Geography, Topography, Landscape

Trends in Classics –
Supplementary Volumes

Edited by
Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos
Scientific Committee
Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck
Claude Calame · Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison
Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus
Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy
Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone
Kurt Raaflaub · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 22
Geography,
Topography,
Landscape
Configurations of Space in Greek and Roman Epic

Edited by
Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

DE GRUYTER
ISBN 978-3-11-031473-1
e-ISBN 978-3-11-031531-8
ISSN 1868-4785

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Foreword
The idea of a multi-authored volume dedicated to geography and space in an-
cient epic goes back to the very first Trends in Classics international conference
organized by Jonas Grethlein and Antonios Rengakos in Thessaloniki, Greece,
where the editors of this volume collaborated to write a paper on Homer’s Odys-
sey. In the aftermath of that conference, the editors were light-hearted enough to
allow themselves to engage in a project that was meant to take many turns until
it found its way into print. Our wish back then was to deal with a subject matter,
which current scholarship has room for, and to produce an informative, compre-
hensively structured and reader-friendly volume on the ‘geographies’ of Greek
and Roman epic. It falls to the reader of the book to decide whether we managed
to meet these criteria.
Epic geography is one thing, and human geography is another. The project
was first and foremost warmly saluted by Antonios Rengakos, whose genuine
concern and unflagging support over the years are far beyond acknowledgment.
In the Classics Department of Basel University, Switzerland, Anton Bierl, Rebec-
ca Lämmle, Katharina Wesselmann, Magdalene Stoevesandt, Henriette Harich,
and Petra Schierl offered valuable help and solidarity. The encouraging words
of Damien Nelis and Stephen Wheeler already during the genesis of the project
released vital energies for undertaking a difficult task at times of overall uncer-
tainty. The Department of Religious Studies at Erfurt University has proved a con-
genial place to pursue such an ambitious project, the more so since the presence
of Kai Brodersen, an international authority in the study of geography and space
in antiquity, provided the necessary impetus and inspiration for its progress.
Katharina Waldner, Richard Gordon, and Jörg Rüpke helped the project take
its final shape in more than one ways. Veit Rosenberger, Wolfgang Spickermann,
Leif Scheuermann, Daniel Albrecht, Christian Karst, Johannes Eberhardt, and
Mihaela Holban were always eager to discuss matters of spatiality in ancient lit-
erature and provided valuable insights in individual queries. We are also grateful
to the Classics Departments of Cornell University, the University of Adelaide, and
the Australian National University. Many thanks are also due to the anonymous
readers of Trends in Classics for their helpful and encouraging comments.
For all their support, understanding and deep concern we would like to ex-
press our gratitude to all aforementioned colleagues and to our contributors
from whom we learnt a lot.

Marios Skempis Thessaloniki

Ioannis Ziogas Canberra
Contents

Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 1

Johannes Haubold
Ethnography in the Iliad 19

Alex Purves
Thick Description
From Auerbach to the Boar’s Lair (Od. 19.388 – 475) 37

Donald Lateiner
Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 63

Anthony T. Edwards
The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 95

Kirk Ormand
Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue:
Atalanta 137

Evina Sistakou
Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 161

Katerina Carvounis
Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 181

Robert Shorrock
Crossing the Hydaspes
Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and the Boundaries of Epic 209

Jackie Elliott
Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 223

Stratis Kyriakidis
From Delos to Latium
Wandering in the Unknown 265
VIII Contents

Marios Skempis
Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization
in the ‘Caieta-Circe’ Sequence of Aeneid 7 291

Ioannis Ziogas
The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 325

Alison Keith
Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 349

Erica Bexley
Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 373

Ruth Parkes
The Long Road to Thebes
The Geography of Journeys in Statius’ Thebaid 405

Helen Slaney
The Voyage of Rediscovery
Consuming Global Space in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 427

Gesine Manuwald
Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica
The Argo’s Maiden Voyage from Europe into the Unknown 463

Bibliography 487

List of Contributors 519

Index rerum et nominum 523

Index locorum 535

Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas
Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context
An epic geography is a metaspace embedded in the second skin of the earth – a virtual
mantle forming a narrative unfolding that simulates the skin. Motion through the texture
of the mantle unfolds the narrative. When a scenario is formed within the second skin
using its resources, an epic geography is formed.
R. Bunschoten, T. Hoshino, H. Binet, Urban Flotsam: Stirring the City (p. 273)

Current challenges that stem mainly from globalization and environmental con-
cerns have reinvigorated scholarly interest in human geography.¹ Even though
these current issues tend to sideline the diachronic dimension of geography
by adopting seemingly non-anthropocentric positions, they essentially converge
into one basic principle: the acts of a person locate her/his existence within sur-
rounding environments. And the plural is here no coincidence. In fact, it is pre-
cisely the interrelated notions of human agency and experience that turn space
into place and vindicate the necessity of the plural ‘places.’² A series of turns (lin-
guistic, discursive, cultural) have gradually signposted the development of cross-
disciplinary discussion on space, now crystallized in the so-called geographical
or spatial turn. ³ The decisive impetus was given by the social sciences that have
been eager to examine (and, no less, theorize) the relation of geographical space
(nature) to social space (culture).⁴ The spatial turn reworks “the very notion and
substance of spatiality to offer a perspective in which space is every bit as impor-
tant as time in the unfolding of human affairs, a view in which geography is not
relegated to an afterthought of social relations, but is intimately involved in their
construction”.⁵ Pinning down the spatial dimensions of social processes casts
space as the arena of social interface par excellence. From this point of view,
space is far from static since it is constantly negotiated and reconstructed in
the physical, cultural, and political map. The nation-shaping role of geography,
the topography of isolation and integration, the bounding of space and the cross-
ing of boundaries, the gendered dynamics of geography as well as the space of
language and literature are some of the aspects that lie at the heart of modern
criticism on human geography.⁶

 De Blij 2009; Bruckmeier/Serbser 2008.

 Tuan 1977; Buttimer/Seamon 1980; Hirsch 1995; Creswell 1996; Malpas 1999.
 For overviews, see Soja 1989; Günzel 2007; 2009; 2010.
 Lossau/Lippuner 2004; Withers 2009; Warf/Arias 2009.
 Warf/Arias 2009, 1.
 Prescott 1965; Bachelard 1969 [1994]; Sibley 1995; Moss/Al-Hindi 2008.
2 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

For the last decades literary studies have been intensely inquiring into the
way space is represented within diverse contexts of literary narration.⁷ Even
though the mechanics of cognition and representation has duly monopolized
scholarly discourse on matters concerning the way geography leaves its imprint
on literary artifacts,⁸ elaborate practices of mapping space within its narrative
environments gain in focus as they call attention to the formal traits underlying
narrative structures. The prime question asked is how narrative media devise
(spatially) coherent worlds.⁹ Within this context, scholars attempt to come up
with definitions and operative formulas that apply to the representational
norms of narrated space (erzählter Raum). In an essay revising earlier and cur-
rent views on the subject, Marie-Laure Ryan puts forward a taxonomy that dis-
tinguishes no less than five main categories of narrated space:

a. spatial frames: the immediate surroundings of actual events, the various locations shown
by the narrative discourse, b. setting: the general socio-historico-geographical environment
in which the action takes place, c. story space: the space relevant to the plot, as mapped by
the actions and thoughts of the characters, d. narrative or (story) world: the story space
completed by the reader’s imagination on the basis of cultural knowledge and real world
experience, and e. narrative universe: the world (in the spatio-temporal sense of the
term) presented as actual by the text, plus all the counterfactual worlds constructed by
characters as beliefs, wishes, fears, speculations, hypothetical thinking, dreams, and fan-
tasies.¹⁰

The varying extent to which these levels of spatiality inform narrative discourse
accounts for the multifarious processes by which space is integrated into the nar-
rative’s broad spatio-temporal continuum, i. e., is narrativized. In the meantime,
we can even speak of a fairly systematized ‘narratology of space.’¹¹ The latest
trend in this direction draws on the interpretative model of cognition and,
thus, works on the assumption of a model-reader’s thought-patterns, which con-
duce to the production of space in the narrated world. The inferential process to
which the reader resorts to supplement the textual data related to space and to
properly conceptualize various dimensions of spatiality applies to a reader-re-
sponse theory and results in a concept of negotiated space in narrative contexts.
In her own introduction to the narratology of space, the classicist and narratol-

 Salter/Lloyd 1976; Mallory/Simpson-Housley 1987; Eilan/McCarthy/Brewer 1993; Hallet/Neu-

mann 2009; Piatti 2009.
 Bjornson 1981; Ryan 2003; Hamilton 2011.
 See, most importantly, Herman 2009; Sommer 2009.
 Ryan 2009, 421– 2.
 Smitten/Daghistany 1981; Zoran 1984; Bal 1985, 132– 42; Dennerlein 2009.
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 3

ogist Irene de Jong¹² draws attention to the narrative categories at work when an-
choring space in story: she differentiates between setting where the action un-
folds and frames created by the virtual spaces of thoughts and memories, and
gives prime place to the devices of description and ekphrasis used to represent
places and/or props in a synoptic and detailed manner respectively. The focalizer
(narrator, anonymous, character), she argues, is just as important as the stand-
point (panoramic, scenic) from which space is presented each time. The useful-
ness of de Jong’s categorization lies in the plethora of narrative functions bound
up with the presentation of space (thematic, mirroring/contrasting, symbolic,
characterizing, psychologizing, personifying). Faced with these trends, classics
is invited to participate in the lively critical discussion on geography (especially
with respect to narratology) and has in fact a lot to contribute, given that most of
the questions that modern theorists ask can be examined in Greco-Roman antiq-
uity.
Every story has its place(s). As narrative genre par excellence, epic is con-
cerned with representing spatial dimensions. Epic storytelling comes into exis-
tence by describing persons’ movements through space. It recounts sets of suc-
cessive events whose flow resembles the shifts inherent in a journey.¹³ However,
spatial visualizations of epic storytelling are not always compatible with the con-
finements of human existence, but occasionally become figurative enough to
sketch out transcendent topographies pertinent to the divine or the dead.
Since epic is, at least in Bakhtinian terms, a chronotope insofar as it preserves
and transmits memories of past events held most frequently in remote, unaccus-
tomed domains, but also in domestic, regular places,¹⁴ geography counts among
the constitutive elements of the cultural system each time inscribed into the vi-
sion of the epic world. Accordingly, the presentation of an epic story is, as a rule,
steeped in ethnological features and cultural data viewed through the lens of
myth, which ultimately segues into a historicizing discourse.¹⁵ Epic narrative me-
morializes places and encodes their dynamic profile by means of embedded de-
scriptions and dispersed toponyms laden with signification. Toponymics exem-
plifying genealogy, an expressive means that allows the past to project itself
into the present, are explicitly set on a geographical basis and, in these terms,
lay the geo-historical foundations of epic. Thus, next to various forms of repre-

 De Jong 2012a.
 On the ‘narrative as travel’ metaphor, see Mikkonen 2007.
 For a dynamic, cross-cultural definition of epic as genre, see Martin 2005a. Cf. Nagy 1999b.
For an assessment of the term chronotope with reference to Greek literature, see now Seaford
2012, 1– 10.
 Raaflaub 2005; Konstan/Raaflaub 2010.
4 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

senting space within the narrative, epic is also keen to establish the extratextual
space created between the mythical and historical world.¹⁶
The representational norms instantiated in the layout of overall spatial struc-
tures, the geographical excursuses as well as the ekphrastic exercises with their
distinct topographical frames claim a particular connection with the narrative
idiosyncrasies of epic as genre.¹⁷ Each epic forms a new delineation of geograph-
ical and spatial contours sketched in such ways as to convey pertinent cultural
meanings, while also staging diverse scenarios of intercultural contact. Epic
space emerges as a narrative medium forging distinction and complementarity.
The juxtaposition of city and countryside as well as the inset, digressional char-
acter of landscape as opposed to the battlefield form two regular indicators of
the essential position epic space occupies in marking up boundaries.¹⁸ Gendered
spaces bring out the tensions ingrained in social relations and often provide in-
sight into the reasons why epic uses space the way it does. Socio-political impli-
cations on the representation of geographical planes are also often entwined in
these settings and are in turn enmeshed with respective ideologies. As a result,
‘geopoetics’, that is, the discourse of political power and the way it is acted out
on literary geographies, takes center stage in the hermeneutics of epic.¹⁹
Ancient Greek conceptions of space seem to be connected with two world-
views, which either distinguish themselves from one another or occasionally in-
tersect: the cartographic, an all-embracing ‘bird’s-eye’ mapping, and the hodo-
logical, the grounded perspective of the forward-moving person.²⁰ To begin
with a pertinent example from the first category, the divine poetics of the Iliad
as exemplified in the Muse-driven narrative and the affiliated motif of divine su-
pervision advance a synoptic mapping of space enriched with diverse anthropo-
logical and ethnographic details.²¹ Similarly, the epic viewpoint of the Homeric
Hymns, where the gods are foregrounded as the main agents, exhibits an either
vertical or horizontal spatiality (earthly geography extended to Olympian geogra-
phy) in the way characters move into space. Drawing on the spatio-temporal ex-

 De Jong 2012b, 36 – 8.
 Segal 1969; Kurman 1974; DuBois 1982a; Findlay 1984; Hatto 1989; Antoniades 1992.
 Parry 1957; Andersson 1976; Larsen 2004; Rosen/Sluiter 2007.
 Barchiesi 1999. Barchiesi’s announced treatment of geopoetics in Vergil’s Aeneid is much
anticipated. Asper (2011) deals with the geopoetics of Callimachus whose special way of talking
about places in his works “sum[s] up to a geography of Ptolemaic power” (p. 160).
 Janni 1984; Romm 1992; Cole 2010; Purves 2010a.
 Minchin 2007; de Jong 2012b, 27; Haubold (this volume). Seaford (2012, 13 – 20) suggests a
division of Homeric space in the three interdependent categories of “(a) cosmic space, which
embraces the entire cosmos, (b) geographic space, i. e. the space of land and sea that extends to
the ends of the earth, and (c) immediate space, i. e. space visible from a single point.”
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 5

pansiveness of the song of the Muses, Hesiod’s Theogony lays out a well-wrought
cosmic design in which the gods occupy space and acquire their powers.²² The
genealogical lore in the tales from the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women defines a
Panhellenic space made up of local traditions which individual entries tend to
display.²³
The liminal states of wandering and travel are so deeply rooted in the cultur-
al history of ancient Greece that its literature teems with relics of itinerant indi-
viduals and their experiences.²⁴ The Odyssey, for instance, is essentially the story
of Odysseus’ travels and has been thereby received as a work with both an intrin-
sic geographical edge and a genuinely ethnographical resonance that is eventu-
ally instrumentalized “to construct a reading of the worlds and peoples of the
mythic past in order to make sense of a tumultuous and volatile present”.²⁵ With-
in this context but not exclusively referring to Homer, the paramount role of col-
onization in shaping cultural identities and in blending the familiar with the
other explores the effects of displacement and spatial dislocation as well as
the individual’s interface with novel geographies.²⁶ The grounding of coloniza-
tion in mythical structures testifies to its political immanence, on the one
hand,²⁷ and bolsters the historical tendencies toward constructing both virtual
and actual ‘spaces of Hellenism’, on the other.²⁸
In Rome, colonizing practices mingle with power relations more overtly and
intensely, and exert their own special impact on the means and methods of ac-
culturation within the frame of the imperium. ²⁹ Whereas Roman epic retains
some ties with its Greek predecessor, tone and focus shift irreversibly to what
we may call the poetics of spatial dominion. This is neatly reflected in the
texts that move away from the ‘totalizing’ geographies of Greek epic and develop
their own vision of ‘maximizing’ spaces. Power and its modes of expression have
a decisive impact on spatial constructions liable to expansion and therefore un-
bounded and subject to constant fluctuation. As an acute reader of Roman epic
has succinctly put it, “in spatial terms the Virgilian and post-Virgilian epic at-
tempts to construct a comprehensive and orderly model of the world, but it

 Clay 2003; Pucci 2009.

 West 1985, 1– 11; Hall 1997, 83 – 8; Rutherford 2005; Calame 2009, 119 – 20.
 Hartog 2001; Montiglio 2005; Hunter/Rutherford 2009.
 Dougherty 2001, 9. For a rationalizing approach to the geography of the Odyssey see Bitt-
lestone/Diggle/Underhill 2005.
 For thorough accounts on the pragmatics of Greek colonization see Tsetskhladze 2006; 2008;
Tsetskhladze/de Angelis 2004.
 Dougherty 1993; Malkin 1998; Antonaccio 2007.
 Thalmann 2011; Stephens 2011; cf. Leontis 1995.
 Salmon 1970; Bradley/Wilson 2006; van Dommelen/Benjami 2007.
6 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

turns out that such models are inherently unstable. The instability of the Virgi-
lian world is an open-ended invitation for succeeding epic poets to revise and
redefine”.³⁰ For precisely the spatial dynamics of the imperium spring from the
Roman aspiration to ‘globalization’ and thus generate narratives about the me-
diation of space and its integration.
Of course, the Roman inclination towards a linear, hodological mapping of
space³¹ as opposed to a panoramic, cartographic one has been influential in
shaping the epic discourse along with its narrative elaborations. The ensuing
topology establishes itself in an intensely reinvigorated version of ekphrasis,
where landscape description is on a par with the complexities of visual percep-
tion.³² The emphasis placed on rarefied description and enlisting of micro-spaces
may collide with the rhetoric of macro-space that can be grasped better in terms
of cartographic rendition, though it does facilitate the practical need to situate
things in space on the meeting-point between real and conceptual geography.
The numerous monumental sites of Rome no doubt evoked knowledge associat-
ed with real, conceptual, sometimes even psychological geography, in order to
establish a proper spatial footing.³³
Although this volume covers a very long period, spanning from Homer to
Quintus, and includes both Greek and Latin works, the traditional preoccupa-
tions of the epic genre guarantee a plethora of unifying themes. The clash be-
tween the East and the West defines the geographical dynamics of the Iliad
and is repeatedly and variously reworked in Roman epic (Elliott, Skempis,
Keith, Manuwald). Within the new framework of imperial politics and globaliza-
tion, the dichotomy between East and West is recast as a transition of power
from Greece to Rome, reflecting the translation of Greek epic poetry to Rome.
The global worldview of epic poetry focuses on the encounter between the famil-
iar and the unknown (Haubold, Sistakou, Skempis, Shorrock, Keith, Slaney),
often perceived as a polarity between center and periphery (Ziogas, Bexley, Shor-
rock).
Human space is separated from the divine realm – epic poetry clearly demar-
cates two worlds, which often interact with each other (Sistakou). Whether this
distinction triggers ethnographic digressions (Haubold), reflects social contexts
(Lateiner), or emphasizes the gods’ easy travels (Parkes), it features as one of
the most prominent boundaries in a genre preoccupied with drawing borderlines
and redefining established landmarks (Ormand, Skempis, Carvounis, Manu-

 Hardie 1993, 3. On the influential spatial imagery of the Aeneid, see Hardie 1986.
 Brodersen 1995; 2004; Brodersen/Talbert 2004; Talbert 2008; 2010.
 Barchiesi 1997a; Tissol 1997; Jenkyns 1998; Fowler 2000; Elsner 2002; Goldhill 2007.
 Larmour 2007.
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 7

wald). The crossing of natural bounds (Shorrock, Bexley), supposedly fixed but
often surprisingly fluid (Bexley, Manuwald), in combination with the designation
of artificial borderlines stresses the intricate politics of constructing space in epic
poetry.
The contradistinctions between war and peace, village and city (Edwards),
national identity and ethnic otherness (Haubold, Lateiner, Edwards, Bexley), civ-
ilization and wilderness (Purves, Ormand, Sistakou), and indoor and outdoor
space (Elliott) invite the readers to interpret thematic motifs and structural pat-
terns of epic poetry by defining narrative space. Epic space becomes a crucial
factor, not a mere background. While human beings interact with the historical
and literary backdrop of landscapes, the construction of a hero’s identity be-
comes indistinguishable from narrated space; a character’s biography extends
to shape a landmark and vice versa (Carvounis, Skempis, Kyriakidis, Ziogas, Bex-
ley).
Epic heroes transform the landscape, while the landscape defines their char-
acters and destinies. Linguistic tropes, such as the interplay between literal and
metaphorical descriptions (Ormand) or narrative proper and similes (Purves, La-
teiner), bring about spatial metamorphoses. Epic poets revisit, negate, and forge
semantic relations of geographical names; etymology (Skempis, Kyriakidis, Zio-
gas, Bexley) and aetiology (Edwards, Carvounis, Slaney) negotiate new space for
old places, casting mythical and historical topographies in an updated socio-po-
litical context (Lateiner, Parkes, Keith, Manuwald).
Connecting the past with the present, while looking forward to the future,
defines the temporal range of epic poetry. The all-inclusive chronological sway
of epic should be examined in parallel with its global worldview. Time marks
up space, and topography often opens a time-window (Purves, Sistakou, Kyria-
kidis, Manuwald, Slaney). Since epic poetry deals with bygone eras and appro-
priates previous traditions, the temporal dimension of topography is repeatedly
brought to the fore. Even the oldest extant Greek epic, the Iliad, is now seen as
the culmination of an epic tradition rather than its beginning. Instead of being
the father of geography and ethnography, Homer most likely responded to an al-
ready established ethnographic tradition (Haubold). Subsequently, Homeric ge-
ography and landscapes create an authoritative tradition and leave their traces
in Greek (Carvounis, Shorrock) and Roman (Elliott, Bexley) epic. Geography be-
comes a passion of Hellenistic poets and authors, whose geographical interests
deeply influence Roman epic poets (Skempis, Kyriakidis). But after Vergil, the
Romans can resort to their own epic tradition. The epics of Statius and Valerius
Flaccus, for instance, open an intriguing dialogue with mythical topography
(Parkes, Slaney) and the narrative dynamics of Ovidian landscapes (Keith).
8 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

Epic travels can be seen as the rediscovery of epic traditions. An exploration

of epic space suggests the well-known parallel between a hero’s journey and a
poet’s narrative trip (Sistakou, Parkes, Slaney, Manuwald). An epic poem is an
adventure, which the readers share with the poet and the heroes. Author, char-
acters, and the readership contribute to the poetics of constructing and interpret-
ing epic space. And all the contributors of this volume examine this fascinating
aspect of epic geographies, topographies, and landscapes.
But let us have a closer look at each chapter. In what sense does the dis-
course of what we call ethnography relate to the production of cultural space?
To answer this question, Johannes Haubold (“Ethnography in the Iliad”)
turns to the Iliad and re-examines the first grains of ethnographic writing, iden-
tified as such in Book 13. Far from adopting the conventional viewpoint that fa-
vors the rise of ethnography in Il. 13.1– 9, he argues for the poem’s self-reflexive
stance toward the tradition of ethnographic writing that precedes it, insofar as it
appears to appropriate samples of this tradition. This he manages by re-reading
the Iliadic passage at issue against the backdrop of its narrative setting and of
the questions it raises concerning the embedding of cultural space. Ethnograph-
ic discourse, he submits, is an elaborate means of expressing cultural distinctive-
ness in a broad sense. The mechanisms of narrative generate ties between this
discourse and the epic genre’s general concern with sketching out cultural his-
tory, on the one hand, and the specific thematic principles of the Iliad, on the
other. In more detail, the catalogue of northern peoples to which Zeus turns
bored with the Trojan War (just as the reference to the Ethiopians and the Hip-
pemolgi in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women) serves as a purely digressive eth-
nographic distraction. It turns out that the Iliad is rather unwilling to track down
tokens of cultural otherness among mortals, but is certainly interested in differ-
entiating divine from human culture. The gods of the Iliad, Haubold maintains,
are laden with exotic traits, thus attracting an interest fairly equivalent to the one
in ethnographic digressions. As the shift of focus from the human to the divine
sphere shows in Iliad 13 – 14, ethnographic moments are centered on the divine
and its representation.
One of the most famous Homeric excursuses, the story of Odysseus’ scar in
Odyssey 19, gives Alex Purves (“”Thick Description”: From Auerbach to the
Boar’s Lair (Od. 19.388 – 475)”) impetus to examine the embedding of wilderness
(natural space) within narrative frames. Purves takes as her starting-point Auer-
bach’s position that Homeric style grants latitude of space and time to the nar-
rative at key-moments such as the recognition of Odysseus by Eurycleia. By fur-
ther discussing Auerbach’s insistence on the language of illumination and the
expunction of depth, perspective, and background from Homeric narrative, the
author inquires into the dimensionality of narrative time and reflects on the
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 9

way time and space coalesce to form the digression in Book 19. Purves argues
that a temporal sequence marked by the use of successive adverbs opens a spa-
tial window that enables the passing over from the urban setting of Odysseus’
current encounter with Eurycleia to the natural landscape of his past experience
with the boar on Mt. Parnassus. What is more, the thickness of the boar’s lair
serves as a hypertextual vehicle for advancing the spectrum of associations
that connects the natural landscape in question with other landscapes hosted
in similes as well as with Odysseus’ expedient bed in Scheria. As a result, thick-
ness in Homer is indexed as a natural quality that unravels its rich semantic im-
plications within a frame of homologous references. This sort of interconnected-
ness endows the Homeric text with particular depth – and strikes at the heart of
Auerbach’s argument. For pukinos (“thick”) establishes itself as a term indicative
of the inherent texturedness of the narrative setting in which it is embedded,
thus acquiring quasi-poetological overtones. Besides signposting the induction
of nature into Homeric storytelling, the term gives way to “thick descriptions”
of multilayered signification and varied narrative tempo.
In his essay “Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places”, Donald La-
teiner analyzes the mechanics of cognition that underlies Homer’s relation to
space. After a terminological survey designed to illuminate spatial concepts
and their narrative use by mortals and immortals, Lateiner delves into the
world of epic narrative in order to demonstrate that Homeric characters perceive
and experience proxemics, that is, spatial analogies, within the diverse social
contexts to which these pertain. Homeric poetry, he argues, is replete with elab-
orate examples testifying to the way human and divine movement maps out
space and unfolds its social implications. To underpin his argument on the cog-
nitive production of localities, he deals with the distribution of space among the
gods of the Iliad as well as with sites of real and imagined cultural geographies
in the Odyssey. In the field of narrative stylistics, the form of narration affects the
different kinds and degrees of focalization in the description of places. Similes,
in particular, negotiate the notions of distance and proximity as well as public
and private according to the experiences to which they are attached.
Taking as a point of departure the axiom that society should match ethical
values, Anthony Edwards analyzes the ascription of morals to geography on the
basis of human interface. In his chapter “The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s
Works and Days”, Edwards surveys the overarching polarity between village
and city, the ethical connotations of which uphold a phenomenological ap-
proach to space. Moral values are contingent on the places perceived through ex-
periences of social interaction and therefore construe a “socially valued space”,
as the author terms it. Given that the Works and Days has a particular interest in
the projection of minor localities, the main set of spatial oppositions is to be
10 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

traced in the pivotal distinction between ergon and agore, a distinction that im-
plies the more general, yet unstated geographical opposition between agros and
polis. Within the frame of his dispute with Perses, Hesiod puts a stark emphasis
on the moral semantics of ergon, a term denoting both the site (farm) and the
activity associated with it (toil). The prosperity gained from the ergon emerges
as a correlative of labor and justice, a constellation sanctioned by the divine.
Conversely, in the agore, the seat of lawsuits within the context of bad strife
and injustice, prosperity can be attained by claiming the property of others. In
this light, Edwards goes on to analyze the aetiologies of labor in the Pandora
narrative and the myth of the golden race. It turns out that a whole set of dialec-
tical oppositions such as the binarity of strife and the division between judg-
ment-dike and justice-dike revolves around the intrinsic concept of ‘labor’. The
ethic-centric rhetoric in the Works and Days shows how a personalized conflict,
the one between Hesiod and Perses, can take the form of a spatialized opposi-
tion.
In his chapter “Uncertain Geographies of Erotic Desire in the Hesiodic Cata-
logue: Atalanta”, Kirk Ormand casts light on the transformative qualities of
space. Taking his cue from the interdependence of action and interaction, Or-
mand argues that the definition of space rests on a constant negotiation that
generates meanings other than the established ones. The literary motif of erotic
pursuit in the story of Atalanta takes center stage in this process. In its cardinal
form, the story narrates Atalanta’s aversion to marriage, which leads to the ar-
rangement of a footrace in which suitors are called to compete with her in swift-
ness. The winner has his life spared and takes Atalanta as his wife. The uncer-
tainty in representing female desire, Ormand maintains, reflects its fluid state
in the unstable configurations of the geographical space that claims to host
this desire. As a consequence, the geography of the race undergoes a threefold
mutation. In Theognis, a boy unwilling to have a love affair with the persona lo-
quens is paralleled to the sexually disinclined Atalanta. Here the element of com-
petition is entirely missing, and Atalanta’s negative stance toward marriage
transposes her to the realm of untamed nature. To describe Atalanta’s relation
to space, Ormand takes up Foucault’s concept of ‘crisis heterotopia’, a spatial al-
terity for individuals undergoing a critical situation. Atalanta’s displacement into
the wild gives rise to the semantic multiformity of the footrace in Hesiod. Given
that the Catalogue focuses on the running contest between Atalanta and Hippo-
menes, Ormand argues for its metaphorical conceptualization as a hunt, which
puts Hippomenes in the position of the fleeing subject. The very moment
when Atalanta takes hold of Hippomenes turns the hunt-like race into a battle
where the warrior seizes his opponent with fatal consequences. Yet Atalanta
grasps an apple instead of Hippomenes, a token of her flight’s ceasing and
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 11

her consent to marriage. The ‘battle’ has an intertextual edge as it evokes the Ho-
meric duel between Hector and Achilles in Iliad 22 and especially the footrace
before the Scaean Wall.
In an exciting new take on the geography of Hellenistic poetry, Evina Sista-
kou (“Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica”) sets out to ex-
plore how the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius copes with fictive, counterfac-
tual geography as opposed to the historicized geography of the real world. Given
that the Argonautica hovers between the discourse of epic and travelogue, this
dichotomy makes good sense since it reflects upon the boundaries of realism
and fictionality in terms of the complementary ways an epic construes its spa-
tialities. For Sistakou, Apollonius is conscious as far as the historical spaces
of the ancient Mediterranean and beyond is concerned, but counterfactual geog-
raphy is what bears out the immanent ties of his poem with the epic genre. Fan-
tasylands, landscapes of epiphany, spaces of desire, heterotopias, mythical pla-
ces, and territories of mirage make up the canvas on which geographies of the
unreal are shrewdly drawn. Hellenistic epic, so it seems, insists on the fabrica-
tion of fictional spaces and places in order to manifest its provenance from es-
tablished predecessors and proclaim creative continuity in terms of genre.
In her essay “Geographical Landmarks and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica”,
Katerina Carvounis goes through the Posthomerica in order to showcase the im-
print of Homeric stories on the historical landscape of the late Imperial period. In
the core of her study, Carvounis argues that Quintus’ engagement with land-
marks already registered in the Homeric epics springs from an astounding
self-awareness of his late position in the epic tradition. Within this context, at
times the epic poet revises the presentation of Homeric landmarks according
to literary and philological insights into the respective geography (as in the
case of Miletus), at times he makes the connection between mythical past and
Trojan theme explicit (as in the case of Anchises’ bed). Carvounis shows that nar-
ratives about landmarks with either a metamorphic twist or an instance of divine
epiphany exhibit a predominantly aetiological character, which is meant to fill
the gap between narrated past and historical present. On the one hand, meta-
morphosis is exemplified in the figures of the mourning mothers Niobe and He-
cuba, who have turned into rock-formations with commemorative function
(Niobe morphs into Sipylos and Hecuba into Cynossema). On the other, narra-
tives about how the rivers Paphlagoneios and Glaucus came into being entail in-
stances of divine mediation in the burials of the heroes Memnon and Glaucus.
The result is that persons and landscapes intersect. In all cases, however, the in-
dividual history of landmarks turned into monuments is subjected to a radical
recontextualization of the Homeric material to a Hellenistic and Imperial setting.
12 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

