology. This ambiguous status
finds an analogy in Roman society: while the Roman system concentrated all
economic and legal power in the hands of the pater, motherhood was still the primary
position from which most Roman women were able to exercise any recognised social
or moral influence, albeit influence based on convention rather than enshrined in law.
As such the maternal provides the epicist with a potent alternative source of symbolic
meaning and authority from within epic discourse, though one that had its limitations
and risks. Echoing the famous injunction to Aeneas to antiquam exquirite matron
(‘seek his ancient mother’, Verg. Aen. 3.96), one wonders what would it mean to take
seriously a ‘search for the mother’ in Roman epic poetry? Such an enterprise (pace

1
See, e.g., S. Murnaghan, ‘Maternity and Mortality in Homeric Poetry, ClAnt 11.2 (1992)
242-64; A. M. Keith, Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic (Cambridge 2000); S. G.
Nugent, ‘The Women of the Aeneid: Vanishing Bodies, Lingering Voices’, in C. Perkell
(ed.), Reading Vergil’s Aeneid: An Interpretive Guide (Norman 1999) 251-70.
2
Murnaghan [1] 250.
3
According to Keith [1] 35, epic is ‘a literary form centred on the principle of elite male
identity’.
Review Articles 147

Murnaghan) seems to call for a slightly different approach to reading epic from the
one to which we are accustomed. Feminist readings of epic have tended (often very
productively) either to expose the genre’s encoded ideology of masculinity and
imperial conquest or to recuperate feminine voices that resist or ‘subvert’ that
ideology (and therefore threaten generic coherence). Yet neither approach manages to
escape the essentialising conventions of gender and genre against which they
protest—the idea that the feminine is (in theory if not in practice) external to ‘epic’
proper4—and as such they cannot fully account for the ambiguity of mothers who
operate both inside and outside the symbolic structures of martial epic. What, then,
would seeking the mother do for our notions of epic poetry? Might it reveal other
identities voiced there too, contrapuntal perspectives on epic’s self-proclaimed subject
matter of arma virumque (‘arms and the man’, Verg. Aen. 1.1) . . . reges et proelia
(‘kings and battles’, Verg. Ecl. 6.3), alternative—yet still Roman—narratives to those
of patrilineage and paternal law (res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella, ‘the
deeds of kings and commanders and sorrowful wars’, Hor. Ars P. 73)?5
The metacritical question of how to read (for) the mother in Roman epic is
highlighted by the two works under review. Both books explore the ambiguously
oppositional yet complementary role of mothers within a literary tradition that often
has been viewed by critics as self-consciously ‘patrilineal’,6 and they point towards
new ways to approach gender in Roman epic. Roman literary mothers have emerged
from the shadows in recent years with a collection of essays on the Roman
representation of maternity in Helios in 2007 (topics included the aforementioned
Cornelia, Fulvia and mothers in Propertius, Ovid and Statius), now followed by these
two more substantial, sophisticated studies. Antony Augoustakis’ alliteratively titled
Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power in Flavian Epic is notable for
being the first monograph (to my knowledge) to declare a focus on motherhood in
Roman literature (in this case, Flavian epic), and it constitutes a subtle, impressive
addition to our understanding of the relations between the construction of gender and
civic identity in Roman epic by building and advancing on Keith’s Engendering
Rome: Women in Latin Epic.7 Ellen Oliensis’ Freud’s Rome: Psychoanalysis and
Latin Poetry, a contemplation on the role of Freudian theory to Latin literary criticism,
devotes only one chapter out of three (chapter 2, ‘Murdering Mothers’, pp. 57-91) to
the representation of motherhood in Augustan epic, but her contribution will be
crucial to anyone interested in the gender dynamics of Vergil’s and Ovid’s poetry or
in Roman maternity in general. While there are fundamental divergences between the
two authors’ approaches, a virtue of both is that they take the maternal as a powerfully

4
S. Hinds, ‘Essential Epic: Genre and Gender from Macer to Statius’, in M. Depew and
D. Obbink (edd.), Matrices of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society (Harvard 2000) 221-46.
5
See Hinds [4] 222f.
6
E.g., P. Hardie, The Epic Successors of Virgil: A Study in the Dynamics of a Tradition
(Cambridge 1993).
7
Keith [1].
148 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

multivalent category, encompassing allegorical, symbolic and ‘real’ mothers, as well

as the interaction between these planes. A second point of connection (one that I shall
discuss below) is that both yoke together psychoanalysis and Roman maternal
representation as ‘natural’ bedfellows; in Oliensis’ case, this is obviously Freudian
theory, while Augoustakis’ study draws on Kristeva’s revisionist psychoanalytic
ideas.
Augoustakis’ Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power in
Flavian Epic treats the intersection of gender and ethnicity in post-Augustan epic, in
other words, the relation between the ‘mother’ (purportedly one of the closest bonds
humans have, central to the formation of the self, yet as woman also the ‘default
other’ in patriarchal society) and the ‘other’ (the foreigner, the stranger, the outsider,
the not-I). But more than that, Augoustakis’ concern is the mutating role of both
foreignness and femininity-maternity in Flavian epic’s ongoing concern with what it
means to be a (male) Roman citizen, as the empire’s frontiers expand to encompass
previously unimagined places and peoples. As he observes in his introduction, titled
‘Other and Same: Female Presence in Flavian Epic’ (pp. 1-29), Flavian epic (whether
mythological or historical) reverses the centripetal impulse of Vergilian and Ovidian
epic action towards Italy and Rome, changing its focus outwards to the edges of the
imperial world (Argos/Thebes, Colchis, Africa). At the same time it also amplifies the
role of women from earlier epic in both positive and negative ways. As both women
and foreigners in Statius’ and Silius’ poems display a pietas or virtus that is absent or
distorted in the corrupted world of (Roman) masculine heroism, boundaries between
same and other are destabilised, only to be ultimately reconstituted at the end as the
concept of Romanness expands to incorporate ‘elements from outside, which bear the
marks both of the radically different—the monstrous—and of Rome’s truest self, that
is, its idealised virtues and merits’ (p. 9). Mediating Augoustakis’ understanding of
the fluid relation of foreign and feminine other to the imperial Roman self is
Kristeva’s rich work on the stranger: both the foreigner or alien in a country or society
and the idea of strangeness at the heart of our being (qualities we most fear in
ourselves) represent the ‘other’ that we must repress or exile from the conscious self
we present to the world.8 Much of Kristeva’s work, whether on language, the maternal
or the stranger, is concerned with the relationship between identity and difference,
with the way in which boundaries between self and other are constructed and
shattered. Key to this is her famous notion of the ‘semiotic’: while the symbolic
sphere (a Lacanian term) is the paternal realm of language and signification, the
semiotic, for Kristeva, describes the pre-Oedipal, bodily drives that exist in opposition
to grammatical and linguistic signification (but are necessary for it), and which breaks
into the symbolic in genres such as poetry. Kristeva connects the semiotic to the
maternal body, which she describes as ‘abject’ (that is, it has to be repressed for the
subject to enter into language), and the chora (a term drawn from Plato), a womb-like
space that precedes language yet helps to generate it.

8
J. Kristeva (tr. L. S. Roudiez), Strangers to Ourselves (New York 1991) esp. 191f.
Review Articles 149

In his introduction Augoustakis mentions Kristeva’s conception of the maternal

body as a ‘subject-in-process’ and as abject, located at the boundaries of self and
other, but the question of the subjectivity of the mother herself, the concern of
Kristeva’s famous essays ‘Stabat Mater’ and ‘Motherhood According to Giovanni
Bellini’ (neither is in the bibliography), is not really his topic. This is partly because,
although it offers many illuminating readings of mother figures in Statius and Silius,
Augoustakis’ book is more concerned with ‘otherhood’ than ‘motherhood’ per se.
Thus the real conceptual underpinnings of Augoustakis’ readings are to be found in
Kristeva’s theories of the foreigner, which woman also emblematises as the alienated
‘other’ in patriarchal culture: ‘In the world of the Thebaid, in Kristevan terms,
“Woman can never feel at home in the symbolic as can man. She becomes the female
exile”’ (p. 23).9 Kristeva’s notion of the ‘foreigner within us’ fits extraordinarily well
with Flavian epic and its use of women and non-Roman figures in order to reflect
upon and ultimately reformulate conceptions of Roman identity. With one chapter on
Statius’ Thebaid and three on Silius’ Punica (reflecting its origins as a doctoral
dissertation on Silius), Augoustakis’ book is a little uneven, and readers will miss a
lengthy analysis on Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica (the introduction begins with a
brief but suggestive discussion of cosmopolitanism in Argon. 7.227-30). But one
benefit of addressing the Punica in such depth is that he reveals Silius’ still
underappreciated treatment of Romanitas as a complex negotiation between centre
and periphery that results in the absorption of the foreign other by the centre; his
chapter on Statius, while subtle and insightful, has slightly less groundbreaking
conclusions. Moreover, there is a surprisingly organic and productive ‘fit’ between his
theoretical framework and Silius’ poem.
Augoustakis launches his analysis proper in chapter 1, ‘Mourning Endless:
Female Otherness in Statius’ Thebaid’ (pp. 30-91), with a detailed reading of Statius’
Hypsipyle. Hypsipyle embodies his concept of ‘(m)other’, combining the
marginalised, excluded status of the feminine within patriarchy and the foreigner
within a given culture. The ultimate exul—non-Theban, non-Argive, woman and
slave—Hypsipyle is both failed mother to her biological children and accused of
usurping the role of Eurydice, biological mother to Hypsipyle’s doomed nurseling
Opheltes. She is also displaced in terms of genre, as an elegiac heroine in a martial
epic and as an Aeneas-like narrator who tells a tale not of arma virumque but of arma
feminaeque. Hypsipyle, in Auguoustakis’ reading, stalks the boundaries of Statius’
martial narrative, asymbolic, homeless and genreless, her voice both complicit and
subversive of the poem in which she intrudes (pp. 20-22). Augoustakis gives a subtle
account of the multiple maternal substitutions and displacements in the Hypsipyle
episode and the treacherous failure of care that lies at the heart of them all. At the end
of the Nemea episode, Augoustakis notes well how Statius returns Hypsipyle to the
margins of the action as ‘the other, the foreign unsuccessful nurse’, silent and frozen
in ecphrasis despite having dominated the narrative for hundreds of lines. Like

9
A. Smith, Julia Kristeva: Readings of Exile and Estrangement (New York 1996) 28.
150 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

Opheltes’ mother Eurydice, who claims all grief for Opheltes for herself and rejects
Hypsipyle’s story of her pietas, the ‘poet has reclaimed his own narrative from
Hypsipyle’s hands’. The second part of the chapter deals with the ‘otherness’ of the
Theban women of the Thebaid through their role as lamenters, from the ultimate
problematic mother, Jocasta (‘warmonger or helpless bystander?’), to the virgin sisters
Antigone and Ismene. Represented both as a Fury in her grief and as a virtuous
mother who enters the male arena of the battlefield to prevent civil war, Jocasta
personifies the oppositional and complementary relation of maternity and war. Her
display of maternal grief in the army almost convinces the brothers to behave, but
Jocasta’s public piety is inevitably hamstrung by the fact that she is the very
embodiment of domestic perversion, Oedipodae confusa domus (‘the confused house
of Oedipus’, 1.17). Later, however, the contrast between masculine war and feminine
lament is more stark: while Atys is killed by the savage Tydeus, the epic perspective
shifts to the inner sanctum of the palace, where Atys’ fiancée Ismene and sister
Antigone—‘of a different character’ (that is, to their guilty brothers)—utter querelae
(‘complaints’) for the evil afflicting their house longe ab origine fati (‘from Fate’s
origin far back’, 8.610) and Ismene relates her dream of Atys. Augoustakis, in one of
the most successful Kristevan readings of his book, likens this sisterly chamber talk to
the semiotic chora, a resourceful feminine space where they can imagine
‘counterfactual scenarios that can only come true in dreams’ (p. 71); but I was
surprised that he did not make further metapoetic connections between their act of
tracing back longe ab origine and Statius’ reference in the proem of his own quest for
a starting point to his epic narrative (longa retro series, ‘the long sequence in times
past’, Theb. 1.7). The possibility of an alternative—feminine, semiotic—epic of
lament seems to rupture the symbolic sphere of Statius’ narrative also at the end,
where the poet closes his narrative with a description of the Argive women’s endless,
Bacchic mourning. Such an alternative epic is disavowed, however, by the poet’s
profession of his powerlessness to relate (non ego, centena si quis mea pectora laxet
voce deus . . . dignis conatibus aequem, ‘not if some god were to loose my breast in a
hundred voices could I do justice . . . ’, 12.797-99) and by the ongoing distinction in
the treatment of the Theban and the Argive women, with the latter still left as aliens,
on the margins. Rather, the epilogue seeks to rebuild the hierarchical boundaries
between Theban and Argive, same and other, masculine and feminine, which earlier
parts of the poem had destabilised (p. 89). As Augoustakis notes, at the end of the
Thebaid the question remains: ‘But what about Argos? What about non-Theban (non-
Roman?) otherness?’ (p. 90).
Augoustakis’ complex theoretical frame comes into its own, however, in the
ensuing three chapters on Silius’ Punica, in which he explicates more fully the
relation of non-Roman otherness to Romanness and also to sexual otherness. Instead
of a seductive threat that must be expiated or expelled to the margins, the Punica
demonstrates a positive vision of Romanness that comes to incorporate or absorb
alternative identities, in particular through the figure of Scipio. Chapter 2, ‘Defining
the Other: From Altera Patria to Tellus Mater in Silius Italicus’ Punica’ (pp. 92-155),
Review Articles 151

explores the relationship between paternity and patriotism in the failed or inadequate
father-son or patria/colony relationships in the earlier books of the poem. Here it is
the Romans who fall short, while the enemy Hannibal paradoxically displays truly
‘Roman’ virtus—battle courage and loyalty to ancestors and fatherland. His tragedy of
course is that he cannot ever be fully Roman and is thus alienated from himself:
‘Hannibal becomes asymbolic, in Kristevan terms, the foreigner that cannot be
absorbed by the centre, the other that cannot become same’ (p. 24). Yet it is mother
figures, ‘asymbolic’ and therefore autonomous, who are most often the mediators of
Silius’ interrogations of masculine patriotic identity—for example, Hannibal’s
feminising adoption of the ‘false mother-model’, Dido (pp. 94f., 97-100, 154). This
process culminates in book 15 in the evocation of Tellus, whose appearance signifies
a maternalisation of epic’s traditional emphasis on patria and masculinity by
reconceiving it as a relationship between a powerfully generative motherland and
male warrior. Here, in exhorting Claudius Nero to defeat Hasdrubal, Mother Earth
acts like an ideal Roman matron by providing a secure ground for the successful
achievement of Roman heroism (pp. 147-49). Yet in her emphasis on the corruptions
that she has suffered at the hands of the Carthaginian armies (Theb. 15.530f.)
Augoustakis argues that Tellus also dramatises the interaction of same and other, the
Kristevan idea of the ‘familiar potentially tainted with strangeness’.10
The idea of the mother, ‘the motherly, the other element in one’s self’ (p. 155),
is examined more fully in chapter 3, ‘Comes Ultima Fati: Regulus’ Encounter with
Marcia’s Otherness in Punica 6’ (pp. 156-95), and chapter 4, ‘Playing the Same:
Roman and Non-Roman Mothers in the Punica’ (pp. 196-237), which address the role
of human mother figures in the poem’s reformulation of Romanness and masculinity
from Marcia’s subversive attempts to persuade her husband Regulus and son Serranus
to stay in Rome, which exposes the weakness of Rome’s leadership, to Scipio’s
ghostly mother Pomponia, who exhorts her son towards the ultimate securing of
Rome’s victory. Chapter 4 also considers non-Roman mothers such as Imilce,
Hannibal’s wife, who at the end of book 4 tries to stop his sacrifice of their baby son,
and Masinissa’s mother in book 16. Paradoxically, it is these non-Roman mothers
who articulate some of the most powerful visions of ‘Romanness’ in the poem, yet as
women and foreigners they remain liminal figures in the narrative since they are
prevented (in Kristevan terms) from moving from the semiotic to the symbolic. The
culmination and regeneration of maternity is to be found at last in Pomponia, the
Roman mother of Scipio. Pomponia’s education of Scipio in the womblike chora of
the underworld reveals true knowledge of his divine paternity, inspires him (like
Anchises does Aeneas) to acts of heroism and bravery, and ensures the survival of the
Roman race. Through the prophetic knowledge of Pomponia and Masinissa’s mother,
Augoustakis argues, Silius posits a new paradigm of Roman motherhood (p. 159), one
that authorises the new leader of Rome, regenerates true Roman values, catalyses the
subsequent development of empire, and signals, with the arrival of the foreign

10
Kristeva [8] 183.
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goddess Magna Mater, ‘the “entrance” of the female into the male symbolic, . . . into
language, politics, time, and ultimately culture’ (p. 198).
Finally, an epilogue, ‘Virgins and (M)others: Appropriations of Same and
Other in Flavian Rome’ (pp. 238-53), uses the endings of both the Thebaid and
Punica as a basis for considering the importance of the categories of centre and
periphery for Domitianic Rome and its programme of moral rejuvenation.
Augoustakis draws attention to the emphasis on virginity in Flavian visual art,
especially the depiction of the goddess Roma in Flavian art (the Cancellaria reliefs) as
an Amazonian warrior along with Minerva and a Vestal virgin, mirrored by the
prominence accorded to the Vestal Claudia Quinta at the end of the Punica: ‘Roma is
portrayed as a figure from the periphery, since the periphery provides those examples
that the centre has failed to project’ (p. 245). While the maternal terms explained in
the introduction such as ‘semiotic’, ‘chora’ and ‘genotext’ are liberally deployed
throughout the subsequent chapters, often to great effect, on occasion they do seem to
slide into loose metaphor rather than emerging as essential to the analysis. This is not
a criticism of Augoustakis’ nuanced and convincing readings themselves, which are,
in the best tradition of studies of Latin epic, alive to linguistic, generic and intertextual
detail and their ideological implications. Rather it is, in a way, testament to their
plenitude—one sometimes wonders what would be lacking if these Kristevan
‘maternal’ terms were removed. As mentioned above, this is partly because the book
pursues more vigorously and analytically the argument of Kristevan ‘otherness’. And
it is very successful since by the end, despite occasional moments where references to
Kristeva are confusing or superfluous, one feels that Augoustakis has brought these
two radically diverse discourses, Flavian epic and Kristevan criticism, together in an
organic fashion and has shown them to be mutually interanimating and interbred.
Unsurprisingly the result of this union is that Romanness is shown to be a far more
fraught, decentred notion than it could ever admit to, yet Augoustakis for the most
part avoids vagueness and gives a coherent and powerful account of the shapes and
forms of its bugbears and of the solutions that the Flavians devised to control them. At
all times loyal attention to historical and literary context is a useful moderating tool to
Kristevan generalisation and reminds us of the specificity of the Flavian context; yet
Kristeva enables Augoustakis to escape it too to the extent that Roman concerns with
Carthage/otherness are seen to echo and foreshadow a larger pattern of anxieties down
the centuries in imperial constructions of identity, centre and periphery.
Augoustakis’ book is admirably consistent in its use of its theoretical frame
without allowing it to overwhelm the particularity of the ancient material, and as such
he successfully demonstrates one way of superseding the traditional ambivalence
about ‘theory’ that persists in classical studies. If critical theory and psychoanalysis in
particular has been absorbed by Latin criticism yet often seems uncomfortably ‘other’
to the precise and contextualised study required of ancient texts, one of the
satisfactions of Ellen Oliensis’ Freud’s Rome: Psychoanalysis and Latin Poetry is that
it addresses this psychic tension head on; the classicist’s dilemma becomes the vim of
her critical process. Her admissions of ambivalence and uncertainty regarding the
Review Articles 153

usefulness or ‘relevance’ of psychoanalytic theory to Latin literature when introducing

a book dedicated to that very topic (‘Introduction: Psychoanalysis and Latin Poetry’,
pp. 1-13) will resonate with many who are drawn to psychoanalysis but wary of its
easy tendency to universalise and to elide culture, text and psyche. Her tone is
admirably ascetic: with her disciplinary attention to historical context and philological
detail, she refuses to be seduced by the potent claims to truth of psychoanalytic
theory. At the same time, however, she is intrigued by its interpretive and aesthetic
potential and its powerful implications for reading. In her introduction Oliensis puts
forward a compelling, accessible case for why psychoanalysis has something to offer
our understanding of Roman texts, not necessarily in its details but rather in its
emphasis on the importance of sexuality, broadly conceived, and the unconscious.
Running through the options of ‘whose’ unconscious this might be (the author’s? the
reader’s? a character’s in the text? Rome’s cultural unconscious?), she finds them all
problematic in some way partly because they are attempts to separate hierarchically all
the components that contribute towards textual meaning. As a kind of working
solution, Oliensis proposes the all-encompassing notion of a ‘textual subconscious’:
‘an unconscious that tends to wander at will, taking up residence now with a
character, now with a narrator, now with the impersonal narration, and sometimes
flirting with an authorial or cultural address’ (p. 6). Yet at the heart of this debate lies
the question of authorial intent, for many a zero-sum game: either the author is totally
in control or something else is. Yet Oliensis goes on to ask, through examples from
recent readings in Latin poetry, does it matter for interpretability? The point of an
unconscious meaning is that it can coexist with (albeit in repressed form) rather than
supersede, the intentional, crafted sense. As I have mentioned, part of the strength of
Oliensis’ work is its willingness to expose its own equivocations and to find in them a
productive means of going forward: the refusal to see a hierarchy between text and the
abstract drives of the unconscious is what leads her back to Freud, rather than to
Lacan, while her belief that texts are not simply ‘reducible to their “hidden
meanings”’ motivates the persistent expressions of qualification and the ‘as if’s as ‘an
indispensable part of the picture’ (p.12f.).
Oliensis’ three subsequent chapters cover key terms in Freudian
psychoanalysis: the mourning or elegiac motifs that irrupt in non-elegiac texts such as
Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10 and Catullus 68 and 68b (chapter 1, ‘Two Poets
Mourning’, pp. 14-56); the representation of motherhood in Vergilian epic and Ovid’s
story of Procne and Philomela in Metamorphoses 6 (chapter 2, ‘Murdering Mothers’,
pp. 57-91); and the phallus or, more precisely, castration anxiety and penis envy in
Catullus 63 and Ovid’s narrative of Scylla, daughter of Nisus (chapter 3, ‘Variations
on a Phallic Theme’, pp. 92-126). In his notion of the unheimlich (‘uncanny’), Freud
‘does not speak of foreigners: he teaches us to how to detect foreignness in ourselves’,
as Kristeva reminds us.11 The ‘Afterword: Freud’s Rome’ (pp. 127-36) discusses ‘the
interaction between the Aeneid and Civilization and Its Discontents’ (p. 132).

11
Kristeva [8] 191.
154 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

In her second chapter, on motherhood in Vergilian and Ovidian epic (on which
I shall focus in this essay), Oliensis shows how the ambiguously depicted mothers of
the Aeneid emblematise the uncanny or unconscious drives that Vergilian epic seeks
to disavow or repress in its smooth narrative of Roman foundation and patriliny.
Oliensis points toward textual evidence of a ‘repressed’ Aeneid, where mothers are
submerged under the force of the main narrative thrust by being either diffused into
other female characters or elided altogether. Yet through readings of the subtexts of
incestuous and murderous desire circulating in episodes concerning figures such as
Dido, Amata and Venus, as well as in the appearances of figures such as Cybele,
Oliensis shows how anxiety surrounding the maternal breaks through the textual
surface often through dissonant allusions to tragic figures such as the matricide
Orestes or the murderous mothers of the Bacchae or Medea. Thus Aeneas’ protest to
his retreating mother Venus in the Aeneid—crudelis tu quoque (‘you also, cruel’,
1.407)—is a direct quote from Vergil’s Eclogues (8.48), in which it appears in the
context of the infanticidal Medea; but Vergil surely did not want us to think of Venus
genetrix as a Medea? Another example is the frenzy of the Trojan mothers who set
fire to the ships in book 5; their aim is not to disrupt civil society but to set down roots
and end their perpetual wanderings; nevertheless the description of them as furore
conclamant (‘they shout in fury’, Aen. 5.659f.) and rapiuntque focis penetralibus
ignem (‘they seize fire from the innermost hearth’, 5.660) evokes not just Bacchants
but also the description of Orestes fleeing the armatam facibus matrem (‘mother
armed with torches’, 4.472) in Dido’s fevered dream. In a particularly sharp
exemplification of the principle of the textual unconscious, at the moment Ascanius
successfully brings the women to their senses by shouting en, ego vester / Ascanius!
(‘Look here I am, your Ascanius’, 5.672f.) and tearing off his helmet, Oliensis notes
an uncanny mirroring of the Euripidean scene when Pentheus tears off of his woman’s
fillet and cries, ™gè toi, mÁter, e„m…, pa‹j sšqen / PenqeÚj (‘let me tell you, mother,
that I am your son Pentheus’, Bacch. 1118f.); even though, of course, the situation
with Ascanius is nowhere close to dismemberment, the women do recognise him
(unlike Agave, who does not recognise Pentheus) and the potentially violent tragedy
is diffused (p. 69). Here, it seems, reading the Aeneid for and about mothers involves
reading between the lines for unresolved or glossed-over ambiguities: marginalised or
suppressed references beyond the obvious or literal context ripple beneath the surface.
Since such subtextual references almost obsessively link mothers with murder,
infanticide, incest and madness, Oliensis, reading Vergil through Freud (and Freud’s
own suppression of the mother in his Oedipal narrative), suggests that these combine
to form the idea of a ‘mother complex’ in Vergil—a persistent, unfixed disquiet
surrounding the figure of the mother in this foundational epic of (escaping) origins
and an inability or a lack of desire on the part of his poem to control and delimit her
shadowy, proliferating and undermining presence. Oliensis goes on to suggest that we
might find in Vergil a maternalised vision of the ‘paternalised’ epic tradition, one not
conceived as an agonistic rivalry between poet fathers and sons (the Bloomian model)
but reworked in Kleinian terms around ‘the complementary dangers of absorption and
Review Articles 155

sparagmos. One scatters the mother-text so as not to be scattered or swallowed up by

her’ (p. 76).
Real rather than imagined dismemberment at the hands of the mother is the
subject of Ovid’s story of Philomela, Procne and Tereus. But, in this case, it is not the
actual mother, Procne, but her sister Philomela who is the object of Oliensis’ analytic
gaze. Oliensis argues that the narrative of Philomela displaces the motif of
motherhood and reproduction into political allegory. Unlike most of Ovid’s rapes,
Tereus’ rape of Philomela fails to produce offspring. Instead Philomela’s confinement
produces a ‘brainchild’, the tapestry she weaves to tell the story of her rape, but also
her ‘free speech’, Philomela’s outspoken protests, which leads to the severing of her
tongue (pp. 80-82). While in this sense she is akin to Livy’s Lucretia (producing
libertas, ‘liberty’, rather than liberi, ‘children’ [pp. 82f.]), in her determination to
resist the tyrant in her own words, Philomela herself takes on the role of a Brutus or
Cicero and thereby radically flouts the convention that women should not speak
publicly, least of all about the violation of their pudor (‘modesty’). Thus Ovid’s story
ends by reversing the movement of Livy’s Lucretia story from real motherhood
towards the symbolic motherhood of freedom: instead Philomela punishes the tyrant
by ‘impregnating’ him with his real child. Concluding with a consideration of the one
mother who was worshipped for her fecundity publicly by the Romans, the goddess
Cybele, yet whose followers were foreign castrati, Oliensis ponders the ‘surplus of
ambivalence that attends the image of the mother, even the divine mother [of] Rome
herself’ (p. 91).
Oliensis’ own ambivalence about reading Rome psychoanalytically ends up
producing one of the most powerful arguments that I have read for the role of
psychoanalysis in Classics, and her refusal to ignore the difficulties is refreshing. Yet
even without her metatheoretical justifications, Oliensis’ wonderful readings of the
ancient texts, such as her moving interpretation of Catullus 68 or her account of the
anxiety surrounding the mother at the heart of Roman foundation narratives, are
testaments in themselves to the fruitfulness of such an enterprise. So why the angst? Is
it really all to do with anachronism, with the application of a model devised for the
modern ‘nuclear’ family to an ancient society composed of diverse familial structures?
The question of anachronism and historical specificity is only addressed head-on in
Oliensis’ chapter on mothers (pp. 57-60). While acknowledging differences between
Roman and modern maternal ideologies and realities, Oliensis gets around these by
positing a fundamental similarity between fantasies of what constituted the family in
Rome and the modern west. In this she follows the claims of historians such as Shaw
and Saller that Roman families, despite the involvement of slaves and wet nurses in
the intimacies of child development, were at least understood as a modern-style
nucleus of parents and children; thus the Freudian model echoes a Roman cultural, if
not material, reality.12 By analogy she evokes Shaw’s argument that the severe,

12
B. Shaw, ‘Raising and Killing Children: Two Roman Myths’, Mnemosyne 54 (2001)
57; R. Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family (Cambridge 1994).
156 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

authoritarian Roman father was merely an idea and not a reality. Scholars of Roman
social history, however, have by no means reached consensus on how the Romans
perceived their families but rather are still vigorously debating the issue—just as they
are also not agreed on the reality, psychic or social, of the brutal father—and new
evidence and arguments for and against are still coming to light. Saller’s and Shaw’s
arguments usefully push the Roman family, in psychic if not social form, closer to that
of contemporary neuroses, but they also sanitise the possibility of real, and even
sanctioned, brutality within its supposedly secure borders and minimise some of the
real differences in family configuration and values that undeniably existed between
Roman and nineteenth- and twentieth-century forms of kinship and within different
periods and regions of the Roman empire itself. In a book that explicitly rejects the
truth-value of Freud’s Oedipal paradigm for understanding modern family dynamics
and which is predominantly concerned with psychoanalysis as a mode of reading,
however, Oliensis’ characteristically formalist solution is a reasonable one—that
whatever the material realities, some kind of ‘repression’ has to happen ‘so that
textuality can flower over its grave’ (p. 61)—and is borne out by her analysis of
Vergil’s undeniably problematic mothers. But I could not help wishing that she had
turned her shrewd eye in greater detail to the problems and potential of more recent
psychoanalytic theory, influenced by Lacan and object relations, which has
emphasised that the Oedipal triangle comprises figurative or constructed positions and
the ‘laws’ that govern them, not biological or literal paternity, maternity or
consanguinity, mentioned by Oliensis (p. 60). Indeed, for all her productive
fascination with a return to Freud (which this reviewer shares), Oliensis’ take on
Vergil’s and Ovid’s mothers—as both threatening and disavowed—resonates more
with the revisionist concerns of post-Freudian psychoanalytic criticism (she admits
this by calling her reading of Vergil ‘Kleinian’), which has sought to fill in the gaps or
expose what is occluded in Freud’s Oedipal narrative: the incrimination of female
sexuality through the projection of a lacking and/or devouring mother; the ‘paranoid’
supplement to the Oedipus complex in which the son becomes the
abused/sodomised/castrated victim of the vengeful father.13
The issue of anachronism between modern theories and ancient context or the
gap in our knowledge of what constitutes the ‘real’ and ‘imaginary’ in past cultures, is
a hurdle that some medieval and Renaissance scholars have addressed imaginatively
some time ago, if the plethora of psychoanalytically informed studies of gender and
the maternal in these literatures are anything to go by. Both these pre-modern periods
share with the Roman radically different notions of reproduction, the female body,
religion and kinship to those of modernity; yet quite a few of these psychoanalytic
studies have been able to think productively about cultural and historical differences

13
See, e.g., J. Rose, ‘Sexuality in the Reading of Shakespeare: Hamlet and Measure for
Measure’, in J. Drakakis (ed.), Alternative Shakespeares (London 1985) 95-188.
Review Articles 157

without diminishing them or being overwhelmed by them14 and have viewed the
relationship as potentially illuminating in both directions. As Oliensis herself argues,
psychoanalysis may have fallen short in its grand claims to scientific truth and
therapeutic efficacy, but it has offered us, as readers of texts and signs, more
interpretive possibilities than even Freud himself could have conceived. Indeed, by
devoting a chapter to motherhood in a book on Freud and Latin literature, Oliensis is
aware of this very irony, since in privileging the father and the son in his drama of
psychic and cultural development, Freud himself went to some lengths to avoid the
issue of the maternal. (Indeed, Sprengnether has powerfully shown that in Freud’s
writings the mother’s active influence on the pre-Oedipal subject is repressed but she
returns as a ‘spectre’ to haunt and disrupt his psychoanalytic theories and the
structures of normative patriarchal ordering.15)
Oliensis’ ambivalent attempts to grapple with anachronism and the problematic
‘truth value’ of psychoanalysis are by no means the only way of addressing these
hurdles: Augoustakis’ unapologetic appropriation of a Kristevan ‘lens’ is one;
Shakespearean scholars such as Rose, who see pre-modern texts as subverting classic
Freudian theory, offer another; those who champion a dialectical, interanimating
approach offer a third; nor do the possibilities end there. But her treatment stands out
in the field of Classics for its critical honesty, intellectual rigour and loyalty both to
the ancient texts and to Classics as a discipline. Indeed, rather than compromising the
specific virtues of classical scholarship in favour of the seductions of psychoanalysis,
she draws on these very virtues to examine the interpretive possibilities of
psychoanalysis for Rome. Oliensis’ interrogations reveal evocative and sometimes
surprising meanings in old, well-trodden poems, yet she builds her stirring readings
through precise, carefully hedged, text-based arguments, which even the most theory-
averse Latinist would have to work hard to disavow. As such, she has made a
fundamental contribution to the increasing volume of classical scholarship that
attempts to engage with modern literary theories and methodologies, including (but
not only) psychoanalysis—I expect to see numerous citations of her account of the
‘textual subconscious’ from now on. But she has raised the bar too by some measure:
Oliensis’ achievement suggests that it may no longer be quite enough to ‘cite’,
vaguely or in passing, the ‘authority’ of Lacan/Freud/Derrida/(insert relevant name
here) without digging deeper either by self-conscious reflection on their interpretive
potential (or not) for classical texts or by demonstrating it in action.16 Her book is
therefore an interesting conclusion to Cambridge University Press’ major series

14
See, as a tiny sample, the works of Peggy McCracken, Theresa Krier, David Hillman or
Lyn Enterline.
15
M. Sprengnether, The Spectral Mother: Freud, Feminism and Psychoanalysis (Cornell
1992).
16
On the politics of ‘citation’ in Classics, see R. Fletcher, ‘Kristeva’s Novel: Genealogy,
Genre, and Theory’, in R. B. Branham (ed.), The Bakhtin Circle and Ancient Narrative
(Groningen 2005) 111-18.
158 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

devoted to dialectic engagements between classics and other schools of thought in the
humanities. While all the books in the series have shown the influence of
contemporary critical theories, Oliensis’ is one of the few that conducts a sustained
interrogation of the potential relationship between a particular theoretical paradigm
and classical texts and/or scholarship (her introduction can be fruitfully read alongside
that of Martindale’s Redeeming the Text in the same series17). I only hope that it is not
the end of the conversation but sparks off a whole series of new arguments and
counter-arguments on mothers and lovers, psychoanalysis and Rome, ancient texts
and literary theory.
In Freud’s classic essay ‘On Negation’, he illustrates the unconscious logic of
his topic, negation, with the example of the analysand who protested, ‘You ask who
this person in the dream can be. It’s not my mother’. Freud’s interpretation? ‘We
emend this to: “So it is his mother”’.18 Despite the plethora of mothers in Latin poetry,
perhaps one of the reasons that the maternal has had so little critical press in Roman
studies and seems to have been almost avoided until recently, at least, is because it
lends itself so productively, so seemingly inexorably, to a psychoanalytic mode of
interpretation—to reading between the lines, under the covers, in the interstices of the
dominant narrative, seeking what is unsaid, suppressed, negated, condensed and
metaphorised, as well as what is explicit and literal. To talk about mothers in Latin
poetry, it seems, entails facing up to (the relevance of and the problems with)
psychoanalytical theory itself. Thankfully, these two books suggest an end to such
negation.

A VADEMECUM FOR VERGIL

Nikolai Endres
Department of English, Western Kentucky University
Bowling Green, Kentucky 42101, USA

Joseph Farrell and Michael C. J. Putnam (edd.), A Companion to Vergil’s Aeneid and
Its Tradition. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Chichester: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2010. Pp. xvii + 559, incl. 31 figures and 8 plates. ISBN 978-1-4051-7577-
7. GBP125/USD150.

There seems to be an imperium sine fine for the Blackwell Companions to the
Ancient World. In the present volume Joseph Farrell and Michael Putnam gather over
thirty chapters on the reception of Vergil’s Aeneid. In their introduction they proffer a

17
C. Martindale, Redeeming the Text: Latin Poetry and the Hermeneutics of Reception
(Cambridge 1993).
18
S. Freud, ‘Negation’, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of
Sigmund Freud 19: The Ego and the Id and Other Works (1925) 235.
Review Articles 159

rather bold claim: ‘Our view is that a new Aeneid companion could be warranted only
if it did not tread well-worn paths, and that, if it succeeded in illuminating unexpected
avenues of approach, then it would more than validate its existence’ (p. 1). Let us take
them up. (Since a detailed review of all the chapters would be longer than
the Aeneid itself, I will pick out favourites.)
Part I, ‘The Aeneid in Antiquity’ (pp. 11-120), covers eight chapters. Damien
P. Nelis, chapter 1, ‘Vergil’s Library’ (pp. 13-25), asks some practical questions
(without always being able to answer them): ‘Did he compose with scrolls open on his
desk? Did he have a desk? Did he rely on his memory? Or did slaves check up
passages for him? Did he dictate to a scribe?’ (p. 14); and he lists an appendix with all
of Vergil’s sources. Ralph Hexter, chapter 2, ‘On First Looking into Vergil’s Homer’
(pp. 26-36), turns to the influence of the Iliad and the Odyssey and the state of
Homeric scholarship in Vergil’s time, when an ‘aporetic’ Homer had emerged. But
Hexter is revealing no realms of gold here. Sergio Casali, chapter 3, ‘The
Development of the Aeneas Legend’ (pp. 37-51), looks at the remarkable ordering
that Vergil imposed on the mythological cacophony of the Aeneas version. Vassiliki
Panoussi, chapter 4, ‘Aeneas’ Sacral Authority’ (pp. 52-65), links the epic to the
religious revival instigated by Augustus.
J. D. Reed, chapter 5, ‘Vergil’s Roman’ (pp. 66-79), considers the question of
ethnic purity: ‘Often the Roman self is cleanly opposed to an Oriental “other”—
suggesting a Carthaginian identity narrowly avoided, an Egyptian identity rejected
along with Antony’s alliance with Cleopatra, or a Trojan identity left behind’ (p. 67).
Yet ultimately ‘the “ideal Roman” is perpetually deferred’ (p. 72). Michael C. J.
Putnam, chapter 6, ‘Vergil, Ovid, and the Poetry of Exile’ (pp. 80-95), studies
Vergilian and Ovidian intertextuality, such as Ovid’s affiliation with Aeneas’
antagonist Turnus and the transfer of epic into elegy and of pastoral into lament.
James J. O’Hara, chapter 7, ‘The Unfinished Aeneid?’ (pp. 96-106), nicely (and
wittily) sums up some of the poem’s inconsistencies: ‘In the Aeneid we read that
Aeneas will have a son in old age, and that he has only three more years on earth; that
Helen both openly helped the Greeks enter Troy, and (if Vergil wrote that passage)
that she cowered in hiding in fear of punishment; that Aeneas’ Trojan son Ascanius
will be the ancestor of the Alban Kings, and that his half-Italian son Silvius will be;
that Theseus escaped from the underworld, and that he is still there; that the Italians
were peaceful before the arrival of the Trojans and that they were warlike; that Aeneas
is fighting on the side of Jupiter, and that he is like a monster fighting against Jupiter;
that Palinurus fell from Aeneas’ ship the day before Aeneas met him in the
underworld, and that he fell three or four days before; that Aeneas will impose
customs on the Italians he conquers in Italy, and that the Italians will keep their own
customs; that Jupiter both predicted and forbade the war in Italy, and that he both was
impartial and gave help to one side; that the golden bough will yield willingly and
easily or not at all, but then that it yields only hesitantly to Aeneas’ (p. 101). Still, the
epic’s incompleteness has been exaggerated (due to modern readers’ romantic
predilection for the fragmentary and imperfect?). This essay is jargon-free and helpful
160 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

to a wide audience. Fabio Stok, chapter 8, ‘The Life of Vergil before Donatus’
(pp. 107-20), explores Vergil’s shaky biography by focusing on Suetonius’ sources
and successors. Again, Stok’s survey fleshes out the main issues in a reader-friendly
way.
Part II, ‘Medieval and Renaissance Receptions’ (pp. 121-50), comprises nine
chapters. Garry Wills, chapter 9, ‘Vergil and St. Augustine’ (pp. 123-32), revisits
Augustine’s famous fascination with and scepticism about the Aeneid and pagan
literature in general. Sarah Spence, chapter 10, ‘Felix Casus: The Dares and Dictys
Legends of Aeneas’ (pp. 133-46) introduces Dares of Phrygia and Dictys of Crete and
their ‘Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern adaptation of the main myth’ (p. 133), which
casts Aeneas as a satanic scoundrel and tyrannical traitor. Remarkably, their version
was as popular—and even more authoritative—in the Middle Ages as the ‘official’
account and clearly informed the Chanson de Roland. Once again we see the
inexhaustible variety of Aeneas’ Nachleben. Rachel Jacoff, chapter 11, ‘Vergil in
Dante’ (pp. 147-57), traces Dante’s engagement with his pagan forefathers, including
also Homer, Ovid, Lucan, Horace, Cato, Statius and others. Dennis Looney, chapter
12, ‘Marvelous Vergil in the Ferrarese Renaissance’ (pp. 158-72), turns to Matteo
Maria Boiardo’s Orlando inammorato, Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando furioso and
Torquato Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata and how these vernacular epics/romances
transform Vergilian passages of wonder and awe—la meraviglia—thus paving the
way for the aesthetic category of the sublime in later centuries. Philip Hardie, chapter
13, ‘Spenser’s Vergil: The Faerie Queene and the Aeneid’ (pp. 173-85), and Henry
Power, chapter 14, ‘The Aeneid in the Age of Milton’ (pp. 186-202), discuss Vergil’s
role in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Yasmin Haskell, chapter 15,
‘Practicing What They Preach? Vergil and the Jesuits’ (pp. 203-16) sets out to
establish ‘the ideological DNA driving the spectacular profusion of Jesuit Latin verse
in the early modern period and manifesting itself in a sometimes bizarre hybridization
of classical forms’ (p. 204) and maintains that Vergil embodied their primary didactic
model.
Andrew Laird, chapter 16, ‘The Aeneid from the Aztecs to the Dark Virgin:
Vergil, Native Tradition, and Latin Poetry in Colonial Mexico from
Sahagún’s Memoriales (1563) to Villerías’ Guadalupe (1724)’ (pp. 217-33), breaks
new ground in covering Mexico, where the earliest colonisers arrived fully equipped
with classical education. The miraculous apparition of the Lady of Guadalupe in 1531
endowed the creole population with a ‘manifest destiny’, to be celebrated in the
epic Guadalupe, which fuses Greco-Roman myth, an Aztec indigenous legacy and
Christian symbolism. Craig Kallendorf, chapter 17, ‘Vergil and Printed Books, 1500-
1800’ (pp. 234-50), posits that ‘how we read Vergil’s poetry now cannot be extricated
from how it was read in the past’ (p. 234). He then attempts to clarify a central issue in
modern criticism, namely optimistic versus pessimistic interpretations. While early
readers favoured an optimistic approach, which often facilitated imperial expansion,
there is also a history of the Aeneid serving revolutionary or republican causes, such
as in Victor Alexandre Chrétien Le Plat du Temple, Virgile en France (1807-1808),
Review Articles 161