The analysis of the evidence Carvounis collects from the Posthomerica bears wit-
ness to an increased level of spatial monumentality, one of epic’s intrinsic traits.
The power of narrative to create and transgress spatial boundaries is a ger-
mane issue to Robert Shorrock’s essay “Crossing the Hydaspes: Nonnus’ Diony-
siaca and the Boundaries of Epic”. Quite apart from the literary boundaries that
the Dionysiaca notoriously break down, the narrative of Nonnus’ lengthy poem
covers a considerable range of geographical distance, which spans from Greece
and its cultural periphery around the Mediterranean to the near East and Asia.
Dionysus’ movement through space prompts Shorrock to flesh out his argument
about literary geography going hand in hand with generic pluralism. After ac-
knowledging the vast interface of the Dionysiaca with literary models, he pro-
ceeds to a thorough examination of the poem’s links with both historical and lit-
erary sources by using Dionysus’ first encounter with Indian space as a case in
point: the crossing of the Indian river Hydaspes signposts the geographical mid-
point of Dionysus’ itinerary from Asia Minor to India and back again, and marks
the arithmetical central-point of the epic. By pointing out thematic similarities
between the narratives of Plutarch and Nonnus, Shorrock argues that Alexander
corresponds to Dionysus in his battle against the Indians. Moreover, Hydaspes is
presented not just as a physical borderline that signals Dionysus’ foray into a for-
eign land, but also gives Nonnus the opportunity to engage in dialogue with Iliad
21, which recounts Achilles’ battle against the river Scamander. Callimachean
echoes from the Hymn to Apollo invest Hydaspes with metapoetic signification
and draw forth the Dionysiaca’s adherence to the thematic principles of epic po-
etry. In intratextual terms, Shorrock substantiates a connection between Hy-
daspes and the Nile, which he places within a globalized frame that forges com-
parison of India with Egypt as a means of creating geographical boundaries. Ap-
pealing the amalgam-like semanticization of literary space as it is, Shorrock
manages to illustrate the diversity of textual ties that nuance Nonnus’ represen-
tation of Hydaspes and add up to a sophisticated literary landscape.
Jackie Elliott (“Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales”) examines as-
pects of spatial and geographical juxtapositions in the extant fragments of En-
nius’ Annales. Though the work is fragmentary and the task of contextualizing
and interpreting fragments not an easy one, Elliott shows how Ennius’ epic
poem revisits the dynamic tension between the West and the East, recasting a
geographical and cultural conflict which features prominently from Homer
and Herodotus to Roman epic and history. Moving from the smaller to the
more substantial fragments, Elliott sheds new light on the interplay between in-
door and outdoor space in Ilia’s dream and the ‘good companion’ fragments.
While Ilia’s disorientation in an environment defined by men underlines the gen-
dered tension in Ennius’ landscapes, the traits which the Ilia episode shares with
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 13

the ‘good companion’ fragment suggest that gender is one, but not the only, de-
terminant in Ennius’ epic space; land as a means of communicating the distribu-
tion of power among the actors is a crucial aspect which transcends gendered
dichotomies.
According to Stratis Kyriakidis (“From Delos to Latium: Wandering in the
Unknown”) the semantic relation between Delos/ Ortygia and Latium signposts
Aeneas’ quest for the unknown land where he is destined to found a new city. As
the reader experiences the delay of the revelation of Aeneas’ final destination,
the etymology of Delos (from δῆλος, “clear”) or Ortygia (from orior, “to appear”)
contrasts with the etymology of Latium (from lateo, “to conceal”): at Delos the
ultimate destination remains obscure (ἄδηλος) because of Anchises’ error in
the interpretation of Apollo’s oracle. Although Latium as the hero’s destination
remains latent until he reaches Carthage, it ceases to be so when Aeneas ac-
knowledges it as his journey’s end. Delos and Latium create a bipolar situation
parallel to the hero’s esoteric development which is inscribed in space through
his errores. To this end, Vergil appropriates the Greek myth of Delos-Latona in
his poetics by showing his Callimachean preferences vis-à-vis the Homeric
Hymn to Apollo; the Delos-Latona semantic relation is reallocated as a Delos-Lat-
ium geographical framework. Interestingly, the story of Delos, the floating and
obscure island, which eventually assumed a fixed identity and position, mirrors
the wanderings of Aeneas and reflects the hero’s characterization. Relying on the
semantic range of error, which means both “wandering” and “mistake”, Vergil in-
vites us to read his verses as a map depicting the Trojans’ erratic and erroneous
course from Delos to Crete; as a matter of fact, his catalogue of the Cyclades mir-
rors the actual position of Naxos, Donusa, Olearos, and Paros in relation to
Delos/Ortygia.
The narrative sequence Caieta-Circe in the beginning of Aeneid 7 is the focus
of Marios Skempis’ chapter (“Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Col-
onization in the ‘Caieta-Circe’ Sequence of Aeneid 7”). By exploring the geo-
graphical background of Caieta and Circe, Skempis demonstrates the intricate
spatial nexus between two seemingly unrelated minor figures of the Aeneid. Ver-
gil not only locates the vignettes of Caieta and Circe in Italy, but also foregrounds
the transformation of these female figures into geographical toponyms. The nar-
rative link between Caieta and Circe is set against the geographical background
of the Italian peninsula. Through a detailed examination of lexical and geo-
graphical issues in archaic Greek epic, Hellenistic literature, and prose geo-
graphical sources, Skempis shows how Vergil employs a rich literary tradition
in order to map out a poetics of colonization in his Roman epic. Greek myth
and Roman geography merge into the epic palimpsest of the Aeneid. An intrigu-
ing aspect of structuring epic narrative against the backdrop of literary geogra-
14 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

phy is the blurring of human identity and space as well as the interplay between
proper names and narrative segments. For Skempis, naming or changing the
name of a site signals Aeneas’ cultural appropriation of territorial otherness.
“What’s in a place name?” inquires Ioannis Ziogas in his contribution “The
Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses” as he comes to grips
with semasiological issues of geographical names in Ovid. The author takes a
new critical path that is set to combine literary onomastics with the narrativity
of space, and, in so doing, poses pertinent questions: How does the meaning
of a place name well up and to what extent do narrative turns develop this mean-
ing? The answers Ziogas provides are clear-cut: place names and personal
names are subservient to the consolidation of characters within the spatial con-
tinuum of the narrative. His case studies comprise examples of the etymological
empowering of epic topographies such as the Arcadian connections of Lycaon,
Venus’ ambiguous relation to her epithet Cytherea, and Glaucus’ trip to Circe
through Zancle and Rhegium. The notion of geographical displacement lies at
the heart of the argument insofar as it focuses on the twisting of myth to meet
the needs of Roman geopolitics. In the light of Metamorphoses 14– 15, which in-
cludes stories of heroes traveling from Greece to Italy, the author turns to the be-
ginning of the epic and argues that Ovid downplays the traditional connection of
Apollo’s laurel with Delphi and links it to Rome and Augustus. Interestingly, the
programmatic tale of Apollo puts two places that claimed to be the center of the
world (Delphi and Rome) in the periphery of Ovid’s narrative. In a similar vein,
the ekphrasis of Fama’s house invites the reader to view Fama’s sway between
center and periphery in relation to the global range of Rome’s dominion. Poised
between myth and history, the Metamorphoses projects a characteristic blend of
chronological and topographical shifts that are interlocked with the passage
from Troy to Rome. Nestor’s story about the impregnable Caeneus as recounted
to the Thessalian hero Achilles can also be seen within the discourse of decen-
tralizing Troy, since Nestor’s account suggests a parallel between the Centauro-
machy and the Trojan War and thus redirects the narrative focus from Troy to
Thessaly.
The reception of Vergil in early imperial Roman literature has been studied
thoroughly. However, far less attention has been paid to the centrality of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses in epics of this period. To that end, Alison Keith (“Ovidian Ge-
ographies in Flavian Mythographical Epic”) explores the transposition and
transformation of Ovid’s landscapes in Valerius Flaccus and Statius. In the be-
ginning of his Argonautica, Valerius programmatically evokes Ovid’s introducto-
ry scene of the Argonautic narrative in Metamorphoses 7, suggesting a new epic
and imperial expedition from East to West along the lines of Ovid’s Metamorpho-
ses. Valerius’ Argo revisits the landscapes of Ovid’s epic voyage. Hecate’s grove in
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 15

the Argonautica is focalized through Ovid’s Enna and Medea through Proserpina
and thus Valerius re-introduces a distinctly Ovidian interaction between epic
landscapes and the violence of desire. Moving from Valerius to Statius, Keith
demonstrates how the topography of civil strife in the Thebaid is sketched out
against the geographical blueprint of Ovid’s Theban tales in Metamorphoses 3.
Ovid’s Thebes, the city of Cadmus’ exile, extends its rule over a deadly landscape
of trackless wilderness. Similarly, Statius’ Thebes, to which Polynices returns as
an exile, is inhabited with monstrous hunters and wicked ambushers, and so
constitutes an accursed site and an appropriate setting for internecine warfare.
By spreading out the ominous aura of Ovid’s landscapes over the literary and im-
perial programs of their epics, Valerius Flaccus and Statius highlight the marital
and martial themes of the Argonautica and the Thebaid respectively.
Lucan’s iconoclastic catalogues and their geography of devastation are the
focus of Erica Bexley’s chapter (“Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of
War”). Comparing the catalogue of Caesar’s troops in Pharsalia 1 to Homer’s
catalogue of ships and Vergil’s catalogue of Italian allies, Bexley argues that
Lucan concentrates not on the assembling forces, but on the spaces they aban-
don. Such a pointed inversion of the traditional epic catalogue illustrates the
self-defeat inherent in civil war at the same time as it undoes Caesar’s expan-
sionist conquest of Gaul; as Caesar’s troops leave Gaul for Rome, they contract
Rome’s imperial power. The catalogue of Pompey’s troops in Pharsalia 3 likewise
represents Rome’s collapse. More conventional than Caesar’s, Pompey’s cata-
logue expresses the inverted nature of civil war via content rather than form:
the assembling republican allies anticipate the train of mourners at Pompey’s
funeral as well as recalling this general’s famous triumphs; as a triumph in re-
verse, Pompey’s catalogue therefore illustrates the narrowing effect civil war in-
flicts upon Roman imperial geography. Following this focused analysis, Bexley
proceeds to demonstrate how Lucan’s catalogues reflect more general themes
in the Pharsalia as a whole. She examines the presence of water (rivers, sea,
the Ocean) as a natural boundary whose symbolic transgression by unrestrained
tyrants amounts to war against nature. Human beings and natural phenomena
interact in intriguing ways, with rivers in particular replicating the conflict
waged between Pompey and Caesar. An analysis of proper names, too, shows
that Lucan sacrifices geographic accuracy in favor of etymologies that suit his
epic program. Finally, Bexley argues that Lucan’s catalogues avoid establishing
genealogical links: Romans barely feature in either list of troops and, in Pharsa-
lia 7, a brief catalogue of animals literally removes all traces of Roman soldiers
from the battlefield. By abjuring the catalogue’s traditional genealogical func-
tion, Lucan suggests that civil war has destroyed Roman bloodlines.
16 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

Epic journeys and poetic expeditions go hand in hand in Latin literature.

Ruth Parkes (“The Long Road to Thebes: The Geography of Journeys in Statius’
Thebaid”) follows the route between Argos and Thebes in the Thebaid and traces
a tension between the magnetic pull of Thebes and the poet’s as well as the char-
acters’ reluctance to reach the city where the epic’s focal action takes place. The
Argive army takes too long to reach Thebes in both narrative and chronological
terms, a delay which conveys Statius’ postponement to recount his nefarious
subject matter of civil war and fratricide, recalling Lucan’s marked disinclination
to focus on his epic’s topic. The prolonged duration of the Argive expedition is
further underpinned by the effortless travels of the gods as well as by the
speed of Polynices’ journey from Thebes to Argos and, most importantly, by
the bereaved wives and female relatives of the Argives, who need a far shorter
time than their men to travel from Argos to Thebes. Different characters repeat
the same itinerary for different purposes and in different speed. This repetition,
Parkes demonstrates, contrasts with the Argives’ failed homecoming and sug-
gests a parallel between the doomed military expedition and the trip of the fe-
male mourners who are likened to a defeated army. The Thebaid’s much-traveled
routes further pit the Argive expedition against the altruistic travels of Hercules
and Theseus. Locations and landmarks resonate with mythological echoes, high-
lighting the ominous and impious impact of the Argive army on the landscape.
Thebes is the goal in Statius’ epic, but the trip is what really matters.
Of course, the Flavian epic which explores the literary and political dynam-
ics of traveling is Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica. Helen Slaney (“The Voyage of
Rediscovery: Consuming Global Space in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica”) discov-
ers the ironies of a first ship laden with the long literary tradition of the Argonau-
tic expedition and the global pretensions of the Roman Empire. The landscapes
exposed by the first ship are anything but untouched, drawing the Argonauts
and their readers towards an uncanny encounter with the familiar made strange.
Valerius insists on the Argo’s primacy only to shatter the illusion of the first voy-
age by denying Jason and his crew any aetiological command of uncharted ter-
ritory. By contrast, aetiology is a recurring activity in Apollonius’ Argonautica,
even though the Argo of the Hellenistic poet is not the first ship. The depth of
intertextual allusions in Valerius’ Argonautica makes Argo’s belatedness surface
more readily. As distant and unknown places can only be perceived in precon-
ceived terms, it becomes all the more explicit that every discovery is not a
new experience but a projection of the explorer’s cultural background to unfami-
liar landscapes. For Slaney, Valerius self-consciously undermines the possibility
of exploring new places and lands untainted by imperial preoccupations, in
order to challenge the epic’s own participation in constructing a global Rome.
 Introduction: Putting Epic Space in Context 17

Argo’s maiden voyage in Valerius Flaccus further revisits a recurring theme

in Roman epic, namely the transition of power from East to West. Gesine Man-
uwald (“Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica: the Argo’s Maiden Voyage from Europe
into the Unknown”) focuses on topographical turning points in the Argonautica
and examines how the selection of geographical information is linked to the
overall framework of the epic. Valerius’ voyage transcends the agenda of the Ar-
gonauts of Greek myth since it will have serious impact on the future distribution
of power. By opening up the seas and thus initiating conflicts between distant
peoples, the Argo delineates the boundaries between East and West and enables
the transition of power from Asia to Greece and later from Greece to another peo-
ple, presumably the Romans. Interestingly, Manuwald demonstrates how Valer-
ius’ Argonautic expedition suggests the fluidity of frontiers between East and
West. The frozen Pontus, which touches Europe on one side and Asia on the
other, undermines the stability of this natural boundary, while the peninsula
of Cyzicus is neither Europe nor Asia, neither island nor mainland and it neither
connects nor separates. What is more, the presentation of Amycus’ kingdom as
the barrier between Europe and Asia highlights the construction of artificial lim-
its separating the two continents. The Argonauts define East and West, but the
negative repercussions of Argo’s maiden voyage might foreground the problem-
atic nature of Roman imperialism.
The publication of a multi-authored volume dedicated to a unifying theme is
always a firm indication that scholarly interest in the theme not just grows, but
also flourishes. As a consequence, the recent publication of Space in Ancient
Greek Narrative edited by Irene de Jong is certainly a time-marker.³⁴ Seminal
studies that consolidate the importance of space in epic narratives and pave
the way for further elaborate work on spatial configurations within the broad
field of narratology have recently come out.³⁵ At the same time, the Research
Cluster “Topoi”, based in Berlin as a collaboration act of Humboldt-Universität
and Freie Universität, is set to explore in depth processes of “formation and
transformation of space and knowledge in ancient civilizations” and thus prom-
ises to produce cutting-edge scholarship on the diverse epistemological frames
within which ancient cultures map out and conceptualize space.
The present volume is to be seen in the context of these developments and
aspires to contribute to scholarly interest in ‘epic geography’ by offering new in-
sights and readings. For the purposes of this volume, we focus on Greek and

 The approach of the volume is narratological and therefore designed to supplement de Jong/
Nünlist/Bowie 2004 and de Jong/Nünlist 2007.
 Trachsel 2007; Purves 2010a; Tsagalis 2010b; 2012; Clay 2011; Thalmann 2011.
18 Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas

Roman epic, a poetic genre traditionally linked with the historical, political, and
cultural dynamics of geography. The aim is to discuss the extent to which spatial
configurations classified under the tags ‘geography’, ‘topography’, and ‘land-
scape’ intersect with the premises of epic narrative and further compositional pa-
rameters within this genre-specific framework. The questions we address mainly
concern matters of representation and conceptualization of space. As well as ex-
ploring the geographical and topographical determinants inherent in epic, a spe-
cial goal of the volume is to elaborate on certain contexts that render the inter-
relation of conceptual and representational space meaningful for the formation
of the genre and its narrative tropes. The choice of epic poets is eclectic, not com-
prehensive, with emphasis on non-canonical works, and our main aim was to
achieve thematic coherence rather than produce a companion-like volume that
covers many authors. Nonetheless, we trust that the volume covers a wide and
representative range of Greek and Roman epic poems and will inspire further
studies on the topic. By introducing a multifaceted approach to epic geography
we hope to provide a critical evaluation of spatial perception, of its repercus-
sions on shaping narrative as well as of its discursive traits and cultural contexts.
Johannes Haubold
Ethnography in the Iliad
Greek ethnography, it is often said, starts before ethnographic literature itself
came into existence. Long before Herodotus and Hecataeus, there was Aristeas
of Proconnesus. Before Aristeas, there was the Odyssey. And before the Odyssey,
there was Iliad 13.1– 9: when Zeus wants a break from the fighting around Troy,
he turns his gaze to “the horse-breeding Thracians, the Mysians who fight in
close formation, the brilliant Hippemolgi who feed on milk, and the Abii who
are most righteous of all men”. There he lingers, and “not at all did he turn
back to Troy any more”. Already Strabo treated the passage as an early example
of ethnographic writing.¹ Modern scholars follow suit, and so a few lines in the
Iliad become the starting point for an entire literary tradition.
But what does it mean to say that “the primitivistic form of exoticism…
start[ed] with the author of the Iliad”?² Or that we have here “the first extant
case of Greek idealization of barbarian races”?³ The first claim amounts to
mere speculation: quite apart from the problems we have in dating the Iliad,
we do not of course know when and how ethnographic ‘exoticism’ started
being articulated in Greek. The second claim is banal if we grant that the Iliad
is indeed the oldest extant text of Greek literature. What these assessments
have in common is the fact that they single out a specific passage in the Iliad,
and read it with hindsight. This chapter investigates how Il. 13.1– 9 relates to
the rest of the poem, and what it can tell us about its poetics of human and di-
vine space. I want to make two points in particular. First, the Iliad does not mark
the beginning of Greek ethnography in any meaningful sense. Quite the contrary:
the poem displays a sophisticated understanding of an already existing ethno-
graphic discourse, to which it responds, and which it appropriates in subtle
and surprising ways. Secondly, the ethnographic passage in Iliad 13 needs to
be understood both in the context of the Iliad’s more general attitude to cultural
space (which in turn is shaped by its broader poetic concerns), and its immediate
narrative context.
In arguing these points, I take inspiration from Franco Moretti’s Atlas of the
European literature. ⁴ Moretti shows that nineteenth-century novels were just as
engaged in drawing the contours of geographical and cultural space as were

 Str. 7.3.2– 10, citing earlier authors such as Apollodorus, Ephorus and Eratosthenes.
 Lovejoy/Boas 1935, 288.
 Romm 1992, 53 n. 21; see also Müller 1972, 53 – 9.
 Moretti 1998.
20 Johannes Haubold

the specialised genres of geographical writing that flourished at the time. As

Moretti puts it: “geography shapes the narrative structure of the European
novel”.⁵ Of course, classicists did not need Moretti to tell them that space had
an important role in Greek literature too: from Zielinski to Purves and Strauss
Clay, there has been plenty of illuminating work on Homeric representations
of space in particular.⁶ Yet none of this work has challenged the assumption
that ethnography is relevant for some early Greek epics but not others. Thus,
the Odyssey has long been regarded as an archetypical product of the Greek eth-
nographic imagination;⁷ whereas the Iliad has not on the whole been read with
ethnography in mind, sporadic mentions of our one passage in book 13 notwith-
standing.
At first sight, this may seem entirely sensible: in contrast with the flamboy-
antly wide-ranging Odyssey (“he saw the cities of many men and learned their
mind”, Od. 1.3), the poet of the Iliad keeps his gaze fixed on a small patch of
land between the Hellespont and the city of Troy. And what he sees yields little
that might qualify as ethnography on any conventional definition of that term.
Yet, if Moretti is right and nineteenth-century novels developed sophisticated
maps of the world without showing much prima facie interest in geography of
a conventional kind, might not the same be true of the Iliad and ethnography?
The question leads us to rethink not only the Iliad and its portrayal of human
and divine space but also the relationship between early Greek epic and ethno-
graphic discourse more generally. I therefore begin my discussion with some
considerations of a general nature: how does epic as a genre define itself, and
how does the Iliad fit into the wider framework of song about “the deeds of
gods and men” (Od. 1.338)? I then turn to the question of how the poem maps
divine and human culture; and how in so doing it responds to, and transforms,
existing traditions of ethnography.

From Epic to Ethnography

My starting point, then, is the definition of epic as song (ἀοιδή) about the famous
deeds of gods and men.⁸ Song preserves the memory of deeds that are worthy of

 Moretti 1998, 8 (his emphasis).

 See variously Zielinski 1899/1901, Elliger 1975, Thornton 1984, Scully 1990, Clay 2007, Trachsel
2007, Herzhoff 2008, Purves 2010a, Clay 2011; for early Greek geography more generally, see Cole
2010, with further literature.
 E.g., Malkin 1998, Dougherty 2001, Hartog 2001, 15 – 39.
 See Ford 1992, 13 – 56.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 21

renown (κλέος). In practice, epic celebrates those deeds that contributed to the
shaping of the cosmos, especially during the heroic age, when the respective
roles (τιμαί) of gods and men were finally determined.⁹ Taken together, the
deeds of gods and men encapsulate a cultural history of the universe, starting
from a time near the beginning of the cosmos, when gods such as Earth or
Sky were all-encompassing and all-powerful. Two generations later, the Olympi-
an gods were less powerful individually but socially and culturally more ad-
vanced. The trend towards cultural differentiation continues in the era of the
demigods, and culminates with the world of human beings ‘as they are
now’.¹⁰ Within this larger narrative of cultural differentiation, the Iliad focuses
on the critical moment when human beings and gods become fully separated.
Achilles, for one, has a divine mother and as a result gains a powerful hold
on the gods, including Zeus. Yet, as the narrative unfolds, he too must accept
that he is a mere mortal.¹¹
In focusing on the tragedy of Achilles, the Iliad construes human life and
human space broadly along a scale from human to semi-divine to fully divine.
Cultural difference has little room in this scheme, for it suggests that there
might be several different ways of being human. What is acceptable to an Ethio-
pian is not necessarily acceptable to a Thracian, as Xenophanes famously point-
ed out.¹² Unlike Xenophanes, however, the Iliad focuses on the human condition
tout court. It therefore plays up those elements that all human beings share (we
must all grow old and die) and plays down as irrelevant or distracting those el-
ements that set us apart (some people are “red-haired and blue-eyed”, others are
“snub-nosed and black”, as Xenophanes points out).
In practice, this means that the Iliad is largely uninterested in staging cultur-
al difference: Achaeans and Trojans worship the same gods, hold similar values
and share one language. Much has been made of the fact that the Carians are
“barbarian-voiced” in the Iliad (βαρβαρόφωνοι, Il. 2.867), and that the Trojans
are of “mixed tongue” (γλῶσσα μέμικτο, Il. 4.438). These are however isolated
passages: as a general rule the Iliad does not emphasise language difference
among human communities.¹³ Other cultural traits are likewise given short

 Clay (2003, 161– 74) discusses the age of heroes as a transitional phase in the making of the
universe.
 See Graziosi/Haubold 2005.
 Graziosi/Haubold 2005, 140 – 3.
 Fr. 16 D-K.
 Mackie (1996) argues that Greeks and Trojans use speech differently, but the traits she
uncovers are so subtle as to confirm my point, which is that though differences exist, they do not
become overt markers of cultural identity.
22 Johannes Haubold

shrift. When characters do stand out, this tends to be motivated by the narrative
context. Thus, Paris’ behaviour and attire at Il. 3.15 – 20 seem primarily a matter
of characterisation. Likewise, Priam’s stone palace comes into view at Il. 6.242–
50 not as a marvel of the ethnographic imagination but, in the words of Oliver
Taplin, as “the breeding ground of a great dynasty”:¹⁴ the palace illustrates Hec-
tor’s task in trying to defend Troy, and helps the narrator present Troy as a prize
for the invading army. Then again, when Achilles tells Hector that there can be
no agreement between them (Il. 22.262– 7), he does not invoke cultural values
but contrasts men and lions, wolves and sheep, in a hyperbolic play of metaphor.
Achilles makes no attempt to cast Hector as typically Trojan: it is just a matter of
who eats whom. Even Agamemnon at Il. 6.55 – 60 does not suggest that the Tro-
jans’ treachery is a cultural trait. Rather, he emphasises their disregard for val-
ues which in principle they ought to share with the Achaeans.
Cultural difference in early Greek thought tends to increase towards the
edges of the world, but there is little sense of that happening in the Iliad:
among the Trojan contingents, four are said to come from ‘far away’.¹⁵ None of
these, however, stand out as particularly exotic. The Paiones are good archers
(Il. 2.848 etc.), but so are others. The Lycians at the very end of the Trojan Cata-
logue form an obvious counterpart to the Trojans at the beginning and may thus
seem good candidates for ethnographic elaboration. That, however, is precisely
what we do not find. As I have argued elsewhere, the poet rather sees the Lycians
as confronting issues that affect all warriors before Troy:¹⁶ why should they fight
over Helen when they are apparently free to walk away from the war?¹⁷ What
might be a cause worth dying for? And what is it that makes a human life
worth living at all? These are universal concerns, expressed with exemplary clari-
ty in Sarpedon’s famous speech at Il. 12.310 – 28. The speech involves no special
pleading: Sarpedon lives by the same values (κλέος, κῦδος, εὖχος, τιμή) that de-
termine the lives of the other warriors at Troy. He is not culturally unique, nor
does Lycia itself differ significantly from other regions closer to home. It may
be argued that Glaucus’ extravagant golden armour adds an exotic touch, but
Glaucus too does not place himself outside the cultural framework of the
other warriors at Troy: when he swaps armour with Diomedes at Il. 6.234– 6,
his actions prove that guest friendship is a central value in Lycia as well as in
Argos.¹⁸

 Taplin 1992, 117.

 Paiones at Il. 2.849, Halizones at Il. 2.857, Phrygians at Il. 2.863 and Lycians at Il. 2.877.
 See Haubold 2011.
 As Glaucus threatens to do at Il. 17.154– 5.
 For detailed discussion of the episode, see Graziosi/Haubold 2010, 36 – 40.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 23

Beyond the sphere of Troy and her allies, cultural diversity increases, but not
by much. A swift tour of outlying regions will illustrate the point. The Solymians
of south-eastern Anatolia feature twice in Glaucus’ account of his grandfather
Bellerophontes (Il. 6.184– 5, 204): they are particularly warlike, but otherwise
seem unremarkable. The Amazons are encountered in a similar geographical
context (Il. 3.182 and 6.186): they too feature only in direct speech – their home-
land remains out of sight and we hear little about their customs. Granted, they
are called ἀντιάνειραι and it may be argued that in this epithet we find the kernel
of an ethnographic digression. But the fact remains that the Iliad never offers
that digression.¹⁹
Further east, there are the Sidonians of the Levantine coast and the Phoeni-
cian sailors who trade their goods. What little we learn about their homeland and
customs hardly promises hidden ethnographic delights. In any case, all that the
Iliad actually tells us about the Sidonians is that they were good at producing
some of the precious objects that feature in the narrative (e. g. Il. 6.289 – 95,
23.743). Egyptian Thebes is mentioned briefly in Achilles’ speech at Il 9.381– 4:
we learn that it is rich and spacious, but never hear of it again. Beyond even
the Sidonians and Egyptians dwell tribes whom no human traveller reaches.
Among them are the Pygmies who live in the far south, by the river Ocean.
The Pygmies are mentioned in a simile at Il. 3.3 – 7, where they do battle with mi-
grating cranes. They were popular in later literature and art, and may have been
popular already among Homer’s earliest audiences.²⁰ The name suggests dwarf-
ishness, as does the story of the cranes (not exactly the most warlike of crea-
tures): ancient readers knew that there was scope here for ethnographic elabo-
ration, but characteristically had to look elsewhere for details.
More prominent than the Pygmies, and perhaps the closest the Iliad comes
to emphasising cultural difference outside of book 13, are the Ethiopians, who
appear twice near the edges of the world by the river Ocean (Il. 1.423 – 4 and
23.202– 7). The Ethiopians acquire ethnographic point in the Hesiodic Catalogue
of Women (fr. 150.17– 18 M-W), where they are grouped with the Pygmies and
other exotic tribes.²¹ From Xenophanes onward, they appear as a prime target
of the ethnographic imagination.²² There is every reason to believe that early Ilia-
dic audiences already knew them as an exotic tribe: certainly, the Iliad itself sug-

 For the Amazons in later literature, see duBois 1982, Tyrell 1984, Blok 1995.
 Krieter-Spiro 2009, 14.
 The tribe of the “Black ones” (Μέλανες) suggests the popular interpretation of Αἰθίοπες =
“Burnt faces”.
 Romm 1992, 49 – 67.
24 Johannes Haubold

gests that they live in plenty and close to the gods.²³ Most telling perhaps is their
epithet ἀμύμονες, “blameless”, which is not normally used of entire societies in
Homer, being generally reserved for individuals. Yet, even in the case of the
Ethiopians the narrator resists going into detail. Indeed, we sense a reluctance
to include the Ethiopians in human cultural space at all: only gods mention
the Ethiopians in the Iliad, and only they get to visit them.²⁴ When they do,
the narrator does not follow them there.
By placing the Ethiopians and Pygmies near the Ocean, the poet of the Iliad
locates pockets of cultural difference along the edges of the world. We find the
same phenomenon also in the Odyssey and later ethnographic texts: the Iliad
was evidently familiar with this feature of Greek ethnographic discourse.²⁵ Yet,
it refrains from joining up outlying regions into a coherent ethnography of
‘the other’ (no connection is made, for example, between Pygmies and Ethiopi-
ans), and when the poet describes the Ocean on the Shield of Achilles there is no
mention of exotic tribes. More generally, the Shield of Achilles conceives of the
world not as a mosaic of culturally distinct regions but as an abstract image of
the human condition.²⁶ It is my contention that this is not a matter of Homer dis-
playing a pre-ethnographic consciousness, but a poetic choice.
Here it might be instructive to contrast the Iliad’s approach to ethnography
with an early, and rather notorious, example of the genre: the Arimaspea by Ar-
isteas of Proconnesus. Unfortunately, that work as a whole is lost, and we know
frustratingly little about its contents, context and time of composition.²⁷ What we
do know is that Aristeas claimed to have been transported to the far north of the
world in a trance, and to have brought back from his voyage an account of the
weird and wonderful tribes whom he encountered there (test. 2 Bernabé). We also
know that Aristeas was much interested in cultural traits: he reports that the Is-
sedones wear their hair uncut (fr. 4 Bernabé), and that their neighbours to the
north, the Arimasps, are brave in battle and rich in horses, sheep and oxen
(fr. 5 Bernabé). Moreover, he reports that the Arimasps have shaggy hair and
only one eye, and that they are enormously strong (fr. 6 Bernabé). More sensa-

 Romm 1992, 50 – 4.
 Contrast Od. 4.84.
 See Romm 1992, and especially pp. 9 – 44 for the geography of Ocean.
 Taplin 1980.
 For edition with commentary, see Dowden; discussion in Bolton 1962, West 2004, Dowden.
The issue of dating in particular is much debated: ancient suggestions range from the early 6th
century (Suda) to the early 7th (Herodotus). Bolton accepts the early date but is criticised by
Burkert (1963) and Herington (1964). Current consensus favours a “lower version of the high
date”, around 620 – 580 BCE (Dowden).
 Ethnography in the Iliad 25

tionally still, they are embroiled in a constant war over gold with a tribe of Grif-
fons (fr. 7 Bernabé).
This last detail, which recalls the Iliadic Pygmies and their war against
cranes, shows well how the Arimaspea appeals to ethnographic desire in a
way in which the Iliad does not: whereas Homer hints that there might be
more to say about Amazons, Pygmies and Ethiopians, Aristeas explores in detail
the tribes whom he visits. He concedes that this is not altogether unproblematic,
as we can see from the fact that he frames ethnography effectively as a form of
hallucination. Moreover, he stops short in the land of the (relatively ‘normal’) Is-
sedones and learns about the Cyclopean Arimasps and their even weirder neigh-
bours only through hearsay. But once these provisos are in place we are allowed
to indulge in the details of his ethnographic tour. The Iliad is different. Not only
does Homer play down cultural differences in general, he also prevents us from
indulging our desire for an Aristean brand of ethnography in the one passage of
the Iliad where a character within the story does just that (Il. 13.1– 9). I turn to it
now.

Ethnographic Distractions
At the beginning of Iliad 13, Zeus has had enough of the Trojan War. After a pe-
riod of protracted stalemate, Hector has finally broken through the Achaean
wall, and Zeus’s promise to honour Achilles is nearing its fulfilment. At this
point, the god dramatically averts his gaze from the battlefield and goes on a vir-
tual tour around exotic northern tribes:

Ζεὺς δ’ ἐπεὶ οὖν Τρῶάς τε καὶ Ἕκτορα νηυσὶ πέλασσε,

τοὺς μὲν ἔα παρὰ τῇσι πόνον τ’ ἐχέμεν καὶ ὀϊζὺν
νωλεμέως, αὐτὸς δὲ πάλιν τρέπεν ὄσσε φαεινὼ
νόσφιν ἐφ’ ἱπποπόλων Θρῃκῶν καθορώμενος αἶαν
Μυσῶν τ’ ἀγχεμάχων καὶ ἀγαυῶν ἱππημολγῶν 5
γλακτοφάγων Ἀβίων τε δικαιοτάτων ἀνθρώπων.
ἐς Τροίην δ’ οὐ πάμπαν ἔτι τρέπεν ὄσσε φαεινώ·
οὐ γὰρ ὅ γ’ ἀθανάτων τινα ἔλπετο ὃν κατὰ θυμὸν
ἐλθόντ’ ἢ Τρώεσσιν ἀρηξέμεν ἢ Δαναοῖσιν.

After Zeus had brought Hector and the Trojans to the Achaean ships,
he left the combatants to their toil and misery
without pause and turned his luminous eyes
away, scanning the land of the horse-breeding Thracians,
the Mysians who fight in close formation, and the brilliant 5
Hippemolgi who feed on milk, and the Abii, most righteous of men.
26 Johannes Haubold

And not at all did he turn his eyes to Troy any longer,
for he did not think that any of the immortals
might go and help the Trojans or the Greeks.²⁸

The narrative function of the episode is transparent: Homer introduces a diver-

sion so that Poseidon can intervene on the Achaean side. This brings respite
for the reader before the final onslaught on the ships and creates many opportu-
nities for narrative delight, including the deception of Zeus in Iliad 14 and the
clash between the divine brothers Zeus and Poseidon in book 15. Yet, beyond in-
troducing a narrative diversion, Zeus’s moment of distraction also works as an
allusion to a specific type of literature. A brief comparison with a similar passage
in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women illustrates what is at stake. That text takes
the chase of the Harpies and Boreads as an excuse to go on a whistle-stop
tour around the ethnographic edges of the world, visiting on the way the Hippe-
molgi that so interested Zeus in Iliad 13 (frr. 150.15, 151 M-W), as well as the Ethio-
pians, the Pygmies, and many other tribes.²⁹ At one level, the passage enables
the poet to fill ‘gaps’ in his genealogies, thus making good his claim to full cov-
erage. We hear of tribes that are descended from Gaia (fr. 150.11 M-W), Zeus
(fr. 150.16 M-W), Poseidon (fr. 150.19 and 27 M-W) and Hermes (fr. 150.31 M-W).
Yet, these genealogical titbits are hardly the point of the passage. Rather, the
Hesiodic Periodos takes the opportunity of presenting us with an extended
piece of early Greek ethnography, the dazzling equivalent in narrative of a fun-
fare extravaganza. We are quite literally getting side-tracked from the main nar-
rative, and we love it. The trash aesthetic of the Catalogue comes fully into its
own here: as Richard Martin points out, more is always more in this poem.³⁰
There is, however, one important qualification to what I have just said: the
format of the mid-air chase, so effective in so many ways, ensures that we do not
linger in this fascinating but alien world. Successive verbs of motion drive us on
relentlessly: ἐθύνεον ἀίσσοντες (20), ὄρουσαν (30). At one stage, the chase spins
back on itself (28), but far from slowing down, we accelerate even further.³¹ A
pause seems finally on the cards when we arrive with the Sirens:

 Il. 13.1– 9.
 Frr. 150 – 5 M-W; for Horse-milkers and Cheese-eaters, see frr. 150.15, 151 M-W; for further
overlap with the Iliad, see fr. 150.9 and 18 M-W (Pygmies), fr. 150.15 and 17 M-W (Ethiopians); for
overlap with the Odyssey: fr.150.15 M-W (Libyans), 150.26 M-W (Laestrygones), fr. 150.31 M-W
(Calypso), fr. 150.33 M-W (Sirens); for overlap with Aristeas, see fr. 150.15 M-W (Scythians),
fr. 150.21 M-W (Hyperboreans) and fr. 152 M-W (Griffons).
 Martin 2005b.
 Hes. fr. 150.29 M-W, [ἱέμενοι] μάρψαι, ταὶ δ’ ἐκφυγέειν καὶ ἀλύξαι (“the Boreads striving to
catch them, the Harpies striving to escape and avoid their clutches”).
 Ethnography in the Iliad 27

Σειρήνων τε λίγε]ι[α]ν̣ [ὄπ]α κλύον·

And they heard the resounding v[oice of the Sirens].³²

If the restoration is correct (and there is much to be said in its favour), this is a
telling moment of poetic tension. The Sirens and their “resounding voice”
(λίγε]ι[α]ν̣ [ὄπ]α) articulate our desire to stop the roller-coaster ride and linger.³³
However, we must press on:

ἀλλ’ ἄρα καὶ τὰς

[ μετα]χ̣ρονίοισι πόδεσσι

but even these

[they left behind] with swift feet.³⁴

The phrase ἀλλ’ ἄρα καὶ τάς suggests that the lure of ethnography makes itself
felt. Yet, even the Catalogue, for all its unashamed sensationalism, does not
allow us to get permanently distracted by exotic creatures and places.
All this has obvious implications for how we read Odysseus’ encounter with
the Sirens in the Odyssey. ³⁵ However, distraction born of ethnographic curiosity
is also an issue in Il. 13.1– 9. Zeus clearly likes what he sees: narratologically, the
catalogue of northern tribes fills the enormous space between the beginning of
book 13 and the deception of Zeus at Il. 14.153 ff. “Not at all did he turn his gaze
to Troy any more”, says the narrator, emphasising the extent of the gap which
Zeus’s wayward gaze must fill: Zeus, it would seem, cannot have enough of
what he is seeing.³⁶ By contrast, what we are told about his viewing is brief. It
starts innocently enough with the Thracians and Mysians, whose names are fa-
miliar from elsewhere in the narrative.³⁷ Epithets establish a broadly cultural reg-
ister (ἱπποπόλων, ἀγχεμάχων), until with the Hippemolgi we steer toward a more
pronounced ethnography: milk-drinking Hippemolgi (almost a tautology) and

 Hes. fr. 150.33 M-W.