which was deemed so subversive that Napoleon had (almost) all copies seized.
Several illustrations are included here.
Part III, ‘The Aeneid in Music and the Visual Arts’ (pp. 251-352), comprises
six chapters. Ingrid Rowland, chapter 18, ‘Vergil and the Pamphili Family in Piazza
Navona, Rome’ (pp. 253-69), considers the propaganda inherent in Pietro da
Cortona’s frescoes in the Palazzo Pamphili, which depict scenes from
the Aeneid (eleven books adorned the gallery, while book 4 embellished the bedroom)
and in the Fountain of the Four Rivers by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Lavishly illustrated,
this is a delightful essay, ranging from Junoesque mothers and ambassadorial
bedrooms to flamboyant monks and Pope Benedict XVI’s red (Prada) shoes. Reuben
A. Brower, chapter 19, ‘Visual and Verbal Translation of Myth: Neptune in Vergil,
Rubens, and Dryden’ (pp. 270-89), compares literary and artistic versions of the storm
scene in book 1. Kristi Eastin, chapter 20, ‘The Aeneas of Vergil: A Dramatic
Performance Presented in the Original Latin by John Ogilby’ (pp. 290-310), analyses
the first complete English translation with illustrations by Dutch artist Francis Cleyn
(later to be incorporated into the Dryden edition). Ogilby combined text and image
into a kind of multi-media play.
David Blayney Brown, chapter 21, ‘Empire and Exile: Vergil in Romantic Art’
(pp. 311-24), accompanied by beautiful colour plates, considers painters
J. M. W. Turner, Anne-Louis Girodet, William Blake and Samuel Palmer, and
establishes Vergil’s protean appeal: ‘At the time of the collapse of the ancien régime,
Britain’s loss of the American colonies and the coming of independence, the wars
with revolutionary France and the rise and later the fall of Napoleon and ensuing
century of British hegemony, Vergil’s epic was rich in parallels. . . . But of course
the Aeneid is not only about public affairs; it is also a very human story of penetrating
psychological insight, reaching into the heart and the unconscious mind’ (p. 312).
Glenn W. Most, chapter 22, ‘Laocoons’ (pp. 325-40), is interested in the famous
(Rhodian) Laocoon statue found on the Esquiline. Most guesses that it may represent
the first artistic response to the Aeneid. Subsequently, in the sculpture ‘spectacle and
pain, prodigy and humanity, intersect at the very limit of what readers are willing to
imagine and what viewers are desperate to see; the inevitable result is an aesthetic
phenomenon that, by reason of its very intolerability, teeters on the edge of parody
and humor, and at least sometimes falls in’ (p. 339). William Fitzgerald, chapter 23,
‘Vergil in Music’ (pp. 341-52), summarises Vergilian moments in the history of
western music by ranging from a jocund Martin Luther to Henry Purcell’s Dido and
Aeneas (ca. 1689) and Hector Berlioz’ Les Troyens (composed 1856-1859, first
performed complete in 1968).
Part IV, ‘The American Aeneid’ (pp. 353-418), collects five chapters. Carl J.
Richard, chapter 24, ‘Vergil and the Early American Republic’ (pp. 355-65),
establishes the Founding Fathers thorough classical education. Vergil, though, posed a
problem, for how ‘democratic’ is a writer in the service of an emperor? Caroline
Winterer, chapter 25, ‘Why Did American Women Read the Aeneid?’ (pp. 366-75),
asks an intriguing question. Vergil’s core values of warfare, destiny, empire . . . hardly
162 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 145-63 ISSN 1018-9017

applied to American women in the nineteenth century or were denied to them: ‘a bit of
classical learning was fetching and a lot a recipe for spinsterhood’ (p. 370). Winterer
then examines the reactions that Anne Bradstreet, Phillis Wheatley, Margaret Fuller
and the daughters of Thomas Jefferson and Ralph Waldo Emerson registered to the
Aeneid and ends with Sarah Ruden’s translation of 2008, the first version published by
a woman. Michele Valerie Ronnick, chapter 26, ‘Vergil in the Black American
Experience’ (pp. 376-90), gathers a lot of specific examples, such as classical first
names for African-American athletes, the blatant racism of South Carolina Senator
John Calhoun (‘If [I] could find a Negro who knew the Greek syntax, [I] would then
believe that the Negro was a human being and should be treated as a man’ [p. 380]), a
Vergilian narrative of homecoming during Reconstruction, black students and
teachers in the classics discipline, and Gwendolyn Brooks’ Anniad. This is an original
account that paves the way for future scholarship.
Michèle Lowrie, chapter 27, ‘Vergil and Founding Violence’ (pp. 391-403),
wonders: ‘The Roman Republic has been exemplary for the American Constitution,
the Roman Empire for fascism, for the American Empire, and possibly for the
European Union. Not one of these exemplary acts misinterprets Rome, and yet they
cannot be valid in all respects at the same time’ (p. 391). Critiquing the work of
Walter Benjamin and Hannah Arendt, Lowrie painstakingly sifts through the Aeneid’s
tangled web of violence and human and divine agency, but there is no connection to
the United States here. Joy Connolly, chapter 28, ‘Figuring the Founder: Vergil and
the Challenge of Autocracy’ (pp. 404-18), revisits the debate of whether Aeneas’
slaying of Turnus is a violation of pietas, especially as imposed by Anchises: parcere
subiectis et debellare superbos (‘to spare the subject and to vanquish the proud’, Verg.
Aen. 6.853). She proffers the compromise of a new heroic model: ‘a figure suspended
between assertion and abjection, a figure commanded to obey who enacts obedience
through delay, distraction, and the simple act of turning aside’ (p. 406).
Part V, ‘Modern Reactions to the Aeneid’ (pp. 419-81), ends the volume with
four chapters. Kenneth Haynes, chapter 29, ‘Classic Vergil’ (pp. 421-34), draws on
Christian Gottlob Heyne’s editions that provided ‘background’ information on ancient
Rome, Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve’s lectures on Vergil as the forefather of the
French, and T. S. Eliot’s classic essay ‘What is a Classic?’ on the Aeneid as the core
of European civilisation. Needless to say, later generations will be more sceptical
about conferring ‘classic’ status on any author. And this is where Joseph Farrell,
chapter 30, ‘Vergil’s Detractors’ (pp. 435-48), picks up by listing a barrage of Vergil
bashing through the ages: ad hominem attacks, the Aeneid as draft-like and derivative,
and Augustan propaganda. This piece could have been more helpful as a classroom
exercise, for while all these instances have been addressed in the secondary literature,
how should a teacher deal with them? Susanna Morton Braund, chapter 31, ‘Mind the
Gap: On Foreignizing Translations of the Aeneid’ (pp. 449-64), studies a Russian, a
French and an English (by Fredrick Ahl, 2007) translation, each of which aims to
convey the Latin text’s alienness; that is, it subscribes to formal fidelity rather than
readability. Ahl, for example, prefers Anglo-Saxon roots, retains the same number of
Review Articles 163

lines as the Latin original and writes in metre, which gives us the following first seven
lines (p. 462):

Arms and the man I sing of Troy, who first from its seashores,
Italy-bound, fate’s refugee, arrived at Lavinia’s Coastlands.
How he was battered about over land, over high deep
Seas by the powers above! Savage Juno’s anger remembered
Him, and he suffered profoundly in war to establish a city,
Settle his gods into Latium, making this land of the Latins
Future home to the Elders of Alba and Rome’s mighty ramparts.

Karl Kirchwey, chapter 32, ‘Vergil’s Aeneid and Contemporary Poetry’ (pp. 465-81),
quotes Robert Lowell, Allen Tate, Eavan Boland, W. H. Auden, Rosanna Warren,
Louise Glück and Mark Strand. All these poets can also be found in Nina Kossman’s
Gods and Mortals: Modern Poems on Classical Myths.19
A massive fifty-page bibliography concludes the tome. All the articles are
helpful, accessible and well written, but only a few offer ‘unexpected avenues of
approach’ (p. 1). If there were to be a second edition, some useful topics that could be
could are pedagogy, Nachleben in non-western countries and Vergil in popular
culture: there is Vergil’s Cream Soda, the Battlestar Galactica TV series with
supposedly Vergilian undertones, Doctor Who as a modern Aeneas, and the comic
strip Aeneas in da ’Hood. The New York Times reports that the future National
September 11 Memorial Museum underneath the former site of the twin towers will
feature a haunting line from the Aeneid studded in steel from the World Trade Center:
nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo (‘No Day Shall Erase You from the
Memory of Time, 9.447)’.20 Controversy has arisen whether the museum should
include the remains of the victims and, if so, whether those remains should be visible
to the public or to families only. People opposed to displaying openly the remains
have seized on the significance of Vergil’s line by arguing that museum officials plan
to exhibit the remains rather than keep them hidden: ‘they are essentially
incorporating the human remains into the visitor experience’, said Chip Colwell-
Chanthaphonh, an expert on the repatriation of native American remains.

19
N. Kossman (ed.), Gods and Mortals: Modern Poems on Classical Myths
(Oxford 2001).
20
A. Hartocollis, ‘For 9/11 Museum, Dispute Over Victims’ Remains’, New York Times
(3 April 2011) MB1.
 REVIEWS

Scholia has published solicited (and occasionally unsolicited) short reviews during the
twenty years of the series.

Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and James Robson (edd. and trr.), Ctesias’ History of Persia:
Tales of the Orient. Oxford: Routledge, 2010. Pp. x + 253, incl. 8 black-and-white
illustrations, 3 family trees, 1 map and 3 appendices. ISBN 978-0-415-36411-9.
USD120.

It is not very often that one picks up a book that undersells itself. The authors,
Llewellyn-Jones and Robson cite two objectives in the opening pages: ‘to raise
awareness of Ctesias’ and to ‘address the hindrance faced by students by providing an
English-language translation of all the available material from the Persica’. However,
any potential reader, be they student, professional academic or layman, with an
interest in Greek and/or Persian history and/or historiography and/or Greek literature
more generally should add Ctesias’ History of Persia: Tales of the Orient to their
reading list or even to their library.
We are told at the outset of the introduction that ‘Ctesias of Cnidus is a little
known figure’ (p. 1). While it may be a little pedantic, we should probably add the
caveat ‘in the Anglophone world’, though Llewellyn-Jones and Robson do go on to
stress the availability of translations of the Persica in languages other than English.
German readers could turn to Jacoby’s extensive entry in the Real-Encyclopädie and
his collection of the fragments of Ctesias in volume 3C of Die Fragmente der
Griechischen Historiker, or more recently König’s Die Persika des Ktesias, while
French readers have Lenfant’s Ctésias de Cnide.1 Finally, it would be unfair to forget
the efforts of J. M. Bigwood who, in a series of articles, devoted much energy to
developing our understanding of this ‘little known figure’.2 More recently, indeed it
may have been a dead heat with the book currently under review, Stronk produced

1
F. Jacoby, in A. Pauly, G. Wissowa et al. (edd.), Real-Encyclopädie der klassischen
Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart 1893-1980) 11 cols 2032-073 s.v. ‘Ktesias’; Die Fragmente
der Griechischen Historiker 3C 416-517 (Leiden 1958) 688 T 1-19, F 1-74: ‘Ktesias von
Knidos’; F. W. König, (ed.) Die Persika des Ktesias von Knidos (Graz 1972); D. Lenfant
(ed.), Ctésias de Cnide: la Perse, l’Inde, autres fragments (Paris 2004). It is a little surprising
that A. Nichols, The Complete Fragments of Ctesias of Cnidus: A Translation and
Commentary with an Introduction (PhD diss. Florida 2008), though unpublished, is not cited
in the bibliography.
2
E.g., J. M. Bigwood, ‘Ctesias as Historian of the Persian Wars’, Phoenix 32 (1978)
19-41.

164
Reviews 165

Ctesias’ Persian History: Introduction, Text and Translation.3 Notwithstanding those

comments, Ctesias remains shrouded in mist. Such, however, is the fate of any Greek
historian who is not part of the gang of four (Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon or
Polybius) who have dominated the field almost from the beginning. If I may digress
momentarily, Llewellyn-Jones and Robson name Plutarch as one of the ‘four “greats”
of Greek history writing’ (p. 1). I can only assume that Polybius has morphed
somehow into Plutarch. Plutarch was many things, but he did not write history, as he
himself explains in his Alexander (1.2).
The book opens with an extensive introduction and an outline of the History of
Persia, which is then followed by a translation of the testimonia on and fragments
from Ctesias’ Persica. Three appendices bring the book to a close. Indeed, if they
achieved nothing more than providing a modern English translation of Ctesias’
Persica, Llewellyn-Jones and Robson would deserve credit. In fact, they have
achieved much more. Not only do we have a new translation but in the introductory
material Llewellyn-Jones and Robson provide an excellent overview of the
scholarship on Ctesias, which will be of benefit to anyone who is new to this
particular area. Without wishing to undermine the value of the introduction as a
whole, I suggest that the most useful aspect of the introduction is the reappraisal of the
most basic assumptions concerning Ctesias and his work. Very often it is from these
most basic assumptions that misunderstandings flourish. Llewellyn-Jones and Robson
have achieved much in assembling material from which new readers of the Persica
will be able ‘to draw their own conclusions about the validity of his history’ (p. 7).
The text on which the translation is based is that of Lenfant in the Budé series.4
While it may seem at first a little tangential, some discussion of this edition is
necessary. Lenfant’s edition of the text is now considered the editio maior. In
addition, she did utilise the numbering found in Jacoby though, as Llewellyn-Jones
and Robson state, ‘the text cited by Lenfant is sometimes more protracted than that
found in Jacoby’ (p. 93). Beneath this brief statement is a minefield. Lenfant added a
number of fragments, most of which derive from Nicolaus of Damascus. However,
Ctesias is not mentioned in any of these passages and, as Romm has stated,5 some
contrast with attributed fragments found in Diodorus or Plutarch. It was on this basis
that Jacoby excluded them. Llewellyn-Jones and Robson have, however, made some
additions to the text as set out by Lenfant, which are highlighted in their text. The
authors also mark out those sections that are ‘dubious’. While Llewellyn-Jones and
Robson do refer to Lenfant’s inclusion of the new fragments (p. 21), I am not sure that
they tell the full story; the impression is given that there is no question mark over any
of these fragments and, moreover, that Jacoby had mistakenly omitted them. Such is

3
J. P. Stronk (ed. and tr.), Ctesias’ Persian History 1: Introduction, Text, and Translation
(Düsseldorf 2010).
4
Any estimation of Llewellyn-Jones and Robson’s edition must be set in the context of
Lenfant’s discussion of what constitutes a fragment: see Lenfant [1] CLXXV-CLXXVI.
5
J. Romm, Review of Lenfant [1], CR 56 (2006) 38-40.
166 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

not the case, and this is an issue that should have been discussed at further length. The
difficulty is understandable. The text of Ctesias is greatly increased by their inclusion
and thus the possibility to develop our knowledge of Ctesias as an author. However, a
little more clarity on this issue would have been welcome.
Another important section of the introduction, ‘Filtering Ctesias’ (pp. 35-45),
provides a very useful discussion of those authors from whom the extant fragments of
Ctesias are drawn. At the end of the discussion of Diodorus Siculus, for example, we
are told that ‘Diodorus is not an accurate reflection of Ctesias’ (p. 45). While this is
undoubtedly true, students of Ctesias need not be too disconcerted as greater
understanding of Ctesias is possible once we keep such a caveat in mind when reading
the fragments drawn from authors such as Diodorus.
Turning to the translations of the testimonia and fragments, Llewellyn-Jones
and Robson achieve a reasonable balance between fidelity to the original Greek while
providing a readable English rendering of the Greek. One might quibble over this
phrase or that, but such an exercise would be of benefit to very few prospective
readers. In that context, this reader (for one) thinks that Llewellyn-Jones and Robson
have been rather modest. They apologise in the ‘Translators Preface’ and describe
their translation as ‘close’ (p. 92), which I take to be a euphemism for ‘literal’. While
this may be the case, I do not think that much fluency has been sacrificed, and they are
to be commended for being so faithful to the Greek.
This brings us to another point raised in the introduction (pp. 18-22) and the
‘Translators Preface’ (p. 92): ‘few of the sentences translated here come directly from
Ctesias’ Persica . . .’ (p. 92). This is a welcome admission and, while it might be
obvious to the more experienced reader, it is an important qualification to be borne in
mind by readers who are not used to working with fragmentary historians. Indeed, I
would recommend that both the preface to the translation and the section on ‘The
Text’ (pp. 18-22) are read by all who have an interest in working with those historians
who are preserved only via later writers. Regarding another subject raised in the
introduction, I turned on the television one night to find myself watching The Last
King of Scotland. The comparisons drawn by Llewellyn-Jones and Robson between
Ctesias and Nicholas Garrigan, who was the personal doctor to Idi Amin, add depth to
both. It is often difficult to draw analogies between figures from across the ages, but
Llewellyn-Jones and Robson have done so with subtlety and without pushing the
analogy too far.
Ctesias’ reputation as an historian has suffered for many reasons, though the
critical comments of Jacoby—who described Ctesias, rather pejoratively, as ‘one of
the fathers of the historical romance’ (p. 7; trr. Llewellyn-Jones and Robson)—may be
partly to blame. However, another and rather more sympathetic reader of Ctesias came
to a different conclusion. Photius, the Byzantine scholar, summed up Ctesias as ‘very
clear and simple’ and as a result ‘his writing is enjoyable’ (Phot. T13 [p. 7]). The
same might be said of Llewellyn-Jones and Robson’s admirable work.

Brian Sheridan National University of Ireland, Maynooth

Reviews 167

David Whitehead (ed. and tr.), Apollodorus Mechanicus: Siege Matters

(Poliorkhtik£). Historia—Einzelschriften 216. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag,
2010. Pp. 162, incl. 6 black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-3-515-09710-9.
EUR46.

An Apollodorus’ Poliorcetica first appears in John Lydus’ list of military

writers (De Mag. 1.47). Syrianus Magister, variously dated to the sixth, ninth or tenth
centuries BC,1 criticises the impracticality of the assault barge of an Apollodorus for
crossing a river against the enemy (De Re Strat. 19.22-55 [Dennis2]). That assault
barge, though without the tower in Syrianus’ version, appears in
the Poliorcetica discussed here. The work, attested by four manuscripts (earliest,
eleventh century), belongs to a Byzantine corpus of poliorcetic texts.3 An anonymous
tenth-century Parangelmata Poliorcetica had already attempted to improve on
Apollodorus’ Poliorcetica,4 which even earlier one (or more?) Byzantine
commentators had interpolated, by converting an original text of technical drawings
with commentary into a series of fantastic contraptions defying the laws of physics
and replacing the original drawings with their own illustrations. The work of
Apollodorus ends at 177.3 (Wescher’s numbering), but the interpolated version runs
to 195.5. Traditionally this treatise is attributed to Apollodorus of Damascus, the
architect behind Trajan’s stone bridge over the Danube at Drobeta in AD 105, the
designer of Trajan’s Forum and possibly Trajan’s Column, and (allegedly) a victim of
Hadrian.
An epistolary preface introduces the work: in response to an unnamed
emperor’s request to an engineer, a former comrade-in-arms, for suggestions to
improve Roman siegecraft for a future campaign in territory unfamiliar to the
engineer, the treatise is delivered to the emperor by one of the engineer’s assistants,
prepared to clarify any obscurities in construction of the machines. Thereafter follow
technical descriptions, often in obscure Greek with occasionally rare or unique use of
vocabulary, of machines for assault on a hill-top city: testudines (‘tortoises’) to protect
against objects rolled down against the besiegers; ‘grapevine’ tortoises for
approaching the besieged walls; tortoises for ‘digging’ (that is, drilling;
sapping/undermining walls is not discussed); different techniques for destroying brick
and stone walls; a flamethrower (reminiscent of the Theban machine at Delium,
1
Whitehead claims (pp. 18 n. 7, 132) that P. Rance, ‘The Date of the Military
Compendium of Syrianus Magister (formerly the Sixth-Century Anonymus
Byzantinus)’, ByzZ 100 (2007) 701-37 dates Syrianus Magister to the ninth century BC, but
Rance moves Syrianus Magister’s date between the ninth and tenth centuries BC. The earliest
manuscript dates Syrianus Magister to 959 BC.
2
G. T. Dennis (ed. and tr.), Three Byzantine Military Treatises (Washington 1985).
3
C. Wescher (ed.), Poliorcétique des grecs: traités théoriques, récits historiques (Paris
1867).
4
See D. Sullivan (ed.), Siegecraft: Two Tenth-Century Instructional Manuals by ‘Heron
of Byzantium’ (Washington 2000).
168 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

424 BC); tortoises with rams; a lever-type device for quickly raising an observer
above the height of the besieged walls; towers (essentially scaffolding forty feet high
on a base of sixteen feet two inches), some with rams and/or an assault bridge at the
top, another with a swing beam to rake defenders from the walls; means to protect the
machines from hostile incendiaries; ladders, extension ladders and other ladders (one
with a swing beam, another with a channel for dropping hot fluids on defenders, still
another with a ram and/or a boarding bridge); and an assault barge for crossing rivers.
This highly problematic text now receives its first English translation and
commentary from David Whitehead, previously an interpreter of poliorcetic texts by
Aeneas Tacticus and (with P. H. Blyth) Athenaeus Mechanicus.5 French, German and
(most recently) Italian translations were already available.6 Apart from the translation,
the work is largely Whitehead’s improvements on Blyth’s 1992 discussion, an article
identifying the extensive interpolations in the text and in some ways offering a more
valuable overview of the treatise than this monograph.7 Whitehead identifies some
new interpolations (Apollod. 155.7-9 [p. 99], 165.16 [p. 111], 176.17-177.3 [p. 123]);
and interpolations are clearly distinguished by a smaller font in the Greek text, the
translation and the commentary. But the originality that appears in this work was
already published as articles.8 Significant are Whitehead’s rejection of Blyth’s view
that all machines with wheels are interpolations and a view of the author’s identity
(see below). The commentary, chiefly textual or mechanical and only rarely historical,
features debate with previous translators and commentators. Besides Blyth and
Sullivan, for example, the commentary after the end of the original work (177.3) is
largely a dialogue with Otto Lendle.9
Translation, and even commentary on the obscure original, does not always
produce clarity; nor do Whitehead’s explanations always convince. One interpolation
of the so-called ‘table of contents’ (Apollod. 139.1f.) mentions ‘protection against
things being raised up’, which Whitehead takes (p. 75) as a reference to the protection
of the machines against hostile incendiaries (173.13-174.7). More plausibly, however,
an interpolator added a reference to the use of nooses and the so-called lupus (known
5
D. Whitehead (ed. and tr.), Aineias the Tactician: How to Survive Under Siege2 (London
2001); D. Whitehead and P. H. Blyth (edd. and trr.), Athenaeus Mechanicus: On
Machines (Perˆ Mhcanhm£twn) (Stuttgart 2004).
6
A. La Regina (ed.), L’Arte dell’assedio di Apollodoro di Damasco (Milan 1999).
7
P. H. Blyth, ‘Apollodorus of Damascus and the Poliorcetica’, GRBS 33 (1992) 127-58.
Whitehead insinuates (pp. 10, 23f. with nn. 31f.) that the GRBS editors requested Blyth to
revise his submission without justification. The reviewer, one of the editors of Blyth’s paper,
believes the published version is superior to that originally received.
8
See D. Whitehead, ‘Apollodorus’ Poliorketica: Author, Date, Dedicatee’, in
H. M. Schellenberg et al. (edd.), A Roman Miscellany: Essays in Honour of Anthony R.
Birley on his Seventieth Birthday (Gdansk 2008) 204-12; D. Whitehead, ‘Fact and Fantasy in
Greek Military Writers’, AAntHung 48 (2008) 139-55.
9
O. Lendle, Texte und Untersuchungen zum technischen Bereich der antiken
Poliorketik (Wiesbaden 1983).
Reviews 169

from Veg. Mil. 4.23), devices for snaring the head of a battering ram and pulling it up
or suspending the ram and overturning the tortoise enclosing it, but then somehow
forgot that this was not discussed in Apollodorus’ text or failed to add it himself. Nor
can twelve-foot ladders be taken as ‘standard’ (Apollod. 176.14 [p. 122], based on
Polyb. 9.19.5-9), since Polybius gives only a hypothetical example from an
assumption of a wall ten units high.
Some unfortunate editorial decisions mar the work. A Loeb-style presentation
of the Greek text and facing English translation is given, but it is unclear whose Greek
text is reproduced—presumably that of Schneider, as Whitehead claims not to have
undertaken a new collation of the manuscripts.10 But no apparatus criticus is given,
despite frequent discussions of variant readings and emendations in the commentary.
Although Wescher’s numbering by manuscript pages and lines is the standard mode
of citation, line numbers do not appear for the Greek text and the lines per manuscript
page can often exceed ten. Nor are the manuscript illustrations produced despite
frequent reference to them in the commentary. These illustrations, even if erroneous
representations of the machines, are vital for grasping what the text describes. Rather,
Whitehead offers his own drawings of only some of the devices (pp. 139-44, figures
1-6), although figure 4 is not signalled in the commentary. To properly understand
this text and commentary, a reader must have at hand both Schneider (apparatus
criticus and illustrations) and Sullivan (illustrations).
The lack of historical commentary is also regrettable, particularly if
Apollodorus of Damascus is the author. A brief endnote (pp. 136f.) discusses the
treatise in relation to scenes on Trajan’s Column but essentially only recycles
Lendle’s views on Apollodorus’ machines and siege operations on the Column and
Septimius Severus’ Arch. A recent major monograph on the Dacian Wars, which
disputes some of Lendle’s views, is uncited.11 Larger issues concerning Roman
siegecraft, ancient military theory and the need for updated doctrine are not raised.
Finally, the question of the attribution of the treatise to Apollodorus of
Damascus must be addressed. Blyth, rejecting the epistolary preface as a literary
device, believed it to be a real letter to Trajan: Apollodorus of Damascus was the
young assistant sent to Trajan with the treatise in hand; the work of his master
survived among Apollodorus’ papers. Whitehead, likewise accepting the preface as an
authentic letter, postulates a different scenario. As the preface records joint military
service of the author and the emperor on multiple occasions (‘battles’), in the mid-70s
Apollodorus, a coeval, met Trajan, then a military tribune under his father the Syrian
governor. Hence (bypassing additional arguments for the sake of brevity) the treatise
must date ca. AD 100 on the eve of Trajan’s First Dacian War.
10
R. Schneider (ed. and tr.), Griechische Poliorketiker mit den handschriftlichen Bilden
herausgeben und übersetz 1: Apollodorus, Belagerunskunst (Berlin 1908).
11
A. S. Stefan, Les guerres daciques de Domitien et de Trajan: Architecture militaire,
topographie, images et historie (Rome 2005); cf. E. L. Wheeler, ‘Rome’s Dacian Wars:
Domitian, Trajan, and Strategy on the Danube, Part I’, Journal of Military History 74 (2010)
1185-227.
170 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

But epistolary prefaces to technical treatises are quite common and, despite
Blyth’s arguments, the preface’s vagueness could equally be a sign of forgery rather
than familiarity. The passage on technical vocabulary (Apollod. 138.13-17), which
Whitehead concedes (p. 73) is essentially lacking in the treatise, could be a variant on
the topoi in technical treatises of writing for ‘beginners’ and the author’s own stylistic
inadequacies. Even more problematic is the author’s reference (138.9-12) to joint
service in ‘battles’ with the emperor. ‘Parataxis’ does not mean ‘campaign’, as Blyth
and Whitehead would wish, and (contrary to Whitehead) the passage could be read as
proof of the author’s service under the emperor. Whitehead accepts the view of the
younger Pliny’s Panegyric on Trajan as a vir militaris before assuming the purple, but
this view is now contested since practically nothing is known of Trajan’s career before
he marched from Spain with the VII Gemina in AD 89 to help put down Saturninus’
revolt in Germania Superior. A supposed Parthian victory of Trajan’s father in Syria is
most obscure—certainly no siege operations or major battles were involved—and if
Apollodorus was with Trajan in a conjectured governorship of Pannonia in the early
90s, then the author could hardly claim unfamiliarity with the Middle Danube.
Furthermore, Dacia under Decebalus, a real state, scarcely represents the fickle
barbarians (138.4f.); nor does Transylvania lack timber, as the preface envisions.
Blyth and Whitehead (p. 22), somehow forgetting Domitian’s Dacian war (84-89
AD), assume Roman ignorance of Dacia. For what it is worth, the anonymous
Parangelmata (1.9f.) claims that Apollodorus wrote the treatise for Hadrian, a view
easily argued away.12
Although the language of the uninterpolated parts of the treatise may salvage a
second-or third-century date, this reviewer is not convinced that the preface is an
authentic letter to Trajan and that this treatise, unattested before John Lydus in the
sixth century AD, should be attributed to Apollodorus of Damascus, not known for
literary activity, unless Procopius (Aed. 4.6.13 on the Drobeta bridge—no title given)
is invoked. Whitehead merits thanks for making this problematic work and its
enigmatic author available to a larger audience of Anglophone readers.

Everett L. Wheeler Duke University

Geoffrey Horrocks, Greek: A History of the Language and Its Speakers2. Chichester:
Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. Pp. xx + 505. ISBN 978-1-4051-3415-6. GBP110.

The first edition of this volume (published in 1997), which takes a broad
diachronic approach to the study of the Greek language in both its spoken and written
forms, was widely greeted as an innovative and impressive piece of scholarship. This
second edition preserves the original thematic focus on ‘the effects of early
standardization and the consequential state of diglossia on the long-term evolution of

12
Sullivan [4] 26f.
Reviews 171

the language’ (p. 20), but a number of changes have been made, some of them
substantial, to the content, structure and references.
In the preface to the new edition (pp. xv-xvi), Horrocks outlines some of the
ways in which he has taken account of reviews of the first edition, as well as a 2006
translation of the work into modern Greek,1 in order to correct some errors and in
particular to address two new aims: to improve the section on medieval Greek
generally and to appease classicists by giving a more expansive account of the ancient
Greek dialectal situation at the beginning of the book. The changes have brought the
work up to date and strengthened its argument by allowing the diachronic
development of the Greek language to be made all the more clear through the addition
of further examples and elucidation of certain sections.
It is easy to understand why Horrocks had originally omitted any thorough
discussion of the ancient Greek dialects, since the book’s aim was to trace the history
of one particular variety of Greek, namely the Attic dialect, the legacy of whose early
standardisation has been felt in Greece for more than two thousand years. However,
the substantial expansion of the newly titled chapter 1, ‘The Ancient Greek Dialects’
(pp. 9-42), originally only fourteen pages in length, is of great benefit to the work as a
whole because it gives a firm sense of the wider context of the Attic dialect in the
ancient period and so provides a much fuller beginning to the story of the Greek
language. Even though Horrocks labels his discussion ‘simply an attempt at a
consensus view’ (p. 17) in place of a thorough treatment, this section could be
recommended as a starting point to anyone interested in ancient Greek dialectology,
with its impressively comprehensive account of methodological concerns, wealth of
examples and informed references; indeed, as an informative and concise overview of
the current state of knowledge on the ancient dialects, it is for the moment
unparallelled. It might further be added that many sections of this book could be
praised in a similar way, with consistently clear and accessible explanations
throughout that enable and encourage the audience to read further into the various
topics addressed.
One of the potential weaknesses of a work such as Greek: A History of the
Language and Its Speakers is that the sheer breadth of its scope might go hand-in-
hand with some limitations in the amount of detail that can be included. But the first
edition did not fall into this trap, and the second edition outdoes it by including even
more examples and improving on the already systematic approach to the way in which
material is presented. Naturally, a book can only take one path from beginning to end,
and the overarching chronological narrative employed here is not without its
disadvantages (for example, making it impossible to survey the development of a
single feature through multiple time periods in a single section). But the
volume benefits from a good index and may be read either as a continuous narrative or
by focussing on particular sections and themes as the reader wills it. The only
disadvantage of the latter method is that it somewhat undermines Horrocks’ aim to
1
G. Horrocks (M. Staurou and M. Tzebelekou [edd.]), Ellhnik£: Hijtor…a thj
glèssaj kai twn omilhtèn thj (Athens 2006).
172 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

present a continuous history of the Greek language, but it is inevitable that this book
will frequently be used in this way.
As with any published work, Greek: A History of the Language and Its
Speakers is not entirely without errors or omissions, and because it covers such a
breadth of scholarship it will be the specialists in each discipline who most notice any
problems within their area of expertise. For this reviewer the absence of an example of
the ancient Cypriot dialect, even though most others are included, seems an oversight:
Arcadian does not represent the Arcado-Cypriot dialect sub-group as comprehensively
as one might assume.2 Furthermore, the references supplied for ancient Cypriot
epigraphy are not the most appropriate, and it would have been better to cite a work
such as Olivier’s contribution to the 2006 Mycenological colloquium as a reference
for the continuation of Greek literacy on Cyprus from the Early Iron Age onward.3
However, these are small issues and only tangential to the central thrust of the book as
a whole.
More broadly, it is difficult to find fault with either the content or the design of
the book. The Table of Contents (pp. v-xi) and Index (pp. 493-505) provide two very
comprehensive guides to the book’s structure and content, making Greek easily
navigable. The newly included International Phonetic Alphabet chart (p. xvii) is also
helpful since it enalbes readers to understand the many phonetic transcriptions that
appear in this work. However, no list of the passages used as examples throughout the
book (which range from a Late Bronze Age Mycenaean Greek administrative
document to pieces of journalism and draft legislation from 2009) is included, and I
think this would have been a useful addition.
A comparison of the first and second editions of Greek: A History of the
Language and Its Speakers gives an interesting insight into the revision process, with
alterations ranging from minute stylistic changes of phrasing—for example,
‘incidentally’ in place of ‘for example’ (p. xviii)—to implicitly political changes of
tone—for example, ‘the Balkans’ in place of ‘Greece [including Macedonia and
Thrace]’ (p. 210)!—and of course the inclusion of some new sections and expansion
of others. Several of the alterations are worthy of note, among them the following: in
chapter 8, ‘Greek in the Byzantine Empire: The Major Issues’ (pp. 207-30), the notion
of ‘identity’, a somewhat thorny topic in recent years, has been visibly removed from
sections 8.3 (pp. 210-12) and 8.4 (pp. 212-20); a new conclusion to chapter 8 is
included (pp. 229f.), which brings the whole of that chapter more obviously into line

2
Cf. J. Chadwick, ‘Differences and Similarities Between Cypriot and the Other Greek
Dialects’, in J. Karageorghis and O. Masson (edd.), The History of the Greek Language in
Cyprus. Proceedings of an International Symposium Sponsored by the Pierides Foundation:
Larnaca, Cyprus, 8-13 September, 1986 (Nicosia 1988) 55-66.
3
J.-P. Olivier, ‘Les syllabaires chypriotes des deuxième et premier millénaires avant
notre ère: État des questions’, in A. Sacconi et al. (edd.), Colloquium Romanum. Atti del XII
colloquio internazionale di micenologia: Roma 20-25 febbraio 2006 (Pisa/Rome 2008)
605-19.
Reviews 173

with the aims of the book; and at the end (chapter 17) an extra section giving five
examples of contemporary written modern Greek is included (pp. 466-70).
The newly added final section of the final chapter is notable in itself. The first
edition ended with a rather more traditional conclusion, which has now become the
penultimate section 17.7, ‘Standard Modern Greek’ (pp. 462-66) of the second
edition; the concluding sentence—which still appears (p. 466)—looked forward to a
‘universal acceptance of the fact that the only fully standardized languages are dead
ones, and that experimentation, diversity and change are a cause for celebration rather
than concern’. In the new edition, section 17.8, ‘A Range of Styles’ (pp. 466-70), has
been added to illustrate the diversity of modern Greek today, with texts in more
formal registers recalling the features of katharévousa, while fictional narrative is
more fluid and inventive. A few comments are made before the five examples are
given, but no further commentary on these passages is provided. As Horrocks says at
the end of the final paragraph, ‘If this book has done its job, none will be needed’
(p. 467).
It is fair to say that this book has done its job and done it well. Through its
comprehensive survey of the Greek language, it has achieved its aims to ‘explain,
summarize and exemplify the principal facts of change’ and ‘render comprehensible’
the long-term language situation that still has relevance for Greek speakers today
(p. 4). This second edition has corrected and improved on many aspects of the first
edition, forming an up-to-date and impressively full and informative volume that
deserves a place on every Hellenist’s and Hellenophile’s bookshelf.

Philippa M. Steele University of Cambridge

Michael Lambert, The Classics and South African Identities. London: Bristol
Classical Press, 2011. Pp. 160, incl. a general index. ISBN 978-0-715-63796-8.
GBP18.99.

Identity politics is a minefield. Stray too far to right or left and you risk being
blown to pieces. And the ‘reasonable’ middle path is no less hazardous. The questions
that haunt anyone venturing into this field are: Who is, or is not, entitled to speak for
whom? For instance, is a white English-speaking South African entitled to discuss and
interpret the writings and ideas of black and ‘coloured’ and Afrikaans-speaking South
Africans? The implicit answer that Michael Lambert’s book, The Classics and South
African Identities, delivers to these questions is: Yes, one is so entitled—always
provided that one approaches the feelings, thoughts, ideas and aspirations of people
different from oneself with due caution and sensitivity. Nevertheless, for all the care
with which Lambert picks his way through the identity minefield, his book may still
set off a few explosions since it deals with the way Afrikaans- and English-speaking
and black South Africans have constructed identities for themselves through the
Classics.
174 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

Lambert introduces and then concludes his book in a refreshing and original
way. Instead of making the sort of obeisance to Grand Theory, which has now become
almost de rigeur, he uses works of the imagination as a lens to focus his discussion. In
the introduction (pp. 7-19), Lambert lets an analysis of Aeschylus’ Suppliants raise
issues of migration, skin colour, gender, language and power, all central to the notion
of identity in general and of South African identities in particular. In the conclusion
(pp. 125-32), an examination of J. M. Coetzee’s Elizabeth Costello brings to the fore
troubling questions about the place of the Classics in contemporary South Africa:
‘Coetzee . . . suggests that the study of the Humanities in Africa (and especially the
study of the Classics) is trapped in an intellectual cul-de-sac, between the Scylla of
instrumentalism and the Charybdis of a meaningless “art for beauty’s sake”’ (p. 130).
(It should be said that Lambert himself does not altogether share this gloomy outlook.)
Three long chapters make up the body of the volume, each discussing the way
in which the Classics have participated in the identity-formation of a particular group
of South Africans. In chapter 1, ‘The Classics and Afrikaner Identities’ (pp. 21-59),
Lambert examines the beginnings of education and the teaching of Latin in the Dutch
settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. Pointing out that many Cape slaves bore
classical names (Cupido, Titus, Coridon, Scipio), the author writes: ‘the classical
tradition is . . . inscribed, from the outset of its reception in South Africa, in
relationships of dominance and subservience’ (p. 24). The first Latin school, lasting
about twenty-five years, was set up at the Cape in 1714, to be followed by a second in
1793. After the British occupation of the Cape, this second Latin school was made in
the early nineteenth century into an English grammar school, with an English
classically trained Rector. Dutch-speakers responded by establishing their own private
schools, where classical languages were offered. Thus began a long history of conflict
over the medium of education—Dutch or English. Since Greek and Latin were an
important part of that education, the Classics were caught up in struggles over Cape
Dutch and later on Afrikaner identity in South Africa. So it was not surprising that,
when the present Classical Association of South Africa (‘CASA’) was founded in
1956, eight years after the triumph of the National Party, Afrikaners dominated the
Association. Lambert shows well how ‘natural’ it seemed for CASA during the 1950s
and 1960s to align itself with power by making members of the ruling elite honorary
patrons or vice-presidents of the Association. He argues that ‘had CASA been steered
by scholars less seduced by Afrikaner nationalism . . . steps would have been taken to
promote Latin (and the Classics) in black schools . . . to ensure the future survival of
the discipline’ (p. 52).
Chapter 2, ‘The Classics and English-speaking South African Identities’
(pp. 61-90), opens with an account of the remarkable set of translations of Greek and
Latin sources used by Gibbon that the ‘arch-imperialist’ Cecil John Rhodes
commissioned for his library at Groote Schuur. This leads to a discussion of the
multiple ways in which education in the Classics, particularly at Oxford, became
involved with British imperial assumptions. Lambert uses his own classical training at
the (then) University of Natal, Pietermaritzburg as an example. He shows how his
Reviews 175

Oxford-educated professor, David Raven, in a 1973 inaugural lecture, blithely ignored

the context in which he was speaking by being unaware of Afrikaans-speakers in the
audience and assuming his listeners to be ‘part of the great British diaspora in the
wake of Empire, as if British and South African English-speaking identities had
merged’ (p. 71). Lambert also poignantly recalls ‘being constantly reminded [by
Raven] that, at various stages of my degree, I was still x number of years behind an
Oxford or Cambridge undergraduate of the same age’ (p. 72), with all the sense of
academic inferiority and insecurity such treatment engendered. The author goes on to
consider the inaugural lectures of several other Oxford-trained classicists (including
this reviewer) at South African universities and finds that from the 1970s through to
the 1990s these lectures reveal a gradually increasing awareness of a need to link the
teaching of the Classics to its local context. Apropos my own inaugural lecture,
Lambert comments, with some justice: ‘Comparisons between aspects of Classical
civilization and African cultures, especially in South Africa, where the study of the
Classics is deeply rooted in unequal power relationships, can result in legitimizing the
very perceptions they intend to subvert’ (p. 83). Finally in this chapter, Lambert
analyses some of his own comparisons between Zulu and ancient Greek religion,
even-handedly drawing attention to the weaknesses as well as the strengths of his
work in this area. In the course of so doing, he makes an important point: English-
speakers often complacently believe themselves to be liberal and free from prejudice;
but, ‘No South African can, in [Lambert’s] opinion, ever claim to be entirely free of
racism . . . Thus the “resistant discourses” generated by English-speaking white South
African classicists can, in the process of comparative studies, be as implicit in the rule
of oppressive élites as the Afrikaner nationalist voices’ (p. 87).
Chapter 3, ‘The Classics and Black South African Identities’ (pp. 91-123),
begins with a painful reminder of just how patronising white classicists could be when
teaching Latin to black students at the old ‘Homelands’ universities. The author also
gives a fascinating account of nineteenth-century Christian educational institutions for
blacks and the debates that took place there as to whether, or how much, Latin and
Greek should be included in the courses studied (which cannot but remind one of
contemporary debates about ‘Eurocentrism’ and ‘Africanisation’ of the curriculum).
Lambert focusses in particular on the writings of John Tengo Jabavu (father of D. D.
T. Jabavu, who later taught Latin at Fort Hare) in defence of a classical education for
blacks that would give them access to universities and to the professions. The rest of
the chapter reviews the relationship to the Classics of such figures as Robert Grendon,
author of the epic Paul Kruger’s Dream (1902), Chris Hani, Nelson Mandela and
Benedict Vilakazi. Lambert deals here en passant with the weakness of Demea (Guy
Butler’s Southern African version of Euripides’ Medea) and of supposedly subversive
productions of Classical tragedy on liberal English-medium university campuses
during the apartheid era. I must confess that I found this part of the book somewhat
scrappy and unfocussed.
At various points in the volume, Lambert also examines the work of individual
South African classical scholars such as T. J. Haarhoff and Jan Hendrik Hofmeyr,
176 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

who are difficult to fit into the categories that the book sets for itself. The latter is
discussed under ‘English-speaking South African Identities’, the former under
‘Afrikaner Identities’. As I am sure the author would be first to admit, The Classics
and South African Identities does not give a comprehensive account of its subject. But
then it is not intended to do so. The book is meant as an exploratory essay, a large-
scale map of a terrain many parts of which have not yet been adequately charted. As
such it succeeds admirably and provides a stimulating and provocative survey from
which any future account of the Classics in South Africa will have to take its starting
point.

Richard Whitaker University of Cape Town

Catalin Partenie (ed.), Plato’s Myths. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
Pp. xvi + 255, incl. 17 black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-0-521-88790-8.
GBP55.