 The tension is recognized by Hirschberger 2004, 328.
 Hes. fr. 150.33 – 4 M-W.
 For the Sirens in the Odyssey, see Pucci 1987, 209 – 13 and 1998, 1– 9; Goldhill 1991, 64– 5. For
A. R. 4.891– 921, see Goldhill 1991, 298 – 300.
 Janko (1992, 43) argues that the metrical shape of Il. 13.4– 7 is suggestive of the “duration and
abstractedness of Zeus’s reflections”.
 Both are mentioned in the catalogue of Trojan allies: Il. 2.844 (Thracians) and 858 (Mysians);
for discussion, see Brügger/Stoevesandt/Visser 2003, 276 and 281.
28 Johannes Haubold

righteous Abii (another tautology)³⁸ are stereotypes that serve as shorthand for
the northern tribes, and the attendant ethnographic discourse: dystopian milk
drinkers suggest one end of the spectrum (we recall the Odyssean Cyclops and
his predilection for milk products), utopian ‘super-just men’ another. Between
them, they suggest a genre of ethnography which must have been well-known
to Iliadic audiences; and which under different circumstances they might have
enjoyed exploring just as much as the Iliadic Zeus.³⁹

Ethnography of the Divine

In the Iliad, ethnography of the conventional sort remains a guilty pleasure, and
one, which – unlike Zeus – we are not allowed to indulge. Yet, for the audience
too there are ethnographic thrills in store: the Olympian gods themselves, I
argue, take on the role of an exotic tribe far more glamorous even than the Ethio-
pians and the Hippemolgi whom, unlike the gods, we cannot hope to visit.
Once again, a sideward glance at the Arimaspea may help us understand
better what is at issue in this claim:

θαῦμ’ ἡμῖν καὶ τοῦτο μέγα φρεσὶν ἡμετέρηισιν.

ἄνδρες ὕδωρ ναίουσιν ἀπὸ χθονὸς ἐν πελάγεσσι·
δύστηνοί τινές εἰσιν, ἔχουσι γὰρ ἔργα πονηρά·
ὄμματ’ ἐν ἄστροισι, ψυχὴν δ’ ἐνὶ πόντωι ἔχουσιν.
ἦ που πολλὰ θεοῖσι φίλας ἀνὰ χεῖρας ἔχοντες
εὔχονται σπλάγχνοισι κακῶς ἀναβαλλομένοισι.

This too is a great marvel for our minds:

There are men who dwell on water, in the sea, away from land,
they are wretched, for they have an oppressive way of life:
their eyes are on the stars, their soul in the waves,
they send many a prayer to the gods, with hands raised,
but with their bowels dreadfully being tossed up too.⁴⁰

The authenticity of this fragment has sometimes been doubted, but regardless of
whether we are dealing with a genuine passage of Aristeas, or merely a good

 For ἄ-βιοι = “(people) without force”, with δικαιοτάτων ἀνθρώπων as an explanatory gloss,
see Janko 1992, 42– 3. The superlative δικαιοτάτων is in itself characteristic of ethnographic
discourse. For Herodotus’ use of the superlative in ethnography, see Bloomer 1993.
 Ancient readers, however, wanted more; cf. ΣT ad Il. 13.6c: πῶς δὲ οὐδὲν περὶ αὐτῶν εἶπεν.
Aeschylus apparently obliged, though for some unknown reason he turned Homer’s ‘Abii’ into
‘Gabii’ (fr. 196 TrGF).
 Aristeas fr. 11 Bernabé.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 29

fake, there are several aspects that make it seem typical of early Greek ethnog-
raphy.⁴¹ We may note, first of all, the studiously sensational nature of the de-
scription: with a mixture of fascination and horror the speaker (probably a char-
acter in the story rather than the narrator himself) dissects the people he de-
scribes, turning them into a bizarre display of limbs: eyes, soul, hands, and bow-
els are prized apart and laid out for inspection. The description is meant as a
tour-de-force of the ethnographic gaze: its intended effect is ‘wonder’ (θαῦμα),
a typical response to cultural idiosyncracy in the Odyssey (9.190), and indeed
in later ethnographic writing.
The central paradox sustaining Aristeas’ passage is the idea of a tribe that
dwells not on land but in water. That is indeed striking, for in Homer all
human beings live on land, in contrast with the gods who dwell in heaven.⁴²
What is presented as a matter of ontological status in the Iliad becomes cultural
habit in Aristeas. In a similar vein, the anonymous speaker in Aristeas describes
the sea-dwellers’ existence as ‘wretched’ (δύστηνοί τινές εἰσιν), thus creating a
pocket of space where life is permanently worse than elsewhere. At one level,
this is merely to generalise the Homeric sentiment that sailors and other travel-
lers are wretched.⁴³ At another level, Aristeas once again does something here
that is characteristic of ethnographic discourse but quite uncharacteristic of
the Iliad: he singles out one specific society as decisively disadvantaged because
of its lifestyle. Homer may call an individual or group of people ‘wretched’ on the
basis of specific experiences, but he does not brand entire cultures in this way. In
fact, wretchedness for him describes the condition of all humans, in contrast
with divine beings:

‘ἆ δειλώ, τί σφῶι δόμεν Πηλῆι ἄνακτι

θνητῶι, ὑμεῖς δ’ ἐστὸν ἀγήρω τ’ ἀθανάτω τε;
ἦ ἵνα δυστήνοισι μετ’ ἀνδράσιν ἄλγε’ ἔχητον;
οὐ μὲν γάρ τί πού ἐστιν ὀιζυρώτερον ἀνδρὸς
πάντων, ὅσσα τε γαῖαν ἔπι πνείει τε καὶ ἕρπει.’

‘Ah poor wretches, why did we give you to lord Peleus,

a mortal, while you are unaging and immortal?
Was it so that you could share the suffering of wretched mankind?

 For discussion, see Bowra 1956, Dowden ad BNJ F 7, both of whom accept the genuineness of
the lines.
 For ἐπιχθόνιος as a standard Homeric term for human beings, see LfgrE s.v.
 Thus, δύστηνος is commonly used of Odysseus in the Odyssey. The Iliad considers not having
a fixed abode an extreme form of suffering; see Graziosi/Haubold 2005, 141– 2. In the ethno-
graphic register of the Hesiodic Catalogue, it becomes a cultural trait: cf. fr. 151 M-W (the
Scythians are said to live on carts).
30 Johannes Haubold

For nothing is more miserable than man,

of all beings that breathe and move upon the earth.’ ⁴⁴

This passage, taken from a speech by Zeus in Iliad 17, illustrates well the poem’s
universalising thrust: in stark contrast with Aristeas, who portrays one specific
tribe as wretched because of its peculiar way of life, the Iliad treats as one
tribe all members of the human race and proceeds to describe them all as
wretched from the perspective of the gods (δυστήνοισι μετ’ ἀνδράσιν). Now,
lest it be thought self-evident that humans are indeed the most wretched of crea-
tures, let us remind ourselves that even in the Iliad individual heroes can be
called ‘blessed’:

Ὣς φάτο, τὸν δ’ ὁ γέρων ἠγάσσατο φώνησέν τε·

ὦ μάκαρ Ἀτρεΐδη μοιρηγενὲς ὀλβιόδαιμον,
ἦ ῥά νύ τοι πολλοὶ δεδμήατο κοῦροι Ἀχαιῶν.

Thus she spoke, but the old man marvelled at him and said:
‘The blessed son of Atreus, born to power and wealth.
Now I see how many young men of the Achaeans you command.’⁴⁵

Whether or not we are all wretched depends on our point of view. To Priam look-
ing down from the walls of Troy, Agamemnon appears exceptionally fortunate.
But the dominant point of reference in the Iliad is provided by the gods, and
compared with them, even Agamemnon at the height of his power is merely a
‘wretched mortal’ among others.
Just as the Iliad tends to play down differences in personal fortune, so it flat-
tens out cultural differences among human societies. In truth, the poem knows
only two tribes, gods and humans, whom it relentlessly compares and contrasts.
For example:

φράζεο Τυδεΐδη καὶ χάζεο, μηδὲ θεοῖσιν

ἶσ’ ἔθελε φρονέειν, ἐπεὶ οὔ ποτε φῦλον ὁμοῖον
ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων τ’ ἀνθρώπων.’

‘Think it over, son of Tydeus, and get back.

Don’t wish to think like the gods. For the tribes
of gods and humans who walk upon the earth are never equal.’⁴⁶

 Il. 17.443 – 7.
 Il. 3.181– 3.
 Il. 5.440 – 2.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 31

Apollo’s famous admonition comes at a moment when Diomedes seems poised

to transcend the boundaries between the divine and human realms. He has just
wounded the goddess Aphrodite and is ready to take on Apollo himself. That Di-
omedes hails from Argos, fights for the Achaeans, has a famous father, etc. is ir-
relevant in this connection and would indeed be distracting: all that matters here
is that he belongs to those beings that walk upon the earth (χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων τ’
ἀνθρώπων); and that he cannot therefore hope to challenge the gods. Character-
istically, the Iliad focuses on the central question of what it means to be human;
and poses that question specifically by contrasting the “tribe of humans”
(φῦλον… ἀνθρώπων) with that of the immortal gods (φῦλον… ἀθανάτων… θεῶν).
In delimiting the divine and human races, the Iliad creates two distinct
spheres: the human tribe dwells on the earth, the gods dwell in heaven. Yet, be-
yond basic distinctions of this kind, the Iliad also mobilises cultural markers
such as food, dress and language to arrive at a veritable ethnography of the
gods. Its treatment of language is a prime example. As we have seen, the Iliad
is aware of linguistic diversity in the human realm but in practice does not con-
trast the languages of different human communities. Instead, it contrasts words
used by all humans with divine items of vocabulary:

ὃν Βριάρεων καλέουσι θεοί, ἄνδρες δέ τε πάντες

Αἰγαίων’·

whom the gods call Briareos, but all men call

Aigaion.⁴⁷

Two points may be noted about this passage: first, the poet highlights the differ-
ence between divine and human culture (gods and humans use different names
for Aigaion). Secondly, he emphasises the coherence of human cultural space
(all men call him Aigaion). The two points are in fact different sides of the
same coin: in emphasising the gap between gods and men, the Iliad plays
down distinctions among men. That conclusion can now be generalised: when
the Iliad mentions the special food of the gods, the strange make-up of their bod-
ies, their idiosyncratic clothes and housing, it casts them as an ethnographic
mirror image of all human culture. How this works in practice may be seen
with exemplary clarity in a passage in Iliad 5. Ethnographic discourse comes
to the fore as the narrator informs us that the gods, unlike humans, do not eat
grain or drink wine, and do not therefore have blood flowing through their veins:

 Il. 1.403 – 4; for other examples of divine language, see Il. 2.813 – 14 (the tomb of Myrine, on
which see Grethlein 2008, 30 – 1), 14.291, 20.74; cf. Od. 10.305 and 12.61 (the latter two in cha-
racter speech).
32 Johannes Haubold

ῥέε δ’ ἄμβροτον αἷμα θεοῖο,

ἰχώρ, οἷός πέρ τε ῥέει μακάρεσσι θεοῖσιν·
οὐ γὰρ σῖτον ἔδουσ’, οὐ πίνουσ’ αἴθοπα οἶνον·
τούνεκ’ ἀναίμονές εἰσι καὶ ἀθάνατοι καλέονται.

… the immortal blood of the goddess flowed,

the ichor, the kind of blood that gods have:
for they do not eat wheat, and do not drink dark wine,
wherefore they are bloodless and are called immortals.⁴⁸

The register here is strikingly close to what we find in Aristeas and other early
ethnographers. Line 441 in particular, uses the staples of Greek ethnography,
food and drink, to establish a mirror image of human culture (οὐ… οὐ). We
may recall the description of the Cyclopes in the Odyssey:

οὔτε φυτεύουσιν χερσὶν φυτὸν οὔτ’ ἀρόωσιν.

They do not sow plants with their hands, nor do they plough.⁴⁹

The two passages are not just rhetorically similar (cf. οὐ… οὐ and οὔτε… οὔτ’)
but also make essentially the same point: like the gods (and unlike human be-
ings), the Cyclopes do not rely on agriculture. The difference, of course, and the
main reason why the passage from the Iliad is not ethnography in the normal
sense, is that it precisely does not refer to a distinct location where things are
done differently. The point is that the gods are imagined as universal powers.
Their being different is not a matter of local custom but encapsulates a funda-
mental truth about all human beings: we, unlike the gods, must die. That is
what the gods’ ‘cultural difference’ ultimately amounts to: because they eat dif-
ferent food from us, they alone are immortal (τούνεκ’ ἀναίμονές εἰσι καὶ
ἀθάνατοι καλέονται).

True Marvels
The Iliad, I have argued, finds its own, ingenious way of enjoying the thrills of
the ethnographic gaze. Not, of course, in Iliad 13, which as a piece of ethno-
graphic discourse is disappointing: the catalogue of northern tribes is short

 Il. 5.339 – 42. Some scholars regard the last two or three lines of the passage as a later
interpolation, but very similar sentiments can be found elsewhere in Homer (e. g., Od. 5.196 – 9).
Kirk (1990, 96 – 7) is right to retain them.
 Od. 9.108; for discussion, see Vidal-Naquet 1986, 21.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 33

and rather unexciting. And what other texts from the Odyssey onward portray as
the thrill of direct human contact with alternative worlds is here a matter of the
ruling god getting a little distracted from what should after all be his main con-
cern: the fate of the heroes. Iliad 13 is ethnography lite, a TV meal of the cheaper
sort. But the Iliad does find its ethnographic thrills elsewhere, in what I have
called its ‘ethnography of the divine’: the gods’ language, dress, diet, etc. all be-
come sources of ethnographic interest and, indeed, delight.⁵⁰ I conclude my ar-
gument by suggesting that the Iliad itself dramatizes this shift from the human to
the divine realm in Iliad books 13 – 14.
As Zeus turns his bright eyes to the north, the rest of us are left behind in
Troy. Yet, we too get our moment of respite, for Zeus’s original plan of relaxation
quickly unravels. This is how the text continues:

Οὐδ’ ἀλαοσκοπιὴν εἶχε κρείων ἐνοσίχθων· 10

καὶ γὰρ ὃ θαυμάζων ἧστο πτόλεμόν τε μάχην τε
ὑψοῦ ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτης κορυφῆς Σάμου ὑληέσσης
Θρηϊκίης· ἔνθεν γὰρ ἐφαίνετο πᾶσα μὲν Ἴδη,
φαίνετο δὲ Πριάμοιο πόλις καὶ νῆες Ἀχαιῶν.
ἔνθ’ ἄρ’ ὅ γ’ ἐξ ἁλὸς ἕζετ’ ἰών, ἐλέαιρε δ’ Ἀχαιοὺς 15
Τρωσὶν δαμναμένους, Διὶ δὲ κρατερῶς ἐνεμέσσα.

But lord Poseidon wasn’t blind. 10

He sat marvelling at the war and battle
high on the topmost peak of wooded Samos,
the Thracian island: for from there he could see all of Ida
and the city of Priam and the ships of the Achaeans.
There he sat, having come out of the sea, and pitied the Achaeans 15
who were beaten by the Trojans, and he was furious with Zeus.⁵¹

The passage bristles with irony: while Zeus still looks north from Mount Ida, to-
wards Thrace and beyond, Poseidon looks back at Mount Ida from Thracian
Samos (i. e. the island of Samothrace). And whereas Zeus seemed to bring new
worlds into view, Poseidon ‘was not blind’, a turn of phrase which rather sug-
gests that his brother, for all his grand scanning of distant horizons, has simply
gone blind to the things that matter in the Iliad. Poseidon for his part scans the
landmarks of the Trojan plain in a mini-catalogue that is transparently designed
to balance the mini-ethnography that went before. Mountain peak against lofty
mountain peak (this is after all how the battle of the gods and Titans started in

 Some further examples of Iliadic ethno-theology: Il. 1.597– 8 and 4.3 – 4 (drink); 5.441– 2 and
899 – 904 (healthcare); 11.74– 5 (housing).
 Il. 13.10 – 16.
34 Johannes Haubold

the Theogony), the stage is set for a show-down between the two brothers.⁵² They
will eventually clash at the beginning of book 15. For now, we are left to reflect
on the contest of narrative perspectives, registers and genres, which the confron-
tation between Zeus and Poseidon suggests. Most notably, Poseidon is said to
“marvel” at the Trojan battlefield (θαυμάζων), which seemed so uninteresting
to Zeus only moments ago. The two brothers, then, look at different marvels,
each representing the different genres of Trojan War epic and edge-of-the-
world ethnography. There is no question as to who makes the better choice, at
least as far as Homeric audiences were concerned: for Zeus misses out on the
most marvellous of all battle descriptions, the one that ancient audiences regard-
ed as emblematic of Homer’s art:

ῥηθέντων δὲ καὶ τούτων, οἱ μὲν Ἕλληνες πάντες τὸν Ὅμηρον ἐκέλευον στεφανοῦν· ὁ δὲ
βασιλεὺς Πανήδης ἐκέλευσεν ἕκαστον τὸ κάλλιστον ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων ποιημάτων εἰπεῖν. Ἡσίο-
δος οὖν ἔφη πρῶτος (Op. 383 – 92)·
[…]
μεθ’ ὃν Ὅμηρος (Il. 13.126 – 33 + 339 – 44)·
ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ Αἴαντας δοιοὺς ἵσταντο φάλαγγες
καρτεραί, ἃς οὔτ’ ἄν κεν Ἄρης ὀνόσαιτο μετελθών
οὔτέ κ’ Ἀθηναίη λαοσσόος· οἱ γὰρ ἄριστοι
κρινθέντες Τρῶάς τε καὶ Ἕκτορα δῖον ἔμιμνον,
φράξαντες δόρυ δουρί, σάκος σάκεϊ προθελύμνωι·
ἀσπὶς ἄρ’ ἀσπίδ’ ἔρειδε, κόρυς κόρυν, ἀνέρα δ’ ἀνήρ,
ψαῦον δ’ ἱππόκομοι κόρυθες λαμπροῖσι φάλοισιν
νευόντων· ὣς πυκνοὶ ἐφέστασαν ἀλλήλοισιν.
ἔφριξεν δὲ μάχη φθεισίμβροτος ἐγχείηισιν
μακραῖς, ἃς εἶχον ταμεσίχροας· ὄσσε δ’ ἄμερδεν
αὐγὴ χαλκείη κορύθων ἄπο λαμπομενάων
θωρήκων τε νεοσμήκτων σακέων τε φαεινῶν,
ἐρχομένων ἄμυδις. μάλα κεν θρασυκάρδιος εἴη,
ὃς τότε γηθήσειεν ἰδὼν πόνον οὐδ’ ἀκάχοιτο.
θαυμάσαντες δὲ καὶ ἐν τούτωι τὸν Ὅμηρον οἱ Ἕλληνες ἐπήινουν, ὡς παρὰ τὸ προσῆκον
γεγονότων τῶν ἐπῶν, καὶ ἐκέλευον διδόναι τὴν νίκην.

When these dicta too had been spoken, the Greeks all called for Homer to be garlanded as
victor. But King Panedes told each poet to recite the finest passage from his own compo-
sitions. So Hesiod said first:
[…]
Then came Homer:
About the two Ajaxes the battle lines stood strong
that neither would Ares have faulted had he come there

 ΣT ad Il. 13.11b rightly remark that the scene is visually effective: γραφικῶς δὲ ἔχουσιν οἱ δύο
ἀπὸ τῶν ὀρῶν θεώμενοι; for Olympian gods and Titans facing off on opposite mountains, see
Hes. Th. 629 – 33.
 Ethnography in the Iliad 35

nor Athena driver of armies; for the finest

picked men were awaiting the Trojans and lordly Hector,
hedging lance with lance, shield with shield overlapping;
targe pressed on targe, helm on helm, man on man,
and the horsehair plumes touched on the bright crests
as they nodded, so close they stood to one another.
The murderous battle bristled with long spears
that they held to slice the skin; eyes were dazzled
with the glint of the bronze from the shining helmets,
the fresh-polished corslets, and the bright shields
as the armies clashed. It would have been a bold-hearted man
who felt joy at the sight of that toil and not dismay.
Once again the Greeks were struck with admiration for Homer, praising the way the verses
transcended the merely fitting, and they called for him to be awarded the victory.⁵³

This passage from the Contest of Homer and Hesiod marks the climax of the con-
test, when after much sparring each poet is asked to quote his “finest” lines (τὸ
κάλλιστον ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων ποιημάτων). Hesiod goes first, with a passage from the
so-called ‘farmer’s calendar’ in the Works and Days. Homer then quotes two ex-
tracts from Iliad 13, a blindingly vivid selection of lines (esp. ὄσσε δ’ ἄμερδεν/
αὐγὴ χαλκείη κορύθων ἄπο λαμπομενάων). Zeus, of course, is still looking else-
where. It is an exquisite irony that he should miss what ancient audiences re-
garded as the defining passage of all Homeric poetry, a scene so marvellous
that it ought to have won Homer the crown as the best poet of Greece (θαυμάσαν-
τες δὲ καὶ ἐν τούτῳ τὸν Ὅμηρον οἱ Ἕλληνες ἐπῄνουν… καὶ ἐκέλευον διδόναι τὴν
νίκην).
For ancient readers, then, the real excitement of Iliad books 13 – 14 undoubt-
edly lies in the fighting at Troy – and not just on the human plane: as Poseidon
joins the fray, he attracts the attention of Hera (Il. 14.153 – 6). Hera in turn divises
a new and better way of distracting Zeus: she will gain the kestos from Aphrodite
and seduce him (Il. 14.161– 23). The plan succeeds, and Zeus is neutralized for the
rest of book 14. Whatever desire for exotic worlds we might have harboured at the
beginning of book 13 is channelled towards the much more glamorous world of
the Olympian gods. This time, we stay with Zeus: unlike the curtailed ethnogra-
phy of Iliad 13.1– 9, the Dios apate is worked out as an eventful and lengthy inset
narrative. We marvel at the golden houses of the gods, their strange accoutre-
ments (what, after all, is a kestos?) and their sexual antics. In its own way, the
Dios apate too is an intrusion into the main narrative, derailing the Trojan ad-

 The Contest of Homer and Hesiod 12– 13 (West), quoting Il. 13.126 – 33 and 339 – 44.
36 Johannes Haubold

vance and suggesting a throw-back to theogonic narrative.⁵⁴ Yet, unlike Iliad

13.1– 9 it chimes with the poem’s interest in the Olympian gods: Homer is only
too willing to let us peek in on his favourite tribe, even at the expense of the
plan of Zeus. For ethnography of a more conventional sort, we – like Zeus –
must turn elsewhere.

Conclusion
I have argued two main points. First, the Iliad cannot meaningfully be said to
stand at the beginning of Greek ethnography. Rather, its poet was a subtle reader
of an already established ethnographic tradition, which he appropriated for his
own narrative purposes, and which also informed the Odyssey. Yet, while the
Odyssey offers a direct engagement with ethnographic discourse, the Iliad
plays down differences between human societies, focusing instead on the gap
between all human beings and the gods. The immediate context here is what
readers since antiquity have called the Iliad’s ‘tragic’ outlook on human life:⁵⁵
as Achilles points out in Iliad 24, the gods ‘spun life for wretched mortals that
they live in unhappiness, while the gods have no sorrows’ (Il. 24.525 – 6). For
Achilles, the suffering that unites all human beings is of paramount concern.
As part of this concern, the Iliad channels ethnographic desire away from
human societies towards the gods, whom it casts as an exotic tribe in terms of
language, diet, and customs.
More traditional forms of ethnography, and this was my second point, be-
come an alluring but ultimately irrelevant sideshow: what has sometimes been
regarded as the ‘starting point’ of western ethnography in Iliad 13.1– 9 is little
more than a literary joke at the expense of Zeus, who treats himself to a fashion-
able catalogue of northern tribes only to lose sight of his own much more impor-
tant plans. Hera’s plot makes this mini-ethnography obsolete even as a narrative
diversion, as Zeus’s desire for broader horizons gives way to the pursuit of sexual
gratification. This shift, it seems to me, is characteristic of the Iliad’s view of life –
and of its view of ethnography as a way of reflecting on different ways of
being human and, indeed, divine: the narrative transcends the war at Troy not
by visiting exotic tribes or places, but by turning towards the gods.

 Janko 1992, 168 – 72, with further literature.

 Memorably discussed in the introduction to Macleod 1982.
Alex Purves
Thick Description
From Auerbach to the Boar’s Lair (Od. 19.388 – 475)¹
There is also room and time for orderly, perfectly well-articulated, uniformly illuminated
descriptions of implements, ministrations, and gestures; even in the dramatic moment of
recognition, Homer does not omit to tell the reader that it is with his right hand that Odys-
seus takes the old woman by the throat to keep her from speaking, at the same time that he
draws her closer to him with his left. Clearly outlined, brightly and uniformly illuminated,
men and things stand out in a realm where everything is visible; and not less clear – wholly
expressed, orderly even in their ardor – are the feelings and thoughts of the persons in-
volved.

Erich Auerbach, “Odysseus’ Scar” in Mimesis, The Representation of Reality in Western

Literature, 1953 [2003], 3.

A landscape is thus a space deliberately created to speed up or slow down the process of
nature.

John Jackson, Discovering the Vernacular Landscape, 1984, 8.

“To put it bluntly,” said my friend, nature is out of date.”

Paul Shepard, Man in the Landscape: A Historic View of the Ethics of Nature, 1967, xiii.

Does nature always suggest a place that is out of date and out of time? Does a
turn to a natural landscape involve some kind of stepping outside time, into a
different sphere of reality that exists somewhere (usually) in the past?² Does
the movement from one kind of scenery to another also denote a change in

 My thanks to Johannes Haubold, Kirk Ormand, Seth Schein, Mario Telò, and the members of
the audience at UC Davis for helpful comments on this paper, as well as to the volume’s reader
and editors.
 Nature in the post-Romantic sense has always been heavily imbued with notions of nostalgia
and the past (cf. Shepard 1967; Williams 1973; Pugh 1988; Greenblatt 1989, 8 – 10 [as cited in
Fludernik 1996]; Soper 1995; Fludernik 1996; Shapiro 2004), and we should of course guard
against laying modern notions of nature over ancient ones. For one thing, nature was not
something that the Greeks of Homer’s world were necessarily expected to enjoy, although cf.
Vivante 1970, who sees nature in Homer as a more abstract, experiential construct, “a sympa-
thetic participation” (94). Here, I am trying to argue not that Homeric depictions of natural
scenes operate nostalgically, but that they may offer altered or more complex versions of nar-
rative time. Cf. Whitmarsh 2010, 340 – 3, on how the space of the garden in the Greek novel
allows for time to operate differently. Modern spaces may also apply to this reading – one might
think of the temporal discontinuities (découpages du temps) that Foucault has suggested exist in
heterotopias (1997, 182).
38 Alex Purves

tempo, a “speeding up” or “slowing down,” as Jackson suggests? Or does the

kind of space that one is experiencing have no effect on pacing, on the speed
at which we observe, move, or narrate? Can certain genres of storytelling really
offer up an endless supply of room and time, as Auerbach puts it here, no matter
what topographies they describe? Or do certain landscapes invite different stylis-
tic choices, different modes of composition, from others?
On the first page of the first chapter of his landmark study Mimesis: The Rep-
resentation of Reality in Western Literature, Erich Auerbach impresses upon his
reader that, in Homer, there is always more than enough “room and time.”³
That is, enough Raum (room or space) for all aspects of his narrative to appear
side by side in the foreground, brightly lit and with nothing crowded into the
shadows, and enough “time” for the story to be narrated in as leisurely and ex-
tended a manner as suits the poet.⁴ In stating his case this plainly from the start,
Auerbach sets the stage for his well-known reading of Odyssey 19.386 – 490, the
episode in which Eurycleia discovers the scar of Odysseus when washing her dis-
guised master, and which act of discovery triggers a long inset narrative explain-
ing how the wound was inflicted during a hunt with Odysseus’ maternal uncles
on Mount Parnassus.⁵ Despite the “dramatic moment of recognition,”⁶ therefore,
when even after Odysseus’ last-minute efforts to turn away from the fire Eury-
cleia still discovers the scar, and despite the fact that this action immediately
transmits a serious threat to both the plot of the Odyssey and to Eurycleia herself,
Homer feels no need to quicken the pace of his narrative. Instead, he extends it,
both temporally and geographically. As Auerbach goes on to discuss, the poet’s
choice to delay his narrative at this very point with an extended excursus of over
70 lines can be seen as a hallmark of Homeric style.⁷
That there is always sufficient “room and time” in Homer for a kind of end-
less horizontal expansion will be Auerbach’s central premise in his chapter, and

 As Lynn-George (1988, 2) puts it, Auerbach is attempting to recover “a Homeric world in which
there is time to tell all – in this and other respects a timeless world, which emerges at the outset
invested with the legendary plentitude and primitive simplicity of a lost paradise.” (See also my
n. 2, above).
 The German word Raum can be translated as either “room” or “space,” (both meanings are at
play in the passage quoted). Trask’s choice of “room” is particularly apt for its ability to evoke
the word’s meaning in connection with their being enough room (capacity) for something.
 The episode has been discussed by many critics, most notably Auerbach 1953 [2003], 3 – 23,
but also Büchner 1931; Köhnken 1976; Austin 1966, 296 – 311; Genette 1980, 48 – 64; Clay 1983,
56 ff.; Slater 1983; de Jong 1985; Lynn-George 1988, 2– 26, Goff 1991; Bakker 1999; Scodel 2002;
Haubold (forthcoming); Montiglio (forthcoming).
 Auerbach 1953 [2003], 3.
 On Homeric digression and retardation, see Austin 1966; Krischer 1971; Martin 2000.
 Thick Description 39

indeed the importance of that concept within the overall project of Mimesis is
underscored by its analogy to the book’s epigraph, the Marvell quotation “Had
we but world enough and time…”⁸ In an effort to come to grips with what Auer-
bach thinks of as room, I explore in this paper Homer’s presentation of “natural
space” – what one might alternately call “scenery” or “the wilderness” – using
the revelation and story of Odysseus’ scar as a test case.⁹ In doing so, I want to
follow Auerbach’s lead in thinking about space together with time, and I am es-
pecially interested in examining how Homer embeds natural or wild spaces with-
in various narrative frames. In this case, I am thinking of the boar’s lair that lies
at the heart of the excursus, a deep-set space covered over with leaves and de-
scribed with an adjective, πυκινός (thick), which applies, I will argue, not just to
its physical properties but also to the formal properties of the manner in which it
is described.¹⁰
The story of the scar, narrated in a leisurely and extended fashion over 74
lines and yet occurring, in “real-time,” within the split-second of Eurycleia’s rec-
ognition, has long fascinated and troubled readers of Homer. Generally, those
readers have sought to interpret the episode as a problem to do with time
(whether the inset story creates suspense in relation to the main narrative or
causes us to forget it) or focalization (whether it is focalized by Eurycleia, for ex-
ample) and a substantial body of work has arisen around these questions.¹¹ But,
despite the fact that much of Auerbach’s original essay on the subject was set in
relief by considerations of space and spatial description, the temporal complex-
ities of this scene have never really been understood in relation to the different
topographies it evokes.¹² This is due, in part, to a lack of specificity in the writing
of Auerbach himself – for although his description of Homeric style is deeply in-
terwoven with the language of scenery and landscape, his writing about space is
also frustratingly generalized. As far as he is concerned, simplicity of time in
Homer goes hand in hand with a depiction of space that is so straightforward
as to require hardly any discussion at all.

 Cf. Lynn-George 1988, 2. For a brilliant explication of Auerbach’s choice of that quotation as
an epigraph for his work, see Porter 2008, 121 and n. 8.
 I have found the work of Bordo (2002) on the notion of “the wilderness” particularly helpful.
 My labeling of these kinds of descriptions as “thick” draws not on Clifford Geertz’ category of
“thick description” so much as the various conceptualizations of thickness that have been
applied to poetry (Pound 1951), literary texture (Bora 1997), poetic language (Shklovsky 1917
[1965]; Porter 2010, 78 – 80, 173; 2013), and to literature’s ability to connect temporal and spatial
relations through the chronotope, so that “time, as it were, thickens…” (Bakhtin 1981, 84).
 See n. 5, above.
 Bakker (1999) comes closest to doing so, with his analysis of the moment when the boar
emerges from his lair and attacks Odysseus, but his concern is with action, not topography.
40 Alex Purves

Thus, although Auerbach understands the present tense as a kind of place in

Homeric poetry, a somewhere that can be seen and is in fact always fully visible
in the foreground before our eyes, he never goes so far as to connect this imag-
ined “view” of the text with the actual spaces which occur in the story of the scar
or its discovery.¹³ In this paper I want to push at precisely that idea, to see if there
is something to this concept of scenery reflecting the dimensionality or “depth”
of narrative time.¹⁴ I will start with a discussion of Auerbach and move on from
there to examine Od. 19.388 ff.
Everything about Homeric style, for Auerbach, speaks to a concern with lu-
minosity, to the extent that whenever the critic describes any Homeric scene it is
by way of metaphors of darkness and light. Thus, as he goes on to argue, despite
Odysseus’ initial unsuccessful attempt to “[move] back out of the light” before
Eurycleia approaches to wash his feet (Od. 19.389),¹⁵ Homer everywhere provides
us with “uniformly illuminated descriptions” which are “clearly outlined, bright-
ly and uniformly illuminated,” existing in “a realm where everything is visible…”
(3). This system of images shines strongly through the first five pages of the
essay, in which Auerbach explicates the story of the scar. I provide the following
quotations by way of example:¹⁶

… all is narrated again with such a complete externalization of all the elements of the story
and of their interconnections as to leave nothing in obscurity. (4).
… the need of the Homeric style to leave nothing which it mentions half in darkness and
unexternalized. (5).
Here is the scar, which comes up in the course of the narrative; and Homer’s feeling simply
will not permit him to see it appear out of the darkness of an unilluminated past; it must be
set in full light… (6)
… the basic impulse of the Homeric style: to represent phenomena in a fully externalized
form, visible and palpable in all their parts, and completely fixed in their spatial and tem-
poral relations. (6)
… nothing must remain hidden and unexpressed. (6)
… brought to light in perfect fullness. (6)
… never is there a form left fragmentary or half-illuminated, never a lacuna, never a gap,
never a glimpse of unplumbed depths. (6 – 7)
The Homeric style knows only a foreground, only a uniformly illuminated, uniformly objec-
tive present. (7)¹⁷

 On imagining a literary plot as a kind of view or landscape, see Purves 2010a.