Catalin Partenie opens this volume with a useful and thought-provoking

introduction (pp. 1-27). Partenie assesses and summarises various approaches to
Plato’s various myths. One can conceive of Platonic myth as a means of persuasion
tailored to a particular audience. This persuasion can serve the purpose of exhorting,
seducing or educating the audience. As Partenie notes, modern scholarship on the
Platonic myths tends to treat them as complementing and indeed furthering the
philosophical purpose of their dialogues. The once popular but simplistic notion
that mythos is opposed to logos continues to be challenged by attempts to read the
myths within their contexts. Such sensitive readings dominate this volume.
Michael Inwood, chapter 1, ‘Plato’s Eschatological Myths’ (pp. 28-50), begins
with a collection of questions prompted by his consideration of that topic. His main
focus is on what notion of justice motivates Plato’s commitment to reincarnation, and
the issues he tackles are undoubtedly intriguing. So, for example, he considers the
implication of the suggestion that some souls are reincarnated as animals and proposes
that Plato may have been attracted to metempsychosis because ‘it would enable him to
see the world from many points of view and to enter into a variety of experience’
(p. 38). However, Inwood’s general approach of cherry-picking details from a variety
of dialogues, glossing over inconsistencies and, more than anything, his rather literal
reading of the myths, render this piece more frustrating than enlightening. David
Sedley, chapter 2, ‘Myth, Punishment and Politics in the Gorgias’ (pp. 51-76),
identifies the eschatological myth at the end of the Gorgias as a source of possible
confusion. Its discussion of the motivating value of post-mortem punishment might be
thought to be at odds with the efforts in the rest of the dialogue to argue that justice is
intrinsically choiceworthy. Sedley argues for reading the myth as an ‘allegory of
moral malaise in this life’ which, through parallels with the preceding discussion,
Reviews 177

demonstrates that Socratic dialectic and punishment via refutation are superior to
standard Athenian practices of trial and punishment.
Gabor Betegh, chapter 3, ‘Tale, Theology and Teleology in the Phaedo’
(pp. 77-100), begins not from the eschatological myth at the Phaedo’s end but rather
from Socrates’ brief analysis on the relation between pleasure and pain (60b-c).
Betegh takes Socrates’ own statement of the relation and sets it against his suggestion
as to how Aesop might have described it. Taking evidence from this and other ‘just-
so’ stories in the dialogues such as Aristophanes’ speech in the Symposium and
Socrates’ myth in the Gorgias, Betegh suggests that it is possible to establish some
criteria for Platonically acceptable, explanatory muthoi. These criteria point towards
the kind of teleological explanation found lacking in Anaxagoras but set out in detail
in the Timaeus. Malcolm Schofield, chapter 4, ‘Fraternité, inégalité, la parole de
Dieu: Plato’s Authoritarian Myth of Political Legitimation’ (pp. 101-15), treats
the Republic’s Noble Lie. Schofield argues that the myth aims at inculcating the
ideology and patriotism required for the success of Kallipolis’ stratified society. In
fact, insofar as such inculcation seems to be beyond what can be achieved by rational
argument, such a myth is perhaps the best way to encourage devotion to the state
among its citizens. Schofield notes that the myth provides a theological justification
for the structure of the state by overturning the lies about the gods told by the poets
and reframing Hesiod’s myth of the metals as a description of present political
potential.
G. R. F. Ferrari, chapter 5, ‘Glaucon’s Reward, Philosophy’s Debt: the Myth of
Er’ (pp. 116-33), suggests that the closing myth of the Republic is a final attempt to
address Glaucon’s interest in justice. This is, whatever Glaucon may previously have
suggested, motivated by an underlying concern with the social rewards of justice. The
focus of the myth, as tailored to Glaucon’s concerns, is on cycles of reincarnation
rather than post-mortem rewards. This myth is for Ferrari a pessimistic admission that
incarnation and the choice of lives stand opposed to philosophy. This being the case,
we see no one choosing ‘the philosophic life’. Christopher Rowe, chapter 6, ‘The
Charioteer and his Horses: an Example of Platonic Myth-making’ (pp. 134-47), takes
the famous myth of the Phaedrus as a test case for a general thesis that Plato’s myths
are ‘best seen as extended similes’ (p. 135). Myths are not, as is often suggested, a last
resort where argument is not feasible. Rather, they are part of a strategy of ‘layering of
perspectives’ (p. 144), which enables Plato to play on his audience’s mind-set and
draw them closer to his own.
Charles H. Kahn, chapter 6, ‘The Myth of the Statesman’ (pp. 148-66), follows
the general trend for arguing that Plato’s myths should be read against their contexts.
For Kahn, the salient context of this myth is not just the Statesman, but also the
Republic and Laws. The myth of the Statesman, by drawing a parallel between the
philosopher kings and the divine shepherd, relegates the ideal state of the Republic,
along with its ideal rulers, to the realm of ideal, unachievable paradigm and prefigures
the second best practical political project of the Laws. M. F. Burnyeat, chapter 8,
‘Eikōs Muthos’ (pp. 167-86), has since its publication in Rhizai in 2005 come to
178 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

dominate discussion of the ‘likely story’ of Plato’s Timaeus.1 In fact, Burnyeat argues
that muthos is in this context more properly translated as ‘myth’, but notes that
Timaeus’ myth seeks to overcome the ‘traditional’ division between
muthos and logos. The majority of the paper is focussed on the meaning of the term
eikos¸ which Burnyeat argues signifies a positive quality at which the cosmogonist
should aim. It is more rightly translated as ‘reasonable’ or, insofar as what is
reasonable when talking about the Demiurge’s practical reasoning is also probable,
‘probable’.
Richard Stalley, chapter 9, ‘Myth and Eschatology in the Laws’ (pp. 187-205),
reviews and rejects Saunders’ interpretation of the eschatological myth of Laws 10.1.2
Stalley notes that the myth of the Laws is far less detailed and compelling than similar
myths in the Gorgias, Republic and Phaedo. Stalley argues, contra Saunders, that this
difference is not a result of any change in Plato’s own thinking but rather is motivated
by the context and purpose of the myth within the Laws. This myth is aimed at
persuading people to conventional justice rather than to philosophy itself. Such a
persuasive purpose demands a lesser degree of ‘mythical detail’. Elizabeth McGrath,
chapter 10, ‘Platonic Myth in Renaissance Iconography’ (pp. 206-38), ends the
volume with an intriguing account of the reception of Platonic myths in Renaissance
art. I was particularly struck by her discussion of representations of the soul-chariot of
the Phaedrus. The variety in such depictions is testament to the difficulty of getting to
grips with this rich and provocative image.
The theme of this collection, its provocative variety notwithstanding, is the
need to read the myths within their context rather than to treat them in isolation. Of
course, the richness and difficulty of Plato’s myths have tempted many readers to
focus on them in precisely this blinkered way. This is a stimulating and varied volume
that will serve to encourage further interpretive wrestling with the myths and to
promote the need to treat the myths as integral elements of their dialogues.

Jenny Bryan University College, London

Richard Alston, Edith Hall and Laura Proffitt (edd.), Reading Ancient Slavery.
London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. x + 235, incl. 17 black-and-white
illustrations. ISBN 978-0-715-63868-2. USD40.

This work is a collection of papers delivered at a conference held in 2007 to

mark the 200-year anniversary of the abolition of slavery in the British empire. We
might therefore expect this collection to focus on the similarities and differences

1
M. Burnyeat, ‘E„këj Màqoj’, Rhizai 2 (2005) 143-65.
2
T. J. Saunders, ‘Penology and Eschatology in Plato’s Timaeus and Laws’, CQ 23 (1973)
232-44.
Reviews 179

between the slaveholding institutions of modern and ancient history.1 However, the
authors have not chosen to go down this well trodden path. Rather, each of the
collected papers forms a part of a cohesive work on the representation, ideology and
subjective experience of slavery in the ancient world from the Odyssey to
Artemidorus’ Interpretation of Dreams. This is a book that would sit well in any
university library. It is perhaps less accessible to students beginning their studies on
the ancient world, but should be consulted by advanced undergraduates, graduates and
scholars of Greek, Roman and comparative slavery.
Richard Alston, chapter 1, ‘Introduction: Rereading Ancient Slavery’ (pp.
1-33), establishes the theoretical basis for the chapters that follow and provides a
critical review of modern scholarship to date. Alston examines whether the ancient
societies of Greece and Rome can justifiably be called ‘slave societies’. He argues that
the arbitrary categorisation of a civilization as a ‘slave society’ is no longer
particularly useful since it tends to lead to arguments about definitions, and
scholarship would be better served by more nuanced interpretations (pp. 1-10). Alston
proposes an approach in which we view slavery as a ‘social formation’ created by
various ‘technologies of domination’—ways of thinking and behaving that force
subordinates into particular groups, though these groups are not necessarily
homogeneous (pp. 10f.). Thus he makes a convincing case for reading slavery, an
approach that continues an important trend in modern scholarship towards examining
the representation of particular social groups.2 This approach reveals the perceptual
filters that people applied when thinking about, writing about or looking at slaves:
‘The servile depiction facilitates our understanding of the master’ (p. 15).
Patrice Rankine, chapter 2, ‘Odysseus as Slave: The Ritual of Domination and
Social Death in Homeric Society’ (pp. 34-50), examines the social practices that
reinforce slave status. Rankine argues that the Odyssey illustrates the development of
slavery as an institution in the world of the poem. He uses several critical episodes in
the story of the Odyssey in order to demonstrate how Homeric audiences perceived
relationships of power and subordination. Representations such as the execution of the
twelve slave women in book 22 remind slaves that they can at any time become the
victims of violence or murder. Odysseus’ journey also tells the elite that at any time
one may become a slave as a result of defeat in war or of the capriciousness of gods or
goddesses. Rankine shows that the Homeric audience was expected to take a specific
message from Odysseus’ example: his character and actions could set him free.
Leanne Hunnings, chapter 3, ‘The Paradigms of Execution: Managing Slave
Death from Homer to Virginia’ (pp. 51-71), continues with the concept of slave death
in Homeric literature and society in arguing that the Odyssey creates a conceptual
framework to characterise slavery and maintain it as a ‘real world’ institution.
1
For a recent treatment see E. Dal Lago and C. Katsari (edd.), Slave Systems: Ancient
and Modern (Cambridge 2008).
2
E.g., L. Petersen, The Freedman in Roman Art and Art History (Cambridge 2006);
M. Beard, The Roman Triumph (Harvard 2007); P. E. Easterling and Edith Hall (edd.), Greek
and Roman Actors: Aspects of an Ancient Profession (Cambridge 2002).
180 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

Hunnings’ chapter complements Rankine’s preceding argument. Hunnings situates the

Odyssey within Greek society by arguing cogently for its place as a critical expression
of culture and ideas. Like all art and literature, the Odyssey also influences and creates
social reality (pp. 51-53). Hunnings extends her examination of the impact of the
Odyssey to the slave owners of America, who thought so highly of classical literature
that they believed its heroes’ examples ought to be followed in the modern world
(pp. 67f.).3
Chapters 4 and 5 examine the representation of slaves in the visual arts.
William G. Thalmann, chapter 4, ‘Some Ancient Greek Images of Slavery’ (pp.
72-96), demonstrates the importance of art in creating and perpetuating slavery by
arguing that the visual arts articulate the same cultural ideas that we find in Greek and
Roman literature, law and philosophy. The depiction of slave bodies, their postures,
physical features and comportment reflect Greek ideas about the differences in
character and capacity between slaves and free men and women. While this is perhaps
unsurprising, Thalmann’s chapter is interesting and cogent. Kelly L. Wrenhaven,
chapter 5, ‘Greek Representations of the Slave Body: A Conflict of Ideas?’ (pp. 97-
120), asks whether the use of slaves in art is an expression of the Greek artists’ need
to define beauty—physical and moral—by visually representing its antithesis. Art
becomes more complicated when artists feel the need to define what makes a ‘good’
slave. Wrenhaven focusses on the depiction of slave bodies, which are portrayed
carrying out manual labour, as the victims of violence, and as possessions of elite
slave owners. ‘Good’ slaves are obedient, show their deference by their posture and
facial expressions, and are physically beautiful. Artists could therefore use masters
and slaves to articulate particular ideas and ideals.
Boris Nikolsky, chapter 6, ‘Slavery and Freedom in Euripides’ Cyclops’
(pp. 121-32), examines the ideas and metaphorical meanings of slavery and freedom
in drama. The dramatic technique of reversing characters’ roles allows the writer and
his actors to explore these ideas in different ways. Through an exploration of motifs
associated with slavery and freedom, the ancient authors explored democratic freedom
and tyranny (pp. 131f.). Continuing the discussion on the political aspects of slavery,
S. Sara Monoson, chapter 7, ‘Navigating Race, Class, Polis and Empire: The Place of
Empirical Analysis in Aristotle’s Account of Natural Slavery’ (pp. 133-51),
re-examines Aristotle’s controversial theory of natural slavery. Monoson demonstrates
that Aristotle’s ideas about slaves are best taken in the context of his argument about
the ideal size and structure of the state. These ideas, though morally unacceptable to
modern western readers, do not conflict with Aristotle’s philosophical arguments, as
other scholars have asserted.4
Laura Proffitt, chapter 8, ‘Family, Slavery and Subversion in
Menander’s Epitrepontes’ (pp. 152-74), examines slave families in the fragmentary

3
K. J. Wetmore, Black Dionysus: Greek Tragedy and African American
Theatre (Jefferson 2003) comprehensively treats this topic as a theatre historian.
4
Notably P. Garnsey, Ideas of Slavery from Aristotle to Augustine (Cambridge 1996).
Reviews 181

evidence of Menander. Proffitt rightly urges caution in this approach, and the reality
of life as a slave remains elusive. This is in keeping with Alston’s remarks in the
Introduction. Proffitt’s chapter is one of the most successful in this volume. The
argument is sophisticated in emphasising the holistic interpretation of texts in their
social and cultural contexts, and she convincingly demonstrates that the slaves of
the Epitrepontes are able to confront the prevailing ideology to embrace freedom.
William Fitzgerald, chapter 9, ‘The Slave as Minimal Addition in Latin Literature’
(pp. 175-91), is the first in this volume to focus on the Roman aspect of Greco-Roman
slavery. Fitzgerald looks at slaves in Latin literary vignettes (from Horace and
Propertius) and specifically how they are used to present better the point of view of
major characters, to make a scene complete, and to make the deus ex machina appear
natural. Slave characters remain ‘stock’ characters, however, reflecting the social
value system and the expectations of the elite authors.
Deborah Kamen, chapter 10, ‘Slave Agency and Resistance in Martial’
(pp. 192-203), continues the discussion of Latin literature with a chapter on the slaves
of Martial’s epigrams. Kamen shows that Martial depicts slaves defying their masters
by using several different strategies including passive-aggressive resistance, but that
Martial does not allow the slaves he depicts to retain power over their masters. The
final chapter is from Edith Hall, chapter 11, ‘Playing Ball with Zeus: Strategies in
Reading Ancient Slavery through Dreams’ (pp. 204-28). Hall analyses
Artemidorus’ Interpretation of Dreams and argues that Artemidorus treats the
experiences of slaves and free men in the same way. While Artemidorus’
interpretation of a dream usually emphasises what it means in terms of power relations
(p. 215), he nevertheless tells his reader what the dream means for each dreamer:
slave, free, male and female. Hall’s conclusion is that Artemidorus sees all human
beings as ‘psychologically the same’ (p. 224).
Reading Ancient Slavery is a high quality collection of papers at the leading
edge of modern scholarship on the representation and subjective experiences of
slaves. Each of the contributors provides a valuable theoretical and interpretive
framework through which the reader may reach a greater understanding of the
psychological and social impacts of slavery from Homeric times to the Roman empire.

Jennifer Manley University of Queensland

J. G. Manning, The Last Pharaohs: Egypt under the Ptolemies, 305-30 BC. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2010. Pp. xvi + 264, incl. 18 black-and-white illustrations.
ISBN 978-0-691-14262-3. GBP27.95.

Manning, with numerous previous publications in the field of Ptolemaic studies

to his credit, here plunges straight into the issues that he proposes to address and
dispenses with the customary historical survey of the Ptolemaic period. His brief
historical introduction, entitled ‘Egypt in the First Millennium BC’ (pp. 19-28), picks
182 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

up the story from the end of the New Kingdom and gives more space to Persian rule
than to the period of Alexander and Ptolemy. This is appropriate since he identifies
with the trend in scholarship over the last three decades of laying greater stress on
Egyptian culture in the Ptolemaic era and on Persian administrative practices (p. 2).
Manning takes issue with those who have assessed the Ptolemaic system from
the viewpoint of modern European states. In chapter 2, ‘The Historical Understanding
of the Ptolemaic State’ (pp. 29-54), he illustrates the continuing attraction for some
historians of the inappropriate model of colonialism as represented by the British Raj.
Then in chapter 3, ‘Moving Beyond Despotism, Economic Planning, and State
Banditry: Ptolemaic Egypt as a Premodern State’ (pp. 55-72), he argues that neither
the despotic nor the dirigiste model does justice to the portrayal of the Ptolemaic
economy. He contests the idea that Ptolemaic Egypt was a failed state (pp. 64-66) and
rejects the older application of ‘stark dichotomies’ between Asiatic and antique modes
of production or between modernising Greek and passive Asian institutions. He
likewise dismisses a fashion of the 1990s to apply the term ‘apartheid’ to Ptolemaic
Egypt, albeit in the limited sense of ‘cultural genocide’ or de facto separation, for he
notes the absence of ‘ideological racism’ and the presence of evidence that makes
nonsense of the idea of cultural genocide (p. 64; cf. p. 178 on the legal system).
Still, it is difficult to make any generalisations about that system without using
terminology that the modern reader would consider value free. Manning sees the key
to understanding how the Ptolemies established their authority and maintained it over
three centuries in their ability to negotiate a working relationship with the different
groups that made up that society. Thus he finds in the system ample evidence of state
flexibility (p. 120) and stresses the importance of considering ‘the dynamics between
the state and local groups’ (p. 120). It is tempting to introduce clichés of the
‘noughties’, but Manning is careful to aim for relatively neutral terminology and thus,
for example, refers to ‘key constituent groups’ (p. 77), where the flippant (or zealot)
might substitute ‘stakeholders’. His line is that greater emphasis can and should be
placed now on the relationships between the king and Egyptian society because of the
greater availability of ‘demotic Egyptian and hieroglyphic texts . . . and archaeological
material’ (p. 202). He presents his book as ‘a synthesis of what is an increasingly
dominant paradigm in Ptolemaic studies that attempts to strike a balance between
Egyptian and Greek culture and institutions, and between state aims and historical
experience’ (p. 5).
The introductory chapters on the broad issues of approach are relatively thin on
evidential detail, but the shift in balance is well established by chapter 4, ‘Shaping a
New State: The Political Economy of the Ptolemies’ (pp. 73-116). Still, the level of
direct analysis of source documents that are introduced ranges from adequate to
minimal. Thus the reader gets some real sense of what the Milon archive contains and
means (pp. 117-20); but, while a photograph is offered of the inscription from Bir
‘Iayyan attesting Rhodon as a toparch (p. 114), the only piece of the text translated is
the specific reference to Rhodon. Then there is an Appendix, ‘The Trial Record of the
Property Dispute held at the Temple of Wepwawet in Asyut, Upper Egypt, 170 BC
Reviews 183

Before the Local Laokritai-Judges’ (pp. 207-16), which gives Manning’s ‘rough and
ready and slightly abridged’ translation (pSiut 1). This last item is clearly a very
valuable addition to the book; but, though it is by far the longest source document in
the volume, it is not accompanied by a commentary and is covered by only brief
allusions in the text (pp. 135, 183, 195). It must therefore be appreciated that this does
not claim to be a source book with commentary. Important to Manning’s case in
chapter 4 is his compelling argument that Ptolemais typified ‘the ‘multi-ethnic’
character of Ptolemaic foundations in Egypt’ (p. 112). He contests the notion that
Ptolemais was a bastion of Hellenism in southern Egypt, and he argues that the
purpose of its foundation was control, not Hellenisation (p. 110), in establishing a
‘royal area’ at a strategic spot, where there may have been a pre-Ptolemaic settlement,
in proximity to a significant Egyptian community.
Chapter 5, ‘Creating a New Economic Order: Economic Life and Economic
Policy Under the Ptolemies’ (pp. 117-64), is particularly worthwhile, with a good mix
of theory, models and historical examples. The sections on cities and technology
(pp. 157-63) are useful. The introduction of coinage and the Ptolemaic move to
taxation by coinage, are explained as part of ‘the imposition of a larger political order’
(pp. 132f.; cf., p. 206). As for ‘the so-called price inflation’ that was marked in the
reign of Ptolemy IV, Manning attributes it to ‘multiple re-tariffings of the bronze
coins against silver and gold’ (p. 158). The scale and escalation of the problem seems
to call for extensive treatment.
In Chapter 6, ‘Order and Law: Shaping the Law in a New State’ (pp. 165-201),
Manning argues that the approach was to systematise and accommodate Egyptian
legal traditions (p. 206) and, where new rules were introduced, they tended to be there
in order to protect and facilitate revenue collection rather than to be developmental in
intent. The distinct Greek and Egyptian legal systems naturally predominated
according to the demographic profile of the community, but it appears that, just as in
language there might be code switching to suit the individual’s needs, so Egyptians
felt free to seek a remedy through whichever available system seemed more
promising. Thus Manning rightly rejects the idea that there was anything like an
apartheid juridical regime. Indeed, the record of cases involving persons of different
ethnic groups or status and the interplay of different legal systems illustrated by the
case brought by Hermias in 117 BC against an Egyptian family foreshadow the
pattern that we see somewhat later and further north in the extraordinary archive of
the Nabataean lady, Babatha.
In the context of the events in Egypt in February 2011, one might wish to see
more comment on manifestations of resistance to rule by an alien autocrat—ethnic
assertions that ranged from overt revolt to ‘industrial action’, passive resistance and
chauvinist literature including messianic prophecies1 and revisionist history, as seen in
1
Manning refers to The Oracle of the Potter and the Papyrus Jumilhac (p. 98).
S. K. Eddy, The King is Dead: Studies in the Near Eastern Resistance to Hellenism (Lincoln
1961), which is not included in Manning’s bibliography, reviewed well various forms of
resistance to the Ptolemies.
184 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

the Alexander Romance. It would also be helpful to have more on the changes of
attitude over time. Manning deals briefly with the issue of periodisation (pp. 75-77)
but, whereas that would suggest increasing resentment towards the Ptolemies, he
dwells rather on the way that Egyptians were increasingly drawn into the state system,
as was bound to happen with the growing need to have contracts, agreements and
financial records in both Greek and Egyptian.2 He assumes that most Egyptians’
attitude to the Ptolemies bordered on indifference (p. 203). Recent events might make
one wonder. It also remains to ask how Egyptian attitudes were coloured by
interaction, however limited, with other immigrant groups—in particular with Jews.3
Quibbles would include the inaccuracy in dating Ptolemy’s assumption of the royal
title to 306 BC (p. 86), the over-simplified organigrams, and a few omissions from the
Bibliography, including Bresson (article on Naucratis signalled at p. 23, n. 11). But
overall Manning’s book is a very useful addition to literature on Ptolemaic Egypt.

John Atkinson University of Cape Town

William J. Dominik, J. Garthwaite and P. A. Roche (edd.), Writing Politics in

Imperial Rome. Brill’s Companions in Classical Studies. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2009.
Pp. xii + 539. ISBN 978-9-004-15671-5. EUR180.

This is a remarkable book, containing as it does essays on the political

engagement of almost every major Latin author of the early imperial period, as well as
Cicero and Lucretius from the late republic and Flavius Josephus. Silius Italicus is a
notable absentee. Given the centrality of epic poetry to the scholarly work of Dominik
and Roche, his absence is clearly due to forces beyond their control. They suggest as
much in their first chapter. The high quality of each of the individual essays is also
remarkable and results in an excellent collection. For scholars familiar with the
debates over the political stances of Augustan writers, this book has another
remarkable feature. Discussion of Ovid and his contemporaries has been bedevilled
since 1992 by Kennedy’s argument that the opposition between the terms ‘pro-
Augustan’ and ‘anti-Augustan’ is essentially meaningless.1 I refuted that position in

2
Manning notes that the use of demotic was in decline by the second half of the second
century BC (p. 193) and was giving way to Greek (p. 204).
3
Perhaps xenophobic reaction to immigrants and Ptolemaic policies of making Egyptians
feel secure in their traditional systems helped the Egyptians to retain a common identity as
Egyptians.
1
D. F. Kennedy, ‘“Augustan” and “Anti-Augustan”: Reflections on Terms of Reference’,
in A. Powell (ed.), Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus (Bristol 1992)
26-58.
Reviews 185

1999 and 2006.2 What is remarkable is that it is clear from this volume (as well as
from the scholarship on Neronian and Flavian literature more generally) that
Kennedy’s argument has had no impact on the study of post-Augustan literature.
The editors perform in chapter 1, ‘Writing Imperial Politics: the Context’
(pp. 1-22), the tasks that we expect of such chapters. First, they lay out the book’s
thesis ‘that political debate is a continuous, multi-dimensional, and fundamentally
important aspect of the literature produced in virtually every genre and period at
Rome and within the boundaries of the Roman empire’ (p. 1). Secondly, they
introduce the following chapters and explain how they support the collection’s
argument. Steven H. Rutledge, an ancient historian best known for Imperial
Inquisitions: Prosecutors and Informants from Tiberius to Domitian,3 focusses on the
all-important topic of the limits of free speech under the early empire in chapter 2,
‘Writing Imperial Politics: the Social and Political Background’ (pp. 23-62).
Rutledge’s argument, which is subtle and complex, attends to the importance of the
various social contexts in which libertas was exercised. This chapter offers far more
than its title ‘Social and Political Background’ seems to promise.
John Penwill gives a challenging political analysis of Lucretius in chapter 3,
‘Lucretius and the First Triumvirate’ (pp. 63-88). Penwill argues that the poem offers
a critique not just of the practice of politics in the usual Epicurean way but of the
moral behaviour of Caesar, Pompey and Crassus. Jon Hall’s chapter 4, ‘Serving the
Times: Cicero and Caesar the Dictator’ (pp. 89-110), examines Cicero’s response to
Caesar’s dictatorship. The interest here lies in the fact that we see a politician
accustomed to the rough and tumble of late republican politics having to adapt to a
new quasi-monarchical situation. Hall argues that, though he practises self-censorship,
‘Cicero was not in the habit of thinking in terms of doublespeak or of composing
subtly subversive literature’ (pp. 108f.) because these were skills that republican
politicians had not needed.
In chapter 5, ‘Vergil’s Geopolitics’ (pp. 111-32), William Dominik considers
Vergil by examining Eclogues, Georgics and Aeneid as constituting a single text. As
Dominik observes, such treatments are rare. He focusses upon human violence against
the land and the urban invasion of the rural world. Robin Bond considers Horace
chronologically in chapter 6, ‘Horace’s Political Journey’ (pp. 133-52). Bond
investigates the poet’s shifting allegiances from republican sympathiser to author of
‘the poetical expression of the Augustan propaganda of the Res Gestae’ (p. 136). He
explores in just a few pages the complexities of the Epodes. Accepting Kennedy’s
argument that the Satires are ‘an integrational text’ (that is, quietly pro-Augustan),
Bond argues that the Satires are ‘far more subtle and politically loaded than it has
been the conventional wisdom to believe’ (p. 144). The account of Odes 1-3 avoids
2
P. J. Davis, ‘“Since My Part Has Been Well-Played”: Conflicting Evaluations of
Augustus’, Ramus 28 (1999) 1-15; Ovid and Augustus: A Political Reading of Ovid’s Erotic
Poems (London 2006) 9-22.
3
S. H. Rutledge, Imperial Inquisitions: Prosecutors and Informants from Tiberius to
Domitian (London 2001).
186 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

some of the more obvious choices (1.2, 3.1-6) in order to explore poems in which the
survival strategies adopted by Horace and some of his republican friends are
uppermost. In the final section (‘Augustan Eulogist’), Bond examines the Carmen
Saeculare—noting Putnam’s positive revaluation—Epodes 16, Odes 3.6 and 1.37. He
concludes by contrasting the relative anonymity of Vergil’s chosen form with the
more personal forms selected by Horace.
Matthew B. Roller avoids making ‘for or against’ judgments on the question of
Livy’s view of Augustus in chapter 7, ‘The Politics of Aristocratic Competition:
Innovation in Livy and Augustan Rome’ (pp. 153-72). Roller considers textual
politics in a broader sense through an examination of Livy’s representation of Appius
Claudius Caecus. He focusses on Appius as one who transgresses ‘the boundaries of
established competitive arenas’ (p. 156) and argues persuasively that ‘reconstructing
the rules and venues of aristocratic competition’ was an important Augustan project.
In chapter 8, ‘The Politics of Elegy: Propertius and Tibullus’ (pp. 173-202), Marcus
Wilson considers Propertius and Tibullus. Wilson notes a discrepancy in the dominant
modes of interpretation of love elegy: scholars tend to treat the lover’s relationship
with his mistress as fictionalised and his relationship with his patron or the emperor as
reflecting social or political reality. Furthermore, elegy, as a genre whose ‘first
function [is] the passionate articulation of discontent’, is hardly a ‘suitable vehicle for
Augustan or any other “propaganda”’ (p. 176). Particularly important is Wilson’s
discussion of programmatic poems, the failure of poets to meet their programme’s
requirements, and the implications of those (deliberate) failures. For Wilson the
poems addressed to political figures are functionally no different from those addresses
to mistresses: all are ‘epitaphs for lost opportunities, in love, in poetry, in career, and
ideological assimilation’ (p. 201).
Gareth Williams confronts the Ovid controversy in chapter 9, ‘Politics in Ovid’
(pp. 203-24). Williams argues that ‘Ovid writes not for or against but about Augustus
and Augustan Romanness’ (p. 204). The distinction is a subtle one. If we accept that
this is a genuine distinction, it is still reasonable to ask whether what Ovid writes
about Augustus is on balance favourable or unfavourable, supportive or not.
Williams’ chapter is ambitious in scope and complex in argument. It merits close
scrutiny. Victoria Jennings’ chapter 10, ‘Borrowed Plumes: Phaedrus’ Fables,
Phaedrus’ Failures’ (pp. 225-48), analyses Phaedrus. Although Phaedrus is perhaps
the least read author in this volume, Jennings’ essay is one of the most lively and most
interesting. Her principal concern is the way in which Phaedrus contrives to speak
freely at a time when free speech was dangerous.
James Ker examines Seneca in chapter 11, ‘Outside and Inside: Senecan
Strategies’ (pp. 249-72). Given the volume of Seneca’s writing and his direct
involvement in politics, this is a difficult task. It is the prose works that get most
attention here. Little is said about the tragedies. It seems odd, however, to claim that
parallels between Senecan tragic tyrants and Nero did not become apparent until the
Flavian period (p. 255). From Naevius onward Roman tragedy had been a profoundly
political genre. It is hard to believe that Neronian spectators and readers were any less
Reviews 187

alert to political allusions than their republican forebears. Martha Malamud’s chapter
12, ‘Primitive Politics: Lucan and Petronius’ (pp. 273-306), accepts the tricky task of
discussing two very different authors. She does this by focussing on their treatment of
the motifs of primitive hospitality and primitive architecture both in texts and in the
context of Nero’s extravagant building programme.
In chapter 13, ‘Visions of Gold: Hopes for the New Age in Calpurnius
Siculus’ Eclogues’ (pp. 307-22), John Garthwaite and Beatrice Martin discuss
Calpurnius Siculus. Garthwaite and Martin dispose of the problem of dating quickly
and argue for a poetically sophisticated Calpurnius, whose work is carefully structured
so as to offer a pessimistic critique of contemporary (Neronian) politics. Steve Mason
offers the only chapter that deals with a Greek author, Flavius Josephus, in chapter 14,
‘Of Despots, Diadems and Diadochoi: Josephus and Flavian Politics’ (pp. 323-50).
Mason focusses on Herod’s succession crisis of 4 BCE and argues that Josephus
advocates senatorial aristocracy and his critique of hereditary monarchy is as
applicable to Vespasian’s Rome as it is to Judaea. Mason gives us not a Flavian
flatterer but ‘a dab hand at barbed or figured speech’ (p. 348).
Andrew Zissos offers in chapter 15, ‘Navigating Power: Valerius
Flaccus’ Argonautica’ (pp. 351-66), a sophisticated analysis of the poem’s
‘sociology’. Zissos argues for parallels between the sociopolitical organisation of the
poem’s major cities, Iolcus and Colchis, and Rome, and examines the poem’s
exploration of the difficulties that the existence of the principate posed for competitive
aristocrats. Zissos has contributed much to our understanding of this important poet,
and this chapter does not disappoint. In chapter 16, ‘The Ivy and the Conquering Bay:
Quintilian on Domitian and Domitianic Policy’ (pp. 367-86), Paul Roche examines
the nature of Quintilian’s praise of Domitian. Roche argues that Quintilian offers ‘an
ironic or satirical response to Domitian’s public imagery’ (p. 368). Given that
Quintilian is a literary theorist, Roche is able to measure his author’s prescriptions
against his practice. Roche concludes that Quintilian ignores his own instructions for
writing encomia and employs tropes that he himself associates with subversion.
Carole Newlands focusses in chapter 17, ‘Statius’ Self-conscious Poetics:
Hexameter on Hexameter’ (pp. 387-404), upon three of Statius’ Silvae (1.5, 3.2, 3.5)
as interpretive guides to his Thebaid, and closes with remarks on his Achilleid.
Newlands argues that ‘the Silvae, through dialogue with the Thebaid, confront the
vexed question of whether imperial poetry can have a meaningful social and political
role in Domitian’s Rome’ (p. 389). John Garthwaite returns to Martial in chapter 18,
‘Ludimus Innocui: Interpreting Martial’s Imperial Epigrams’ (pp. 405-28). This
chapter is, in part, a response to conservative reactions to Garthwaite’s own work.
Garthwaite rejects attempts to limit ‘the interpretive possibilities of the text’ (p. 426)
on the basis of ‘common sense’ (that is, uninformed prejudice). Rather than rehearse
old arguments, however, Garthwaite focusses on Martial’s self-representation and his
treatment of Domitian’s building programme.
In chapter 19, ‘Reading the Prince: Textual Politics in Tacitus and Pliny’
(pp. 429-46), Steven H. Rutledge looks at both Tacitus and the younger Pliny.
188 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 164-88 ISSN 1018-9017

Rutledge examines the ways in which Tacitus’ writings about the past reflect upon his
own times. Thus he draws a contrast between Tacitus’ representation of the behaviour
of his father-in-law Agricola and that of the emperor Nerva. Rutledge next scrutinises
Pliny’s letters for dissent and notes that Pliny ignores Trajan’s conquests and seems to
question the sincerity of Trajan’s ciuilitas. David Konstan’s chapter 20, ‘Reading
Politics in Suetonius’ (pp. 447-62), confines itself to Suetonius’ Life of Titus. Konstan
offers us a close reading of its chapter 9 by exploring the connections between
conspiracy against the emperor and the popularity of astrology. A discussion of
Juvenal’s Satire 4 and its representation of Domitian and his circle is the centrepiece
of Martin Winkler’s chapter 21, ‘Juvenal: Zealous Vindicator of Roman Liberty’ (pp.
463-82). For Winkler, as for Dryden, Juvenal is a ‘zealous vindicator of Roman
liberty’.
As can be seen from the above summaries, the different authors have taken
varied approaches to their brief. Some discuss one or two voluminous authors in a
single chapter. Others concentrate on a single poem, passage or aspect of an author’s
work. Taken together, these chapters do indeed prove the book’s thesis: political
engagement is an aspect of all imperial Roman literature that cannot safely be ignored.

Peter J. Davis University of Adelaide

 BOOKS RECEIVED

Scholia has listed the books it has received from publishers each year during the twenty
years of the series.

Richard Alston, Edith Hall and Laura Proffitt (edd.), Reading Ancient Slavery.
London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. x + 235, incl. 17 black-and-white
illustrations. ISBN 978-0-715-63868-2. USD40.
Antony Augoustakis, Motherhood and the Other: Fashioning Female Power in
Flavian Epic. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Pp. xii + 314. ISBN
978-0-199-58441-3. GBP60.
Sanita Balode, Verbs of Motion with Directional Prepositions and Prefixes in
Xenophon’s Anabasis. Lund: Centre for Languages and Literature, Lund
University, 2011. Pp. xvi + 220. ISBN 978-9-174-73161-3. No price supplied.
Donald Walter Baronowski, Polybius and Roman Imperialism. London: Bristol
Classical Press, 2011. Pp. xiv + 242. ISBN 978-0-715-63942-9. GBP50.
Sinclair Bell and Helen Nagy (edd.), New Perspectives on Etruria and Early Rome.
Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2009. Pp. 336. ISBN 978-0-299-
23030-2. USD55.
Douglas L. Cairns and J. G. Howie (edd. and trr.), Bacchylides. Five Epinician Odes
(3, 5, 9, 11, 13): Text, Introductory Essays, and Interpretative Commentary.
Cambridge: Francis Cairns, 2010. Pp. xiv + 380. ISBN 978-0-905-20552-6.
GBP80.
Stephen D. Bowd, Venice’s Most Loyal City: Civic Identity in Renaissance Brescia.
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010. Pp. 374. ISBN 978-0-674-
05120-1. USD39.95.
William M. Calder III (edd. John P. Harris and R. Scott Smith), Men in their Books:
Studies in the Modern History of Classical Scholarship2. Hildesheim: Georg
Olms Verlag, 2002. Pp. xlvi + 324. ISBN 978-3-487-10686-1. EUR44.80.
William M. Calder III (ed. Thomas J. Rohn), Men in Their Books 2: Studies in the
Modern History of Classical Scholarship2. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag,
2010. Pp. ix + 318. ISBN 978-3-487-14309-5. EUR49.80.
Livia Capponi, Roman Egypt. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. 89, incl. 12
black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-1-853-99726-6. GBP11.99.
Hazel Dodge, Spectacle in the Roman World. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011.
Pp. 99, incl. 39 black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-1-853-99696-2.
GBP11.99.
William J. Dominik, J. Garthwaite and P. A. Roche (edd.), Writing Politics in
Imperial Rome. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2009. Pp. xii + 539. ISBN 978-9-004-
15671-5. EUR180.

189
190 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 189-92 ISSN 1018-9017

Konstantin Doulamis (ed.), Echoing Narratives: Studies of Intertextuality in Greek

and Roman Prose Fiction. Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing and Groningen
University Library, 2011. Pp. xv + 210. ISBN 978-9-077-92285-9. EUR74.20.
Andrew Erskine, The Hellenistic Stoa: Political Thought and Action2. London: Bristol
Classical Press, 2011. Pp. xv + 233. ISBN 978-1-853-99747-1. GBP25.
Joseph Farrell and Michael C. J. Putnam (edd.), A Companion to Vergil’s Aeneid and
Its Tradition. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. Pp. xvii + 559, incl. 31
figures and 8 plates. ISBN 978-1-405-17577-7. GBP125.
Andrew Feldherr, Playing Gods: Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of Fiction.
Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010. ISBN 978-0-691-13814-5. Pp. x +
377. USD49.50.
Robert M. Frakes, Compiling the Collatio Legum Mosaicarum et Romanarum in Late
Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Pp. xiv + 368. ISBN 978-0-
199-58940-1. GBP80.
Robert Garland, The Eye of the Beholder: Deformity and Disability in the Graeco-
Roman World2. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010. Pp. xxix + 222, incl. 64
black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-1-853-99737-2. USD36.30.
Anthony Grafton, Glenn W. Most and Salvatore Settis (edd.), The Classical Tradition.
Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010. Pp. xvii +
1067. ISBN 978-0-674-03572-0. GBP36.95.
Lorna Hardwick and Carol Gillespie (edd.), Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Pp. xv + 422. ISBN 978-0-199-59132-
9. GBP26.
Jill Harries and Ian Wood (edd.), The Theodosian Code: Studies in the Imperial Law
of Late Antiquity2. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010. Pp. x + 261. ISBN
978-1-853-99740-2. USD33.
Thomas Harrison (ed.), Writing Ancient Persia. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011.
Pp. 190. ISBN 978-0-715-63917-7. GBP12.99.
Jennifer Ingleheart (ed.), A Commentary on Ovid, Tristia, Book 2. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2010. Pp. 464. ISBN 978-0-199-59042-1. GBP84.
Mary Jaeger (ed.), A Livy Reader: Selections from Ab Urbe Condita. Mundelein:
Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 2011. Pp. xxiii + 127. ISBN 978-0-865-16680-
6. USD 19.
James Ker (ed.), A Seneca Reader: Selections from Prose and Tragedy. Mundelein:
Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 2011. Pp. lvi + 166. ISBN 978-0-865-16758-2.
USD19.
Emilie Kutash, Ten Gifts of the Demiurge: Proclus on Plato’s Timaeus. London:
Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. x + 309. ISBN 978-0-715-63854-5. GBP50.
Michael Lambert, The Classics and South African Identities. London: Bristol
Classical Press, 2011. Pp. 160, incl. a general index. ISBN 978-0-715-63796-8.
GBP18.99.
Books Received 191

J. H. Lesher (ed.), From Inquiry to Demonstrative Knowledge: New Essays on

Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics. Kelowna: Academic Printing and Publishing,
2010. Pp. xii + 211. ISBN 978-1-926-59801-7. USD28.95.
Alan B. Lloyd (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Egypt 1-2. Chichester: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2010. Pp. xlv, xxiii + 1276, incl. 28 pages of colour plates. ISBN
978-1-405-15598-4. GBP250.
Wolfgang de Melo (ed. and tr.), Plautus 2: Casina, The Casket Comedy, Curculio,
Epidicus, the Two Menaechmuses. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 2011. Pp. x + 562. ISBN 978-0-674-99678-6. GBP15.95.
Dana LaCourse Munteanu (ed.), Emotion, Genre and Gender in Classical Antiquity.
London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. viii + 269. ISBN 978-0-715-63895-
8. GBP50.
Josiah Osgood (ed.), A Suetonius Reader: Selections from the Lives of the Caesars
and the Life of Horace. Mundelein: Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 2011. Pp.
xxxix + 159. ISBN 978-0-865-16716-2. GBP11.45.
Thalia Papadopoulou, Aeschylus: Suppliants. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011.
Pp. 189. ISBN 978-0-715-63913-9. GBP12.99.
Catalin Partenie (ed.), Plato’s Myths. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
Pp. xvi + 255, incl. 17 black-and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-0-521-88790-8.
GBP55.
W. R. Paton, F. W. Walbank and Christian Habicht (edd. and trr.), Polybius. The
Histories 3: Books 5-8. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2011.
Pp. 607. ISBN 978-0-674-99658-8. GBP15.95.
Matthew Robinson (ed.), A Commentary on Ovid’s Fasti, Book 2. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2011. Pp. xii + 572. ISBN 978-0-199-58939-5. GBP100.
Alan H. Sommerstein, Aeschylean Tragedy2. London: Duckworth, 2010. Pp. xii +
384. ISBN 978-0-715-63824-8. GBP25.
Elizabeth Vandiver, Stand in the Trench, Achilles: Classical Receptions in British
Poetry of the Great War. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Pp. xx + 455.
ISBN 978-0-199-54274-1. GBP83.
Gonda Van Steen, Theatre of the Condemned: Classical Tragedy on Greek Prison
Islands. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Pp. xiii + 354. ISBN 978-0-
199-57288-5. GBP68.
Anna Maria Wasyl, Genres Rediscovered: Studies in Latin Miniature Epic, Love
Elegy, and Epigram of the Romano-Barbaric Age. Krakow: Jagiellonian
University Press, 2011. Pp. 290. ISBN 978-8-323-33089-9. GBP10.70.
David Whitehead (ed. and tr.), Apollodorus Mechanicus: Siege Matters
(Poliorkhtik£). Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010. Pp. 162, incl. 6 black-
and-white illustrations. ISBN 978-3-515-09710-9. EUR46.
Craig Williams, A Martial Reader: Selections from the Epigrams. Mundelein:
Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 2011. Pp. xxx + 185. ISBN 978-0-865-16704-9.
GBP11.45.
192 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 189-92 ISSN 1018-9017

Anne Wiseman and Peter Wiseman (edd. and trr.), Ovid. Times and Reasons: A New
Translation of Fasti. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Pp. xxxvii + 185.
ISBN 978-0-198-14974-3. GBP55.
Noriko Yasumura, Challenges to the Power of Zeus in Early Greek Poetry. London:
Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. xi + 223. ISBN 978-0-715-63678-7. USD80.
Emanuela Zanda, Fighting Hydra-Like Luxury: Sumptuary Regulation in the Roman
Republic. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011. Pp. xii + 172. ISBN 978-0-
715-63707-4. GBP50.
 IN THE MUSEUM

Scholia has published news about classical museums and articles on classical artefacts in
museums in New Zealand (volumes 11-20) and South Africa (volumes 1-10). This final
volume in the series contains summaries of the main collections in New Zealand universities
and cities.

ANTIQUITIES IN AUCKLAND

Anne Mackay
Department of Classics and Ancient History, University of Auckland
Auckland 1010, New Zealand

In Auckland there are two collections of antiquities from Greece, Rome and
Egypt.

University of Auckland

The Department of Classics and Ancient History of the University of Auckland has
for quite some time had a sizable representative teaching collection of ancient Greek
and Roman coins. Additionally, in the last decade we have been striving to build up a
small teaching collection of ancient objects. This now includes vases and small
terracottas, ancient glass and bronze artefacts ranging in date from the Early Bronze
Age to the Roman period and produced variously in Egypt, Cyprus, Greece, Southern
Italy and Roman North Africa. The intention of this collection is to provide students
of Classics and Ancient History with immediate access to original ancient objects of a
variety of forms and functions from diverse times and cultures.
The item that is earliest in date and perhaps most intrinsically interesting is a
small spouted bowl (perhaps a baby-feeder) in red polished ware from Cyprus that
dates back to around 2000 BC; this was recently donated by Heather Mansell of
Palmerston North.1 The finest piece in the collection is undoubtedly a fragment of an
Attic red-figure calyx-krater attributed stylistically to a follower of the Niobid Painter,
who worked in Athens around the middle of the fifth century BC; from the scene
section, it preserves a woman running to left towards part of a building.2

1
Figure 1: Auckland, Auckland University Antiquities Collection 2011.36. E. A. Mackay
and G. Salapata, ‘Bowl for a Dead Infant? A Donation to the Antiquities Collection of the
University of Auckland,’ Prudentia 40 (2008) 29-39.
2
Figure 2: Auckland, Auckland University Antiquities Collection 2010.32. Photographs:
Brian Donovan, University of Auckland.