 On the lack of “depth” in Homeric time, see Auerbach 1953 [2003], 3 – 23, esp. 7. I have
discussed this issue also in Purves 2004, 156 ff.
 Auerbach 1953 [2003], 3.
 Auerbach 1953 [2003], 4– 7, emphasis added.
 At page 8, Auerbach turns to a discussion of the Hebrew Bible, in order to contrast its style
with Homer’s. The language shifts in accordance, although at almost all points of comparison
 Thick Description 41

As can already be seen from these examples, this obsession with the language of
light and illumination dovetails with a related set of imagery concerning surface
and depth. For Auerbach’s Homer, the light of the present shines so brightly that
depth, perspective, and background are completely eradicated, along with all no-
tions of past or future time. The Homeric heroes may experience strong feelings,
but they still “wake every morning as if it were the first day of their lives” (12).
For the reader, too, even though there is a lengthy excursus on the story of Odys-
seus’ scar between the moment when Eurycleia recognizes it (Od. 19.393) and the
moment when she drops his foot into the basin in shock (19.468 – 70), there is no
suspense in-between, for we are so completely and exclusively transported into
the fullness of each new scene which the poet puts before our eyes that we can-
not at the same time worry about any kind of “background” from a previous
scene intruding into our consciousness.
Although Auerbach does not give us any examples of what he means by “all
foreground”, we are to understand from his essay that the scenery in Homer is
only surface deep – so thickly detailed, in fact, with a luxurious sheen of objects,
epithets, and digression as to be thin and superficial; it lacks depth, overlap, and
perspective,¹⁸ and the capacity to fold multiple layers of time into itself. In a
somewhat strange juxtaposition, Auerbach provides as a completely opposite al-
ternative the style of the Hebrew Bible, where by contrast the reader is lost,
searching for topographical and temporal markers in a landscape that is entirely
abstract and unrealized.¹⁹ When God instructs Abraham to set off on a journey
he obeys, but it is “unthinkable that… a landscape through which the travelers
passed… should be described” (9). The journey instead takes place “through a
vacuum,” (9), “a silent progress through the indeterminate and the contingent,
a holding of the breath… like a blank duration” (10).²⁰ This absence of scenic or

illumination and its metaphors return (e. g., 11: “uniformly illuminated phenomena”; 12: “their
emotions… find expression instantly”; 13: “make their delight perceptible to us… in order that we
may see the heroes… and seeing them so, may take pleasure… the Homeric poems conceal
nothing”; 23: “fully externalized description, uniform illumination.”)
 Several scholars have queried Auerbach on this point, with Andersson (1976) going so far as
to argue the exact opposite, calling Homer’s scenery “latent” instead (16: “Homer plunges the
reader (or listener) not only into mid-action, but also into mid-scene, providing only gradually,
and incidentally, a few details from which the Trojan setting can be pieced together in part.” He
articulates his disagreement with Auerbach at 50 – 1, n. 26). The opening chapter of Mimesis
nevertheless remains influential, and for important reasons. It is difficult not to think about the
broad concept of “room and time” in the Odyssey without in some way returning to it.
 On Auerbach’s choice to contrast Homer and the Bible, see Köhnken 1976; Porter 2008.
 Homer’s apparent propensity for avoiding “flat” or “blank” stretches in his poetry has also
been noted by other scholars (Bassett 1938 [2003], 40, 44; Vivante 1970, 78).
42 Alex Purves

topographic description, however, conversely leads to a deeper and thus more

meaningful sense of place.²¹ When God finally speaks to Abraham, we are told
neither where he calls from nor where he comes from, only that he “must
enter the earthly realm from some unknown height or depths” (8, emphasis
added). The “undetermined, dark place” (8), which marks the only kind of source
we can determine for God’s voice, is never brought to light, never set in the fore-
ground (9), in sharp contrast to the specifics of topography, landscape, and place
that fill the mind of the Homeric reader with “the utmost fullness” (6) and super-
ficiality.
Auerbach’s frequent recourse to the metaphor of landscape in his descrip-
tion of Homeric storytelling is thus curtailed in a specific and dramatic way.
For he claims that Homeric style knows “no background” and returns frequently
to the point that it lacks perspective and depth. Homeric poetry is filled with de-
scription and lush with landscape, but it is a landscape that is resolutely two-di-
mensional.²² “[N]ever is there a form left fragmentary or half-illuminated, never a
lacuna, never a gap, never a glimpse of unplumbed depths” (6 – 7). A little later
on the same page, Auerbach makes it clear that what he is talking about here is
temporal as much as spatial depth (7, emphasis added):

… the story of the scar had only to be inserted two verses earlier, at the first mention of the
word scar, where the motifs “Odysseus” and “recollection” were already at hand. But any
such subjectivistic-perspectivistic procedure, creating a foreground and background, result-
ing in the present lying open to the depths of the past, is entirely foreign to the Homeric style;
the Homeric style knows only a foreground, only a uniformly illuminated, uniformly objec-
tive present. And so the excursus does not begin until two lines later, when Euryclea has
discovered the scar – the possibility for a perspectivistic connection no longer exists,
and the story of the wound becomes an independent and exclusive present.²³

Auerbach argues that Homer’s style exists happily in discrete, fully realized and
independent paratactic units (“the syntactical connection between part and part
is perfectly clear,” 3),²⁴ with the kind of bright immediacy that subjects no one
passage to a subordinate or recessive position in relation to any another. This
is the crux of his argument for the lack of Homeric suspense – we feel no sus-
pense as to the fate of Odysseus while the excursus is going on because the

 Porter (2008) describes well how Auerbach equates Homer with surface, legend, and frivolity
and the Bible with depth, history, and morality.
 Cf. Bassett 1938 [2003], 46.
 Both Austin (1966) and de Jong (1985) challenge this last point, arguing that the description
of how Odysseus got his scar is seen from Eurycleia’s perspective. Scodel (2002) argues that the
perspective in the digression shifts between Eurycleia and Odysseus.
 Other scholars have argued something similar. See, e. g., Bakker 1999.
 Thick Description 43

story of the scar is so vivid as to make us completely forget that Eurycleia is

touching Odysseus’ leg all along. But is this really true of the way space is de-
picted in the Odyssey? Are the surfaces of the framing and inset narratives really
so flat and auto-reflective, so completely independent of one another? Let us try
to rethink this whole scene by leaving Auerbach behind for a while and first con-
sidering in detail how the framing narrative is staged.

αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς
ἷζεν ἐπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν, ποτὶ δὲ σκότον ἐτράπετ’ αἶψα·
αὐτίκα γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ὀΐσατο, μή ἑ λαβοῦσα
οὐλὴν ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο.
νίζε δ’ ἄρ’ ἆσσον ἰοῦσα ἄναχθ’ ἑόν· αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω
οὐλήν
(Od. 19.388 – 93)

then Odysseus
was sitting at the hearth, but swiftly he turned towards the dark;
for at once he suspected in his heart that, as she took hold of him,
she might feel his scar, and everything would be revealed.
Then she came closer and washed her master, and at once she recognized
his scar,… ²⁵

The story is well known. A serving woman hurries off to bring water, both hot
and cold, to wash the stranger’s feet. As she returns, the stranger, sitting at
the hearth, turns suddenly toward the shadows, realizing that if the old
woman took hold of his foot and felt his scar everything would be revealed.
And so, as an audience, we are poised on the brink of action and turning
point. Yet although the stranger turns quickly (αἶψα), the two lines that follow
(390 – 1) undercut precisely the notion of narrative transition and progression.
For now a new word denoting swiftness, αὐτίκα (“at once,” 390), doubles
back from its initial position in the line onto the αἶψα at the end of the preceding
one, in a curious kind of reverse enjambment.²⁶ That second “at once” takes a
barely perceptible step backwards in time, in order to elaborate on the thought
process that motivated the turn of Odysseus’ body (and which must, of course,
have come first).

 Translations are my own.

 The work of Bonifazi (2008) on αὐ- discourse markers in Greek poetry, including αὐτίκα, is
particularly illuminating in this context. She shows how αὐ- causes us always first to look
backwards in our mind’s eye “to the visualization of a new entry in a parallel sequence” (56), at
the same time as it draws our attention to a special moment of the story, marking a “perfor-
mative peak” in the narration. For the use of αὐτίκα in this passage, see also Erren 1970, 49 – 50;
Köhnken 1976, 496 – 7.
44 Alex Purves

But already it is too late, for now with a second αὐτίκα the serving woman,
having moved forward to perform the footwashing, recognizes the scar (393). In
this short passage, therefore, we see time both compressed and extended,
marked by the placement of these three temporal adverbs at key (but different)
positions in the line each time (final; initial; after the bucolic diaeresis). The
flashes of suddenness that punctuate the actions of both characters are framed
by two simple – and similar-sounding – verbs (ἷζεν, νίζε), anagrams of each
other that stand at the beginning of their own line, as coordinators of the action
that is taking or about to take place. Their combined simplicity and similarity
creates the effect of a single moment in time being repeated and relayed, creating
a moment that is virtually simultaneous at the same time as it is thick with rep-
etition.²⁷
The expansion of time from between the neatly closed folds of “αἶψα·/
αὐτίκα” at 19.389 – 90 opens up enough space in the poem, therefore, for the re-
counting of two events that are almost simultaneous, and which realign in the
final clause of the passage at hand with that last at once: αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω/
οὐλήν, τὴν… (“At once she recognized the scar, which …”).²⁸ And so the intimate
space marked by the coordinates of Odysseus’ chair, the fire, and Eurycleia’s
touch expand out from the space of the house, in the course of a famously
lengthy excursus, to reach as far as a lair hidden in the wooded depths of
Mount Parnassus. The secret, quietly referential topography of that lair is embed-
ded not only within the space of the mountainside but also, too, within the nar-
rative space of this brief moment shared between Odysseus and Eurycleia, as we
will go on to see.
This opening scene provides an example of how the simple movements of
two bodies as they turn, draw closer, and touch can offer – even within the
space of a few lines – sufficient “room and time,” for the poet to draw fine dis-
tinctions and variations between the multiple temporal and spatial coordinates

 The careful organization of words in the scene suggest different strains of sound as well, the
first tending toward closure and stops, symbolized by Odysseus’ movement toward the dark
(ἷζεν ἐπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν, ποτὶ δὲ σκότον ἐτράπετ’); the second toward open vowels, activated not
only by the initial diphthong in the word for scar but also by Eurycleia’s act of feeling (οὐλὴν
ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο), culminating in the extraordinarily vowel-heavy ἄρ’
ἆσσον ἰοῦσα ἄναχθ’ ἑόν· αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω/ οὐλήν. It is as if these open vowels sounds were
drawing the vocabulary of the passage from the closed (short-vowelled, consonant-bracketed)
word for dark (σκότον) and toward open-ended illumination (ἀμφαδὰ), no matter how hard
Odysseus attempts to bend his body back and away.
 As Montiglio (forthcoming) observes, Eurycleia’s “continuous action of washing is suddenly
interrupted by the ‘aoristic’ discovery.” It is precisely the convergence of these different registers
of time that interests me here.
 Thick Description 45

embedded within a single moment.²⁹ While the temporal adverbs αἶψα…

αὐτίκα… αὐτίκα ensure that our attention is continually focused on the present,
the ability of this run of at onces to double back on and even reverse each other
also suggests a complex system of time – a series of overlapping, but not quite
coordinated nows which will serve as preparation for the long stretching-out of
present time that is about to follow in the description of Odysseus’ naming and
scarring.³⁰
Not only is the moment of recognition itself prepared for repeatedly in this
passage with various proleptic hints, such as κατὰ θυμὸν ὀΐσατο (“he suspected
in his heart,” 390), ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο (“everything would be revealed,” 391),
ἄναχθ’ ἑόν (“her master,” 392);³¹ it is also returned to after the digression, when
the composition circles back to exactly where it had left off, not now with the
repetition of αὐτίκα but with the doubling of the pronoun τήν and a series of par-
tial repetitions of ἔγνω.³² Here we have the last line before the digression begins
and the first one after it ends; both are marked by the use of τήν, to denote the
scar, and [ἔ]γνω, to denote its recognition:

αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω
οὐλήν, τὴν…

at once she recognized the scar,

which…
(Od. 19.392– 3)

τὴν γρηῢς χείρεσσι καταπρηνέσσι λαβοῦσα

γνῶ ῥ’ ἐπιμασσαμένη
(Od. 19.467– 8)

the old lady took hold of it in the palms of her hands,

and she recognized it by feeling it

 Cf. Auerbach 1953 [2003], 6, on Homer aiming “to represent phenomena in a fully exter-
nalized form, visible and palpable in all their parts, and completely fixed in their spatial and
temporal relations.” By contrast, Andersson (1976, 31) says of Homer’s style: “Sometimes the
dwelling on detail appears to transport us into a recalibrated time scheme.”
 Lynn-George (1988, 9) puts it nicely: “The break is abrupt; the story of the scar – that trace of
the past – cuts across the narrative, disrupting and suspending the immediacy of ‘at once’ with
the distance of ‘once long ago’ (autika d’ egnô / oulên tên pote…).”
 We might note here the ironic words of Eurycleia at Od. 19.363 – 81 (the scene just prior),
which already suggested that on a subconscious level she recognized her master.
 Cf. Lynn-George 1988, 20.
46 Alex Purves

Less than ten lines later the aorist form of γιγνώσκω (I know, recognize) reap-
pears in Eurycleia’s first words to the man whom she is at last certain is Odys-
seus:

ἦ μάλ’ Ὀδυσσεύς ἐσσι, φίλον τέκος· οὐδέ σ’ ἐγώ γε

πρὶν ἔγνων, πρὶν πάντα ἄνακτ’ ἐμὸν ἀμφαφάασθαι.
(Od. 19.474– 5)

You are Odysseus, my dear child. I did not

know you before, until I felt my master completely.

The recognition of Odysseus by his scar, an event now regulated to the past by
Eurycleia (πρὶν ἔγνων), is also already hidden in the words οὐδέ σ’ ἐγώ γε that
precede it. This phrase, placed at the end of the line just as αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω was at
19.392, only needs a single nu to turn “I” into the “recognized” of those earlier
lines, or ἐγώ into ἔγνω (one could go further, and see a scrambling of the
start of Odysseus’ name in οὐδέ σ’ ἐ.. , a play on the Ὀδυσσεύς earlier in the
line, that is broken off by the ἐγ[ν]ω[ν]; an incomplete articulation, in other
words, of what Eurycleia has half-known all along:³³ “Odysse… I [knew] before”/
“I did not know you before.”).³⁴ Now, instead of a series of suggestively deferred
or incomplete quicklys/ at onces, we have a doubling of retrospective befores /
untils (πρίν… πρίν), which, combined with the repetition that circles around
the aorist form of the verb to recognize – including the hint of confusion intro-
duced by the negative οὐδέ – makes the precise moment at which Eurycleia no-
tices the scar all the more ungraspable. The moment is rehearsed/ reversed so
often, in other words, as to be impossible to pin down to a specific moment
in the poem.
The blurriness that surrounds any attempt to pinpoint the moment of Eury-
cleia’s touch as a singular and definitive moment of recognition contrasts with

 Cf. n. 31, above.

 This pun works well with the other two that the poem has already revealed concerning
Odysseus’ name (οὔτις/μῆτις and ὀδύσσομαι). Cf. Dimmock 1956. Note also Shoptaw’s ob-
servation of a third pun directly inscribed in the naming/scarring scene (2000, 229): “the hero’s
name is cryptographically remotivated, at the moment of this passage from boyhood into
manhood, when the boar’s tusk, odous in Greek, inscribes the name Odus-seus on his flesh.” We
might note that in three of the four cases where puns have now been identified for Odysseus’
name (οὔτις; ὀδούς; οὐδέ σ᾽ ἐ), we find the sound (and thus also some trace of the meaning) ου.
Although the diphthong itself never occurs in Odysseus’ proper name, its substitution here for
either the initial or second vowel is also a combination of those two letters (ο and υ). Dimock
(1956, 67) identifies a related punning on οὐλή in the words of Dolius to Odysseus at Od. 24.402
(οὖλέ τε καὶ μέγα χαῖρε).
 Thick Description 47

the use of the phrase αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω (“straightaway s/he knew”) elsewhere in
Homer. Its four other occurrences (Il. 1.199, 14.157, 17.84; Od. 11.153) all signal im-
mediate and direct action that continues on in the present, whether referring to
Achilles’ sudden recognition of Athena or Hector’s observation of the fight taking
place over Patroclus’ body. It also contrasts sharply with what Auerbach argued
was happening in this passage. For Auerbach, the point of transition from οὐλήν
to τήν at line 393 (οὐλήν, τήν ποτέ μιν σῦς ἔλασε λευκῷ ὀδόντι, “the scar, which
a boar once drove into him with its white tusk”) works as the simple flipping of a
switch from one fully realized and externalized reality to another; from the world
of the aged Odysseus and Eurycleia at the hearth to a completely new world in
which an adolescent Odysseus is attacked by a boar.
At this point it must be said that Auerbach’s exclusive focus on the idea of
the surface, where the present is located and which is always in the foreground,
is curious in light of the actual landscapes that Odysseus moves through in the
poem – both elsewhere and especially here, where his encounter with the boar in
his lair pointedly raises the question of how space can be covered over, clothed,
or hidden. The topography that we move to at this point in the poem is one that
rarely occurs in the direct narrative action of Homeric poetry, but more often in
similes, flashbacks, and digressions. This is precisely the kind of descriptive ma-
terial that readers who are hungry for nothing but “plot” sometimes skip. It is the
space of the mountains, the place where boar, deer, and lions live, close to the
home of Odysseus’ maternal grandfather, the “Lone Wolf” Autolycus, and his
family.³⁵ The area of Mount Parnassus that Odysseus – an adolescent just reach-
ing manhood – enters on the hunt with Autolycus’ sons exists on the wild side,
beyond the border that Redfield identified as the limit of agriculture: ἀγροῦ ἐπ’
ἐσχατιῆς.³⁶
Within the excursus we find a detailed description of that wilderness as the
hunting party starts out early in the morning and follows the tracks of a boar to
its lair:

Ἦμος δ’ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς,

βάν ῥ’ ἴμεν ἐς θήρην, ἠμὲν κύνες ἠδὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ
υἱέες Αὐτολύκου· μετὰ τοῖσι δὲ δῖος Ὀδυσσεὺς
ἤιεν· αἰπὺ δ’ ὄρος προσέβαν καταειμένον ὕλῃ

 On the mountain as a site of wilderness, reversal, and “time before” in Greek myth, see
Buxton 1994, 81– 96. In Homer, with the exception of this passage, the wild space of the
mountainside is described only in similes. It is important to distinguish this space from the top
of any mountain, such as Mount Olympus, which is a divine realm and a different kind of space
altogether in Homer. On Autolycus, see Clay 1983, 56 – 89.
 Redfield 1994, 189 – 99.
48 Alex Purves

Παρνησοῦ, τάχα δ’ ἵκανον πτύχας ἠνεμοέσσας.

Ἠέλιος μὲν ἔπειτα νέον προσέβαλλεν ἀρούρας
ἐξ ἀκαλαρρείταο βαθυρρόου ᾿Ωκεανοῖο,
οἱ δ’ ἐς βῆσσαν ἵκανον ἐπακτῆρες· πρὸ δ’ ἄρ αὐτῶν
ἴχνι’ ἐρευνῶντες κύνες ἤισαν, αὐτὰρ ὄπισθεν
υἱέες Αὐτολύκου· μετὰ τοῖσι δὲ δῖος Ὀδυσσεὺς
ἤιεν ἄγχι κυνῶν, κραδάων δολιχόσκιον ἔγχος.
ἔνθα δ’ ἄρ’ ἐν λόχμῃ πυκινῇ κατέκειτο μέγας σῦς·
τὴν μὲν ἄρ’ οὔτ’ ἀνέμων διάη μένος ὑγρὸν ἀέντων,
οὔτε μιν ἠέλιος φαέθων ἀκτῖσιν ἔβαλλεν,
οὔτ’ ὄμβρος περάασκε διαμπερές· ὣς ἄρα πυκνὴ
ἦεν, ἀτὰρ φύλλων ἐνέην χύσις ἤλιθα πολλή.
(Od. 19.428 – 43)

When early-born rose-fingered Dawn appeared,

they set out on the hunt, both the hounds and the sons
of Autolycus themselves. With them, too, came shining Odysseus.
They approached the steep mountain of Parnassus, clothed in wood,
and quickly came into its windy folds.
The sun had only then begun to touch the fields
from the silent-flowing, deep-streamed Ocean,
thus the hunters entered the glen. In front of them
following the tracks, went the hounds, and at the back
the sons of Autolycus. In their midst shining Odysseus
came, close to the dogs, brandishing a long-shadowing spear.
There in a thick lair a great boar was lying,
a lair which the wet force of blowing winds could not pass through
nor could the sun, shining, touch it with its rays,
nor could a rain storm break all the way through, it was so thick,
and a great heap of leaves was piled up on it.

A striking number of topographical features in this scene receive at least one de-
scriptive qualifier (the mountain is steep, the wood clothed, the folds windy, the
fields sunlit, the Ocean gentle-flowing and deep-streamed, while the lair receives
four lines of description), lending a rich sense of place to the landscape. Each of
these features of the natural world is imbued with some form of layering, depth,
or three-dimensionality, and the descriptions are laden not only with detail but
also with temporal markers, from the recent rising of the sun to the sequencing
of verbs of motion as the hunters traverse the landscape (ὄρος προσέβαν…/ τάχα
δ’ ἵκανον πτύχας…/ ἐς βῆσσαν ἵκανον…/ ἤισαν…/ ἤιεν),³⁷ complemented by the

 Note the repetition of ἵκανον but with metrical variation (its metrical shape at 19.432 [–– ––
––] is rare; LfgrE s.v.). I am grateful to Johannes Haubold for alerting me to the significance of
both ἵκανον and ἄρα in this passage.
 Thick Description 49

prepositions (μετά…/ προσ-…/ προσ-…/ πρό…/ ὄπισθεν…/ μετά…/ ἄγχι) that elab-
orate on the relative positions of Odysseus, the hounds, and the sons of Autoly-
cus. Interleaved with these positions and actions, moreover, is the fourfold rep-
etition of ἄρα, an evidential particle that Bakker has shown draws the past viv-
idly into the present, and which therefore – not unlike the series of “nows” we
had earlier – further charges and enlivens the events at hand.³⁸
The scene resembles a simile not only for its natural setting but also for the
running and tracking action that this kind of landscape invites, as in:

ἴθυσεν δὲ διὰ προμάχων συῒ εἴκελος ἀλκὴν

καπρίῳ, ὅς τ’ ἐν ὄρεσσι κύνας θαλερούς τ’ αἰζηοὺς
ῥηϊδίως ἐκέδασσεν, ἑλιξάμενος διὰ βήσσας·
(Il. 17.281– 3)

He went straight through the front line of fighters like a wild

boar in his prowess, who easily scatters the dogs and vigorous men
in the mountains as he whirls through the glens.

ὡς δ’ ὅτε νεβρὸν ὄρεσφι κύων ἐλάφοιο δίηται,

ὄρσας ἐξ εὐνῆς, διά τ’ ἄγκεα καὶ διὰ βήσσας·
τὸν δ’ εἴ πέρ τε λάθῃσι καταπτήξας ὑπὸ θάμνῳ,
ἀλλά τ’ ἀνιχνεύων θέει ἔμπεδον, ὄφρα κεν εὕρῃ·
(Il. 22.189 – 92)

As when a hound in the mountains chases the fawn of a deer,

having sprung it from its lair, through the valleys and glens,
a fawn whom, even if he should escape the hound’s notice hiding under a bush,
still the dog running steadily would follow its tracks until he found it.

οἱ δ’ ὥς τ’ ἢ ἔλαφον κεραὸν ἢ ἄγριον αἶγα

ἐσσεύαντο κύνες τε καὶ ἀνέρες ἀγροιῶται·
τὸν μέν τ’ ἠλίβατος πέτρη καὶ δάσκιος ὕλη
εἴρύσατ’, οὐδ’ ἄρα τέ σφι κιχήμεναι αἴσιμον ἦεν·
τῶν δέ θ’ ὑπὸ ἰαχῆς ἐφάνη λὶς ἠυγένειος
εἰς ὁδόν, αἶψα δὲ πάντας ἀπέτραπε καὶ μεμαῶτας·
(Il. 15.271– 6)

And they, as when dogs and country men rush

after a horned stag or a wild goat
whom a sheer rock and thick-shadowed woods
protects, nor is it fated for them to reach it,
and then a well-bearded lion is drawn out by their racket
into the road, and quickly it turns them all away even though they are eager.

 Bakker 1993, 16 – 23.

50 Alex Purves

In these similes, the deep or thickset quality of the natural mountainside envi-
ronment (διὰ βήσσας, διά τ’ ἄγκεα, ὑπὸ θάμνῳ, δάσκιος ὕλη) is precisely what
adds excitement to the hunt – the landscape is not easy to move through and
it offers several hiding places for the quarry. Fawns, lions, and boars emerge
from unexpected lairs and small creatures can crouch down to hide beneath
bushes.³⁹ The thickness, therefore, constitutes a vital element of the action, for
the hunters are forced to take their cues from the landscape as much as from
the animal they are chasing, and the speed at which they run plays into the fre-
quentative associations of thickness. The atmosphere is charged both with the
excitement of rushing through wooded mountains and glens but also with the
various intersecting frequencies of a number of Iliadic similes.
The thick vocabulary of 19.428 – 43 is further packed down with the descrip-
tion of the boar’s lair (439 – 43, quoted above) – here the πυκινός covering of the
bed of leaves under which the boar lies makes the whole scene appear to be un-
touched by time, just as the lair is also impervious to the forces of the weather.
Like an inverse of the hunters’ journey through the mountain, where we had
mention of sunshine, water, and any number of weather-beaten nature similes,⁴⁰
here we have a cocooned space, apparently closed off to the epic and the world.
Yet, as with the hunting passage, the lair is thick, too, with traditional epic
themes which connect with other landscapes in Homer.⁴¹ In addition to linking
to other animal lairs in similes,⁴² it refers back to Odysseus’ makeshift bed be-
neath two entwined olive bushes, complete with a great heap of leaves under
which the hero slept during his first night on Scheria:⁴³

τοὺς μὲν ἄρ’ οὔτ’ ἀνέμων διάη μένος ὑγρὸν ἀέντων,

οὔτε ποτ’ ἠέλιος φαέθων ἀκτῖσιν ἔβαλλεν,
οὔτ’ ὄμβρος περάασκε διαμπερές· ὣς ἄρα πυκνοὶ
ἀλλήλοισιν ἔφυν ἐπαμοιβαδίς·
(Od. 5.478 – 81)

 See Scott 1974, 58 – 62.

 Cf. Purves 2010b; de Jong 2012, 24– 5, on the space of nature in the similes.
 See especially Russo 1993. Tsagalis (2008, 272– 85 on similes; 2010) classifies this kind of
linking as “hypertextuality.”
 Il. 11.414– 18: boar’s lair; Il. 5.162, 11.115, 15.580, 21.573, 22.190; Od. 4.335 & 4.338 (= 17.127 &
17.129): other animal lairs.
 Russo 1993. There are a few other places in the Odyssey where we find spaces magically
untouched by the weather. At 4.566, Menelaus learns that he will eventually be transported to
the Isles of the Blessed where οὐ νιφετός, οὔτ’ ἂρ χειμὼν πολὺς οὔτε ποτ’ ὄμβρος (“there is no
snow, nor much of a winter nor ever a rain storm”), and at 6.43 we learn that Olympos is οὔτ’
ἀνέμοισι τινάσσεται οὔτε ποτ’ ὄμβρῳ (“not shaken by winds nor ever by a rain storm”).
 Thick Description 51

which the wet force of the blowing winds could not pass through
nor had the sun ever struck it with its rays,
nor could a rain storm penetrate it. So thick were [the bushes]
that grew entwined with one another.

These almost identical passages set out to describe, again, a certain quality of
thickness to be found in nature. The ὥς of 19.442 (= 5.479) points backwards
to explain the extent to which these natural makeshift beds are πυκινός
(thick, or textured). But – as we alluded to before – this thickness comes not
just through the quality of the branches or leaves that cover over the space
but also through the quality of the reference itself, for there is a kind of intratex-
tual thickness, a layering through repetition, in this passage too.⁴⁴ Also worth
noting is the detailed description of leaves at the end of Odyssey 5, which Odys-
seus “piles up” over his body in a manner that imitates the sleep that Athena
“pours over” him:

φύλλων γὰρ ἔην χύσις ἤλιθα πολλή,

ὅσσον τ’ ἠὲ δύω ἠὲ τρεῖς ἄνδρας ἔρυσθαι
ὥρῃ χειμερίῃ, εἰ καὶ μάλα περ χαλεπαίνοι.
τὴν μὲν ἰδὼν γήθησε πολύτλας δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς,
ἐν δ’ ἄρα μέσσῃ λέκτο, χύσιν δ’ ἐπεχεύατο φύλλων.
ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις δαλὸν σποδιῇ ἐνέκρυψε μελαίνῃ
ἀγροῦ ἐπ’ ἐσχατιῆς, ᾧ μὴ πάρα γείτονες ἄλλοι,
σπέρμα πυρὸς σῴζων, ἵνα μὴ ποθεν ἄλλοθεν αὕοι,
ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς φύλλοισι καλύψατο· τῷ δ’ ἄρ’ Ἀθήνη
ὕπνον ἐπ’ ὄμμασι χεῦ’, ἵνα μιν παύσειε τάχιστα
δυσπονέος καμάτοιο, φίλα βλέφαρ’ ἀμφικαλύψας.
(Od. 5.483 – 93)

For there was a great heap of leaves piled up,

as much as two or three men could collect
in the winter time, if the weather was very blustery.
Seeing this, much suffering glorious Odysseus rejoiced,
and lay down in the middle of it, and poured the heap of leaves over himself.
Just as when someone hides a fire spark in black ash
on the edge of the countryside, for whom there is no other place to get a light,
so Odysseus covered himself over in the leaves. And for him Athena
shed sleep on his eyes, in order that he might very quickly cease
from wretched toil, covering over his dear eyelids.

Here the repetition of words to do with heaping, piling over, and covering (χύσις,
ἐπιχέω, ἐγκρύπτω, χέω, καλύπτω, ἀμφικαλύπτω) creates a quality of poetic con-

 Cf. n. 41, above on “hypertextuality,” and Dué 2010.

52 Alex Purves

centration and denseness that merges the place being described with the texture
of the description itself. For we might call the language here “thick” with the
concentrated form of an idea as well as the words chosen to describe it. The
thickness that begins with the entwined bushes and moves on to the leaves is
finally transmitted to the sleep that Athena “sheds on” (χέω) and uses to
“cover over” (ἀνακαλύπτω) Odysseus’ eyes, which in both cases borrow from
words earlier used to describe the pile of leaves (χύσις, ἐπιχέω, καλύπτω). Final-
ly, the bed that Odysseus makes for himself within the leaves receives one further
“layering” by the addition of a simile:⁴⁵ the hiding of the fire brand in the black
ash, the cancellation of light, and the location ἀγροῦ ἐπ’ ἐσχατιῆς all supple-
ment the original description of this densely detailed space.
This complex intratext with Odyssey 5 makes the use of πυκινός to describe
the boar’s lair in Odyssey 19 all the more compact, therefore. For in the latter pas-
sage, the lair – although it is supposed to be a surprise, supposed to be a first
space in Odysseus’ transition to manhood⁴⁶ – is already thick with meaning
and reference. As with the passage in Odyssey 5, we find verbal repetition in
this passage, too, when the compacted form of the adjective πυκινός is repeated
at the end:⁴⁷

ὣς ἄρα πυκνὴ
ἦεν, ἀτὰρ φύλλων ἐνέην χύσις ἤλιθα πολλή.
(Od. 19.442– 3)

it was so thick,
and a great heap of leaves was piled up on it.

If we can already see condensed within the five lines describing the boar’s lair
the tightly-packed folds of the twenty-line description of Odysseus’ bed of leaves
from Od. 5.475 – 94 – for just as the first part of the description (19.439 – 42) re-
peats Od. 5.478 – 81, so does the last (19.443) almost exactly repeat 5.483 –
then what we have here, within an extended digression set in motion by Eury-

 See further Tsagalis 2008, 273 – 85, on the simile’s capacity to enable multilevel textual
structuring.
 The boar hunt functions in the story as a rite de passage for Odysseus. Note ἡβήσας at 19.410
and see, e. g., Russo 1993; Goff 1991, 262– 4.
 πυκινός is often repeated when it appears in Homer, as if the double placement of the word
imitates the frequentative aspect of its meaning (in addition to the passages mentioned above,
see also Od. 6.128 – 34, 18.318 – 20, 19.516 – 20, Il. 16.212– 18). In the example at Il.16.212– 17, the
verbal repetition occurs at close quarters, imitating the tightly-packed formation of shields,
helmets, and men in battle: ἀσπὶς ἄρ’ ἀσπίδ’ ἔρειδε, κόρυς κόρυν, ἀνέρα δ’ ἄνηρ·/ …/ … ὡς
πυκνοὶ ἐφέστασαν ἀλλήλοισι.
 Thick Description 53

cleia’s recognition of the scar, is a compressed intratext. Time is moving in two

ways – it is both stilling and zeroing in, waiting for the action from the outside
world to break in on it, whilst also reaching far back to a point beyond the be-
ginning of the poem. Instead of just a horizontal, paratactic expansion, in other
words, as Auerbach saw in the scar episode as a whole, we have in the descrip-
tion of the boar’s lair the kind of expansion that moves vertically down into the
layers of the text, suggesting “depth” and “background” as well as hidden ele-
ments beneath the surface.
In order to justify my putting this much weight on the symbolism of πυκινός
in the description of the boar’s lair, let us consider this word’s role more broadly
in Homer. The cluster of words πυκ[ι]νός (thick), πυκιμηδής (prudent [x 1])
πυκ[ι]νά (thickly) occurs not infrequently in Homeric epic (68 times in the
Iliad; 128 in the Odyssey).⁴⁸ As Dué and Ebbott have recently shown,⁴⁹ it appears
in connection with ambush (πυκνὸς λόχος), and so by extension planning and
cunning (one’s mind can be “thick” with ideas),⁵⁰ thick undergrowth, lying
awake at night, a bed, or a well-constructed and virtually impenetrable bedroom
or house.⁵¹ It is easy to trace a path using πυκινός from the bed of leaves in Odys-
sey 5 through the boar’s lair in Odyssey 19 to Odysseus’ tree bed in Odyssey 23
(183 – 204).⁵² Not only are each of these spaces connected to a transitional mo-
ment in Odysseus’ life,⁵³ they are all also in some way overlaid by nature and
closed off to the outside world – thick, hidden, and secret.

 On the Iliadic battlefield we find the πυκινός family of words used to describe the tightly-
fitted construction of arms, a piece of armor, or the close-knit relation of armed man to armed
man or piece of armor to piece of armor in a phalanx (Il. 4.281, 5.93, 7.61, 10.271, 12.317, 13.133,
13.145, 13.680, 13.804, 15.529, 15.689, 15.739, 16.217, 18.608). These words also apply to counsel
(μήδεα), nature, and similes. In the Odyssey, πυκινός more often applies to the family, the house/
room/bed, nature, and similes.
 Dué/Ebbott 2010.
 Cf. Il. 3.202, 3.208, 9.554, 14.217, 14.294, 15.461, 24.282, 24.674; Od. 9.445, 19.353.
 πυκινός associated with well-made or well-sealed houses, walls, doors, gates, bedrooms:
Il. 5.751 = 8.395, 9.475, 10.267, 12.301, 12.454, 13.680, 14.339, 16.212, 16.217, 19.355, 21.535; Od. 1.333,
1.436, 2.344, 6.134, 8.458, 16.415, 18.209, 21.64, 21.236, 21.382, 22.155, 22.155, 22.258, 22.275, 22.455,
23.193, 23.194, 23.229. See further Lynn-George 1988, 230 – 3, on the use of πυκινός in Iliad 24.
 All three sites are over-determined by various layers of nature and πυκινός. In addition to my
discussion of the scenes in Odyssey 5 & 19, see also the word’s fourfold occurrence in connection
with Odysseus’ tree-bedroom at Od. 23.193, 23.194, 23.229, 23.291.
 Scodel 2002, 110.
54 Alex Purves

In Book 19, after the episode with the scar has played out and Odysseus is
talking to Penelope, she refers to the deep or πυκινός quality of her grief, elab-
orating on her emotions by means of a simile:⁵⁴

αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν νὺξ ἔλθῃ, ἕλῃσί τε κοῖτος ἅπαντας,

κεῖμαι ἐνὶ λέκτρῳ, πυκιναὶ δέ μοι ἀμφ’ ἁδινὸν κῆρ
ὀξεῖαι μελεδῶναι ὀδυρομένην ἐρέθουσιν.
ὡς δ’ ὅτε Πανδαρέου κούρη, χλωρηῒς ἀηδών,
καλὸν ἀείδῃσιν ἔαρος νέον ἱσταμένοιο,
δενδρέων ἐν πετάλοισι καθεζομένη πυκινοῖσιν,
ἥ τε θαμὰ τρωπῶσα χέει πολυηχέα φωνήν
(Od. 19.515 – 21)

But when night comes and sleep takes hold of all,

I lie in my bed, but for me around my thickset heart
deep piercing laments crowd upon me in my sorrow.
Just as when the daughter of Pandareus, the nightingale of the greenwood,
sings beautifully when spring has just arrived,
sitting in the thick leaves of the trees,
she who frequently modulating pours out her much resounding voice.