193
194 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

The Antiquities Collection, which is housed within the Departmental Reading

Room, can be visited free of charge during normal office hours in the University term
time and at other times by appointment. It is, however, recommended that visitors
(especially those from outside of Auckland) contact the Department to confirm
availability in advance of a visit.3 The curator is Anne Mackay. Some of the objects
are represented on the web site of the Department.4

Auckland War Memorial

The Auckland War Memorial Museum (open daily 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. except for
Christmas Day) has a larger collection of Egyptian, Greek and Roman antiquities with
some quality items; not all the artefacts are on permanent display, however, and they
are not identified as a specific collection on the museum’s web site.5 The Museum
does not at present have a specialist curator for Mediterranean and Egyptian
antiquities. A $10 entrance donation is suggested from adults (Aucklanders will not be
asked to make an admission contribution), while children and students aged fifteen
years and under are free; there may be, however, a charge for special exhibitions.

REPRODUCTIONS OF GREEK SCULPTURE

AND VASES AT MASSEY UNIVERSITY

Gina Salapata
Classical Studies Programme, Massey University
Palmerston North 4474, New Zealand

Unlike other New Zealand universities, Massey University does not have a
collection of antiquities for use in the teaching of Classical art. To redress this lack, the
Classical Studies Programme initiated in 1998 the acquisition of sixteen reproductions of
ancient sculpture so that students can get a feel of ancient art in three-dimensional
form—quite unlike the possibly misleading impressions gained from pictures or
slides. The replicas, mostly in resin, reproduce items which date from 2500 to 300 BC
and come from museums in Athens. They include Cycladic figurines, kouroi and
korai heads, small figurines, a head of Alexander the Great and relief sculpture.1
A generous donation in 2010 from alumni Alan and Anne Jermaine in memory
of their daughter Tanya allowed the Programme to purchase fifteen high quality
reproductions of Greek vases.2 They were selected to represent a variety of shapes,

3
Telephone: (09) 373 7599 (ext. 87622).
4
http://www.arts.auckland.ac.nz/uoa/antiquities-collection.
5
http://www.aucklandmuseum.com.
1
Figure 3. Photograph: Gina Salapata.
2
Figure 4. Photograph: Gina Salapata.
In the Museum 195

decorative techniques, chronological periods and geographic locations. The collection

consists of technologically authentic reproductions made by the ‘THETIS Authentics’
workshop in Athens, Greece. The vases are made on the potter’s wheel and decorated
with a clay slip that acquires its colour during a three-stage firing cycle; this
traditional method of manufacture differentiates the reproductions from the run-of-
the-mill tourist products that are decorated with acrylic paints after firing. The
THETIS reproductions undergo an aging process to make them appear more like the
unearthed originals. The result is ceramic objects that are almost indistinguishable
from the original; to ensure there is no confusion regarding their origin, the vases are
marked with the workshop name. Among the fifteen vases are a Mycenaean kylix, a
ripe Corinthian oinochoe decorated with rows of animals, a white-ground lekythos
representing a Persian archer, and two bowls by Sotades. Accompanying the vases are
one painted plaque reproduced four times to illustrate the pre-firing state and the
three-stage firing outcome, and a large lekythos which has been deliberately broken to
allow students an opportunity to piece it back together based on their understanding of
the design and vase shape.
There are several advantages in using reproductions as teaching aids in
Classics. While original antiquities are precious and often fragmentary, reproductions
allow students to handle and experiment with them in a very practical and hands-on
way: for example, by filling vases with liquids to test capacity, weight and ease of use.
They can imagine daily life in the past through tangible experience. Both the sculpture
and vase collections are available to local secondary students and the general public.
The collections used to be exhibited in the Sir Geoffrey Peren Building, but they will
soon move to another public area of the University, while the heritage Peren Building
undergoes restoration and seismic strengthening. The hands-on learning experience
can be continued in the virtual world through an interactive web site and iPad version
(available for free in the Apple App Store), which include three-dimensional
interactive animations created by Massey Teaching and Learning staff. Students can
examine fully rotatable images and see high resolution enlargements along with
information about the depictions and manufacturing techniques.3

3
http://tdu.massey.ac.nz/Final%20Vases/greek_vases.htm.
196 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

UNIVERSITY AND NATIONAL COLLECTIONS

IN WELLINGTON

Judy K. Deuling and Diana Burton

Classics Progrmme, Victoria University of Wellington
Wellington 6012, New Zealand

There are two public collections of antiquities in New Zealand’s capital.

Victoria University of Wellington

The Victoria University of Wellington Classics Programme has a small but useful
teaching collection of antiquities: Greek and Roman coins, vases, terracottas, bronzes,
glassware and sculpture, as well as small holdings in jewellery, reliefs and fragments
of wall-painting. Its earliest artefacts are Neolithic Burnished Ware sherds, its latest
third-century AD Roman red-slip ware. While its focus is on Greece and Italy, it also
includes objects from as far afield as Petra and Bactria. An important part of the
collection is its Attic pottery, both complete pieces and fragments, which covers a
range of styles and shapes. This includes the most impressive piece in the collection, a
column krater attributed to the Leagros Group,1 as well as some slightly more unusual
pieces such as a white-ground alabastron with Nike and a black-figure kalpis
decorated with an octopus. The Classics Museum has a small display of South Italian
ware, currently enhanced courtesy of a number of pieces on loan from the Keats
Collection.
The Classics Museum has been fortunate in being able to continue expanding
the range of its collection both by purchase and donation. For example, several pieces
of Cypriot white ware pottery (eighth-seventh centuries BC), a brown-on-buff ware
barrel jar, a small horse-and-rider figurine, and a black-on-red ware jug with a flat
base (750-600 BC) have been added to the collection, as well as two Bronze Age
Aegean items: a small Minoan storage jar (Late Minoan IIIA, ca. 1340 BC; height
13.2 cm.) and a miniature Mycenaean ‘throne’ or chair in terracotta (1350-1250 BC;
height 4.6 cm.).2 The most recent acquisition is a Roman transport amphora with a
long neck, flaring lip and a broad belly (Dressel Type 6), which to judge from its
fabric was likely sourced from Asia Minor. It may have come from a ship which sank
in transit since the amphora is covered with marine encrustation on the side that was
not buried in sand on the ocean floor.3
1
D. Burton, ‘In the Museum: Classics Museum, Victoria University of Wellington’,
Scholia 16 (2007) 161-68.
2
Figure 5: Wellington, Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum 2011.2
(Mycenaean throne or chair). Photograph: Hannah Webling.
3
Figure 6: Wellington, Victoria University of Victoria Classics Museum 2012.1.
Photograph: Charles Ede Ltd.
In the Museum 197

The collection is intended to expose university students to examples of some of

the materials that they study, but the programme also frequently receives school
groups and occasionally other visitors from all over the lower North Island and the
upper South Island. The Classics Museum hosted an open viewing of the Victoria
University of Wellington Coin Collection for interested individuals, including
members of the Royal Numismatic Society, during the international conference
‘Money and the Evolution of Ancient Cultures’ held at the University from 3 to 5 July
2011.
The Classics Programme has developed a public Disaster Recovery Plan for the
Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum and its objects, which involves
remodelling the museum so that the cases are attached to an ‘original’ wall within the
space (last remodelled in 2003).4 Likewise we have plans for new shelving and a new
display of the antiquities in order to use our space to protect our material in the event
of a natural disaster. Visitors are welcome to view the Classics Museum (Old Kirk
Building, room 526) free of charge at any time during office hours, and we are happy
to guide visitors or school groups around it. Since the Museum is also used as a
classroom, it is best to contact the Classics administrator ahead of time.5 The Curator
is Judy Deuling. The collection is in the process of being catalogued, and it is hoped
that at least some of its pieces will be made available online.

The Museum of New Zealand / Te Papa Tongarewa

The Museum of New Zealand / Te Papa Tongarewa also has a small collection of
antiquities, including the mummy and sarcophagus of Mehit-em-Wesekht (ca. 300
BC). During 2011 the archaeological collections of the Classical period underwent
change, as material formerly on loan from the Otago Museum had been returned. The
collections were reassessed, recatalogued and photographed for Te Papa’s online
catalogue.6 As the archaeological and classical antiquities collections at Te Papa have
been photographed, items have been rediscovered, reassessed and placed into
appropriate categories. Material from Roman Britain, for example, including a
collection of iron nails from the legionary fortress at Inchtuthil, Perthshire, Scotland
(83-87 AD), and a collection of Cypriot white ware, which once had been identified as
‘Peruvian’, have been placed with Roman lamps and glassware from the
Mediterranean region. Perhaps one of the most exciting clarifications is a large
collection of ancient Greek and Roman coins, which have been identified among the
‘copies’.
4
Figures 7a and 7b. Photograph: Hannah Webling.
5
Telephone: (04) 463 5319; e-mail: [email protected].
6
See http://www.tepapa.govt.nz. My thanks to Andrea Hearfield, who photographs and
catalogues the archaeological collections at Te Papa, along with Ross O’Rourke. With great
sadness we note the passing of Ross O’Rourke on 28 May 2012. He will be missed as a
gentleman and scholar whose store of institutional knowledge in the Wellington region was
immense.
198 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

From late 2010 to late 2011 Te Papa’s Attic black-figure neck-amphora

attributed to the Leagros Group, ca. 510 BC,7 accompanied a Victoria University of
Wellington Classics Museum Attic black-figure lekythos and kylix on loan to special
exhibitions in the Adam Art Gallery, Victoria University of Wellington, and Te
Manawa Museum in Palmerston North. The neck-amphora depicts Herakles battling
four Amazons (side A) and two hoplites waiting for a nude companion as he arms for
battle (side B), and both of the university’s vases illustrate Herakles wrestling the
Nemean Lion in his first labour. Together they provided a terracotta complement to
Marion Maguire’s touring print exhibition ‘The Labours of Herakles’.
Te Papa is open daily, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., late night Thursday till 9 p.m., and
entry is free, though charges apply to some exhibitions and activities. The classical
antiquities, however, are rarely on display and those who wish to see them are advised
to contact the Museum well ahead of their visit.

REPORT FROM THE LOGIE RECOVERY GROUP,

UNIVERSITY OF CANTERBURY

Alison B. Griffith
Classics Programme, University of Canterbury
Christchurch 8041, New Zealand

As many Scholia readers are aware, Christchurch and the University of

Canterbury have experienced considerable seismic activity since a 7.1 magnitude
earthquake on 4 September 2010. This quake caused moderate to serious damage to
about one-half of the Logie Collection. Fortunately everything is reparable, and
happily the collection sustained no further damage during the 22 February 2011
earthquake. This report briefly outlines the emergency response, the recovery process,
and the future of the collection.
Soon after the quake Classics staff removed objects from their cases and placed
them in boxes on the floor and, where possible, under sturdy tables. Within two weeks
of the ‘main event’ the Pro-Vice Chancellor of Arts, Ed Adelson, formed a Logie
Recovery Group consisting of Classics staff, College of Arts management, the
University and Logie curators, and other University staff able to assist. We were
pleased and grateful for assistance from the Christchurch Art Gallery and the
Canterbury Museum. By October 1, Hubert Klaassens (formerly the Manager of
Public Programmes at the Christchurch Art Gallery) was appointed as Project
Manager. We cannot thank him enough for his sound advice, expert knowledge and
whole-hearted dedication to the task of returning the Logie Collection to its former
glory.

7
Burton [1] 168 figs 2a, 2b.
In the Museum 199

Between September and December 2010 the Logie Room became a workroom,
as Hubert and curator Penny Minchin-Garvin first stabilised the collection and then
packed it for long-term storage using enormous quantities of polyethylene high-
density closed cell foam, tyvek and archival crates. We thank profusely Anne Mackay,
who spent two days helping us to sort chips, fragments and even dust from our cup
collection. In November 2010 Emily Fryer, Melinda Bell and Juliet Campbell (Emily
Fryer Conservation Ltd) were appointed as the conservators for the collection, and a
collective decision was taken by the Logie Recovery Group to conserve the collection
so that the Canterbury earthquake would become part of its history. This means that
damage is visible from a distance under one metre but barely visible from further
away. In January 2011 conservation commenced. Figures 7 and 8 show an Apulian
red-figure oinochoe before and after conservation.1 The results are truly astounding.
By June 2012 all the damaged items in the Logie Collection had been
conserved and returned to the University. Conserved objects remain in their special
packing to guard against further aftershocks, and the Logie room has been refurbished
so that the collection can continue to be accessible for study, research and viewing.
In the medium term objects will be stored on Hydestor mobile shelving with
restraining rods on each shelf and locking pins and an anti-tilt system to prevent
rolling during aftershocks. In the longer term we hope to be able to purchase special
cabinets into which base isolators can be installed for seismic protection. These will
display a small selection of objects at a public location on Campus yet to be
determined. Fund-raising for additional cases has already begun, and we are especially
grateful to the Australasian Society for Classical Studies, The Classical Association,
and the late Professor Ernst Badian for generous donations to this fund.
In January 2012 Terri Elder (formerly University of Canterbury art curator)
replaced Hubert Klaassens as the Project Manager and oversaw the project through to
the end. In March Associate Professor Robin Bond convened the Logie Task Force to
make recommendations about the future of the Logie Collection to the Vice-
Chancellor, including provision for a curator and the return of the collection to public
display. Penny Minchin-Garvin has been temporarily reappointed until September
2012 and may continue until at least the end of the year.
We are pleased to report that the collection is once again being used for
teaching in the Greek and Roman art classes and is hosting visits from high schools.
During the first semester a student intern worked with secondary school teachers to
facilitate future school visits to the collection. She developed several ‘set menus’ that
list items in the collection by style, artist, technique and theme that support the new
NCEA emphasis on modern and ancient connections in such areas as drama, daily life,

1
Figures 8 and 9: Christchurch, University of Canterbury Logie Collection 119/71.
J. R. Green, The Logie Collection: A Catalogue of the James Logie Memorial Collection of
Classical Antiquities at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch (Christchurch 2009)
141-43 no. 48. Photographs: courtesy of Emily Fryer Conservation and the James Logie
Memorial Collection, University of Canterbury.
200 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

athletics, courtship, writing and literacy. In sum, we are pleased to report significant
progress on the road to recovery.

THE OTAGO MUSEUM CLASSICAL COLLECTION

Robert Hannah
Department of Classics, University of Otago
Dunedin 9016, New Zealand

The Otago Museum in Dunedin was founded in 1868. Provided with a

purpose-built structure in 1877, it passed in that same year to the management of the
nearby University of Otago. This relationship survived until 1955, when the Museum
was granted autonomy under its own Act of Parliament, with funding to come
primarily from the various local bodies in the province of Otago. Throughout the
Museum’s history staff from the University have served as honorary curators for its
wide-ranging material culture and natural history collections. Over the years the
Department of Classics has provided the honorary curator of the Classical Collection
(J. K. Anderson, J. R. Green, J. G. F. Hind, A. F. Stewart and R. Hannah) as well as
an honorary curator of the Greek and Roman coins (C. T. H. R. Ehrhardt).
Prior to 1948 the collection was small but representative. Trendall reported
briefly on the principal Greek vases, which ranged from Mycenaean to South Italian,
as well as some Cypriot wares.1 There were also holdings in ancient lamps,2
terracottas and minor sculpture. Most of these items had been donated by local
worthies from their overseas travels, notably by the Theomin family (well-known in
Dunedin for their home, Olveston) in the early decades of the twentieth century and
by Fred Waite during his service on the African front in the Second World War. Other
items came via exchanges with other museums, such as the Royal Ontario Museum in
1930, or presentation, as by the British Museum in the 1930s.3 Most significantly
several hundred fine Greek and Roman coins had been donated by a local
businessman, Willi Fels, before his death in 1946 (along with some 80 000 other items
ranging across the whole of the Museum’s collections).4
In 1948 this small collection of ancient Greek and Roman objects was
augmented significantly by two acquisitions. The first was a purchase through auction

1
A. D. Trendall, ‘Greek Vases in the Otago Museum,’ JHS 56 (1936) 235-36.
2
D. Anson and R. Hannah, ‘Lamps from the Egyptian Collection of Otago Museum,’
Mediterranean Archaeology 12 (1999) 125-45; D. Anson, R. Hannah, B. Hudson, Lamps in
New Zealand Collections (Sydney forthcoming 2012).
3
It is not recorded what was exchanged in return, but it was most likely Māori material.
Later presentations included items given in return for assisting with the funding of Kathleen
Kenyon’s excavations in Jerusalem in 1961-1967.
4
C. T. H. R. Ehrhardt prepared a typescript catalogue of all these coins.
In the Museum 201

comprising a large part of the private collection of A. B. Cook, Laurence Professor of

Classical Archaeology at Cambridge University. The purchase was made possible by
a very generous bequest from Willi Fels and its acquisition was reportedly assisted
behind the scenes by Trendall, who was both an alumnus of Otago University and a
former student of Cook in Cambridge. This acquisition provided several scores of
Greek vases, which furnished examples of almost all major forms and styles from the
eighth to the fourth centuries BC. The Protogeometric, Geometric, Attic and
Corinthian black-figure wares have been published by J. R. Green.5 Cook’s collection
also included an under-life-size, female, marble head, which he himself had published
as coming from the Parthenon metopes but has since been shown not to be so well-
connected and indeed is probably of Roman origin.6
The second major acquisition in Classical material in 1948 was of thirty-six
objects through donation from one of the more extraordinary benefactors of the Otago
Museum, Lindsay Rogers (1902-1962). Rogers, famous as one of the ‘guerilla
surgeons’ among Tito’s partisans in Yugoslavia after World War 2, was a regular
contributor to the Museum’s Classical and Near/Middle Eastern collections. His
donations included some excellent Roman glassware, but outstanding was a small
marble head identifiable as a portrait of Alexander the Great.7
Other items of interest in the Otago Museum’s collection are an Archaic Greek
helmet,8 some fragments of Greek Middle Bronze Age Grey Minyan and Matt-painted
ware (donated by George Mylonas), a rare Caeretan hydria,9 a good sampling of
Etruscan bucchero and Roman red-gloss ware (‘terra sigillata’), several electrotype
copies of Mycenaean and Minoan objects, and a set of plaster casts of Greek and
Roman sculptures; most of the latter were acquired under A. F. Stewart and are on
loan from the Department of Classics of the University of Otago.
The Classical Collection is housed in the People of the World gallery on the
second floor of the Otago Museum, which is open daily (admission free) from 10 a.m.
to 5 p.m.10

5
J. R. Green, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. New Zealand. Fasc 1 (Oxford 1979).
Figure 10: Dunedin, Otago Museum E 48.51, Late Corinthian broad-bottomed oinochoe with
trefoil lid, ca. 570 BC. Green [above, this note] 34 pl. 44.1-4. Photograph: McRobie Studios.
6
R. Hannah, ‘In the Museum: Otago Museum, Dunedin,’ Scholia 19 (2010) 174-83.
7
R. Hannah, ‘The “Otago Alexander”’ in P. Wheatley and R. Hannah (eds), Alexander in
the Antipodes (Claremont 2009) 299-309.
8
P. A. Hannah, ‘In the Museum: A Corinthian Helmet: Otago Museum, Dunedin,’
Scholia 17 (2008) 153-63.
9
Figure 11: Dunedin, Otago Museum E 53.61, attributed to the Eagle Painter,
ca. 530 BC. J. K. Anderson, Handbook to the Greek Vases in the Otago Museum (Dunedin
1955) 55 no. 129, pls 15f.; J. M. Hemelrijk, Caeretan Hydriae (Mainz am Rhein 1984)
43 no. 26, figs 61 and 80, pls 17 and 95f. Photograph: McRobie Studios.
10
The web site is http://www.otagomuseum.govt.nz/people_of_the_world.html.
202 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 1: Auckland University Antiquities Collection 2011.36.

Small Cypriot spouted bowl in red polished ware.

Figure 2: Auckland University Antiquities Collection 2010.32.

Fragment of an Attic red-figure calyx-krater.
In the Museum 203

Figure 3: Palmerston North, Massey University.

Greek sculptural replicas.

Figure 4: Palmerston North, Massey University.

Greek ceramic replicas.
204 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 5: Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum 2011.2.

Miniature Mycenaean terracotta ‘throne’. Height 4.6 cm.

Figure 6: Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum 2012.1.

Roman transport amphora. Height 92.7 cm.
In the Museum 205

Figure 7a: Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum.

Figures 7b: Victoria University of Wellington Classics Museum.

206 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 193-207 ISSN 1018-9017

Figure 8: Christchurch, University of Canterbury Logie Collection 119/71.

Apulian oinochoe before conservation.

Figure 9: Christchurch, University of Canterbury Logie Collection 119/71.

Apulian oinochoe after conservation.
In the Museum 207

Figure 10: Dunedin, Otago Museum E 48.51.

Late Corinthian broad-bottomed oinochoe with trefoil lid.

Figure 11: Dunedin, Otago Museum E 53.61.

Caeretan hydria.
 J. A. BARSBY ESSAY

The paper judged to be the best undergraduate essay submitted to Scholia in New Zealand
has been published annually as the J. A. Barsby Essay in volumes 11-20; the paper judged to
be the best African undergraduate essay submitted to the journal was published annually as
the B. X. de Wet essay in volumes 1-10. The prizes for the J. A. Barsby Essay competition are
sponsored by the Australasian Society for Classical Studies, while the B. X. de Wet Essay
prize was sponsored by the Classical Association of South Africa.

POET, PRINCEPS AND PROEM:

NERO AND THE BEGINNING OF LUCAN’S PHARSALIA

Alex Wilson
3rd-year Latin major
Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand

Lucan begins the Pharsalia with a proem that mixes traditional epic features
with occasionally startling innovation.1 The programmatic first lines follow Vergilian
and Homeric models, but in place of the traditional epic invocation of the gods Lucan
presents an encomium of his contemporary princeps, Nero. The praise of the emperor
has aroused suspicion since antiquity since it seemed to fit poorly both with the
overall anti-Caesarean tone of the poem and the details of Lucan’s own fatal falling-
out with Nero, which led to his involvement in the Pisonian conspiracy and
subsequent death. Adducing the details of Lucan’s life to the reading of the poem is
problematic not just on theoretical but evidential grounds, however, and the poem
(perhaps purposefully) does not take a consistent approach to Nero.
Information on Lucan’s life is scarce even considering the brief twenty-five
year span in which he lived, joined the inner circle of Nero, composed a surprisingly
large corpus of poetry (and some prose), fell out with the princeps, and was executed
for his involvement in the Pisonian conspiracy of AD 65.2 The evidence is muddled,
1
I thank Mark Masterson of Victoria University for his thoughts on an earlier draft of this
paper. The title of the Pharsalia (or De Bello Civili or Bellum Civile) is heavily disputed
(F. M. Ahl, Lucan: An Introduction [Ithaca 1976] 326-32), with various evidence for all three
titles: the question is largely irresolvable from the current evidence. In keeping with a general
valuation of evidence within the poem over external evidence (see Luc. 9.985 for the use of
Pharsalia as Lucan’s apparent title), the poem will be referred to here as the Pharsalia.
2
Ahl [1] 36. On Lucan’s life, see Ahl [1] 17-61; E. Fantham (ed.), Lucan. De Bello
Civili: Book II (Cambridge 1992) 1-3; S. Bartsch, Ideology in Cold Blood: A Reading of
Lucan’s Civil War (Cambridge, Mass. 1997) 492. Vacca and Statius (Silv. 2.7, the
Genethliacon Lucani ad Pollam) give lists of Lucan’s poetry at seven or more separate verse
works; these are not necessarily complete.