Penelope’s words point to a convergence of thickness and frequency, felt not

only in the fact that πυκινός connects the tenor and the vehicle of the simile
but, more specifically, in the density of her cares (πυκιναί), the thick or fast beat-
ing of her heart (ἁδινόν), and the thickness of the leaves (πυκινοῖσιν) in the tree
that the nightingale sings from. The voice of the nightingale itself, like the leaves
in Odysseus’ bed beneath the olive bushes and like the sleep that Athena sheds
on him there “pours out” (χέω) from her mouth in condensed, rich tones, and in
fast succession (θαμά).⁵⁵ Here, the repetition is thick even at the level of sound,
as χέει expands into πολυηχέα.⁵⁶ It is, as we will see, very common in Homer for

 Penelope first refers to her own grief in this way at 19.95, when addressing the suitors:
πυκινῶς ἀκάχημαι (“I grieve deeply”). She returns to the concept at 20.84 when comparing
herself to someone else who “is grieving deeply in their heart” (πυκινῶς ἀκαχήμενος ἦτορ) by
day but can at least (unlike her) sleep at night. πυκινός is often applied to grief and lamentation
in Homer (Il. 10.9, 16.599, 18.318, 18.320, 21.417, 21.535; Od. 11.88, 19.516, 23.360, in addition to the
examples cited above). See further Dué/Ebbott 2010, 239 – 42.
 Dué/Ebbott 2010, 239 – 40: “The adjective pukinos has a variety of meanings in Homer, all of
which are linked by the idea of frequency, density, or closeness.”
 Shklovsky (1917 [1965], 22) cites Leo Jukubinsky on the “particular case of the repetition of
identical sounds,” which makes the language of poetry a “difficult, roughened, impeded lang-
uage.” Although the sounds in this passage are not identical, the repetition of sounds and words
are thick or “rough” in a related way. The Russian Formalists felt that the purpose of art was to
 Thick Description 55

the word πυκινός to connect an event to a simile or to show up in association

with a simile, often by means of a quality that is “thick” within the realm of na-
ture.⁵⁷
Just as Penelope’s grief is concentrated, like the thick leaves of the tree from
which the nightingale sings and like the frequent modulations of its voice; so on
two occasions in the Iliad are Agamemnon and Achilles’ grief compared through
similes in an analogous way:

ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἀστράπτῃ πόσις Ἥρης ἠυκόμοιο,

τεύχων ἢ πολὺν ὄμβρον ἀθέσφατον ἠὲ χάλαζαν
ἢ νιφετόν, ὅτε πέρ τε χιὼν ἐπάλυνεν ἀρούρας,
ἠέ ποθι πτολέμοιο μέγα στόμα πευκεδανοῖο,
ὣς πυκίν’ ἐν στήθεσσιν ἀνεστενάχιζ’ Ἀγαμέμνων
νειόθεν ἐκ κραδίης, τρομέοντο δέ οἱ φρένες ἐντός.
(Il. 10.5 – 10)

Just as when the husband of fair-haired Hera sends forth lightning,

causing either a great, terrifying rain storm, or hail
or a blizzard, when snow covers the fields,
or somewhere causes the great onslaught of destructive battle,
so thickly in his chest did Agamemnon groan,
from the bottom of his heart, and his phrenes trembled inside him.

αὐτὰρ Ἀχαιοὶ
παννύχιοι Πάτροκλον ἀνεστενάχοντο γοῶντες.
τοῖσι δὲ Πηλεΐδης ἁδινοῦ ἐξῆρχε γόοιο,
χεῖρας ἐπ’ ἀνδροφόνους θέμενος στήθεσσιν ἑταίρου
πυκνὰ μάλα στενάχων ὥς τε λὶς ἠυγένειος,
ᾧ ῥά θ’ ὑπὸ σκύμνους ἐλαφηβόλος ἁρπάσῃ ἀνὴρ
ὕλης ἐκ πυκινῆς· ὁ δέ τ’ ἄχνυται ὕστερος ἐλθών,
πολλὰ δέ τ’ “ἄγκε’ ἐπῆλθε” μετ’ ἀνέρος ἴχνι’ ἐρευνῶν,
εἴ ποθεν ἐξεύροι· μάλα γὰρ δριμὺς χόλος αἱρεῖ·
ὣς ὁ βαρὺ στενάχων μετεφώνεε Μυρμιδόνεσσιν·
(Il. 18.314– 23)

But the Achaeans,

groaning all night long, lamented for Patroclus.
Achilles set them off on their thick-set lament,
placing his man-slaying hands on the chest of his friend,
groaning very deeply, just as some well-bearded lion
whose cubs a hunting man has snatched away

“increase the difficulty and length of perception,” thereby creating a kind of thick, or – as Porter
has it – rough or material poetics (Shklovsky 1917 [1965]; Porter 2010, 78 – 80).
 Il. 5.93, 10.5, 11.118, 12.301, 13.145, 13.199, 16.212, 16.298, 18.320, 24.480; Od. 5.53, 5.329, 5.433,
6.128, 19.516.
56 Alex Purves

from a thick wood. And he, coming afterward, is grieved,

and he traverses many glens after the man, following the tracks,
if he might find them somewhere, and a sharp anger holds him.
So deeply groaning, [Achilles] addressed the Myrmidons.

In both cases Homer uses πυκινός or πυκινά to connect the thickset nature of
Agamemnon and Achilles’ groans with scenes from the natural world. In the
first example, we can compare the dense quality of the hail, rain, or snow⁵⁸ as
it falls upon winter fields with both the frequency and depth (νειόθεν ἐκ κραδίης)
of Agamemnon’s lamentation. In Achilles’ case, however, the connection be-
tween the metaphorical quality of the “thick” emotion that he experiences
and the occurrence of precisely this kind of concentration in the physical land-
scape of the natural world is made explicit, just as it was in the nightingale sim-
ile; for the πυκνά quality of Achilles’ groans draw added poetic resonance from
the πυκινός forest from which the lion’s cubs have been stolen, causing the ani-
mal – like the warrior – to groan “deeply” (βαρύ). As Dué and Ebbott have writ-
ten of this passage: “On the conceptual level the comparison being made is be-
tween the grief of Achilles and the lion, but what unites the tenor and vehicle on
a verbal level is the word pukinos.”⁵⁹
How then do these select examples of πυκινός occurring in the natural world
and in similes help us to better understand the “thick” quality of the boar’s lair?
I am suggesting that when πυκινός appears in these settings, there is something
inherently textured about its usage – for, at the same time as it works within the
context of the scene being described, it also adds an extra layer to the descrip-
tion, thereby thickening the overall poetic effect. Thus when, during Odysseus’
shipwreck in Book 5, for example, he is blown “from here to there” on the
raft, “as when a harvest wind bears thistles along a plain, which stick thickly
to each other” (πυκιναὶ δὲ πρὸς ἀλλήλῃσιν ἔχονται, 5.329), or when just a little
later his hands are ripped from grasping onto the rocks “as when thick (πυκιναί)
pebbles stick to the suckers of an octopus being pulled from its home,” (433), we
might tentatively call these, alongside the other passages I have quoted,⁶⁰ exam-

 On the πυκινός qualities of snow, cf. Dué/Ebbott 2010, 238 and my note 64, below.
 Dué/Ebbott 2010, 240.
 Other examples abound, such as the twofold use (once in the simile and once in the natural
environment) of πυκινός at Od. 6.128 – 34 when Odysseus approaches Nausicaa like a lion;
Hermes skimming the waves like a thick-winged bird (5.53); a phalanx standing closely packed
(πυκνοί) with helmets and shields together like the πυκινοί stones of a high house that keep out
the wind (Il. 16.212– 17); Sarpedon proceeding like a lion against a πυκινὸν δόμον (12.301; cf.
Od. 6.134); Trojans running in flight like a deer fleeing a lion διὰ δρυμὰ πυκνὰ καὶ ὕλην
 Thick Description 57

ples of thick description. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that the thick qual-
ity of these descriptions reflect on the placement of the natural scene within the
narrative, signaling something about the embedded, secluded nature of similes
and digressions, the particular quality of nature which tends to appear in these
contexts, and finally the way in which the natural space within the simile or di-
gression can alter the temporal dynamics of the poem.
It is difficult to suggest that a certain style of composition is “thick” without
the use of metaphor, or without borrowing the imagery supplied by the scene it-
self. In part, as I mentioned at the outset, I take my cue from Auerbach in doing
this (and this essay is meant as much as a reflection on Auerbach and his read-
ing practices as it is on Homer).⁶¹ The thick nature of the description that I am
trying to identify in these passages also applies to the relationship between the
frame and inset narratives in the scar tale. It relates to the kind of folding or
layering that I tried to show existed already in the small foot-washing scene in
Odysseus’ house, where tiny quickenings in time prepare for and reflect the spa-
tio-temporal complexities of the natural landscape in which the scar originates.
That is, if we are to understand time and space in Homer as existing only on the
surface, “fully illuminated” and “fully externalized,” we are missing something
important about not just Homeric style, but also the nature of Homeric digres-
sion, expansion, and description.
In his ABC of Reading, Ezra Pound discusses the connection between Dich-
tung, the German word for poetry, dichten (to write or compose), and dicht (thick,
dense, closely-woven, compact, in quick succession).⁶² Poems, which are also
called Gedichte in German, can thus be thought of as works that have thickened
or condensed in the process of being composed. For Pound: “poetry… is the most
concentrated form of verbal expression,”⁶³ and dichten is thus basically equiva-
lent to the Italian and Latin condensare (in other words, poetry is something that
is “condensed” or “concentrated”). By describing poetry as “thick” in this way,
Pound is specifically referring to the poet’s choice of words (36):

… the good writer chooses his words for their ‘meaning’, but that meaning is not a set, cut-
off thing like the move of knight or pawn on a chess-board. It comes up with roots, with

(Il. 11.118); the two Ajaxes acting like two lions who catch a goat and then carry it ἀνὰ ῥωπήια
πυκνά (Il. 13.199).
 Despite my criticism of Auerbach’s reading of Homer here, what I really want to do in this
essay is analyze ways in which Auerbach’s model productively opens up new avenues for
exploring the poem.
 Pound 1951, 36; Collins German Dictionary (London/Glasgow 1981), as discussed in Spice
1993, 22.
 Pound 1951, 36.
58 Alex Purves

associations, with how and where the word is familiarly used, or where it has been used
brilliantly or memorably.

I do not wish to argue for some kind of literary-critical language for Homer, as if
πυκινός were a stylistic term from a rhetorical handbook,⁶⁴ but rather to suggest
that the word can imbue a certain significant quality within the construction of a
scene, which might affect our notion of that scene’s sense of “background” or
“depth”. Thus, in the passage depicting the boar’s lair, the quality of the scene
is further enhanced by the rough nature of the hair “bristling” on the boar’s
back (φρίξας εὖ λοφίην, 446), which contributes to the thickly-charged environ-
ment as the animal faces its attackers.⁶⁵ This quality of roughness or thickness is
particularly attuned to the contexts of nature, which in turn bears its own special
relationship to description and inset narrative.
For Homer (as for us) the wilderness is generally characterized as a rough
and uneven topography with a deep underlayer; it is often located in the folds
and glens of mountains, on the rough face of rocks, or under the dark cover
of woods or animal lairs. But in order to capture the essence of “nature” or
the wilderness, Homer has to inset it in some way within the social world of
his poem.⁶⁶ This means that his descriptions of natural (especially wild) spaces
are often nested within similes or flashbacks.⁶⁷ As Bordo has put it concerning
the –ness suffix of the word wilderness: “Ness comes to hold the wild as in a

 It appears to have a more technical (rhetorical) sense in Ar. Ach. 445 (contrasted with
λεπτός). Alternatively, see [Longin.] De subl. 10.1, who states that the sublime style arises in part
from the selection of ideas and the concentration or thickening (πύκνωσις) of that selection. It is
also worth noting that in Homeric poetry words can be “thick” in a couple of different ways.
First is the notion of the πυκινός μῦθος, which means something like wise, mature, and expe-
rienced speech (Telemachus worries that he does not have the μύθοισι… πυκινοῖσιν with which
to address Nestor at Od. 3.23), as well as the related terms πυκινὴ ἐφετμή (Thetis’ command to
Achilles, Il. 18.216) and πυκινὸν ἔπος (of Priam, Il. 7.375; of Zeus, Il. 24.75; [imagined] of Hector
Il. 24.744; of Nestor, Il. 11.788). All of the speakers whose words are associated with the notion of
thickness, in other words, are authoritative and experienced. Second, Odysseus’ words are said
to fall like snow at Il. 3.221– 2, which has a “thick” quality as can be seen in, e. g., Il. 12.156 – 60
(Ready 2011, 114– 16; Dué/Ebbott 2010, 238).
 Cf. Il. 4.281 and 7.61– 2 – in the latter passage, a close-packed rank of soldiers are said to
bristle with shields, helmets and spears: στίχες ἥατο πυκναὶ/ ἀσπίσι καὶ κορύθεσσι καὶ ἔγχεσι
πεφρικυῖαι.
 Cf. Fludernik 1996, 8, who calls nature “an inset within civilization.”
 Orchards and gardens are set apart by their cultured and ordered topography (both Laertes’
orchard and Alcinous’ magical garden are carefully apportioned), while other examples of
wilderness are confined to the fantastic islands of the goddesses Calypso and Circe.
 Thick Description 59

nest or niche, as if the wild were contained or the core of something.”⁶⁸ The ness
is necessary, in other words, precisely because it embeds the core of the formless
(and, in its pure state, indescribable) wild.
In Glaucus’ famous simile of Iliad 6, a pile of leaves on the ground (φύλλα τὰ
μέν τ’ ἄνεμος χαμάδις χέει), blown there by the wind after the tree has flourished
in the spring, represent the accumulated time of human generations (ἀνδρῶν
γενεή) heaped one upon the other (Il. 6.146 – 9). These Homeric leaves are
thick and frequent both in spring (as in the nightingale’s tree, Od. 19.519 – 20)
and winter, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that they add a layer of thick-
ness to different aspects of the wilderness (trees, the ground, undergrowth, lairs)
at different times. The Iliad simile’s invitation to consider the thickness of a pile
of leaves in terms of time, then, is helpful for attempting to unpack the assump-
tion that nature and the wilderness are unchanging and timeless.⁶⁹ For while the
πυκινός quality of a bed of leaves may act, like the thickness of sleep, to soften
and still the flow of time, it cannot make events stop completely. Odysseus and
the boar are both awakened from their lair-beds to important narrative action,
and the thickness of the scenes describing the natural world in which they lie,
rather than impeding that action, makes it all the more focused. Thus although
wind nor sun nor rain can blow through (διάη, 442), touch (ἔβαλλεν, 443) or pen-
etrate (περάασκε, 445) the boar’s lair in Odyssey 19, the narrative will neverthe-
less drive the boar’s tusk through the flesh of Odysseus’ thigh, just as it will al-
most simultaneously force the tip of Odysseus’ spear forward and through (διῆλ-
θε, 19.453) the animal, curtailing its seemingly endless sleep and all the protec-
tion offered by its lair and hide.⁷⁰ In Book 5, on the other hand, Odysseus will
emerge from the thick woods (ἐκ πυκινῆς δ’ ὕλης) like a lion whose hunger drives
him to attempt to break into a πυκινὸν δόμον of flocks (Od. 6.127– 34), in a simile
that marks a decisive moment in his progress towards home.
This thickness applies, also, I have argued, to the mode of narration that
modulates the tempo of poetry in the movement between action and description
as well as frame and inset narrative.⁷¹ On the one hand, the thickness that comes
with an inset narrative such as a digression or a simile clearly slows time down,

 Bordo 2000, 225.

 On the endurance of the myth of “timeless nature,” see Pugh 1988, 2; Shapiro 2004.
 As Dimock (1956) has observed, the doubling of these actions is reflected in the middle voice
of ὀδύσσασθαι – to both receive and cause pain, as Odysseus does here at the crucial moment of
sealing his name.
 I do not want to over-emphasize the distinction between narration and description, but
rather to suggest, following Genette (1976, 5 – 8), that the two categories often merge with one
another. See also Bal 2006.
60 Alex Purves

by placing the framing narrative on hold. On the other, just as what is thick can
be still (“held fast”), so can it also be rapid (θαμά) and varied (“thick and fast”).
The frequentative or close-packed nature of the thick description we have been
examining here speaks to a complex folding of time through various modula-
tions, turns, and repetitions, rather than to an image of time standing still.
It follows that the discovery of the scar (19.388 – 93, 467– 75) and the excur-
sus itself (393 – 466) do not exist on entirely separate temporal planes, as Auer-
bach argued, but are perhaps more suggestively intertwined. The three succes-
sive moments of immediacy (αἶψα, αὐτίκα, αὐτίκα) and the thrice-repeated
and thrice-varied (ἔγνω, γνῶ, ἔγνων) moment of recognition with which
Homer frames the excursus resemble in some ways the thick frequencies and
folds that characterize the scenery in which the scar first forms. In particular,
the repetition of αἶψα/αὐτίκα and (ἐ)γνω(ν) at the moment of the scar’s discovery
highlights the imperfect relationship between the single, aoristic occurrence of
an event and the attempt to report that event as a single occurrence in time,
as if it were clean and simple, existing on a single and erasable surface.⁷² This
is precisely what led Auerbach to believe that the reader of Homer could transi-
tion seamlessly from one landscape to another, without a trace or mark of the
previous scene left behind in her mind. But the mark on Odysseus’ skin, even
a skin such as his that Athena can make smooth and young again by the pouring
on of χάρις, undermines the point. For the entire scene with the scar is triggered
by the touch of one small place on Odysseus’ body that, although the wound was
a single, momentary occurrence – the quick slice of a boar’s gleaming tusk – has
thickened over time. Texture, as Bora has said, always expresses temporality; the
material world remembers.⁷³
Like the scar which triggers the recollection, the boar’s lair has also thick-
ened in time, through the act of remembering and through its repeated retellings
by characters within the narrative and the poet himself,⁷⁴ as well as by the layers
of reference added from later stages in Odysseus’ life. For, although the hunting
expedition on Parnassus is explicitly framed as Odysseus’ first journey, his initial
experience of the wilderness upon leaving the small and rocky island of Ithaca,⁷⁵
when we reach the boar’s lair for the first time in the poem it is already thick,
covered over with the symbolic resonances, verbal repetitions, and narrative em-
beddings. As the epicenter of the entire hunting excursus, the lair draws into it-
self – both spatially and temporally – a series of folds that reach back out to re-

 Cf. Montiglio (forthcoming).

 Bora 1997, 95.
 Cf. Od. 19.463 – 4: καὶ ἐξερέεινον ἕκαστα,/ οὐλὴν ὅττι πάθοι· ὁ δ’ ἄρα σφίσιν εὖ κατέλεξεν.
 For descriptions of Ithaca, see Od. 4.601 ff., 12.236 ff.
 Thick Description 61

flect on the way in which the entire scar episode is constructed. Even the ring
composition that so famously encircles the story of the scar contributes to this
idea of composition as a series of folds or layers.
Auerbach’s invitation to think about Homeric style in terms of surface, flat-
ness, and depth, therefore, opens the door to a consideration of what we might
call “thin” vs. “thick” poetics, and in particular how the combined spatio-tem-
poral texture of πυκινός applies to oral poetics and its many formal features,
such as the laying on of description and epithet, the extensive use of cross-ref-
erence through formula and traditional theme, the extensive embedding of sim-
iles, digressions, and inset narratives within the main narrative, and the practice
of stacking and circling by means of ring composition.⁷⁶ All of these techniques
set one aspect of the poem into a spatio-temporal relationship with another to
create a work that is “thick” or multi-layered. It is particularly in the realm of na-
ture, however, that we see this quality of thickness come to the fore – a category
that is both so often “inset” within Homeric narrative and at the same time so
often descriptively associated with what is πυκινός. In the respect of both its po-
sition within the text and the terms of its description, the natural world can be
seen to reflect on various modes of Homeric composition.
Rather than seeing space in Homer as all foreground, therefore, “a reflective
surface with no access to itself”⁷⁷ and rather than relegating the space of nature,
by contrast, to nothing but the “background,”⁷⁸ we can instead appreciate that,
in Homer, sometimes space is described with an almost superfluous, richly-tex-
tured abundance of description, closely packed with epithets and adjectives, yet
that this does not close it off to narratorial or temporal complexity. The impene-
trable surface of Homeric landscape is present not, as Auerbach so powerfully
suggested, because that is all there is, but because that surface hides something
crucial from our immediate view. Like the scar – an object that one might first
consider (as Odysseus initially prepared us to) as only a shiny surface reflecting
the light of the fire in a kind of instantaneous luminosity, but which is in fact
perceived “roughly,” through the fingers – Homeric epic forces us to consider
the space of nature as thickly textured by its relationship to both time and poetic
form.

 Russo (1993) discusses many of these elements of Homeric style in connection with the
boar’s lair.
 Porter 2008, 136 on Auerbach.
 For the similes as “background” images, see, e. g., Lonsdale 1990, 39. For a good discussion
of the role of nature as “background” in film studies, see Morgan 2009.
Donald Lateiner
Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and
Places
Near and far, small and large, in and out, my land and your land: these funda-
mental human categories of space aid our navigation of charted territories, un-
bounded and trackless misty distances of sea,¹ and perceived celestial bodies.
Both of Homer’s² poems exploit territorial possession and aggression, life
abroad, death at sea, nostalgia and homesickness, rootedness in a particular
rocky soil. Strabo deemed Homer the founder of geography (ἀρχηγέτης, 1.1.2).
Controlling territory against competitors and invaders, awarding it to subordi-
nates, and penetrating other tribes’ privileged spaces are central Homeric
honor-bringing occupations. Trojans defend their home territory and town
against Akhaians, Akhilleus quarrels with Agamemnon over spear-won chattel,
a property equivalent on alien ground (Il. 1.122– 40). When Agamemnon threat-
ens to invade Akhilleus’ camp to seize this local woman, Akhilleus threatens
to kill him, should he try to take anything therein but the awarded prize, Briseis
(κλισίηνδε, Il. 1.185; εἰ δ’ ἄγε μὴν πείρησαι, Il. 1.302). At his wits’ end, Agamem-
non subsequently offers him one daughter (no bride-price!) and seven rich Pyli-
an towns to rule that will honor and support him (Il. 9.141– 56). Furious Poseidon
disputes control with Zeus’s proxy over allegedly common territory (Il. 15.158 –
217), a passage to which we shall return. Penelope’s “suitors” occupy Telema-
khos’ domain against his Laërtid will, beggar Odysseus holds a minimal foothold
in the face of the “suitors,” Laërtes has retreated to the hilly periphery, etc. Prop-
erty and territorial expectations focus heroic and divine conflicts and thus fur-
nish essential motives to both Homeric plots.
This paper, therefore, addresses four space-based topics. It hopes to illumi-
nate [A] Homeric linear and spatial measures and concepts, quantifiers of
human and divine experience. Then, it identifies [B] Homer’s characters’ con-
scious and subconscious perceptions and manipulation of travel-paths, battle-
field ground gained and lost, built urban architecture and choke-points (e. g.,
gates), and social distances (or proxemics, including characters’ access, eleva-
tion, and other spatial recognitions of hierarchy). Thus one opens a window to
glimpse narrator and characters’ conceptions of body envelopes and positional

 ἄπειρον πόντος, ἠεροειδές, while ὑγρὰ κέλευθα may be a sailor’s joke.

 “Homer” here signifies the two monumental texts that later Greeks and we possess. It does not
imply answers to the notorious “Homeric questions.”
64 Donald Lateiner

points of view. The essay then elucidates [C] the internal and external Homeric
audiences’ cognitive comparanda from the peacetime world, examples found
in similes, metaphors, and other expressions of locality, distance, and epic
spaces. Finally [D], we briefly speculate about cognitive geographies from the
Bronze Age to the Archaic era, perspectives implied in descriptions of places,
battle-orders, spaces, frontiers, disputed combat zones and no-man’s lands,
and trajectories traveled by gods and men.
[A] Measures, large or small units of lineal dimension or area, receive as
much attention in the Homeric epics as weight, holding capacity, and time,
but Homer proffers sizes in popular and heroicized comparisons more frequently
than in exact, largely anachronistic metrological units and divisions.³ One pre-
cise, but to us conjectural, area unit is the rare γύη: Alkinoos’ great orchard
has four and Meleager was promised a handsome τέμενος of fifty – if he re-
turned to fight the besieging Kouretes outside the walls (Il. 9.578 – 9, Od. 7.113,
18.374).
For an example of the impressive but imprecise analogy, the eagle that weal-
thy Priam rightly considers ominous (Il. 24.317) has a wingspread equal to the
width of a rich man’s well-built treasure-house door. The power associations of
the lordly, predator eagle and the secure treasure tower easily overwhelm the sig-
nificance of a number measuring a precise wing width (cf. Polyphemos’ club,
which is like the mast on a twenty-oared ship, Od. 9.322– 4). Homer never men-
tions fingers (dactyls!), cubits, or stades for measurement, but he does employ
the πέλεθρον to describe a considerable length or area, one used twice for an
area covered by huge fallen divinities, Ares and Tityos (Il. 21.407, cf.
Od. 11.577). Both passages suggest that the πέλεθρον connoted a vast square
measure.⁴ He compares, in a recondite, peacetime conflict simile, the closeness
of the Akhaian and Trojan battle-lines at the Akhaian camp to two men in a civil
suit disputing their boundary-line. They angrily flourish ropes in their face-off
over a foot or two between their productive fields.⁵ The funeral pyre that Akhil-
leus has raised for Patroklos measures a ἑκατόμπεδον (Il. 23.164: hapax – the
only example of a foot measure and, obviously, a conveniently large round num-
ber). The subsequent tumulus – not very big but broad and high – will be a glo-

 Scott (1974, 20 – 4) discusses similes of measure. Linear B tablets from Pylos describe 6 and 9-
foot parts of tables; although it is not clear which elements the scribes have measured. See [C]
below.
 10,000 ft2, cf. Hdt. 7.199, perhaps popularly associated with πέλωρ, giant and gigantic, hence
of divine size.
 Il. 12.421– 3, but these ropes are not calibrated like measuring “tapes,” however we imagine
the process.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 65

rious sema on the Trojan plain, a space “littered with semata” (οὐ μάλα
πολλόν…/ …/ εὐρύν θ’ ὑψηλόν τε, 23.245 – 7).⁶ (Rare) temples and commoner
royal dwellings are grand stone edifices (Il. 6.88 – 92, 6.241– 9, 6.379 – 80;
Od. 10.211, 10.350 – 70).
Athena’s, Patroklos’, and Akhilleus’ spears are described formulaically as
βριθὺ μέγα στιβαρόν, “heavy, huge/long, thick,”⁷ but Homer wisely leaves impre-
cise their lethal dimensions (length, weight, sharpness). Homer thrice refers to
ὄργυιαι, approximately six feet or a fathom, for a pivotal tree stump marking a
race-track turning point in the plain, a sharpened olive post in the Kyklops’
cave, and a heroic huntsman’s length of rope serving to drag a giant stag
(Il. 23.327; Od. 9.325, 10.167). In general, and unsurprisingly for heroic traditions,
Homer’s accessible descriptions (including formulaic phrases, similes, ecphra-
seis, and metaphors) value material worth and dazzle above exact measures.
The Akhaian fleet’s beachhead, below the gods’ sky-realm, provides a tiny
toehold in Trojan enemy territory across the treacherous sea on an alien conti-
nent. This war-torn man-world – shrunk and limited to a cosmic scratch on
earth – consists of a narrow coastal encampment, a wide battlefield, and one be-
leaguered city. The Trojan territory west of town towards the seashore, war torn
for a decade now, contrasts to the calm, wider realms of the celestial gods, to the
blank seascapes of the Odyssey, and Ithaka’s manor, an interior full of unearned,
lip-smacking feasts. Homer implicitly compares Troy’s now nearly treeless, blast-
ed ten-year battlefield landscape to agriculturally productive, tillable plain. The
Iliad’s engaging similes⁸ and the ecphrasis of Akhilleus’ shield describe open
spaces and cultivated places to this same purpose, developing images that recall
the productive worlds of forests, pasturage, grain fields, fish-filled seas, animal-
sacrifice rituals, and feasts where tables overflow with meat, bread, cheese, and
wine. The violence of man, predatory beast, or destructive nature sometimes dis-
turbs even these recollections of more peaceful occupations and slow-growth
natural processes,⁹ but, even so, those expansive spaces remain procreative rath-
er than deadly like the squeezed Trojan war field. When one turns from human
scale and distance quantification to geographical, divine, and cosmic spaces,
measures of extent are entirely absent.

 Clay 2007, 250.

 Il. 5.746 = 8.390, 16.802, 19.388; cf. Od. 1.100, perhaps one of many ironic echoes of the Iliad,
since Athene here plans no immediate fighting.
 Recent useful studies (among many) of Homeric similes (see [C] below) include Mark Edwards
1991, 24– 41 with bibliography, Scott 2009, Ready 2011.
 E.g., Il. 16.765 – 9: winds force trees to whip each other noisily and splinter.
66 Donald Lateiner

True or false, anachronistically too early (e. g., tactics that exhibit hoplite
characteristics) or late (e. g., now destroyed ornate Bronze Age, Aegean palaces),
the Homeric poems’ social presumptions and descriptive topographies and geog-
raphies of planet Earth, and outliers beyond the earth’s thin and fragile crust
(underground and in the sky), orient characters and audiences, internal and ex-
ternal. Familiar enough plain and battlefield Ilion,¹⁰ regal Egypt of the Delta,
mercantile Phoenicia, rich Krete, distant Epiros, and stony Ithaka¹¹ offer ac-
tual-space, real world topographies – emphatically recognizable to the Greeks
of “Homer’s” time.¹²
The main scene of Iliadic action is the battlefield between Akhaian ships
dragged on shore and the ashlar πτόλις walls. This arena, the war-zone between
the two armies, is a large no-man’s land to and from which warriors travel by
foot or chariot. In combat, thousands battle and can barely discern the direction
of victory on other parts of the field. The battlefield by nature stands in τὸ μέσ(-
σ)ον, a locational phrase used of Helen, duel arrangements, and the battle-lines
(Il. 3.69, 3.90, 3.416, 7.55, 17.375, 18.264, etc.). The dead zone provides the poem’s
usual focus, a field of dangerous and deadly force, rather than the often protect-
ed and domesticated productivity of the Iliadic similes and much of the Odyssey.
The varied natural landscape described includes alluvial plain, two rivers, hills
and mountains in the distance, two trees, the useful springs, and the seascape
behind (Il. 14.30 – 6). Homer more often mentions for our mental maps the con-
structed features on the field’s eastern and western peripheries. There is a city
inhabited on two levels with stone ramparts, gates, temples, and palaces, and
there is the “temporary” Akhaian bivouac of wood ships, a wooden wall with
gates, a wide defensive ditch, altars, and κλισίαι (sleeping shelters/huts).¹³ In ad-

 See Clay’s (2007, 241, at length: 2011) visualization of the battlefield in Iliad 12– 15. She
demonstrates a fixed Homeric focus from the Odyssean center of the Akhaian line, where altars
and agora appear (Il. 11.5 – 9, 11.806 – 7).
 Cf. Vernant 1983, 19.
 They are therefore distinct from the topographies of the fantastically fecund earthly para-
dises (Skheria, Kyklopesland, Lotosland, Aiaia), otherworldly lands of the dead shadows, and
the barely detailed divine realms above and below where speedy Immortals visit and dwell.
Similarly removed are the proto-cartographic descriptions mapped out by Zeus observing ter-
ritories over the horizon, or Hephaistos shaping the entire cosmos on a human-sized shield.
 For completeness, one should mention the humble washerwoman’s washing troughs and the
heroic burial mound in the plain between the forces. Clay (2011, 38 – 53, with bibliography)
describes how Homer presents urban Troy as emotional and psychological realities, less by
physical characteristics or by our present concern, quantitative measures. See her useful
schematic drawing and website (105 and http: //www.homerstrojantheater.org/). C. Tsagalis
(2010, 90 n. 13) observes that specific natural or man-made loci are cited or summoned only to
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 67

dition to private quarters, each combatant community (better deemed an unsta-

ble ‘alliance’) has a public, common meeting space or ἀγορή, although they dif-
fer in procedure and permanence.
Homer articulates other kinds of charged, even consecrated spaces in epic.
At one end are the transitory human encampments and dispositions for battle,
semi-permanent allocations (the beached ships’ at Troy in their specified
order),¹⁴ martial formations for various battles “along the line” (Il. 15.655 – 6;
cf. στίχες, Il. 16.211), occupations of territory, and the building of “permanent”
structures – walls, palaces, even a habitable cave. No less utilitarian stand altars
and Trojan temples, sacred precincts for mortal worship of gods, including pro-
pitiatory animal bloodshed.
Heroic zones of dispute and contention extend beyond the two main rings of
the gods’ human circus: Ilion’s battlefield and Odysseus’ wife, mansion, herds
and properties – both on and off-island. Ithaka’s ἀγορή, Polyphemos’ cave,
Kirke’s palace, and Ithaka’s feast-hall delimit micro-battlefields, feature food-
fights, and provide roofed and penned theaters in which status rivalry, superior
force or verbal fraud, humiliation, transformation, and even death are decided.
The Iliad’s quasi-omniscient narrator (θεὸν ὥς, Il. 12.176), in addition, de-
picts the humanly untraveled, but sometimes contested, territories of the Di-
vine.¹⁵ At the other end of the dimensional scale, the cosmos, Poseidon rejects
Zeus’s unexpected grab of common land (the earth). Zeus had previously driven
his father Kronos down, underground (Il. 14.204), one generation displacing an-
other’s control of all space. A primeval territorial division by lot among the three
Olympian brothers followed, one that afforded Zeus the domain of the sky.
Hades obtained the dead and the darkness, and Poseidon got the sea. Earth
and the Olympian mansions, Poseidon alleges, remain “common to all” (ἔτι
ξυνὴ πάντων, Il. 15.193). Having been commanded by Iris, serving an awakened
Zeus, to depart forthwith from Troy’s heroic battlefield and retreat either to the
company of the gods or to his exclusive realm of the sea, Poseidon angrily ob-
jects. He complains to one who should know, reporting the “Hesiodic” antedilu-

re-situate characters back into the narrative, frequently at a moment of imminent danger. Spatial
studies are expanding: see Tsagalis 2012 and de Jong 2012b. The combined 1,150 pages of these
volumes address issues similar to those in my modest paper, but they reached me too recently
for consideration.
 The ships’ disposition on the beach (Clay 2011, 45 – 50, citing Il. 4.250 – 326, 8.222– 6, 10.1–
179) is different from the three hodological, circling itineraries of Book 2’s more famous cata-
logue of Akhaian town contingents (Il. 2.484– 759; cf. 815 – 77 for Trojan forces; Clay 2011, 117–
18).
 Cf. Haubold (this volume) on ethnography.
68 Donald Lateiner

vian tripartite allotment decided among the brothers: the light grey sea, the
misty netherworld, and the heavens, clouds of the aer below aither (Il. 15.189 –
93; cf. 8.13 – 16):

τριχθὰ δὲ πάντα δέδασται, ἕκαστος δ’ ἔμμορε τιμῆς·

ἤ τοι ἐγὼν ἔλαχον πολιὴν ἅλα ναιέμεν αἰεὶ
παλλομένων, Ἀίδης δ’ ἔλαχε ζόφον ἠερόεντα,
Ζεὺς δ’ ἔλαχ’ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἐν αἰθέρι καὶ νεφέλῃσι·
γαῖα δ’ ἔτι ξυνὴ πάντων καὶ μακρὸς Ὄλυμπος.

The crust of Earth itself and high Olympos¹⁶ remain common “turf” shared by
three male divinities, at least in this plaintiff’s informal recitation. He briefly
summarizes an obscure finale of the Titanomachy including the Olympian frater-
nity’s territorial division of the spoils. Although whining Poseidon may have
right on his side, that advantage matters little in the face of Zeus’s superior
force. That’s the point: for the Iliad’s brutal reality, a claim to property has no
more authority than the force available to hold it.
Homer – in contrast to his near contemporary Hesiod – never describes in
detail divine houses, realms, or landscapes. Hera’s journey to Troy elicits a
curt description of Olympos’ built environments. Homer mentions walls and
gates (Il. 5.749 – 51), and Zeus’s palace – the house itself, and for interiors: dining
room, and inner bedchambers, i. e., θάλαμοι (Il. 1.533, 1.597, 1.610, 14.166). He-
phaistos built dwellings for all the other gods (Il. 1.605 – 11). Homer briefly men-
tions the Olympian palace threshold, assembly-place (Il. 20.4– 6), and a livery
area in which, in a seemingly lackey-less society, Hera yokes her horses to the
space-chariot for herself and Athena (Il. 8.382– 9).
The sky dwelling of the gods, the ultimate “no-trespassing” territory for hu-
mans, serves divine needs well, with fine weather on Mount Olympos, air paths
(Od. 5.383; cf. Il. 3.406 – 7, metaphorical for Aphrodite), and cloud-cover. The per-
meable layers hide them from the irritable mortals below, beef- and bread-eaters,
who are often dissatisfied with the quality of divine succor. Descriptions of di-
vine spaces and structures are unexpectedly restricted: an automatically gated
community (Il. 8.393), the palace and throne of Zeus (Il. 1.533 – 6), an isolated
viewing peak (Il. 1.499), and the nearby dwellings of his family and henchper-
sons (Il. 1.606 – 8). There, the gods feast exclusively on nectar and ambrosia
(Il. 4.3). At their closely packed table, they must endure notably tense conversa-

 The land claims recall the Book 12 simile discussed above, but there the human community
arranges a civil resolution. Each Homeric epic begins with a divine displacement: the gods or
one god (Poseidon) fly south to feast and vacation in Aithiopia (Il. 1.423 – 5; Od. 1.22– 6, 5.282– 7)
leaving behind their usual habitations.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 69

tions larded with noisy threats against themselves and human favorites and tar-
gets. Afterwards, they retire to their quieter bedrooms (Il. 1.533 – 611). Some facili-
ties with mangers provide a steading for the gods’ fabulous horses and horse-
powered vehicles (Il. 5.364– 9, 5.720 – 32). These chariots sometimes transport fe-
male divinities – Athene, Hera, etc. (Il. 5.720 – 52, 5.767– 8, 8.389) – to and from
both peaceful and lethal mortal activities at distant points on earth below. At
other times, super-humans fly unerringly to their destinations’ co-ordinates by
their own super powers (e. g., Aphrodite, Il. 3.382– 3). There, the conflicts of
deathbound humans currently generate partisanship and side-taking, proxemic
allegiances responsible for cosmic excitement.
One might expect descriptions of a divine garden, an armory, or a panoramic
vista, but beyond Olympos and Earth’s surrounding Ocean sea, sky, and celestial
bodies (a topography reprised by Hephaistos’ cosmographic shield), little ap-
pears. When, the narrator or characters mention the Otherworld (Hades’
[realm]), principally occupied by yesteryear’s humans, the place denotes the un-
welcome destination mentioned in battlefield obituaries for perished com-
rades.¹⁷ Beyond that, the older, displaced Titans dwell nethermost, below all be-
ings, constrained or indeed jailed behind gates of iron and beyond the bronze
threshold.¹⁸ Zeus obliquely insults Hera mentioning a nethermost wandering
among the relocated gods (τὰ νείατα πείραθ᾽, Il. 8.478). Homer footnotes once
more the Hypotartarian Titans when Hera swears Sleep a confirmatory oath
(Il. 14.278 – 80). Territoriality, here vertical rather than horizontal, in a world of
divine and human tooth and claw, thematizes both Homeric epics. Either some-
one controls and polices claimed territory or one finds oneself controlled – pil-
laged or displaced (e. g., Andromakhe’s mini-history and Briseis’: Il. 6.414– 27,
19.291– 8).
A Zeus’s-eye view far above Troy (Il. 14.157– 8) gazes out from the near to the
further North (Il. 13.4– 7) at the Thracian horsemen, close-in fighting Mysians,
the [Skythian] Hippemolgoi (cf. Hdt. 1.216) and the righteous Abioi.¹⁹ This better
vantage, the Olympian’s gaze from a lofty crag of Mount Ida, suggests a Homeric
cartography, an ethnographic, if not commercial, map. This eusynoptic con-
sciousness travels beyond the Trojan-Akhaian battlefield and army supply-
route ambit. The abbreviated geographical catalogue echoes the four “hodolog-
ical” cognitive paths taken by an audience hearing the Trojan catalogue. Hera’s

 Ἄϊδόσδε, “going Hellwards”: Il. 7.330, 16.856, 20.294, 22.362, cf. 23.137. Menelaos’ destination,
the Elysian Fields, is the exception that proves the rule.
 Il. 14.279 and 8.13 – 16: allusion perhaps to the Hesiodic tradition’s (Th. 851) more detailed
topography.
 Haubold (this volume) surveys Anatolian neighbors.
70 Donald Lateiner

journey, Olympos-Lemnos-Ida, not as the crow flew or flies,²⁰ by a similar logic,

is not an erratic itinerary but simulates first a road traveled and then Greek sai-
lors’ island-hopping and shore-hugging.²¹ The poets’ vista for Zeus reminds au-
diences that the demarcated Aegean battle zone is a most constricted one.²² The
Trojan catalogue’s longer geographical view comprehends Dardan allies mar-
shalled from different corners of Anatolia and Paionia, Paphlagonia, Amydon,
Lykia, and Alybe “far-off,” τηλόθεν, (Il. 2.815 – 77). This formal roster reprises
the Trojan’s cognitive map, i. e., this catalogue focalizes four routes or radii
from near to far from the Trojan point of view (τῆλ’, Il. 2.863; τηλόθεν,
Il. 2.849, 2.857, 2.877).²³ Hera pretends to her husband that she plans to travel
yet further than Ida to reconcile Okeanos and Tethys. She will travel “to the
ends of the Earth” (πείρατα γαίης, Il. 14.301).
Homer offers a binocular perspective, he contrasts the different scales and
methods of divine and human travel in the two poems. The open vistas enjoyed
by Zeus, Hera, Hermes, Athena, and Poseidon and their unencumbered and jet-
speed locomotion emphasize men’s claustrated limited horizons on the land and
sea, short-sighted human eyes and slow progress to destinations, sometimes, in-
deed, one step forward and two back. In his nostos, Odysseus stumbles from one
seaside trap to another. In his self-justifying, periegetic apologia or in the omnis-
cient narrator’s voice, narrow escapes by sea concatenate his disasters²⁴ and pre-
cede his immediately next following misadventures on land – a cave, a palace, a
field sequestered for athletics or filled with kine. The labile salt sea also trips and

 Il. 14.225 – 30; cf. Janko 1992 ad 4.186 – 7, Clay 2007, 246– 7, 281– 4, Purves 2010a, Clay 2011,
98.
 Hermes complains of long flights with no populated stopovers (Od. 5.100 – 2). Poseidon
travels from Samothrake to underwater stables near Anatolian Aigai for precious military
equipment. Soon he surfaces between Tenedos and Imbros on his way to aid the Akhaians at
Troy (Il. 13.12– 38). The poets emphasize divine speed and distances covered in their god-ge-
ographies and itineraries.
 The self-immobilized and isolated, hardly traveled Akhilleus, alone (οἶος, 11.763; cf. the
human scale of νόσφι, 5.322, 10.416, 22.332 & 508, 23.365, etc., to the gods’ view and the poet’s) in
his camp within the Akhaian camp regards even the nearby central Trojan battlefield in the
plain as “distant.” The Akhaians trade offshore for supplies and prestige goods and receive gifts
of wine from Lemnos (Il. 7.467, 23.746). They also raid the Kilikians for food, drink, and other loot
(Il. 1.366 – 8, 6.415 – 24). The rationalist and materialist historian Thucydides (1.11) characteri-
stically emphasizes the unpoetic logistics, the necessities of heroic subsistence that prolonged
this ambitious, mythic overseas expedition of loot and conquest prior to its Athenian analogue
invading Sicily.
 Cf. Kirk 1985, 250.
 Carpenter 1946.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 71

traps him: storms, lethally extended calms, Skheria’s rocky surf, Skylla’s multi-
handed grab, and Kharybdis’ sucking whirlpool.
[B] When characters describe a landscape, characteristics of a natural place,
or a humanly altered, even constructed area, each one possesses a status-con-
scious, self-concerned “take” on his or her relationship to the prospect and a
gendered viewpoint. A telescopic god, a myopic mortal, and “internal audien-
ces” solitary or numerous, rather than the disinterested, pantascopic narrator,
frequently personalize these perspectives.²⁵ Elliger discusses the narrator’s
“take” on the Trojan plain and the Skamandros/Xanthos river battle, realistic
Odyssean islands, heights, and harbor-towns, and topographical overviews be-
yond the ken of ordinary, groundling men.²⁶ Here one includes similes (especial-
ly – if uniquely – the crowded, simulated simile-like image of the cosmos on He-
phaistos’ five-ringed shield), ideal landscapes such as Olympos and Elysion
(Od. 4.563 – 70, 6.43), and enchanted fairylands off the geographer Strabo’s
map: Kalypsoland, Kirkeland, Alkinoosgarten, and semi-Märchen stops such
as the island opposite Kyklopsland. Even Laërtes’ locus amoenus, a well-tended,
rustic fruit orchard on relatively modest, rocky Ithaka, exhibits paradisiacal,
labor-free features (cf. Skheria and Kyklopesland) unusual for Hellenic orchards:
all-season fruiting, plenty, neat order, size, variety, regularity, and all productive
features always functioning (κομιδή, Od. 24.244– 7, 24.339 – 44). The Homeric city
(“wide-streeted” Troy) exhibits internal thoroughfares to accommodate human
foot and vehicular traffic (Il. 24.322– 9, 4.52; cf. πτόλις… εὐρυάγυια,
Od. 15.384), bordering houses, and royal domiciles. The city besieged needs its
fortifications: citadel (Pergamos), high and thick walls, ramparts and gates,
whether Homer narrates tales of Troy, Kalydon, or Thebes, or the warring
towns on Akhilleus’ replacement shield (Il. 22.144, 22.195; ἐν πόλει ἄκρῃ,
6.88 = 6.297, 7.1, 9.383 = 9.573; 18.511– 14, 24.453 – 5).
Odysseus, an efficient if devious and self-serving internal narrator, describes
the route to, and topography of, the Otherworld of the Dead, claiming a journey
beyond the peripheral Ocean (Od. 11.5 – 22). Time and space receive more varied

 Sky-god Zeus and Earth-shaker Poseidon have more than a bird’s-eye view. Aias or Akhilleus
can barely descry their battlefield (because of mist or distance). The inspired poet, however, sees
and synoptically knows all the Akhaians and Trojans’ thoughts and events everywhere and can
switch focus to simultaneous, or at least far distant, events “meanwhile back” in Ithaka or in
Troy town. See Il. 13.3 – 19, 17.643 – 50, and 11.598 – 614; 2.484– 93 and 2.815, or Od. 4.620 – 1:
Sparta to Ithaka). Clay (2011, 43) demonstrates a consistent narrator’s point of view of the Iliadic
battlefield, looking out from the central Akhaian battle-station of Odysseus in the invaders’
camp (see Il. 2.631– 7, 11.807– 8).
 Elliger 1975, 29 – 156.
72 Donald Lateiner

treatments in the Odyssey. ²⁷ Odysseus, always aiming homewards and inwards,

eventually reaches Ithaka – the last but still largely unwelcoming venue on his
involuntary, convoluted itinerary – but first he explores distant corners of the
Mediterranean Sea. He describes “real world” parts known well and utopian fan-
tasylands long imagined by the Hellenic colonial participants and their stay-at-
home kin.²⁸ Homer’s perhaps not so “proto-colonial” Odysseus reflects his con-
temporaries’ Hellenic curiosity about circumambient, (more) fertile territories,
commercial opportunities, and defensible island trading posts on the frontiers
of Hellenic habitation (Od. 7.112– 35, 9.116 – 41). His appreciative eye perceives
commercial and agricultural opportunities and successes still visible both in
Bronze Age shipwrecks and Linear B inventories. Homer’s own age was explor-
ing in all directions and noting topographic and ethnographic features. The ac-
cumulated geographical data, dispersed at Delphi and other centers, was appre-
ciated by Ionian merchants, overseas settlers, and eventually recorded by the
periegete Hekataios.
The deep sea, a vast, sufficiently infinite, graveyard for many Akhaian nos-
toi, presented danger and no security for Odysseus’s fragile ship and raft. All
other members of his own twelve ships’ crews perished before he reached Ogygia
(Od. 9.159, 12.417– 19, 11.110 – 14). The sea – infinite, polymorphic, and formulai-
cally ἀτρύγετος²⁹ – presents a hostile or indifferent character, one that baffles
and disorients Odysseus, the consummate sailor and helmsman (κυβερνήτης).
It repeatedly maims or shipwrecks him or demolishes his νήπιοι comrades. Its
glassy flatness in windless calm, its mountainous waves in high seas, and its or-
dinary lethal breakers (Od. 12.170 – 80; 5.291– 390, 5.401– 35, 10.47– 55, 12.405 –
19) foil the progress of his journey and repeatedly spoil hopes of homecoming.
One irritated sea god, Poseidon, many insubordinate subordinates, and his
own poorly timed needs for heroic sleep thwart his return to Ithakan home fires
(paradigmatically and most explicitly at Od. 10.28 – 55; cf. 12.337– 9, 12.366 – 70).
The displaced vagrant (ἀλήτης, 12 times) survives his watery catastrophes and
persuasively embroiders his encounters at untrustworthy ports of call, Aiaia
and Ogygia, on liminal Skheria, in Otherworldly Hades, and on home base Itha-
ka. He remains wary at multiple venues, even when “home” – swine farm, manor

 Hellwig 1964, 128.

 Malkin 1998, 15.
 Chantraine 1999 s.v. and LfgrE s.v. recognize this word’s formulaic character and regrettable
lack of specificity. It characterizes the sea (πόντος, ἅλς, πέλαγος, θάλασσα, ὕδωρ), and the
αἰθήρ. It is unclear whether the alpha suggests deprivation or intensification (see Chantraine
1999, 1381). Recorded suggestions include “barren, agitated, deep, limpid, permeable, groaning,
ever wet,” etc.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 73

feast, basileutic bedroom. His concatenated, formulaic mishaps sequence des-

perate landings, piratical raids, and necessary supplications of the powerful.
His requests for aid are often repulsed or result in claustration, involuntary ser-
vitude or imprisonment. Both the sweetly gloved predatory women and the sour-
ly silencing anthropophagous monsters impose challenging impediments to get-
ting home. Agoraphobic seas lack familiar headlands (cf. Od. 10.29 – 32), coastal
buoys¸ or any other signposts, so both internal and external audiences experi-
ence Odysseus’ anomie and atopia, “What place is this? Where are we now?”
Akhilleus’ promised and threatened but ultimately abandoned his hypothet-
ical two-day return trip, home to Phthia (Il. 9.360 – 3). Odysseus, the homeward
bound traveler, first lands at a site within the familiar Aegean core: a not too dis-
tant, indifferent or enemy harbor (Kikones). After the island sailor passes the
frontiers of the Akhaian world (Epiros and Malea on the mainland, Kythera
and Krete),³⁰ he visits or coasts by less well-known peripheries (as had Menelaos
in Egypt, Od. 4.351– 586; cf. Aithon/Odysseus’ “lying [Kretan and Egyptian]
tales”). Then, however, he is driven into the Great Beyond – should one choose
to believe his captivating travel narratives (Lotophagoi, Kyklopes, Laistrygones).
These strange landings, reported in climaxing groups of three in the Apologia, ³¹
bring him to terrae incognitae, “off the map,” what the Hellenistic critics referred
to Odysseus’ ἐκτοπισμός and ἐξωκεανισμός (Str. 1.2.10).³² The reported, fanciful
geography of the exotic periphery, dominant throughout Odyssey 9 – 12, includes
both paradisiacal Schlaraffenland and monstrous dangers.³³ Sucking, consuming
monsters such as the malevolent super-boor Polyphemos, Laistrygonians, and
Skylla and Charybdis threaten to trap, bury, and/or consume the briefly over-
whelmed and sometimes foolish, unstrategic hero.³⁴
The enervating temptations and exotic opportunities of the conceivably be-
neficent Lotos-Eaters, Kirke, and even the fortunate Phaiakians obstruct his
planned path to return home. Feeling more confident after Athena’s encourage-

 Hartog 2001, 15 – 39.

 The ternary structures of Odyssey 9, 10, and 12 (cf. Carpenter 1946, 136 and σύντρεις
αἰνύμενος, Od. 9.429), each with final climactic catastrophe, may hint at the taleteller’s artifice
(Kikones, Lotophagoi, and Kyklops; Aiolos, Laistrygones, and Kirke; Sirens, Skylla & Kharybdis,
and Helios’ kine.
 Romm 1992.
 Cf. Hdt. 3.106 – 16 on the wonders found on the edges (ἐσχατιαί) of the (known) earth, the
οἰκεομένη. See also Hellwig 1964, 126 – 8, Lateiner 1989, 127, 262 n. 3 and Romm 1992, 38 – 41 with
bibliography.
 Even the gentle witch Kalypso, too, as her telltale name reveals, hopes to bury/hide/di-
sappear the hero in her woman-cave and deprive Odysseus of his “proper” place (both ge-
ographical home and socio-economic status).
74 Donald Lateiner

ment, Odysseus entering Phaiakia-town notes its exceptional harbors, fleet,

walls and gardens,³⁵ and wonders about occupying, possessing, and profiting
from it – the Hellenic colonist’s imperial dream. Heroic spaces, then, are not
to be assumed to be cooperative or neutral. In the generally lawless encounters
with strangers (absent xenic arrangements), judging by this one warrior’s trou-
bled travel, one either plunders and dominates new territories and their inhab-
itants or finds oneself dominated, enslaved, or even eaten. Despite successful
supplications directed to the princess and later her parents Arete and Alkinoos,
Odysseus has many trials to face between his extended fêting as guest and his
desiderated, delayed journey home.
The as yet unnamed castaway on Skheria, accepted royally as a guest-friend,
finds himself insulted while a passive spectator – he resembles a trader, not a
peer! – and is goaded to compete in the discus-throw. His victorious attempt
gains five affirmations of its distance. He hurls a specifiedly bigger, thicker,
and heavier object that flies far further than all the Phaiakian competitors’ at-
tempts (ὑπέρπτατο, Od. 8.192). The narrator [1] notes the length of the cast for
the external audience, then Athene in disguise as a local man [2] asserts it to
the crowd gathered beside the field (πολὺ πρῶτον, Od. 8.197). The happy victor
[3] verbally caps his demonstration of status; he vaunts and taunts his rude,
younger, local “peers” to try to match it or to compete in any heroic contest what-
soever (τῶν δ’ ἄλλων ἐμέ φημι πολὺ προφερέστερον εἶναι, Od. 8.221). They [4]
demur, wisely (οἱ δ’ ἄρα πάντες ἀκὴν ἐγένοντο σιωπῇ, Od. 8.234 – paralinguistic
deference marking a silence louder than words). Finally, to forestall any incipient
argument or brawl¸ basileus Alkinöos [5] admits his xeinos’ ἀρετή, his clear su-
periority at discus distance (Od. 8.236), although he reserves Phaiakian claims to
superiority in running, feasting, dancing, etc. Thus the heroic trajectory of his de-
cisive heave-ho gains assent five ways!
Competitive animals, both Homeric athletes and warriors (and bankers and
football teams today),³⁶ contest supremacy through territory, both their place in
their own community’s vertical hierarchies and their space in size of territory –
perceptible, horizontal dimensions. Homeric peers compete at near and far dis-
tances (see below [C] on similes), above and below (divine, human, realm of the
dead), in and out (of towns and rings), in central and peripheral (borderland –
ἐσχατιή) locations for profit and honor, even when they celebrate the short ca-
reer of dead Patroklos. Space is never neutral. Control over it communicates de-

 Od. 7.43 – 50, 7.84– 133; cf. 6.262– 72, Nausikaa’s complementary description.
 Even Skherian washerwomen vie for victory (ἔριδα, Od. 6.92).
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 75

grees of power or powerlessness, on racecourse finish lines, in secure high ram-

parts, on ships at sea, in corner offices, or underground prisons.
Polyphemos’ promontory and the Kyklopian offshore island receive a colo-
nizer’s shrewd and admiring appraisal.³⁷ The aggrandizing traveler’s first
thought is not to pay deference to the locals but to seize their territory – location,
location, location. The Ithakan surveyor would further tame this natural, island
paradise teeming with wild goats, plant crops in fertile meadows, reap harvests
including grapes, enjoy fresh spring water, and build up the defensible, commer-
cially friendly harbor (Od. 9.116 – 41). Adopting a more conventional xenic pose
later when he is trapped by the one-eyed native, he wants to settle for giving
“guest gifts” and getting a swift good-bye. Polyphemos’ anti-(Hellenic) world en-
joys produce without labor, wild carefree goats, fertile fields, cave-dwellings,
good forests – in short autonomy and autarchy. But the “savages” (they live
οὐ κατὰ μοῖραν, Od. 9.352) do not build houses, or observe a body of sanctioned
customs, θέμιστες (Od. 9.112; cf. Il. 2.206). They do not know about farmers who
plow, plant, and reap, or hold assemblies and engage in overseas commerce
(πάτος, Od. 9.119). They prosper by themselves without shipwrights or ships.
In brief, the utopian topography of Polyphemos’ self-sufficient if brutish com-
munity militates against any external contacts or commercial interests and there-
fore any desire fully to exploit their own rich resources. Only the comparative
scarcity of mountainous Ithakan territories (Od. 4.605 – 8, 9.21– 2) will produce
the skills and strengths of an Odysseus.³⁸
Homer presents as the most distant and severely prohibited spaces the trans-
Oceanic lands of the dead. Separated by rivers and vast circling Ocean
(Od. 10.508 – 15, 11.157– 8), this destination is humanly attainable – indeed un-
avoidable for all except the chosen few – but only after death and proper burial.
Odysseus’ crewman Elpenor, for example, who slipped off a roof and broke his
neck, details the boundary and liminal protocols (Od. 10.51– 4, 12.9 – 15).³⁹ Hom-
er’s epic successors (inter alios, Vergil’s Aeneas in Aeneid 6, Ovid’s Orpheus in
Metamorphoses 10 – 11) develop further physical and metaphysical details for

 Malkin 1998, 13 – 15. Akhaians could quickly transform the ἀγρός here into a πτόλις with
good anchorage and water supply (Od. 9.125 – 41).
 Herodotos has both Spartan Demaratos and Persian Kyros reprise and develop this theory of
hard lands producing innovative success. His serious meditations develop his poetic prede-
cessor’s insight into prosperity and war preparedness (7.102, 9.122). Herodotos the geographer
records later, historical commercial adventurers into the Beyond such as Kolaios the Samian and
certain west- and south-sailing Phoenicians and Sataspes (4.152, 42– 3).
 Odyssey 11, or the Nekyia. Katabatic heroes like Herakles and Odysseus present the heroic,
rule-proving exceptions.
76 Donald Lateiner

the morally demarcated neighborhoods, the troubled access paths, and the am-
biguously exclusive⁴⁰ topographies of Hades’ realm.
Odysseus enthralls his Phaiakian audience with his survey of the Other-
world – the realm of Death bordering the northwest Ocean. This country has
its own trees and rivers: Pyriphlegethon, Akheron, and Kokytos derived from
Styx (Od. 10.513 – 14, Il. 8.369). The wanderer draws on traditional narratives of
moral geography as old as the Near East’s theogonic myths. Thus, he has divided
the Land of the Blessed (Od. 4.561– 9), an exclusive Paradise for god-relations,
probably Egyptian in origin,⁴¹ from the resting place of all other mortals. After
he performs essential last rites that allow his stumbling dead shipmate Elpenor
(Od. 11.66 – 80) to cross to his proper realm, Odysseus meets first the untimely
dead – virgins, brides [not yet mothers], and battlefield heroes dead while still
enjoying first youth (Od. 11.38 – 41). The unquiet dead come to him at the liminal
demarcator, the threshold. Odysseus carefully⁴² never crosses that threshold into
Hades’ realm (ἐγὼ μὲν ἄνευθεν…/ εἴδωλον δ’ ἑτέρωθεν, Od. 11.82– 3). Homer’s
listeners thus can barely visualize the proxemics of his meetings with, or more
distant (Od. 11.543, 11.561, 11.563 – 4) sightings of, the perished dead in their geo-
graphic divisions (women, heroes [Od. 11.627– 9], punished violators of decency
and privilege). He observes, sequentially and apart, the wives and daughters of
the basileis of the past (Od. 11.227– 30), the mobile if now pointedly aimless, her-
oes of the Trojan War, and selected malefactors in torment: blasphemous Tanta-
los, the death-beater Sisyphos, and the rapist Tityos (Od. 11.576 – 600). Even the
Iliad’s “blameless” heroes and heroines must wander endlessly in the next
world, as Akhilleus complains to his anxious guest (Il. 11.488 – 91) – a reprise,
perhaps, of this young man’s characteristic, sometimes petulant, off-sides behav-
ior in the Iliad.
Returning to terra firma, Ithaka’s familiar, peaceful, poor but well-tended
rural landscapes extend from the shoreline Nymphs’ cave, mountainside pig-
sties, and Laërtes’ private, upland orchard and tilth to the small town’s public

 In any eschatology, post-mortem location reflects earthly moral stature. Cresswell (1996)
provides a rather abstract introduction to the ideology of spatial transgression, while Sibley
(1995) is more interested in Coventry shopping-malls than ancient eschatologies, but his dis-
cussion of who gets in and who is pushed out of a privileged locus illuminates any discussion of
spatial consequences of moral distinctions and hierarchies.
 Vermeule 1979, 72– 7.
 Aeneas, however, Odysseus’ Doppelgänger in the Otherworld, appears to stroll through the
many neighborhoods of Vergil’s underworld, save Phlegethon, off-limits to pure souls
(Aen. 6.410 – 892, esp. 563, 886: tota passim regione vagantur).
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 77

ἀγορή, harbor, private dwellings, and chieftains’ entertainment houses.⁴³ Hospi-

table but poor, old Eumaios’ upland, neighborless steading stands opposed to
inhospitable but rich, young Eurymakhos’ urban squatting, a familiar country-
city polarity.⁴⁴ Odysseus regards with wonder the locales of his earlier, pre-war
existence, the visual and aural cues and associations of childhood places
past.⁴⁵ This poem,⁴⁶ therefore the written island, teems with cognitive land-
marks, activators of memory – sights, sounds, smells, and nostalgic landmarks,
natural as the cave of the nymphs and fruit trees, or as artificial as his self-car-
pentered threshold and bedpost. After a long deferred return to his town, he be-
gins the difficult process of reversing his community’s slide into catastrophic po-
litical disruption.
The pastoral highlands, the agriculturally productive fields, the gardens (on
Ithaka and Skheria), and the built environments of the πτόλις reassure and
therefore mislead dramatically the homecome stranger. Athena warns her proté-
gée, and he likewise warns all other friendly parties by words, signs, and even a
choke hold. Both son and father are unwelcome intruders for the temporary
“hosts” at the Laërtid manse. They are socially displaced, stigmatized outsiders,
for the nonce. The warm familiarity of his boyhood countryside and the xenic
hospitality of the swineherd’s mountain σταθμός provide contrasts to Melanthios
and the city-bound suitors’ brutal and Zeus-offending occupation and exclusions
(17.239 – 44, 17.475 – 87, 17.494, etc.). He experiences these humiliations (literally:
de-elevations to earth) first on the supposedly public, neutral territory of the
path to town and then, in extreme form, when he reaches the hostile environ-
ment of his expropriated, or at least occupied, house. The mini-army of invaders
attempt to fend off the additional mouth, to fence off the socially inappropriate

 E.g., Od. 2.35 – 7, 6.9 – 10, 7.43 – 5 (Skheria, including land allotments), 7.80 – 1 (Athens, streets
and palace), 10.87– 94 (Laistrygonia), 17.264– 71; Il. 11.808, 21.446 – 7). The Akhaian camp has
city-like features: ἀγορή, walls, de facto harbor/beach, and ten-year encampments of unex-
pectedly heroic splendor, e. g. Akhilleus’: 24.448 – 55. We have already described metropolis
Troy’s urban features including walls and gates, paved streets, temples and altars, spacious
palaces with storerooms that warehouse accumulated capital. The displayed wealth strengthens
contrasts to the field-camp, the small πτόλις, and the farmer’s exigent life.
 Od. 13.102– 12, 18.356 – 61, 18.366 – 75, 24.223 – 7 & 24.244– 7; cf. Anthony T. Edwards 1993.
 Telemakhos, barely twenty years of age, like his father was when he left for the Great War,
complements the veteran’s experience of recollection of a modest prosperity with his own
adolescent discovery of new luxury at cosmopolitan Sparta.
 Clay (2007, 248 – 50) explicates parallel reliance on visualization in the Iliad, both the natural
geographical features and humanly created structures. The oral tradition’s mnemotechnic pro-
blems and resources invite detailed evocations of places and space – informal ecphraseis that
invite elaboration of humble huts and lavish halls.
78 Donald Lateiner

arrival from his ancestral territory comprising his house, his own cypress and
ash-wood doorway (17.339 – 41), his hearth, dining hall, and ultimately his per-
sonally handcrafted bed.
Her one hundred eight suitors and her one son force Penelope, the head of
household, to retreat upstairs and inside – apart and away from the decisive bow
and spear foreplay (Od. 21.350 – 4). Odysseus’ step-by-step, “slo mo” successful
penetration of forbidden spaces in his large house culminates in his repeatedly
frustrated, but eventually successful, ventures to reach, in order, the threshold
entry-point, the feast-table, the hearth, the bow and ax-heads agonistic testing-
ground, and, after the battle, to enter the ultimate, well-guarded retreat, the mar-
ital θάλαμος. Audiences experience his progress room to room – a mini-spatial,
repeat odyssey, advancing (as in many current video-games) from point to point.
This private room, with its upstairs, “inmost” [ἔσχατον] locked closet and “high
shelf” (έϕ’ ὑψηλῆς σανίδος) on which the bow for a long time resided (Od. 21.5 –
60), is the house’s most intimate and male-forbidden, protected space (sexually
analogous to the basileia’s body). The suitors’ repeated tactical failures to block
Odysseus’ spatial progress prefigure their defeat in pitched battle and complete
annihilation. The “suitors’” corpses, stacked up in a simile like dead fish, now
but ephemerally occupy a minimal territory (Od. 22.384– 9, 22.448 – 50).
Odysseus’ calculated proxemic ploys and ripostes at each stage outwit the
crude efforts of Penelope’s suitors to keep him “in his [stigmatized] place” and
destroy his minimal face. They deny him, first, entry, then, a place at the
table, and finally, a turn out-of-turn in the serial and otherwise aristocratically
rule-bound contest of the bow.⁴⁷ The twisty hero manipulates Hellenic protocols
of hospitality and beggary to inch through the doorway and up to the table, into
the contest, and to occupy the strategic high ground in the decisive, rule-free am-
bush, battle, and bloody slaughter.⁴⁸ He promises his two servant allies – should
they succeed against the suitors’ vastly superior numbers – to treat the herdsmen
like “comrades and brothers” of Telemakhos and to furnish them wives and
houses built next to his. He promises domiciles near and dear, that is, proximity
to his power (οἰκία τ’ ἐγγὺς ἐμεῖο τετυγμένα, Od. 21.215).
Homer exploits paradoxes arising from the limits of human perception and
mortal uses of space, or proxemics. He pictures both tightly constructed and hi-
erarchically positioned city dwellings and the wide spaces of other realms in this
world and two others. Exhausted dead spirits ceaselessly wander the Other-

 Lateiner 1992.
 The careful and measured disposal of the axes in the playground of the harm-free bow-pull
and one-directional arrow contest contrasts dramatically to the chaotic, no holds barred, di-
rectional free-for-all fight that characterizes the slaughter of the suitors.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 79

world, while the immortal gods enjoy sexual dalliances and bloody playgrounds
both at Troy above ground and in remote celestial bedrooms.
At the Iliad’s end, the usually distant battlefield spatial dynamics enter a
surreal phase of face-to-face encounters. Akhilleus’ battle with a force of nature
and striking geographical feature, the Zeus-fathered Trojan river, Skamandros, vi-
olates usual human limits (Il. 21.300 ff.) and fluvial capacities. Akhilleus’ climac-
tic encounter with Hektor immediately after unleashes several similes (Iliad 22)
from the worlds of nature and culture.⁴⁹ Akhilleus, sleeping apart from friend
and foe on the liminal beach, attempts unsuccessfully to stand close and em-
brace the briefly risen shade of his friend Patroklos (ἀλλά μοι ἆσσον στῆθι· μίν-
υνθά περ ἀμφιβαλόντε/ ἀλλήλους, Il. 23.97– 8). He thus expresses a rationally
pointless but understandable emotional need for physical intimacy with his ther-
apon (zero-degree corporeal separation). Later, mutual touching (haptics of knee
and hand) with his enemy Priam transcends their implacable enmity. Although
both experiences are necessarily transient (Il. 23.59 – 107, 24.476 – 515), this phys-
ical intimacy, the heroic tears in common, and the heart-broken accompanying
words appreciate the shared need for contact – for closeness. One blind poet, po-
etry-patronizing princes, and their audiences are all tuned to the micro-manage-
ment of status-inflection amidst irreparable and permanent human loss.
On the marge of Hades’ territory, between life and death, Odysseus seeks es-
sential information and emotional reassurance, so he too wishes to touch and
hug someone, here his mother’s shade. Although a welcome face, Odysseus’ in-
tertextual echo of Akhilleus’ foiled attempt to touch the ghost of dead Patroklos
(Il. 23.99 – 102; Od. 11.150 – 225) recalls the incommensurability of fleshless spirits
and boned bodies. The human impulse for haptic communication does not rec-
ognize the categorical distance between the living and the dead.
After reaching Ithaka, Odysseus, as stigmatized beggar, initially must cali-
brate and maintain some “respectable” social distance from his exalted hostess,
his unacknowledged wife. For reasons perhaps deriving from her very early rec-
ognition of the remarkably poorly disguised “beggar,”⁵⁰ the otherwise ever pru-
dent “widow” Penelope asks Eumaios to summon the vagrant to her in her pri-
vate (females only!) rooms (Od. 17.507– 10, 17.529, 17.554). In this situation, she
shockingly ignores gendered spatial expectations – the protocols of heroic proxe-
mics. Any ruler’s lady must maintain distance from homeless, dinner-grubbing
male vagabonds, and cannot alone parlay with a male stranger. Odysseus

 Scott 2009, 72– 8.