208
J. A. Barsby Essay 209

and though Tacitus, Statius, the pseudo-Suetonius and Vacca do not conflict
substantially in their depiction of Lucan’s life, they do vary in details and by no means
form a cohesive picture. Modern scholars have focused on the relationship between
Lucan and Nero, which forms the most significant theme in our sources and which
was undoubtedly one of the most important in the poet’s life. The disparate evidence
suggests that Lucan and Nero were initially on good terms: Lucan was recalled from
Athens to join Nero’s court ([Suet.] Vita Luc.) and he declaimed a poem in praise of
Nero at the Neronia of AD 60 that won him first prize in the category (Vacca). Nero
promoted him to high rank and office (a quaestorship [Suet.] and an augurate
[Vacca]). Nevertheless their relationship soured thoroughly, perhaps around AD 63.3
However, it is important to note, though the sources vary, that they agree not only that
there was a falling-out but that Nero, not Lucan, was the initiator:

Lucanum propriae causae accendebant, quod famam carminum eius premebat

Nero prohibueratque ostentare.
(Tac. Ann. 15.49)
Personal reasons incited Lucan: Nero had suppressed the reputation of his
poetry and forbidden him to publish it.4

non tamen permansit in gratia: siquidem aegre ferens, <quod Nero se>
recitante subito ac nulla nisi refrigerandi sui causa indicto senatu recessisset,
neque uerbis aduersus principem neque factis extantibus post haec temperauit.
([Suet.] Vita Luc. 2)
However, [Lucan] did not remain in favour: since indeed he took it poorly that
while he was reciting, Nero suddenly and without any reason, except to cool
himself off, had withdrawn to a meeting of the senate, and he did not after that
refrain from speaking against the princeps nor from deeds that still survive.5

Both Tacitus and the pseudo-Suetonius make Nero’s rejection the reason for Lucan’s
anger towards him without giving any indication that Lucan had earlier been opposed
to the emperor. Tacitus and Vacca both associate Nero’s rejection with a rivalry
between Lucan and Nero as poets, and the pseudo-Suetonius likewise sets the moment
of Nero’s rejection at a recital (se recitante). There is no evidence here to suggest at
all that Nero’s objection was to the content of any one poem.6
The pseudo-Suetonius does suggest that Lucan attacked the emperor openly:
sed et famoso carmine cum ipsum tum potentissimos amicorum grauissime proscidit

3
P. Grimal, ‘Is the Eulogy at the Beginning of the Pharsalia Ironic?’, in C. Tesoriero
(ed.), Lucan: Oxford Readings in Classical Studies (Oxford 2010) 64.
4
The text of Tacitus is that of H. Heubner (ed.), Taciti Annales (Leipzig 1994). All
translations from Greek and Latin are my own.
5
The text of pseudo-Suetonius is that of A. Reifferscheid (ed.), Suetonii Praeter
Casesarum Libros Reliquiae (Leipzig 1860).
6
Pace Ahl [1] 348-52 and M. Leigh, Lucan: Spectacle and Engagement (Oxford 1997)
1f.
210 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2012) 208-14 ISSN 1018-9017

(‘he also thoroughly castigated not only Nero but the most powerful of his friends in
an infamous poem’, Vita Luc. 3). However, this follows on from the description of the
falling-out: while Nero may well have taken exception to it, it cannot be asserted that
this was the cause of the falling-out. The only suggestion, then, that Nero and Lucan’s
falling-out had a political aspect is Vacca’s statement: interdictum est etiam causarum
actionibus (‘even taking cases to court was forbidden’).7 This detail is not found
anywhere other than this biography, which probably dates from the sixth century.
Overall it seems that our sources consistently present the falling-out between Lucan
and Nero as the result of Nero’s jealous of Lucan’s poetic ability, after which Lucan
began to demonstrate resentment of the princeps.
Vacca suggests that three books of the Pharsalia were published before the
rest, that is, before the open falling-out with Nero, and were not changed thereafter
(ediderat et tres libros quales uidemus, ‘he had published as well three books, such as
we know them’).8 We must assume that the three books were from the Pharsalia
(Vacca states that only the Pharsalia had survived until his time) and that they were
the first three. If that is the case, we must take caution when looking for evidence of
hostility to Nero in the Pharsalia, especially in the first books.9
Lucan’s praise of Nero in the encomium (Luc. 1.33-66) is fulsome: he foresees
the posthumous deification of Nero not just as a god amongst the Olympian ranks but
as one of the most important:

. . . te, cum statione peracta

astra petes serus, praelati regia caeli
excipiet gaudente polo: seu sceptra tenere
seu te flammigeros Phoebi conscendere currus
................................
. . . iuuet, tibi numine ab omni
cedetur, iurisque tui natura relinquet
quis deus esse uelis, ubi regnum ponere mundi.
(Luc. 1.45-48, 50-52)
The palace in your chosen heaven will receive you with joyous skies when
your time has come and well-aged you seek the stars. Whether you decide to
hold the sceptre [of Jupiter] or mount Phoebus’ fire-bearing chariot . . . every
god will give place to you and nature will leave to you which god you wish to
be where on earth you place your reign.10
7
The text of Vacca is that of C. E. Haskins (ed.), M. Annaei Lucani Pharsalia (London
1887) xiii-xx.
8
Grimal [3] 62-64; J. Masters, Poetry and Civil War in Lucan’s Bellum Civile
(Cambridge 1992) 219f. J. J. O’Hara, Inconsistency in Roman Epic (Cambridge 2007) 133
refers to this along the lines of Homeric scholarship as the ‘Separatist’ tradition, i.e.,
separating the encomium and book seven’s extreme censure.
9
Leigh [6] 1-3 insists that the approach to Nero is consistent; Ahl [1] 348 allows that the
first three books cannot have been the cause of the original ban.
10
The text of Lucan is that of D. R. Shackleton Bailey (ed.), M. Annaei Lucani de Bello
Ciuili Libri X (Leipzig 1988).
J. A. Barsby Essay 211

Champlin suggests that this is in fact the earliest literary depiction of Nero as
Apollo.11 In particular it seems to defer to Nero’s own cultivation of an Apollonian
image at about the same time as the publication of the first three books of the
Pharsalia.12 Grimal, in establishing a date for the publication of the first three books,
has demonstrated that the alternatives to civil war (conquest towards the Seres, Araxes
and Nile; Luc. 1.19-20) that precede the encomium acknowledge Nero’s military
campaigns with a favourable mention.13 It is not necessary to read this praise as
sarcastic: if it is over-the-top to modern tastes, it has to be acknowledged that Lucan is
generally over-the-top to modern tastes.14 Dewar has rejected at length the ancient
scholia that attempt to read jibes at Nero into the text of the encomium.15 To read it as
an attack on the princeps requires either the support of external biographical evidence
that cannot be proven to pertain to the period of composition provided by our sources,
or an aggressive counter-reading of the poem here, if not both.
If we should exclude politically antagonistic readings of the early books of the
Pharsalia,16 however, there may be some profit in considering personal and artistic
attacks on the emperor in the encomium (though, as demonstrated above, there is
hardly much better evidence that Lucan felt threatened by Nero before the rejection).
Lucan begins his poem with a typical epic propositio to establish both his topic and
his genre:

Bella per Emathios plus quam ciuilia campos

iusque datum sceleri canimus.
(Luc. 1.1f.)
Wars, more than civil, on Emathian plains, and right granted to wickedness we
sing.

The closest model for Lucan’s opening is the beginning of Vergil’s Aeneid, a major
influence on Lucan in general.17 Lucan, like Vergil, places himself in the forefront of
the means of expression (canimus, perhaps nothing more than a poetical plural equal
to Vergil’s cano, Aen. 1.1), a contrast with the Greek epic tradition in which a god

11
E. Champlin, ‘Nero, Apollo and the Poets’, Phoenix 57 (2003) 282.
12
Champlin [11] passim.
13
Grimal [3] 62f.
14
S. Bartsch, ‘Lucan’, in J. M. Foley (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Epic (Malden 2005)
494f.
15
M. Dewar, ‘Laying It on with a Trowel: The Proem to Lucan and Related Texts’,
CQ 44 (1994) 199f.
16
Bartsch [14] 501.
17
Bartsch [14] 500; G. B. Conte ‘The Proem of the Pharsalia’, in Tesoriero [3] 46-58
demonstrates the Vergilian and Homeric models in Lucan’s first seven lines and argues that
these are a carefully constructed response.
212 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2012) 208-14 ISSN 1018-9017

sings.18 Epic poetry as personal expression, however, was not without precedent even
in Vergil’s time: both Hesiod and Apollonius Rhodius place themselves in the same
position (¢rcèmeq' ¢e…dein, ‘let us begin to sing’, Hes. Theog. 1; ¢rcÒmenoj . . .
mn»somai, ‘beginning . . . I will recall’, Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.1f.).19 Lucan’s
propositio, then, is founded on the epic proems of his predecessors, but it is lacking in
one persistent feature. Lucan’s opening lines contain no god of inspiration. It has been
suggested that the encomium of Nero serves as a replacement of the invocation of
divine inspiration that is otherwise lacking from Lucan’s proem. Lucan’s statement,
however, is not completely convincing:

sed mihi iam numen; nec, si te pectore uates

accipio, Cirrhaea uelim secreta mouentem
sollicitare deum Bacchumque auertere Nysa:
tu satis ad uires Romana in carmina dandas.
(Luc. 1.63-66)
But you are already a divinity to me. And, if I as a poet receive you in my
breast, I would not wish to trouble the god who rules Cirrhaean mysteries nor
turn Bacchus from Nysa. You are enough to give strength to Roman songs.

The suggestion that Nero is equal in arts to Apollo or Bacchus is certainly flattering,20
but this is not the traditional invocation of a god who sings through the poet;21 even
Vergil, who also stood at the front of his poetry, allowed his muse the agency of mihi
causas memora (‘remind me of the causes’, Aen. 1.8). Nero has no agency in
Pharsalia 1.66; even the act of giving strength is rendered abstract by the gerundive
expression uires .o.o. dandas. Lucan’s divine Nero is not the man, cannot sing of arms
or war. In fact, overall the beginning of the Pharsalia (1.63 excluded) looks forward,
not back to Nero for inspiration:

quod si non aliam uenturo fata Neroni

inuenere uiam magnoque aeterna parantur
regna deis caelumque suo seruire Tonanti

18
”Aeide qe¦ (‘sing, goddess’, Il. 1.1); moi œnnepe Moàsa (‘tell me, Muse’, Od. 1.1);
Moàsai . . . ¢oidÍsi (‘Muses . . . with your songs’, Hes. Op. 1); ¥ge nàn 'Eratè . . . moi
œnispe (‘come now Erato . . . tell me’, Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.1); qe¦ . . . œnnepe Moàsa, DiÕj
tškoj (‘goddess . . . tell, Muse, child of Zeus’, 4.1f.).
19
In both cases divinities are invoked (the Muses in the Theogony; Apollo in the
Argonautica) with ¥rcomai: here, as in Vergil and Lucan, the narrators are agents of divinely
inspired song rather than instruments or recipients of divine song.
20
N. Holmes, ‘Nero and Caesar: Lucan 1.33-66’, CPh 94 (1999) 75.
21
Holmes [20] 76 suggests that Lucan is in fact making a pun in this line on the
derivation of Nero from the Sabine word for ‘strength’, which shifts the focus of the line
somewhat from inspiration to the matter of force. Some deference must be given to Ahl’s
suggestion ([1] 47) that this is not a poem to which Nero would aspire, even if it is not
specifically anti-Neronian.
J. A. Barsby Essay 213

non nisi saeuorum potuit post bella gigantum,

iam nihil, o superi, querimur.
(Luc. 1.33-37)
But if fate could find no other way for Nero to come, and the eternal reign is
acquired for the gods at great cost, and heaven could not serve its own
Thunderer except after the war with the savage Giants, then we complain no
more, oh gods on high.

The Civil War is, surprisingly, excused if Nero is going to be the result. Masters and
Bartsch have argued that Lucan’s poem itself depicts civil war not only in its narrative
but in its discourse as well: within the Pharsalia the poem and the Civil War stand for
each other.22 The depiction of Nero as the result of the Civil War also places him at
the other end of the poetic process and inverts the typical invocation of the gods.
Although Nero is acknowledged as the inspiration of the poem, he is denied his own
voice in the poem and placed not at the beginning but at the end of the process of
poetic production. This may have stung in particular for an emperor who valued
himself as a poet and particularly since it came from Lucan. If this is an attack,
however, it is a minor and obscure one.
The result of a positive analysis of the encomium of Nero is a rather difficult
tension between the praise of Lucan’s own princeps and the general hostility to the
principate, which is evident even in the early books (and which can be seen without
recourse to the biographical evidence on Lucan’s political opinions). Holmes attempts
to reconcile the two by suggesting that Lucan abstracts the concept of tyranny from its
present application (i.e., Nero),23 but this is not entirely convincing: Lucan also refers
to the citizens of present-day Neronian Rome as slaves. This more than anything has
been a source of consternation, which has led to negative analysis of the encomium. It
is important to consider that the Pharsalia is a poem that is frequently at war with
itself, however, and that Nero himself had an ambiguous relationship to the Civil War:
although his power derived from Caesar’s victory, Nero was also a descendant of
Pompeian party members, most notably Domitius Ahenobarbus (Nero’s great-great
grandfather), from whose family Nero had taken his birth name.24 Domitius too
appears in the first three books of the Pharsalia (in defence of Corfinium, 2.478-525),
where he is defeated through mutiny but pardoned by Caesar; Lucan presents the
failures of the defence with a light touch and therefore flatteringly avoids the
problems that Fantham adduces in her historiographic reconstruction.25 This care
suggests that for Lucan condemnation of the Pompeian side of the Civil War may
have been as fraught as condemnation of the Caesarean party.
Lucan’s Pharsalia presents a world that is torn apart by the nefas of civil war.
The poem, like the world within, is conflicted and does not take a consistent tone with

22
Masters [8]; Bartsch [2].
23
Holmes [20].
24
Holmes [20] 76.
25
Fantham [2] 231-33.
214 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2012) 208-14 ISSN 1018-9017

regards to the Civil War, and it is unnecessary to attempt to construct a false

consistency in the poem’s approach to the princeps Nero by constructing an undertone
in the opening encomium. As we have seen, we cannot reliably assert from ancient
evidence that the early books of the Pharsalia should contain anti-Neronian rhetoric;
nor that there is support for the anti-Neronian jibes that ancient scholars saw in the
encomium. The poem, like Nero and Lucan themselves, is variable.
 EXCHANGES WITH SCHOLIA

Scholia has been exchanged with journals, monograph series and newsletters not subscribed
to by the University of Otago, New Zealand or the University of KwaZulu-Natal, South
Africa. The list below lists the 119 journals, monograph series and newsletters received in
exchange for Scholia during the twenty years of the journal series.

Acta Antiqua et Archaeologica (Szeged, Hungary)

Acta Classica Universitatis Scientiarum Debreceniensis (Debrecen, Hungary)
Acta Patristica et Byzantina (Pretoria, South Africa)
Acta Societatis Morgensternianae (Tartu, Estonia)
Aevum (Milan, Italy)
Ágora (Aveiro, Portugal)
AION (Naples, Italy)
Anales de Filologia Clasica (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
Anales de Historia Antigua y Medieval (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
Ancient History: Resources for Teachers (Sydney, Australia)
Ancient History Bulletin (Calgary, Canada)
Ancient Philosophy (Pittsburgh, USA)
Annali del Liceo Classico ‘G. Garibaldi’ di Palermo (Palermo, Italy)
Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa (Pisa, Italy)
Anuari de Filologia (Barcelona, Spain)
Apeiron (Alberta, Canada)
Archaeological News (Athens, USA)
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Arethusa (Buffalo, USA)
Argos (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
Ariadne (Rethymnon, Greece)
Arion (Boston, USA)
Arys (Huelva, Spain)
Athena Review (Naples, USA)
Athenaeum (Padua, Italy)
AUMLA: Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature
Association (Christchurch, New Zealand)
Bollettino dei Classici (Rome, Italy)
Bryn Mawr Classical Review (Bryn Mawr, USA)
Bulletin Analytique d’Histoire Romaine (Strasbourg, France)
Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé (Paris, France)
Buried History (Bundoora, Australia)
Cahiers du GITA (Montpellier, France)
Classica (Belo Horizonte, Brazil)

215
216 Scholia ns Vol. 20 (2011) 215-17 ISSN 1018-9017

Classical Association of Pacific Northwest Bulletin (Tacoma, USA)

The Classical Bulletin (Wauconda, USA)
The Classical Journal (Charlottesville, USA)
The Classical Outlook (Athens, USA)
Classical Studies (Kyoto, Japan)
Classics Ireland (Dublin, Ireland)
Classicum (Sydney, Australia)
Collection Latomus (Brussels, Belgium)
Cuadernos de Filologia Clasica (Madrid, Spain)
Dionysius (Halifax, Canada)
Dodone (Ioannina, Greece)
Drama (Stuttgart, Germany)
Durham University Journal (Durham, England)
Echos du Monde Classique / Classical Views (St John’s, Canada)
Eikasmos (Bologna, Italy)
Eirene (Prague, Czech Republic)
Ekklesiastikos Pharos (Johannesburg, South Africa)
Emerita (Madrid, Spain)
Eos (Warsaw, Poland)
Epistula Witwatersrandensis (Witwatersrand, South Africa)
Epistula Zimbabweana (Harare, Zimbabwe)
Estudios Clásicos (Madrid, Spain)
Les Études Classiques (Namur, Belgium)
Euphrosyne (Lisbon, Portugal)
Exercitus (Witcombe, England)
Faventia (Barcelona, Spain)
Florilegium (Ottawa, Canada)
Gerión (Madrid, Spain)
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Hellenika (Thessalonica, Greece)
Hermathena (Dublin, Ireland)
Humanistica Lovaniensia Supplementa (Leuven, Belgium)
Humanitas (Coimbra, Portugal)
Illinois Classical Studies (Urbana, USA)
Institute for the Classical Tradition Newsletter (Boston, USA)
Invigilata Lucernis (Bari, Italy)
Iris (Melbourne, Australia)
Itaca (Barcelona, Spain)
Journal of Ancient Civilizations (Changchun, China)
Journal of Classical Studies (Kyoto, Japan)
Kleio (Leuven, Belgium)
Latinitas (Vatican City)
Limes (Santiago, Chile)
Exchanges with Scholia 217

Maia (Genova, Italy)

Manuscripta (St Louis, USA)
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Mouseion (St John’s, Canada)
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New England Classical Newsletter and Journal (Fairfield, USA)
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Philologus (Konstanz, Germany)
Platon (Athens, Greece)
Ploutarchos (Logan, USA)
Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society (Cambridge, England)
Proceedings of the Virgil Society (London, England)
Prudentia (Auckland, New Zealand)
Quaderni di Storia (Bari, Italy)
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Siculorum Gymnasium (Catania, Italy)
Scripta Classica Israelica (Jerusalem, Israel)
Southern Review (Adelaide, Australia)
Sri Lanka Journal of the Humanities (Peradeniya, Sri Lanka)
Studi Urbinati di Storia, Filosofia e Letteratura (Urbino, Italy)
Studii Clasice (Bucharest, Romania)
Stylos (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
Syllecta Classica (Iowa City, USA)
Symbolae Osloenses (Oslo, Norway)
Tennessee Philological Bulletin (Chattanooga, USA)
Texas Classics in Action (Austin, USA)
Veleia (Vitoria, Spain)
Voces (Salamanca, Spain)
Vox Latina (Saarbrücken, Germany)
Zetesis (Milan, Italy)
ðiva Antika (Skopje, Macedonia)
 1t LATIN Readers

Series Editor:
Ronnie AnconaJ Hunter College and CUNY Graduate Center
BC Latin Readers, written by experts in the field, provide well-annotated Latin selections to be used as au-
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W. Jeffrey Tatum
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A Seneca Reader Selections from Six Plays
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James Ker
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A Plautus Reader
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Selections from the Epigrams John Henderson
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 VERGIL'S AENEID
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 ETYMOLOGY & COMPOSITION TEXTBOOI<:S
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THE CLASSICAL
BULLETIN A Journal of International Scholarship and Special Topics Since 1925
ISSN:0009-8337 Reference Abbreviation CB

VOLUMES 85.2, 86.1 and 2 • Table of Contents

Volume 85.2 Table of Contents

Plato's Kallipolis: Reasonably Free, TIMOTHY A D. HYDE
The Swedish Odyssey, SCOTT RICHARDSON
Euripides' Heracleidae and the Cult of Heroes, BARBARA MCCAULEY
Fiction: From Poetic Invention to Immoral Deception, HANNA M. ROISMAN
Quae Supersunt
Playing with Medusa: From Myth to Mattel, STACIE RAUCCI

Volume 86.1 and 2: Special Edition

DISCERNING THE BODY: METAPHORS OF THE BODY IN THE BIBLE
Edited by Sarah J. Melcher

Introduction to the Volume, SARAH J. MELCHER

Consequence and Intentionality: Conceptual Metaphors of the Body in Leviticus 20,
SARAH J. MELCHER
The Rock That Gave You Birth, SARAH J. DILLE
Purifying and Purging: Body Metaphors in the Visions of Zechariah,
KA THR YN MULLER LOPEZ
Hearts, Hands, Teeth and Feet: From Metonymy to Metaphor and Back in Psalm 58,
BRIAN DOYLE
"Is My Flesh Bronze?" (Job 6: 12): Metaphors of Fluidity and Solidity in the
Description of the Body in the Book of Job, PIERRE J. P. V ANHECKE
The Seeing Eye, MARTIN J. BUSS
Paul and the Remapping of the Body, ARTHUR J. DEWEY
Of Metaphors and Monsters: The Body of the Whore of Baby Ion in the Apocalypse
of John, TINA PIPPIN

To facilitate publication consideration, send electronic submissions to:

Shannon N. Byrne: [email protected]

©Xavier University Press

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