 Vlahos (2011, 14– 28) lucidly and persuasively presents the couple’s homophrosynic syn-
chronization of the heroic revenge and slaughter plot.
80 Donald Lateiner

knows better and so, shockingly but correctly, perhaps crypto-informatively, re-
jects the ruling lady’s imperious command (Od. 17.569 – 70). Penelope is irritated
but perceptively interprets the stranger’s strategic decision – he is “no dope,”
οὐκ ἄφρων. Journeying home, Odysseus had faced both threateningly distant
destinations and uncomfortably close degrees of proximity, nearness to
women and (other?) monsters. His titrated, conscious and semi-conscious, dis-
tance-adjustments confirm his spatial savvy. He communicates accordingly by
deferentially distanced dialogue, standing embraces, haptic supplications by
the chin and at the knees (dis-elevation), and sexual intercourse. These are shifts
from social to personal to intimate space, and from vertical to horizontal bodily
orientation experienced with Kalypso, Kirke, and Penelope.⁵¹ His proxemic fi-
nesse salvages crises (Skheria beach, Alkinoos’ palace, Ogygia), easing entrée
into, and (no less) egress from, forbidden or potentially perilous places (Aiolos’
island, Polyphemos’ cave, Eumaios’ steading, and the socially unstable μέγαρον
on Ithaka).
Gendered spatial dynamics, a division of proxemics,⁵² complicate the narra-
tives of both epics: Helen distracts Paris from battle at the current ground zero of
the Trojan War, Paris’ self-built palace: a δῶμα with μέγαρον, αὐλή, and θάλαμος
(bedchamber), etc. The seducer/abductor built his house near the highest author-
ities’ homes on Pergamos, the citadel with Athena’s temple and the peak dwell-
ings of Hektor and Priam (Il. 6.317, 6.512). In the adulterer’s very sleeping cham-
ber (Il. 6.313 – 24), site of the repeated sexual transgression that has caused this
decade-long war, Hektor chides his unpredictable brother, a warrior reluctant
about leaving his restless lover to return to the fray. He further rejects his seduc-
tive sister-in-law’s invitation to sit down beside her, rest awhile, and chat (354).
The room is uneasily claustrophobic for Commander-in-Chief Hektor, probably
more confusing than the battlefield.
In the Iliad’s other camp, the contested, oscillating locations of recently cap-
tured Chryseis, a priest’s daughter become Akhaian booty or sexual property

 Proxemics can intentionally mislead an interlocutor (Hall, 1966, 12, 104– 5; Lateiner 1992,
144– 50). For example, Odysseus approaches in pseudo-friendly style from a social distance the
towering threat to his safety, Polyphemos, and hands him a gift, the ultra-potent, sleep-inducing
Ismarian wine (Od. 9.345 – 70). Kirke, at the personal distance, seductively hands her visitor
another drink, a deceptive, indeed transformational, potion (Od. 10.316 – 25). The pre-fortified
Odysseus draws his sword to attack. The witch, however, slips under his guard to reach the
intimate distance and there supplicates the hero. The beggar Odysseus comes near each suitor
reaching out his hand (Od. 17.366) for alms; Antinoos explicitly orders the aggressive space-
invader to stand off, recognizing the danger in his threat to questionable aristocratic proxemic
protocols (στῆθ’ οὕτως ἐς μέσσον, ἐμῆς ἀπάνευθε τραπέζης, Od. 17.447).
 Cf. similar conflicts in a different genre, prose narrative, examined in Lateiner 2012.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 81

(home, Agamemnon’s captive, returned to her father) and the locations of captive
Briseis (home, Akhilleus’ prize, Agamemnon’s, back to Akhilleus) confound and
nearly topple the invading Akhaians’ fragile “big-man” command structure (Iliad
1, 9, 19).
In the Odyssey, Kirke, Kalypso, Nausikaa, and Arete, in that temporal order
of events (not the narrative sequence), by sexual offers and provocations delay
Odysseus’ desired homecoming.⁵³ Homer describes his calculated, delicate ap-
proaches to their female persons, especially Nausikaa’s (6.118 – 85), in free indi-
rect speech, unusually detailed interior monologue, direct speech, as well as nar-
rative. Should he appear while nearly naked, come near, touch them, clasp their
knees, abase himself in the personal distance, etc.? Their women’s weapons are
not bronze or poison-tipped, but consist of nurture, sex, and creature comforts
(such as clothes, food, baths, and secure refuge).⁵⁴ They offer superhuman, or
at least regal, status and riches that reach beyond anything that small and
poor Ithaka and ageing Penelope can provide. Their generous territories, howev-
er, are distant from his construction of wealth, status, inherited paternal estates,
and family and cannot replace his web of spatial anchors, his consanguineal net-
work of Ithakan orchards, domestic animals (Argos, his territorial dog on the
dungheap, included), orchards, persons, and family places. These landmarks ex-
tend from the distant but useful treasure-house cave of the Nymphs near the
beach to the geography of his self-built bed and bedroom.
As in other cultures, Homeric communities briefly form meaningful circles.
These can construct and share sacred locales and protect demarcated places.⁵⁵
The circle⁵⁶ provides a magical barrier or at least a spiritually protective, inter-

 Odyssey 10, 5, 6 – 7, 12. Other variously female-gendered threats include the Sirens, Skylla,
and Kharybdis.
 Hekabe and Helen both secure their most precious robes “at the bottom” of storage chests,
the safe locus of gifts, proffered to goddesss Athena and Telemakhos’ intended wife (νείατος,
Il. 6.295 = Od. 15.108).
 Ritual or symbolic circling may well derive from hominid ethology. Akhaian warriors in order
to protect Menelaos surround the wounded battler when he is down (κυκλόσε!, Il. 4.211– 12).
Intuitive rings (seen also already among animal packs such as wolves, dogs and other canids)
ward off danger and damage or isolate a victim. Encirclement produces an aggressive tactic for
heroic and divine trappers (Od. 4.792, 8.278 [Hephaistos’ bedroom snare for Aphrodite and Ares,
a wrap-around hunting net], 19.444 [wild animals]). A simile employs barnyard terminology for
the Akhaian efforts to encircle or pen in the Trojans (8.131: “penned like sheep”). Cf. Il. 17.392:
Homer uniquely compares in a simile the many-sided tugging of Patroklos’ corpse to an all-sides
hide-pulling event. Here the simile’s encircling leather treatment procedure is entirely instru-
mental, but the same might be said of the corpse-protectors.
 Sherratt 2004.
82 Donald Lateiner

personal, and symbolic chain-formation in rituals.⁵⁷ The heroes herd sacrificial

animals around an altar (περὶ βωμόν, Il. 1.448). The Akhaian warriors on their
horses solemnly circle the body of Patroklos “in state,” as they perform mourn-
ing rituals (Il. 23.13 – 14). Community elders sit in a solemn circle occupying a rec-
ognized public place in order to hear disputes and render legal judgment
(Il. 18.504). Farmers, too, in practical rather than symbolic terms, protect their
flocks enclosing them in a pen or corral.⁵⁸
Homeric male and female celebrants in joy also form circles to chain-dance
on a designated, demarcated dancing floor before a multitude of spectators. They
thus express gratitude for harvest and plenty (Il. 18.590 – 605, Od. 8.250 – 3,
8.262; at 8.378 – 80, a spectators’ circle is only implied). A simile (see infra) com-
pares the whirling dancers on Akhilleus’ circular, protective, and heroic shield to
a humble potter lightly spinning his wheel around.⁵⁹ During Homeric performan-
ces and agones, the judges/spectators literally shape themselves into a circle,
marking out the ephemeral but meaningful segregated space of contest (πολλὸς
δ’ ἱμερόεντα χορὸν περιίσταθ’ ὅμιλος, Il. 18.603).
Diners feast around a table in Agamemnon’s camp, on Mount Olympos, or in
central courtyards (Il. 1.597, Od. 17.365: ἐνδέξια – propitiously, circling left to
right; 8.65 – 6, 9.8, 17.447– 50). Penelope’s suitors, who also feed endlessly and
dance, uneasily occupy another man’s house and territory against the will of im-
potent (and thus positionally peripheral) household authorities.⁶⁰ These off-is-
land space-invaders also form a temporary ring – a place – both in order to
hem in willy-nilly their playthings, Aithon and Iros, and to view their boxing con-
test, the bullies’ cheerful amusement at their inferior’s catastrophe (ἀμφὶ…
ἠγερέθεντο, Od. 18.41). Victory in the ring will determine which beggar will con-

 The dancers on the shield, sometimes in circles, at other times form parallel rows (ἐπὶ
στίχας) and cross each other (Il. 18.602). Other formations: Humans march and stand in aligned,
serried ranks to prepare for battle or to form civil turn-taking lines. The suitors appear to queue
up for unheroic but egalitarian left-to-right turn taking with the contest to string the bow (ἐξείης
ἐπιδέξια, Od. 21.141– 2), although there is some jostling for position (Telemakhos: 124, Leiodes:
144, νέοι θάλποντες: 184, Eurymakhos: 245).
 Σηκός: Od. 9.219, 9.227, 9.439; 10.412 [simile], 17.224– 5, servant of a servant pen-sweeper.
 The Hephaistian shield itself provides its mortal wielder with a divinely salvific, defensive
circle defense (Il. 18.375, cf. 12.294, 19.280). Sacrificial savor curls (ἑλισσομένη) into the sky
(Il. 1.317).
 Their impotence arises from disenfranchised positions in heroic hierarchies: Telemakhos has
been too young, Penelope is female, Eumaios and Philoitios now have low status, Laërtes is too
old and removed himself from power before Odysseus departed twenty years earlier, and Eu-
rykleia is doubly diminished: both female and a slave.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 83

tinue to enjoy the largess of the parasitic suitors, their handsome scraps of food
(Od. 18.40 – 1).
Hephaistos’ divine miniaturization of solar-system and generic πτόλις geog-
raphies (Il. 18.478 – 607), the five-fold thick and heavy, triple-rimmed shield pro-
vides, first in the middle, a mini-kosmos – earth, sky, and the encircling sea.
Moving further out, the eternal sun and moon and constellations, and, again
at the end, Ocean rings all the schematic activity, encircling two “lovely cities”
of men. Like the divine craftsman, the omnipresent, multi-locational poet shifts
his and our perspective from the heavens to these cities that ephemerally enjoy
ordinary men’s blessings. Their everyday strenuous activities “on the ground,”
managing their plants and animals (with dung [?] of gold and tin:
Il. 18.574– 5), are complemented by their seasonal pleasures. The happy elite
feast on ox-meat, while the rest must be content with barley (Il. 18.59 – 60).
Later, the community’s male and female dancers present kaleidoscopic circles,
crossing rows, and, in three-dimensional climax, two leaping soloists “spin
amidst the crowds” (? κυβιστητῆρε… ἐδίνευον, Il. 18.605 – 6). The external audi-
ences visualize multum in parvo, before they are jerked back to the remainder of
Akhilleus’ extended, extra-ordinary arming scene. The armor, designed at He-
phaistos’ forge, is now same-day delivered to the killing fields of Troy
(Il. 18.609 – 16). The narrator controls listeners’ perceptions of space and time,
backgrounds and foreground.⁶¹
Guardians of place definition and separation (such as gate-keeping mon-
sters, doormen, and even domestic animals)⁶² articulate the appropriate proce-
dures, manners, and survival strategies for navigating “betwixt and between” lo-
cales. Friendlier liminal figures provide divine intercession: Thetis, Athena, Apol-
lo, and psychopomp Hermes (in both Iliad 24 and Odyssey 24), Iris, the witch-
goddesses Kirke and Kalypso (and the shaman ghost of mortal Tiresias at the
edge of the Otherworld). They instruct mortal protégées, advising Akhilleus
and Odysseus as they negotiate threats or conquer near and far places of dan-
gers. Looking for escape or safety, disoriented heroes stay put as commanded,
listen to detailed directions, lag behind, dodge ox-hoof missiles, and hang

 Hellwig 1964, 1.
 Polyphemos alone can remove the stone that blocks entrance to or egress from his cave
(Od. 9.240 – 4). Eteoneus asks his basileus Menelaos whether to welcome the unknown travelers
or send them on to another house (Od. 4.22– 36). Decrepit dog Argos even on the dung heap
retains his usual guard duty/position before the entrance to Odysseus’ dwelling (Od. 17.292;
cf. 11.623 – 5, referring to the archetypal gate-keeping hound, Hades’ Kerberos). Finally, domestic
dogs fawn excitedly on their homecome masters (Od. 10.216 – 17: a simile) and herders’ dogs will
maul a stranger (Od. 14.29 – 38).
84 Donald Lateiner

from a fig tree over the lethally sucking whirlpool, Kharybdis, while awaiting the
tide that will return the life-saving keel (Od. 12.431– 44). Their geographic expe-
riences with difficult and extreme environments demand coordination with elas-
tic audience perceptions of earthly space, in terms and images appropriate for
psychological or cognitive geography. Human minds experience epic distances
and sizes as analogues of their experiences with height and depth, narrowness
and width, etc., not as quantified standard measures, units of scientific metrol-
ogy. These shared experiences ground the similes that we must next examine,
expressions of line, space, and volume that provide important threads in oral
traditional poetic textures.
[C] Similes serve a variety of cognitive functions. Eustathios and other scho-
liasts note that they provide fullness, clarity, variety, vividness, decoration, and
relief.⁶³ Critics⁶⁴ observe their ability to retard the epic – slow the action and pro-
long the tension, as they draw attention to a significant similarity (simultaneous-
ly emphasizing the vital difference!) or pivotal act or emotion.⁶⁵ A few measure a
minute distance. Antilokhos’ chariot beats Menelaos’ in a horserace by the space
between a horsetail and a chariot rim (anglice “whisker”). Here the analogue in
the simile is unusually drawn from the very activity being compared (Il. 23.517–
22; cf. Od. 5.249). Since ancient athletic contests were decided by relative speed,
rank position, or which wrestler ended up on top, not by (non-existent) absolute
spatio-temporal measuring devices (clocks, tapes, etc.), such similes vivify, as
they certify, victories. The poet helps his audiences picture ephemeral spaces
or positions.
Similes of measure are more frequent in narrator-text than character-text.
Rarely do we hear both these points of view in quantitative similes,⁶⁶ but Odys-
seus’ crucial position, running in second place as the footrace in Book 23 pro-

 Mark Edwards (1991, 24– 41, esp. 38 – 41) concisely discusses the purposes of similes in his
introduction.
 See the studies of Lee 1964, Scott 2009, Austin 1975, and Ready 2011, inter alios.
 Some few of them, moreover, function to vivify measure, not only distance – length, area,
and volume in space –but also numbers and time. E.g., the opening of the Akhaian catalogue
(Il. 2.455 – 83) piles up similes indicating countless numbers of birds and insects, leaves and
flowers. Time is often emphasized by similes, usually a short period (e. g., the passage of swift
birds, human thoughts, a cure that acts as swiftly as fig juice curdles milk: Il. 2.764, 5.902;
Od. 1.320, 7.36). But a simile seems to indicate a long epoch at least once: Poseidon’s temporal
(or spatial) hyperbole for forever (or everywhere): Il. 7.451, “as long as [or far as] the dawn
scatters [the darkness].” Janko (1992, 266 ad 15.358 – 61) collects many similes utilized in this
paragraph.
 Cf. Ready 2011, 152– 60.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 85

gresses, is exceptional.⁶⁷ “Breathing down Aias’ neck,” his lagging distance is

pictured as the negligible distance between a woman weaver’s breast and a
loom’s warp threads. The narrator expresses by a picture Odysseus’ skill and
proximity as he presses the front-runner, Oilian Aias:

ἄγχι μάλ᾽, ὡς ὅτε τίς τε γυναικὸς ἐυζώνοιο

στήθεός ἐστι κανών, ὅν τ᾽ εὖ μάλα χερσὶ τανύσσῃ
πηνίον ἐξέλκουσα παρὲκ μίτον, ἀγχόθι δ᾽ ἴσχει
στήθεος· ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς θέεν ἐγγύθεν, αὐτὰρ ὄπισθεν
ἴχνια τύπτε πόδεσσι πάρος κόνιν ἀμφιχυθῆναι.
(Il. 23.760 – 4)

The ‘closeness’ adverbs pile on: …ἄγχι μάλ’, ὡς ὅτε…/ ἀγχόθι δ’ ἴσχει/ στήθεος·
ὣς … ἔγγυθεν. This simile could not emerge from a world more different – one of
quiet and solo, constructive, female technique rather than noisy and primitive
male agonism. After Aias loses to Odysseus, his own self-excusing simile irrita-
bly refers to Athene’s divine favor and help for Odysseus – she is “like a mother”
and thus he was tripped by her and lost (Il. 23.758 – 83). The similes – one from
the calm narrator, the other from a miserable character – contrast different
realms: acquired mortal woman’s skill and a divine mother’s effortless favor
(or, Aias implies his competitor’s inexplicable luck).
Some ὅσσα/η/ον expressions of distance – approaching full similes – quaint-
ly point to an early epoch when Greeks used only imprecise, folkish units of
measure: mist obscures a man’s sight beyond a stone’s cast (Il. 3.12), Akhilleus’
leap equals the long cast of a spear (Il. 21.251), or the once repeated but obscure-
ly vague range of a yoke of plowing mules (Il. 10.351– 2, Od. 8.124). The poet
Homer adequately indicates farness in fuller simile form (complete with verb),
when Apollo flattens the Akhaians’ defensive ditch that was as wide as a sports-
man’s (peacetime) spearcast (Il. 15.358 – 9).⁶⁸
Similes provide audiences with experiential proxemic analogies, as we said
above. The simile that ends Iliad 8 compares the many Akhaian watchfires on the
fighting plain to the sky’s numberless stars, familiar to all (Il. 8.555 – 60). The
poet, after the point of tangency, turns audience attention to the far off shining
moon, then back to the Earth’s still aither, the hills and ravines. At the end only,
allegedly blind Homer returns to the stars, seen with joy by an imagined human

 This unique nearness simile, not surprisingly, likewise appears in the “funeral games,” in
another contest where first man wins.
 Similarly, Il. 16.589, 23.431, 23.523 (discus throw), 23.845: an oxherd’s throwing stick
(καλαύροψ – an archaic hapax). Sea haze limits how “unfar” a man can see (Il. 5.770 – 1; cf. the
distance a man’s shout can be heard: Od. 5.400 = 9.473, 12.181 ~ 6.294).
86 Donald Lateiner

observer, the (generic) shepherd who focalizes the clear night scene for us
(πάντα δὲ εἴδεται ἄστρα, γέγηθε δέ τε φρένα ποιμήν, 8.559). The narrator’s en-
compasssing view, more panoramic than the combatants’, surfaces again in
other similes (e. g., Il. 12.278 – 87).
Here, in the poem’s longest simile “comparing” soft falling snow with skull-
smashing missiles, stones are likened to Zeus’s incessant snow flakes as
Akhaians and Trojans hurl missiles at each other. If the pun be forgiven,
Homer gains distance from the melée, describing a scene of utter quiet that
shares one point of tangency with a scene of thundering clamor, the din of battle
at the wall (δοῦπος): manyness – θαμειαί or countless “thick and fast” dropping
items, whether snowflakes or ballistic stones. The pivotal word elegantly com-
bines spatial and temporal closeness. The winds and surf, meanwhile, are si-
lenced by Zeus’s snow missiles (κῆλα usually and notably describe lethal arrows
or lightning bolts). For epic geographers, the tightly contested, noisy battle at the
wall contrasts to the noiseless expanses of the ten verse simile: the silent winds,
the mountain peaks and their bluffs, the grassy plains and men’s “rich works,”
the grey sea and surf with their associated harbors and beaches – all this world
is shrouded (εἴλυται) from above by Zeus’s snow storm (νιφάδες χιόνος, χει-
μέριον, χέει, ὄμβρος). This battle comparison does not resemble the typically
analogous hostile violent works of nature – e. g., fierce winds, torrential rivers,
and earthquake (Il. 2.781– 4).⁶⁹ Rather, in Mark Edwards’ phrase, the simile pro-
vides a “quasi-Olympian perspective”⁷⁰ in which battle-ripped human action and
agony seems a flattened and contracted stage in comparison to the snow-steeped
soundlessness of infinite nature.⁷¹
Homeric similes occur in places urban, rural, and wild, and they often de-
pend on specific kinds of space (linear, area-describing, and three-dimensional)
or refer to the thematics of space-dominance. Zeus’s seduction by and sex with
Hera on the edge of battle in a meadow high on the peaks of Ida is a polyvalent

 The winds and lightning cause trees to crash, storms and fire to lay low towns and forests,
torrents to flood the land, and seas to sweep over ships. Sometimes nature seems animated (that
is purposeful, or divinely directed), but these similes are really illustrating something purpo-
seless about the way we experience the world.
 Quibblers might suggest a “super-Olympian perspective,” since Homer knows more than
Zeus does about what is going on.
 Although many similes provide an expanded vista (sea, mountain, forest, storm, moon,
stars) in their “vehicle” or comparatum, a few compare human scale and measure in their
“tenor” or comparandum to a tiny “vehicle,” such as the varied and affecting insect similes, e. g.,
Il. 2.87– 91, 12.167– 71, 16.641– 4, 17.570 – 3. The last example, e. g., contrasts heroic Menelaos’
daring in comparison to that of a biting mosquito (μυίη) rather than to that of a great lion, a
wolf-pack, or a storm.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 87

surprise (Il. 14.331– 53), but one under-appreciated element of this interlude is
the alpha male’s unimpeded “room” for copulation. Awake or asleep, he owns
all this turf, regardless of others’ primeval claims.
Wasps guard their nests, vultures bewail their robbed young, cattle, lions,
and dogs protect their offspring, an ass is clubbed from a field, dogs guard
the animals in a sheepfold. It’s all about territoriality. Humans want to return
home, protect their flocks, provide food and shelter for their families. Natural
and analogous impulses widespread in the animal kingdom and embodied in
similes remain timeless and persuasive today.
Glimpses of the rarer pastoral, viticultural, or agricultural scenes, where, in
fact, most pre-industrial production occurs, in the Iliad arise only in similes and
present busy humans laboring to feed themselves. Quiet human efforts in the
similes, such as reaping and threshing, are disturbed by cattle-marauding carni-
vores (essentially, lions, wolves, and boars) and organized communities’ neigh-
borly cattle raids (Il. 18.520 – 40). The heroic epics rarely mention disease or
praise agriculture’s exhausting toil, meeting, presumably, the expectations of
their intended, clean-handed warrior-class audiences. Homer presents a three-
dimensional social setting but describes few interactions between the domains
of the rural farmer and the proto-urban πτόλις-dwellers, unlike the narrative sit-
uations arising in Hesiod’s clearly more anti-aristocratic Works and Days.
At the “city limits,” as Eumaios escorts Odysseus into town, the city-assimi-
lated factotum Melanthios forces this country-dwelling, πτόλις-avoiding slave
and his escorted beggar into unwanted verbal and physical tussles
(Od. 17.204– 39).⁷² Melanthios gains no ground in either conflict.⁷³ Odysseus ar-
rives in Ithaka-town, but it is “a place strictly to be avoided.”⁷⁴ The shameless
suitors have occupied the chieftain’s territory and manse and are eating his fam-

 Melanthios, Eurymakhos, and Agamemnon all try to edge their status-seeking opponents
into becoming bound to them by offers or gifts they presumably “can’t refuse” – but they do
refuse (cf. Donlan 1993). The Odyssey’s bullying doublets, Melanthios and Eurymakhos, alt-
hough inhabiting different ends of the social hierarchy, are both reduced to battery after losing
their battles of words with the strategic beggar.
 Homer does not argue that geographic turf or birth class trumps innate character, but, we
must confess, the issue always becomes confused in one way or another by a good poor man’s
birth, class, and stature. Pigherd Eumaios originally is of rich and royal descent (Od. 15.403 – 14),
and the beggar Aithon can’t stop himself from claiming to the suitors that he too once was a
fighting leader of men: to Antinoos (Od. 17.419 – 26: thousands of retainers), and to Eurymakhos
(Od. 18.376 – 80). “City”-dwellers Aigyptios, Mentor, and Peiraios are decent people, even if the
Odyssey’s urbanites are not heroic figures (like Ilion’s city-shielding Hektor). Some critics per-
ceive this bias as playing to Homer’s “paying” aristocratic audiences.
 Anthony T. Edwards 1993, 49.
88 Donald Lateiner

ily out of house and home, so the stigmatized outsider must develop a strategy to
gain a foothold and establish his “place.” Displacing the rival, nearly statusless,
Iros wins him some “purchase.” The favor of his son Telemakhos (‘in’ on his
identity) and the housemistress Penelope (‘out of the loop’) establishes him
more securely. The outcast’s clever challenges to the suitors to share their
hosts’ bounty, and to aristocratic Eurymakhos to compete in farmers’ work con-
tests, ἔρις ἔργοιο (Od. 18.366 – 78: reaping, ox-driving, ploughing four [unknown
but clearly large] measures, τετράγυον), squarely confronts the braggart suitor
with a lose-lose situation. Either he competes and loses face to a competitor
that he allows in the egalitarian “ring” with him, or he declines to compete
and looks cowardly. The aberrant, Iliad-parodying “suitors’” inverted siege and
plunder of Penelope’s mansion and stores invites master Odysseus’ (god-in-
spired) disruptive restoration of the previous, proper paternal order. Until
then, yet another character, Odysseus’ old father Laërtes, remains in rags, griev-
ing alone in self-imposed exile in the countryside, apart from his own house,
town, and control of family and tribal territory (Od. 11.187– 96, 24.226 – 86).
[D] Aegean proto-historic polities, long before the Homeric poems took
shape, had gathered wealth through farming, viticulture, animal husbandry,
hunting, with attendant feasting at home.⁷⁵ Over the frontiers and abroad by
sea, the magnates of the Mycenean age pursued entrepreneurial and reciprocal
exchange and increase of capital through raiding (including proto-wars over) cat-
tle, women, crops, and metal materiel. Although their economic vocabulary was
more limited, they understood the desirability of increasing their contiguous ter-
ritories and commercial reach.
Ensconced in paradigmatic exempla from days of yore or on the shield ec-
phrasis come narratives that function like “extended” similes. They refer to bor-
der-wars, predatory cattle-raids in the land beyond cultivation.⁷⁶ Nestor retails
with relish his Pylians’ retaliation on the Epeian cattle-thieves’ βοηλασίη
(Il. 11.669 – 760), men who despoiled his daddy’s herdsmen tending their flocks
in the hilly borderlands ἀγροῦ ἐπ’ ἐσχατίην (cf. Od. 5.489, 18.358, 24.150): fifty
herds each of oxen, sheep, goats, pigs, and more than 150 mares and foals. Nes-
tor smashed the neighboring forces far away (τηλοῦ), near the Alpheios river.
The sheep and cattle ambush on the Shield also occurs near a river where
death of the shepherds and pitched battle between two towns’ forces result
(Il. 18. 520 – 40).

 Aside from Penelope’s geese, recall Eumaios’ pigs, Melanthios’ goats, and Philoitios’ cattle
on both sides of the water. See Wright 2004, 68 – 71 for useful reflections on struggles among and
inside Mycenean communities.
 Il. 1.154– 7; see Redfield 1975, 186 – 92.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 89

Prowess in these categories (activities on and beyond the Mycenean fron-

tiers) resulted in the conspicuous display of symbolic resources reconfigured
into physically imposing structures (μέγαρα, fortifications, mortuary memorials
and burials, like ancient, eponymous Ilos’ Trojan mound (Il. 11.166 – 70 with
other landmarks). At Sparta (Od. 4.43 – 54), Helen and Menelaos’ unhappy
household “spread” displays imported products of amber and ivory, precious
metals (esp. bronze, gold, and silver), uniquely ornate furniture, golden tools,
a magical Egyptian drug (Od. 4.220 – 32), and implements like Helen’s wheeled
embroidery basket. The “hick’s” amusing point of view appears (Od. 4.71– 4)
when Telemakhos whispers his stupefied (early Iron Age) reaction to this unim-
aginably fabulous display of Bronze Age treasure. Sumptuous and privileged pa-
latial locales provide settings for elite social performances such as these guest-
receptions and wedding feasts, religious sacrifices (at Pylos), truce ceremonies,
and funeral games, pyres, parades, and interments.
Did Homer situate his socially coherent heroic narratives in temporally spe-
cific, either late Bronze Age (ca. 1300 BCE) or late Archaic Age (ca. 600 BCE),
spaces? He could not and would not, if he could.⁷⁷ His portrait of an imaginary
world, drawn from oral tradition and memory, has a satisfying but historically
deceptive consistency. The opening of a Third Millennium CE movie usually sit-
uates its audience in a specific time and place by several datable markers such
as car models, hairstyles, and ephemeral fashions in clothes, and Homer has al-
ready developed a similar technique. The open agoras provided Homeric spaces
to be on occasion set off and utilized for irregularly convened military and polit-
ical assemblies. They do not seem to be topographically demarcated or architec-
turally established structures of a political or religious sort, even in Troy or Itha-
ka. (Contrast, for instance, the Bronze Age Kretan palace piazzas at, e. g., Phais-
tos.) Religious ritual-precincts for animal sacrifices and privately cultivated prop-
erties such as Alkinoos’ gardens, Laërtes’ orchards with stone walls, and the sui-
tors’ vineyards, grain lands, and animal pasturages probably changed the land-
scape little between 1350 and 650 BCE. The uncontrolled and essentially uncon-
trollable peripheral areas (e. g., ἐσχατιαί and beyond, Od. 18.358, Il. 11.86 – 8, 12.
278 – 83, 23.114– 20) would always appear contemporary to ancient audiences,

 Moses Finley (1978, 45 – 9) split the difference, but this is a heuristic strategy rather than a
satisfactory method for dating the poem’s objects, social habits, or political structures. As recent
studies comparing poetry and archaeology show (e. g., van Wees 2011; Schwartz 2011), any
element of a Homeric artifact, architectural construct, or societal custom (shield, temple, mar-
riage, inheritance, conveyance of property, speaking and voting privileges) may derive from
different archaeological epochs, and Homer frequently conflates incompatible military and
marital practices (is Penelope available for bride-price or dowry? Cf. Lyons 2011).
90 Donald Lateiner

because their tradition’s experience of forest, rough mountain wilderness,⁷⁸ river

valleys, etc., rarely changed the environment from wild to cultivated. No earth-
movers and bulldozers rapidly rearranged the geography of their pre-industrial
world. Only Apollo and Poseidon generally can do that (Il. 7.459 – 63: Akhaian
and Trojan walls; Od. 13.149 – 52: Phaiakian ship and rock in the harbor).⁷⁹
Both poems’ scattered descriptions of peacetime activities and occupation – sail-
ing the seas, lumbering activities in the mountains, hunting in forests, and cul-
tivating crops down in the plains – assume a stable topography and economy.⁸⁰
Anachronisms (such as writing, iron swords, oligarchy) are generally excluded,
but disparate elements of prehistoric and early Iron Age culture and technology
are unintentionally juxtaposed by a lengthy oral tradition.
The enclosing, towering walls and gates of the Iliad’s Troy and the Odyssey’s
grand “homesteads” (Nestor’s at Pylos, Menelaos’ at Sparta, even Odysseus’
more modest “spread” on Ithaka), especially the lavishly ornamented and exten-
sively described inside spaces in Helen’s Sparta, reflect the Second Millennium’s
grand palatial topographies and richly decorated Bronze Age interiors. The
splendors of these places have been coherently and impressively transmitted
across the previous millennium to the decentralized culture and economy of re-
duced expectations and results evolving after Hellas’ somewhat dark Dark Age.
The oral tradition of an architecturally modest epoch and economically still de-
veloping area both treasured and conflated the memories of a long-gone, extrav-
agant Bronze Age past.
More recent commercial experiences of immense Near Eastern palaces fur-
ther enrich the mix. These elaborate Hellenic structures recall earlier oriental
palaces built by centralized Eastern authorities with labor extracted from the
populous Eastern masses. In such settings, leisured Near Eastern elites enjoyed
the older Sumerian and Babylonian narratives. In their heroic legends, heroes
such as Gilgamesh traveled to and from Mesopotamian palaces and traversed
distant forests, plains, mountains, tunnels, fresh rivers, and salt seas to face,
east and west, exotic rulers, divinities, rivals and monsters.

 Cf. Purves (this volume).

 Cf. Il. 15.362– 4: Apollo and the Trojans smash the Akhaian wall – as if it were a child’s
sandcastle – a simile that emphasizes the ephemerality and puniness of human modifications
on the land. In fact, few structures of subsequent epochs are more impressive than Mycenaean
era (including Trojan) fortifications.
 The Iliad concentrates these relatively pleasant, ordinary life and agrarian experiences in the
“late” similes and in the ecphrasis of the happier mini-universe and community on Akhilleus’
divine and capacious “Shield.”
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 91

Private and public embody one polarity defining interpersonal cognitive ge-
ography. Heroic achievement is public. At the Akhaian crisis of management at
Troy, Nestor contrasts his own once youthful valor and leadership μετ’ ἀνδράσιν
to the now young Akhilleus’ solitude – οἶος (Il. 11.762 – 4) – the youth’s solipsistic
pique and consequent grievous, heroic isolation, the kind that will later cause
Akhilleus’ multiple losses and the death of his close friend and rival, Aias. Al-
ready in Book 1, Akhilleus withdraws from his Akhaian and Phthian comrades
(ἑτάρων ἄφαρ ἕζετο νόσφι λιασθείς, Il. 1.349) – the (geographic/proxemic)
motor of the Iliadic plot. His return from solitary self-confinement to the
group comes only eighteen books later, when heroic bonding and comradely fra-
ternity have lost their former meanings for spiritually and militarily isolated
Akhilleus. Also in Book 1, Khryses the suppliant withdraws (responding to Aga-
memnon’s unpopular command) from the Akhaian camp to the shore, Apollo
hunkers down apart before shooting his retributive plague arrows, and Zeus re-
minds dissident gods of his power to plan his actions apart from them and with-
out their knowing the consequences (35, 48, 549 – all ἀπάνευθε).
Homeric social stratigraphy elaborately distinguishes warrior gatherings’
rules of access to authority and the right to speak. Thersites speaks boldly and
Odysseus brutally chastises him with blows from the very sceptre that grants
the privilege (Il. 2.224– 78). Thersites does not “know his place.” One observes
the Akhaian host’s semi-chaotic agora, the basileis’ orderly strategy session in
Agamemnon’s grand cabin, and the polite if strained dialogues between two
chiefs in the shelter where Nestor sleeps (Il. 2.50 – 2, 2.53 – 5, 2.84– 6, 10.74– 81;
cf. 2.42). Elite and infantry fight by different means in different places in the bat-
tle-line and reap different rewards, as Sarpedon explicates to audiences rather
than to Glaukos who must already know (Il. 12.310 – 25): the basileis fight in
front (proxemics), gain their rewards in receiving the best seats in front (proxe-
mics) and choice wine and meats, and obtain their retainers’ respect and high
visibility (proxemics) while “farming” the τεμένη, choice holdings of land.⁸¹
“Ethical geography,”⁸² the relative valuation of places depending on their
mores, is not prominent in the Iliad, a story deeply sympathetic to both
“sides.” The infamously partial Odyssey passes negative judgments on the cur-
rent city folk of both Skheria and Ithaka. The audience perceives a cognitive ge-

 ἕδρῃ τε κρέασίν τε… δεπάεσσιν,/ …. θεοὺς ὣς εἰσορόωσι;/ καὶ τέμενος νεμόμεσθα μέγα,
Il. 12.311– 13; Λυκίοισι μέτα πρώτοισιν ἐόντας/ ἑστάμεν ἠδὲ μάχης, 12.315 – 16; Sarpedon hypo-
thesizes that another man (τίς) would say Λυκίοισι μέτα πρώτοισι μάχονται, 12.321; while Sar-
pedon asserts of himself: οὔτέ κεν αὐτὸς ἐνὶ πρώτοισι μαχοίμην, 12.324. These marks of chief-
tains’ esteem highlight the place distinctions of the βασιλεῖς.
 Anthony T. Edwards’ (1993) useful term. He lists institutions of the “city” (p. 37).
92 Donald Lateiner

ography describing the haunts of heroes, slackers, and villains. The similes of the
Iliad and the landfalls of the Odyssey find beauty and wealth both in uncultivat-
ed, wild forest areas, border pasturelands, and in tamed and tended fields and
gardens. The inhabitants of the ptoleis of Troy, Skheria, and Ithaka (especially
the ridiculed, indolent Iros) depend primarily on farmers planting beyond
the urbanized area, but also on their in-town craftsmen (δημιοεργοί, Od.
17.383 – 6). They in turn reciprocally support the armed forces, their privileged,
leisured warrior class.
Acquisition by elite gift-exchange (ξενίη) and buccaneer raids abroad gain
pre-state leaders both local retinues of loyal warriors and inter-group and foreign
renown. Venturesome extraction of wealth and exploitation of labor establish a
“big man’s” vertical axis in a semi-egalitarian “ranked” society. At home, de-
pendable distributions of wealth, by feast, potlatch (Akhilleus’ campsite pyre),
and other gifts, gain and maintain networks of followers and ensure loyalty
by “big man” ownership of debts.⁸³ Odysseus’ skills, for example, in sharing
wealth, delivering justice, and delegating authority attracted new warriors and
followers to his band, promoted group solidarity, and encouraged active partic-
ipation in, and acceptance of, his unstable hierarchy and administration on the
horizontal axis.⁸⁴ The most common and expedient Bronze Age institution pro-
moting this system for the negotiation of power and status was the celebratory
feast, a “give and take” gathering event rich in “instrumental purposes behind
this display of largesse.”⁸⁵
But the feast requires reliable supplies of wine and meat, and cattle herds
require extensive and defined lands for foraging and grazing. Since animals
do not recognize human boundaries and dependable fences were not yet invent-
ed, small- and large-scale trespass and rustling were both frequent and open to
conflict-escalation. Rustling a princess from her husband’s house (Helen) or oc-
cupying her lord’s house while besieging her and consuming the hegemonic
family’s accumulated resources (Penelope) represents “Homer’s” epic “dignifica-
tion” of pre-industrial “chieftain” and “big man” competition, contests and strug-
gles to possess highly symbolic human capital. Nestor’s lengthy recollections of
such raptorial invasions and contests (as both agent and victim) bind him to,
and unify him with, his third-generation, far from home, Akhaian peers

 Cf. Donlan 1993, 155 – 62.

 Cf. Eurymakhos’ kerneled truth in his hypocritical reassurance of Telemakhos, a eulogy of
his former basileus’ economic and proxemic generosity, and later, beggar Odysseus’ theorization
of any good chief’s (and his own former) fortune and leadership, εὐηγεσίη, Od. 16.442– 7,
19.109 – 14.
 Finley 1978, based on Marcel Mauss’ Le Don [1925]; Donlan 1993, 158; Wright 2004, 73 – 4.
 Homer’s Social-Psychological Spaces and Places 93

(Il. 1.266 – 73, 7.132– 57, 11.707– 72, 23.629 – 42). The emigré community thereby
constructs landscapes of memory that confirm the basileis’ shared warrior-leader
identities: raids, booty-taking, distributions to subordinates; housing projects or
huge δώματα (Priam’s exceptional “spread”: Il. 6.242– 9), ceremonial courtyards,
extensive temene; altar-centred ceremonies, the gathering of ships at Aulis and
elsewhere; and the top-down management of the semi-permanent encampment
at Troy.
Public and private interchanges in the heroic landscape create hallowed pla-
ces from previously unsignifying spaces.⁸⁶ Successful prayers and sacrifices in
sacred spaces, feasts and naming ceremonies, weddings and cattle-raids create,
consolidate, and legitimate a leader, his power, prestige, and the vast geograph-
ical scope of his authority (e. g., Agamemnon, “of many an isle and of all Argos
King”).⁸⁷ They also cement his household retainers’ and retinue’s fidelity. Speak-
ers, e. g., Nestor, often visualize and describe in detail the coastal and inland lo-
cales and landscapes in which they once performed heroically, i. e., gained oral
historical record and space in tribal memory. The Parnassian forest covert where
the boar drew Odysseus’ blood (Od. 19.394), ⁸⁸ the princely dwelling whither
Phoenix fled and whence Akhilleus left for Troy (Il. 9.479 – 83); the Trojan
walls, and ancestral tombs, the ancient oak tree, and fortified gates by means
of which Hektor hoped to escape his pursuer (Il. 9.354; 22.137, 22.194– 8), and
Nestor’s heroic set-to battle between Pylians and Arkadians fought by the swirl-
ing river Keladon (Il. 7.133 – 5) – all these establish historical or, in an oral world,
mnemonic landmarks.
Humble, cooperative activities and toilsome, repeated actions common to
the everyday life of all pre-industrial communities, on the other hand, vivify sev-
eral simile landscapes. The Trojan hot and cold springs, a traditional site for
communal laundering, briefly come into sharper focus – Homer contrasts the
pleasant past’s repetitive – onerous but refreshing – duties and the murderous
present’s unique calamity: Akhilleus pursues decent Hektor to his death
(Il. 22.146 – 56; cf. Od. 6.40, 6.85 – 7). The long-delayed but normal coitus of Odys-
seus and Penelope sites them in their unique bed at Odysseus’ grounded center,
a resting-place rooted for the ritual of generating generations unborn: λέκτροιο
παλαιοῦ θεσμόν.⁸⁹ Their union occurs at the occluded but marked, because im-

 Cf. Wright 2004, 76.

 Il. 2.108, quoted approvingly by Thucydides, a general and strategist himself (1.11).
 de Certeau (1984) offers insights here about the unexpected spatial visions and revisions that
travel entails.
 Od. 23.296, here θεσμός is a Homeric hapax, the θε- root (from τίθημι) referring to a place-
ment, situs rather than to the later metaphorical meaning of “custom,” habitus.
94 Donald Lateiner

movable and fixed, location. The setting counts as important as the sex act itself.
The far-flung nostos poem, describing inherited and achieved position lost and
regained, has returned the wanderer to his Ground Zero.
Homer’s heroes thus manage and rearrange elements in their found and set-
tled landscapes as well as perceive and live in them. They establish ptoleis and
monuments,⁹⁰ adjust social and political frontiers, and provide destinations for
later ancient (e. g., Strabo) and modern tourists.⁹¹ The Homeric bards forged and
refined cultural symbols for mostly illiterate Hellenic audiences. When the hex-
ametric poems of “Homer” jelled in more or less their present form, mythic hero-
ic deeds stamped monumental footprints on nearby and familiar landscapes.
Later epic geographies happily assume, imitate, plagiarize from, and satirize
Homer’s Heaven, Hell, and heroic earthly locales. Prose-writing ancient geogra-
phers argued about and corrected the alleged first geographer’s topoi and
spaces.
Immigrant inheritors of revolutionary British-Americans claim for nearly
every mid-Atlantic coastal village, “Washington slept here.” Similarly the Homer-
ic bards, leading their listeners by the ear or hand (Il. 4.541– 2), gave the later
Hellenes legendary elements of their epichoric histories. The narratives thereby
conferred symbolic value, on their hills, rivers, mountains, caves, springs, and
on the astonishing, then and still now visible, remains of Mycenean forts and cit-
adels, walls and tombs. Cyclopean circuits and structures,⁹² indeed, massive and
primitive but impossible to surpass or even equal in scope and wild beauty,
stand and remain, much like the Homeric poems themselves.

 Funeral barrows, fortified communities, and production and redistribution centers such as
Sarpedon’s τέμενος, an extensive Lykian estate, etc., etc.
 Lane Fox (2008) and Hall (2008) both discuss the genesis and reception of the hero Odys-
seus, his associates and his associations.
 So called by Soph. fr. 227 Radt, Eur. El. 1158; Str. 8.6.2, etc.
Anthony T. Edwards
The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s
Works and Days

I. Introduction
I have already discussed in an earlier publication the geographical contrast be-
tween the village and the πόλις that Hesiod constructs in Works and Days. ¹ In the
present study I wish to focus upon the problem of the ethical value that Hesiod
encodes in that divided landscape. To that end I will survey the places of the
poem, the geography of Works and Days, focusing on the contrasting values
with which Hesiod invests the opposing sites of κώμη and πόλις. I will then an-
alyze the mythology of labor that Hesiod provides to account for the spatial-eth-
ical division of his world. Finally, I will explore the effects of this primordial spa-
tial separation on the moral order of the poem, which I hope thus to show to be
spatially grounded.
This project of assessing the places of Works and Days links my analysis to
the phenomenological approach to geography, regarding the space occupied by
humans as pregnant with inherent values that make it meaningful to them.²
Communities invariably endow with values the spaces they adapt to their use.
This intersection of a society’s ethical order with its spatial order defines the
point of origin for place, socially valued space, whose moral component pro-
vides it with a quality of permanence and makes of it something worthy of de-
fending against change.³ At the same time, however, locating such spatial values
within the overarching contrast between distinct and antagonistic forms of set-
tlement, the village and the πόλις, entails that the moral valuations of places
in the poem are historically mediated and therefore both conventional and mu-
table. Exposing the contingency of the spatial order and of the communal values
embedded in places requires a historically grounded analysis of space as some-
thing produced by material forces, as the artifact of a particular social formation,
and as something in process. I assume as axiomatic that specific configurations

 Edwards 2004, 1– 8, 30 – 79, 176 – 84. I argue there that the opposition in Works and Days
between village and πόλις is subsidiary, dependent upon that between the prosperous and the
poor (Edwards 2004, 2– 8, 72– 3, 173 – 6).
 Heidegger 1971 is fundamental to this approach; see also, e. g., Bachelard 1969 [1994], Tuan
1990, and Skempis (this volume), especially his valuable introduction.
 On the concept of “place”, see Cresswell 2004.
96 Anthony T. Edwards

of social, political, and economic institutions produce their own organization of

space. This spatiality supports those institutions in turn and is essential to a so-
cial formation’s ability to reproduce itself.⁴ It follows, moreover, that conflicts be-
tween different forms of settlement – πόλις and κώμη for example – are neces-
sarily conflicts over the social organization of space and consequently conflicts
over the values that different communities invest in places.

II. The Places of Works and Days

Hesiod’s depiction of space frequently becomes elliptical and impressionistic. On
the basis of what Hesiod tells us it is difficult to reconstruct the poem’s familiar
geography, to determine where things and institutions that he mentions are lo-
cated.⁵ His avoidance of such larger generic terms as ἀγρός (countryside),
πόλις (city), ἄστυ (city, citadel), or ἐσχατιή (boundary land) in favor of more pre-
cise, smaller scale locales as ἔργον (farm), ἀγορή (town square), οἶκος (home),
λέσχη (a public building), or κλῆρος (family plot), produces a certain geograph-
ical vagueness in the poem. As a result, the correspondences between some of
Hesiod’s intimate haunts and the larger geographic zones to which they belong
need to be worked out. Hesiod’s geography, moreover, is social. He is interested
in the land in terms of its occupation and use by human communities. Even the
limited interest in the natural landscape exhibited by Homer is absent from Hes-
iod’s geography. His preoccupation with the human uses to which the land is put
produces a conception of space that is essentially ethical – pregnant with social
values and grounded in the perspective of his village.

 Lefebvre 1991 is the founding study for this approach. See also e. g. Cosgrove 1998. Harvey
(1996, 292– 326) offers a penetrating and illuminating analysis of the relationship between the
phenomenological and materialist approaches. See Cresswell 1996, Harvey 1996, Tilley 1994,
Ferguson 1997, and Loukaki 1997 as model analyses of the historical mediation of the values of
place. Cf. Edwards 1993, Hölkeskamp 2004, 30 – 5, and Bexley (this volume).
 Cf. Lateiner’s (this volume) excellent analysis of Homeric space from a social and psycho-
logical perspective.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 97

Ἔργον and Ἀγορή

Within the geographic system of Works and Days the terms ἔργον and ἀγορή
stand in opposition to each other as ἀγρός and πόλις.⁶ This opposition is intro-
duced early on in the poem at lines 27– 41, providing a thematic frame for what
will follow:⁷

Ὦ Πέρση, σὺ δὲ ταῦτα τεῷ ἐνικάτθεο θυμῷ,

μηδέ σ’ Ἔρις κακόχαρτος ἀπ’ ἔργου θυμὸν ἐρύκοι
νείκε’ ὀπιπεύοντ’ ἀγορῆς ἐπακουὸν ἐόντα.
ὤρη γάρ τ’ ὀλίγη πέλεται νεικέων τ’ ἀγορέων τε 30
ᾧτινι μὴ βίος ἔνδον ἐπηετανὸς κατάκειται
ὡραῖος, τὸν γαῖα φέρει, Δημήτερος ἀκτήν.
τοῦ κε κορεσσάμενος νείκεα καὶ δῆριν ὀφέλλοις
κτήμασ’ ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίοις. σοὶ δ’ οὐκέτι δεύτερον ἔσται
ὧδ’ ἔρδειν· ἀλλ’ αὖθι διακρινώμεθα νεῖκος 35
ἰθείῃσι δίκῃς, αἵ τ’ ἐκ Διός εἰσιν ἄρισται.
ἤδη μὲν γὰρ κλῆρον ἐδασσάμεθ’, ἄλλα τε πολλὰ
ἁρπάζων ἐφόρεις μέγα κυδαίνων βασιλῆας
δωροφάγους, οἳ τήνδε δίκην ἐθέλουσι δικάσσαι.
νήπιοι, οὐδὲ ἴσασιν ὅσῳ πλέον ἥμισυ παντὸς 40
οὐδ’ ὅσον ἐν μαλάχῃ τε καὶ ἀσφοδέλῳ μέγ’ ὄνειαρ.

Perses, store these words away in your heart.

Do not let wicked Strife keep you from your farm,
watching quarrels and attentive to the town square.
For there is little time for quarrels and speeches
if a man does not have enough of the season’s livelihood stored away, 30
which the earth brings forth, the grain of Demeter.
When you have a surplus of this, then you can start provoking quarrels and disputes
over other men’s possessions. But it will not be possible for you
to do thus a second time. Rather let us decide our quarrel right here 35
with straight judgments, which are from Zeus and the best.
For we have already divided our plot, and you kept on seizing and taking
many other things to honor the gift-eating
kings, who wish to judge this suit – the fools, 40
for they do not realize how much more the half is than the whole
nor how great a gain there is in mallow and asphodel.

 This is, of course, a much-discussed contrast. See Edwards 1993 and, in general, Schönbeck
1962, Williams 1973, Elliger 1975, and Lateiner’s (this volume) efficient survey for Homer.
 I reprise here with additional detail an analysis of these lines from Edwards 2004, 177– 8; see
also 38 – 44 regarding the dramatic setting for this harangue. In line with this contrast see also
Purves’ (this volume) discussion of the contrast between wild and civilized as well as that of
Ormand (this volume). Haubold (this volume) discusses the spatialization of cultural difference.
98 Anthony T. Edwards

Lines 28 – 9 contrast ἔργον and ἀγορή, to which the bad Ἔρις draws Perses, as
the respective sites of toil and of litigation.⁸ The phrase ἀγορῆς ἐπακουὸν
ἐόντα (29) suggests, moreover, the status of a habitué much as θυμόν (28) sug-
gests volition and desire rather than mere presence. This contrast of ἔργον
and ἀγορή is restated in 30 – 2 between βίος… ἐπηετανός, the grain of Demeter
brought forth by the earth, and the νεικῆ (i. e., the lawsuit, to which ἔρις also re-
fers) and ἀγοραί, for which a man lacking a year’s supply of this βίος should
have no leisure. The contrast is repeated for a third time in the slightly different
terms of this livelihood won through one’s own labor (33, τοῦ κε κορεσσάμενος)
and the possessions of others seized through νεῖκος and δῆρις (33 – 4). The first
section of the passage (27– 34) contrasts the opposing sites of ἔργον and ἀγορή
in terms of the labor invested in the one and the litigation that takes place in the
other, and in terms of the livelihood extracted for oneself from the ἔργον over
against the attempts made upon the possessions of others in the ἀγορή. That
is to say, the two sites contrast with each other in terms of toil and indolence,
abundance and lack, one’s own and another’s.
In the remaining lines the emphatic αὖθι (35), as an alternative location for
the νεῖκος to that of the ἀγορή of the βασιλῆες, restates the geographical oppo-
sition established at the beginning of the section between ἔργον and ἀγορή.⁹
Within this spatial contrast Hesiod opposes the ἰθείαι δίκαι sanctioned by Zeus
to the δίκαι provided by the βασιλῆες δωροφάγοι, and the κλῆρος, which Hesiod
clings to as the basis of his livelihood, to the ἀγορή, where litigation and deceit
bring gain. Hesiod allies himself with the ἔργον, the locus of toil, livelihood,
what is one’s own, and with justice (Zeus’s ἰθείαι δίκαι, 35 – 6), and locates Perses
and the βασιλῆες in the ἀγορή, connected with indolence, want, the property of
others, and crooked justice. He counsels that Perses flee the lawsuits of the city
and cease meddling in the affairs of others in order to return to his own farm and
tend to his own business.
As we see, Hesiod does not specify the country and the city per se, ἀγρός
and πόλις, but implies rather this larger regional contrast through the opposition
of ἔργον and ἀγορή. The city emerges in these opening lines as a place where
disputes are adjudicated, and as a consequence as a potential site of power

 See Jones 1984, 307– 9 regarding the importance of this opposition. It is occasionally difficult
to distinguish between the meanings “toil” and “farm” for occurrences of ἔργον/ἔργα in Works &
Days as I discuss below.
 See West 1978 ad 35 for the spatial reference of αὖθι; contra, Verdenius 1985. Certainly doing
something “now” entails doing it “here”. See Groningen 1957, 3 – 4 and Jones 1984, 314 n. 26. For
the association of βασιλεύς with ἀγορή, see Th. 84– 93, 434– 30 (following Solmsen’s num-
bering).
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 99

over the land and the rural population.¹⁰ Hesiod’s elliptical account suggests
that rather than applying himself to the toil required by his ἔργον in order to se-
cure a livelihood, Perses is drawn to the ἀγορή and πόλις where he seeks to rem-
edy his resulting poverty through swindling others in court. From the perspective
of the farmer the men of the ἀγορή pass their days without attending to their
business, without laboring. In the ἀγορή the produce of the land and the land
itself can be unjustly appropriated and consumed by those who do not work. I
turn now to survey the values associated with these two sites elsewhere in
Works and Days. ¹¹

Ἔργον: Wealth and Justice

The ἔργον as a site (ἔργα is also used), the farm or fields, occupies the center of
Hesiod’s ethical geography. Within the poem’s ethical system, the farm is identi-
fied not only as the site of toil, but of plenty and justice as well. It is the place
where the successful farmer is to be found. The close, even overdetermined,
identity between the fields and labor in the poem springs in the first place
from the dual meanings of the word ἔργον itself: both “labor” and “farm”.
That labor in Works and Days is almost exclusively that of agriculture heightens
the synonymy of these two meanings.¹² The ἔργον-farm is thus exclusively the
site of ἔργον-labor. This semantic and thematic overlapping produces such
dense phrases as ἔργον ἐπ’ ἔργῳ ἐργάζεσθαι (382) and ἐργάζευ, νήπιε Πέρση,/
ἔργα (397– 8) as well as instances where it is not certain whether ἔργον ought

 Hesiod states even more emphatically that this lawsuit is confined within the bounds of the
city in a later passage observing of Zeus οὐδέ ἑ λήθει/ οἵην δὴ καὶ τήνδε δίκην πόλις ἐντὸς ἐέργει
(268 – 9). This passage repeats the contrast at 256 – 64 of the crooked δίκαι of the βασιλῆες with
the δίκη sanctioned by Zeus.
 I discuss “Hesiod’s” and Perses’ positions within this contrast of ἔργον and ἀγορή at Ed-
wards 2004, 176 – 84; see also 19 – 29.
 For the meaning “labor”, “job” see, e. g., 311, 382, 398, 641– 2 (Hofinger [1978] s.v. II). Ho-
finger does not acknowledge the meaning “field”, “farm”, but the opposition of ἔργου at 28 to
ἀγορῆς at 29 requires a spatial reference, “farm”; the epithet πυροφόροις at 549 (which is
certainly the correct reading: see ad loc. Wilamowitz 1962, Solmsen 1970, and West 1978) simi-
larly specifies the meaning “fields” for ἔργοις; and ἔργα at 231 modified by μεμηλότα (“cared
for”, “worked”; cf. μελέτη at 380 and 412) again makes the best sense if taken as “fields”. To the
ἔργα βοῶν at 46 cf. Od. 10.98, where the reference is clearly to “fields”, and to μινύθει… ἔργον at
409 cf. Il. 16.392. The meaning “farm”, or “field”, is preferable as well at 119, 494– 5, and 767. This
meaning is well attested in Homer, who does attribute the meaning “fields” to Hesiodic contexts:
see LfgrE s.v. and Cunliffe 1963 s.v. 12.c. See the comments of Descat 1986, 190 – 1 on ἔργον as
labor in Works & Days.
100 Anthony T. Edwards

to be taken in the sense of “labor” or “field”. For example, at 316 ἔργον contrasts
with ἀλλότρια κτέανα (315), another man’s possessions – either land or the pro-
duce of the land – and is equated with βίος (316), the produce of the fields. It is
not clear whether ἔργον in this instance means “work” or “farm”, and since the
work referred to is agricultural labor they mean close to the same thing in any
case.¹³
Within Works and Days’ ethical system both prosperity and justice are asso-
ciated with ἔργον as a site and as an activity. The association of riches with labor
is thematized for the poem in the opening harangue where Hesiod tells how the
good Ἔρις spurs even the shiftless man to emulate his neighbor who has become
wealthy through energetic reaping and plowing (20 – 4). Many of the elements of
this speech are echoed in a later passage (312– 19) urging Perses that if he will
turn himself from the possessions of others (ἀπ’ ἀλλοτρίων κτεάνων, 315) and
go to work, he will make the shiftless man envious of him as he grows wealthy
(πλουτεῦντα, 313). Later (574– 7) Hesiod makes the connection between toil and
prosperity more directly when he exhorts his audience to rise at dawn during
harvest time in order to get in the crop and store away adequate βίος. In two pas-
sages, in fact, prosperity from Zeus is elided with what one gains through labor.
At 379 – 80 Hesiod allows that even for a family with more mouths to feed, Zeus
can provide inexhaustible wealth and then goes on to explain that there is more
labor from more hands and as a result a greater surplus. The sense conveyed by
these lines that wealth given by Zeus is identical in Hesiod’s mind with the prod-
uct of the farmer’s labor is reinforced by the couplet at 473 – 4. Capping detailed
instructions for plowing and sowing (458 – 72) Hesiod generalizes that a good
harvest will thus be ensured but then qualifies his optimism with the condition
that Zeus himself grant a good outcome. Here again what the farmer wins from
the soil through his own toil is made contingent upon, and so the equivalent of,
what Zeus gives. Hesiod, moreover, conceives of wealth in these passages strictly
in terms of the produce of the land.¹⁴ This same relationship between toil, divine
favor, and success lies behind Hesiod’s assertion (286 – 92) that the gods have
placed sweat in front of the path to ἀρετή (289), the prestige that comes with suc-
cess at farming.¹⁵

 Cf. Op. 34 where κτήμασ’ ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίοις refers implicitly to Hesiod’s κλῆρος (37). See also
occurrences of ἔργον at 440 and 443 – 4 for similar examples of ambiguity between “work” and
“farm” or “field”.
 This is specifically the meaning of ὄλβος at 379 – 80, where μελέτη expresses the idea of
labor. For the idea that wealth is won from labor, see further 299 – 309, 392– 400 and 409 – 13.
See Liebermann 1981, 392 on 299 – 301.
 Cf. Op. 312– 3; see Edwards 2004, 111– 18.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 101

Hesiod, however, presents wealth not only as the result of labor but simul-
taneously as the reward of justice.¹⁶ Just behavior is defined negatively at 327–
34 through a list of injustices including harming suppliants and strangers, adul-
tery with a kinsman’s wife, mistreating an orphan, or insulting aged parents.
These same points are supplemented earlier in Works and Days in the descrip-
tion of the race of iron (183 – 9) by the sacking of cities in a list culminating in
the crime of false-swearing (190 – 4). The just man and the one keeping his
oath will receive no appreciation, but the man of ὕβρις will be honored and
the wicked will harm the good with false testimony. These passages establish
a range of crimes covered by ὕβρις, but the focus of that theme in Works and
Days is upon false swearing. The passage following the fable of hawk and night-
ingale (212– 24) opens with the direct contrast of ὕβρις and δίκη (213 – 18) which
is then exemplified in the specific terms of the conflict of Ὅρκος, god of oaths,
and of Justice with the crooked judgments (σκολιῇσι δίκῃσι, 219, 221) of ἄνδρες…
/ δωροφάγοι (220 – 1), clearly renaming the kings of 38 – 9. Similarly, in a subse-
quent passage (274– 85), which in fact marks the culmination of the theme of jus-
tice in Works and Days, Hesiod opens with a generic contrast of δίκη with βίη
that, following a praise of δίκη, is realized in specific terms as a contrast be-
tween those wishing to speak τὰ δίκαι’ (280) and those who purposely perjure
themselves with false oaths (ἐπίορκον ὀμόσσας, 282; cf. 320 – 2). Taking these
two passages together, false swearing appears to comprehend both the crooked
judgments of kings and the false testimony of litigants.¹⁷ Presumably judges and
litigants alike swore an oath to uphold justice. The focus of the central theme of
justice upon the specific issue of oath-taking is the effect of Hesiod’s adaptation
of that theme to the immediate context of Works and Days’ framing narrative, the
threatened litigation between himself and Perses before the kings in the ἀγορή.¹⁸
The lines just noted at 274– 85 are significant not only for tying justice to the
specific issue of oath-taking but also for asserting that Zeus grants prosperity,
ὄλβος (281), to the one giving true testimony, which is exemplary of justice in
this passage (275). The principle that prosperity is the reward of justice is evident
as well in the description of the city of justice where “straight judgments”
(δίκας…/ ἰθείας, 225 – 6) are compensated almost exclusively by the burgeoning

 See Detienne 1963, 48 – 51.

 That Ὅρκος is said to pursue “crooked judgments” at 219 but is described as a πῆμ’
ἐπιόρκοις at 804 provides further confirmation that Hesiod places the judgments of the kings
under the jurisdiction of oaths.
 On the importance of oaths to Works & Days, see Gagarin 1986, 47– 50 and Durán 1999. In
general on Hesiod’s notion of “justice”, see Dickie 1978. Pucci 1977, 69 – 74, analyzes the extent
to which Hesiod identifies his own voice with the figure of Justice.
102 Anthony T. Edwards

fertility of the countryside (227– 37). Similarly the generation of heroes is charac-
terized as more just (δικαιότερον, 158) than the bronze race and are subsequently
described as ὄλβοι (172) upon the isles of the blessed where that epithet is
glossed by reference to the marvelous fertility of the land (172– 3). The luxurious
prosperity of the heroes on the isles of the blessed resembles, moreover, the
abundance offered without toil to the just generation of gold. As we see, within
the value system of Works and Days Hesiod designates prosperity as the reward
both of labor and of justice, he views justice primarily in terms of oath-taking,
and wealth is conceived of as the produce of the land.¹⁹
Hesiod’s repeated injunctions to Perses both to work and to follow the path
of justice suggest that these two comprise a single option.²⁰ Similarly within the
geographical opposition of ἔργον and ἀγορή of Hesiod’s opening harangue the
options of labor and resorting to the judgments of the “gift-eating kings” are pre-
sented as mutually exclusive alternatives. If the “crooked judgments” (220 – 1,
249 – 50, 258, 261– 4) of the kings are not just, then the other alternative, toil, pre-
sumably is. As I have just argued, moreover, labor and justice are paired in the
poem as twin sources of prosperity. One explanation of such an association is
that justice – for Works and Days the avoidance of false-swearing – entails or
equals in some sense labor. The logic of such an equation is rooted very firmly
in the poem’s framing narrative of the conflict between Hesiod and Perses,
which imposes upon the latter a choice between returning to his ἔργον or resort-
ing to the βασιλῆας δωροφάγους. Within this controlling scenario the course of
justice can only be to return to the farm. Certainly behind Hesiod’s invitation to
judge their quarrel on the spot with ἰθείῃσι δίκῃς (36) lies the implicit assump-
tion that if that proposal were followed, Perses would return to his own plot
(27– 9) and abandon his claim against Hesiod’s property (34, κτήμασ’ ἐπ’
ἀλλοτρίοις).
This implicit equation of labor with justice is strengthened by the sponsor-
ship of the gods. Justice is herself a goddess wreaking vengeance upon mortals
(220 – 4) and reporting to Zeus (256 – 62), and Zeus bestowed justice upon hu-
manity in order to separate it from the beasts, who solve their differences
through violence (276 – 80). Similarly the gods have appointed toil for men
(398, cf. 42 and 47 ff.). Persisting at his labor, moreover, will cause Famine
(Λιμός, 302) to hate Perses but Demeter to love him and fill his grain bin since
the gods blame the shiftless man but love the diligent (299 – 309).²¹ In the con-

 On the link between just behavior and prosperity, see Sihvola 1989, 49 – 51.
 Perses should work: 27– 8, 299, 397– 8, 641– 2, cf. 611; Perses should hearken to justice: 213,
274– 5, cf. 286 – 92. See Welles 1967, 19 – 21, Heath 1985, 246, and Beall 2005/6, 174– 6.
 Cf. Liebermann 1981, 392.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 103

trast of stolen (ἁρπακτά, 320) wealth with god-given (θεόσδοτα, 320) at lines
320 – 6 the specific development of the notion of wealth in Works and Days
leaves it uncertain whether χρήματα… θεόσδοτα refers to the fruits of labor or
to what has been won by justice. Justice and prosperity are also linked to each
other within the epic topos of the good king, which I discuss below. In Works
and Days this theme is realized in its normative form in the description of the
utopian city of justice (225 – 37), where the straight judgments (δίκας, 225) and
adherence to justice (δικαίου, 226) bring about a regime of peace and plenty
for the community (227– 37). Yet, as I have tried to establish, within the limits
of the poem’s framing scenario to put one’s hand to labor is in fact to pursue jus-
tice since to do so requires that one avoid the crooked judgments of the kings in
the ἀγορή and consequently the wealth of others (ἀλλότρια) as well.
Agricultural labor, prosperity, and justice form a coherent and integral en-
semble within Works and Days’ ethical system since the prosperity won through
toil forestalls the need which compels a man to seek his livelihood from another
– either through begging or through some form of ὕβρις. At 410 – 13 Hesiod caps
a warning to Perses to avoid begging by means of labor (381– 413) with a final
caution against procrastination. Diligence prospers a farm, but a procrastinator
always struggles with calamities (αἰεὶ δ’ ἀμβολιεργὸς ἀνὴρ ἄτῃσι παλαίει, 413).
Desperation and perplexity are always the result of evading one’s work. So Hes-
iod initially can conceive of only two options for Perses, either returning to work
or pursuing his lawsuit (27– 9). Later on in the poem Hesiod reformulates this
pair of alternatives as a choice between work and begging (381– 404).²² Perses
must work in order that he not find himself compelled to beg from his neighbors,
who will not offer hand-outs indefinitely. So, as an illustration of the principle
that hunger is the companion of an idler but from toil men become wealthy
(299 – 308), Hesiod adduces the shiftless (ἀεργοί, 305) drones who consume
the product of the bees’ work. It remains unclear whether the drones’ freeloading
comprises a case of theft or of beggary since, lacking any explicit indication, ei-
ther construction would be authorized by Works and Days’ perspective on the
idler. In either case, however, the simile makes clear the terms of the relationship
prevailing between the shiftless and the industrious, a relationship thematized
for the poem in that between Perses and Hesiod. Hesiod sums up the straits
in which the ἀεργός finds himself in a couplet at 498 – 9:

 The lines at 396 ff. (ὡς καὶ νῦν ἐπ’ ἔμ’ ἦλθες…) link 381– 413 with the initial address to Perses
(27– 41) though the lawsuit has now given way to begging; cf. 473 – 8. On this transition, see
Edwards 2004, 97– 9, 180 – 3.
104 Anthony T. Edwards

πολλὰ δ’ ἀεργὸς ἀνήρ, κενεὴν ἐπὶ ἐλπίδα μίμνων,

χρηίζων βιότοιο, κακὰ προσελέξατο θυμῷ.

An idle man, waiting on vain hope,

lacking a livelihood, debates many wicked deeds in his mind.

The idler, waiting upon empty hope and lacking a livelihood as a consequence,
turns his mind to crime (κακά).²³ In Hesiod’s moral universe the poverty resulting
from shiftlessness invariably spawns either begging or injustice.
As we see, then, Hesiod places ἔργον, both labor and the site of labor, at the
ethical center of his poem.²⁴ Given the identity of labor in Works and Days with
cultivation of the fields, Hesiod clearly spatializes moral values in the poem. He
constructs an ethical geography investing the agricultural zone with his cardinal
virtue of justice. Ἔργον is the source of wealth and comprises the path of justice.
This principle remains implicit due to the association of labor with justice even
in passages where wealth and justice alone are linked. Indeed, after a long list of
crimes against relatives culminating in the warning that Zeus will punish such
acts, Hesiod offers advice on how to propitiate the gods and win them over
ὄφρ’ ἄλλων ὠνῇ κλῆρον, μὴ τὸν τεὸν ἄλλος (“so that you acquire someone
else’s farm, not someone else yours”, 341).²⁵ The alternatives resulting from
just and unjust behavior respectively are the prosperity enabling one to acquire
still more land and the poverty compelling one to relinquish one’s plot. This pas-
sage expresses in a general way the relationship perceived by Hesiod between
righteousness and prosperity. The climactic positioning of this warning, howev-
er, underlines the centrality of the land, and the legal, economic, and religious
issues attached to it, within the broader system of ethical principles organizing
his poem.²⁶ All of the poem’s conflicts, contrasts, injunctions, and prohibitions
finally return to a focus upon the land.

 There is no clear consensus for this difficult line. The question turns on the meaning of
προσλέγομαι and the specific connotation of κακά. The verb occurs neither in Homer nor
otherwise in Hesiod, but I think that West’s (1978 ad loc.) comparison with Od. 5.298 (εἶπε πρὸς
ὅν μεγαλήτορα θυμόν) is probably correct though Wilamowitz’s (1962 ad loc.) “… sammelt sich
zu seinem θυμός… viel Übles” is also plausible. I take κακά here to refer not to self-criticism but
to desperate criminal scheming. See Heath 1985, 246 – 51 and Jajlenko 1988, 97– 8 on the con-
nection between shiftlessness and crime in Works & Days and cf. Σ 499a, 493a.8 – 10, and 496
bis.
 See Hanson 1995, 91– 4 and 99 – 105.
 Κλῆρος appears to be synonymous with ἔργον in the sense of “farm” or “field” but with the
connotation of family holding. Cf. Op. 37 and Hes. fr. 37.12 M-W.
 See Detienne 1963, 28 – 51.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 105

Κώμη

Continuing with this survey of the geography of Works and Days, a site more
closely related to the ἔργον than to the πόλις is the village, the κώμη. Hesiod in-
forms us in one of the apparently biographical passages in Works and Days
(639 – 40) that his father settled in the village of Ascra:

νάσσατο δ’ ἄγχ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὀιζυρῇ ἐνὶ κώμῃ,

Ἄσκρῃ, χεῖμα κακῇ, θέρει ἀργαλέῃ, οὐδέ ποτ’ ἐσθλῇ.

He settled near Helicon in a miserable village,

Ascra, bad in winter, grievous in summer, not ever good.

Using a word that does not occur in the Homeric epics, Hesiod tells us specifical-
ly that his father settled in a village, a κώμη, not in a πόλις. The distinction be-
tween πόλις and κώμη appears as well in a Hesiodic fragment narrating the ex-
ploits of Heracles where, apparently in reference to the sack of Oechalia, the poet
states that Heracles ἔπραθεν ἱμερόεντα πόλιν, κε[ρ]άϊξε δὲ κώμας (“he sacked
their beautiful city and pillaged their villages”, fr. 43a.62 M-W). Hesiod distin-
guishes the πόλις from the dwelling place of the λαός also at 222 in the phrase
πόλιν καὶ ἤθεα λαῶν (cf. 137, 167– 8, 525, fr. 204.103) and at 527 in the phrase
δῆμόν τε πόλιν τε. The poet expressly distinguishes the city proper from the sur-
rounding villages, a geographical zone virtually invisible to Homer. ²⁷
Hesiod observes that in case of some disaster in the village (χρῆμ’ ἐγκώμιον
ἄλλο, 344) a neighbor will come unclothed to help while an in-law will linger to
dress (344– 5).²⁸ The passage provides a glimpse of a community of interest de-
fined in terms of geographical proximity within the village, and the favorable
contrast of neighbor with in-law evidences a relatively strong bond among neigh-
bors. Hesiod extols the value of a good neighbor in this passage (342– 60) in
terms of concrete benefits and discusses neighbors in terms of friendship, ban-
quets, and sharing among households. Hesiod also advises selecting a wife from
among one’s neighbors (700 – 1). While the degree of integration and cooperation

 Regarding the site of Ascra, see Bintliff/Snodgrass 1985, Snodgrass 1985, Fossey 1988, 142– 5,
Gauvin/Morin 1992, and Wallace 1974. For additional evidence on πόλις and κώμη, see [Hes.]
Sc. 18 – 19 (cf. Apollod. 2.50 – 60), and [Plat.] Min. 320d-c (= Hes. fr. 144.2 M-W). Homer might
assume such settlements for his λαοὶ… ἀγροιῶται (Il. 11.676) or περικτίονες (Il. 18.211– 12, 19.101–
11, Od. 2.65 – 6). See Buck 1979, 100 and Edwards 1993, 30 – 3.
 I prefer the reading ἐγκώμιον (Sinclair 1966, Solmsen 1970, Verdenius 1985, Wilamowitz 1962)
to ἐγχώριον, (West 1978, Mazon 1914). Textual as well as archaeological evidence suggest that
Hesiod assumes for himself in Works & Days a dwelling within the village rather than a ho-
mestead; see Edwards 2004, 133 – 4.
106 Anthony T. Edwards

among neighbors described by Hesiod may be limited, still the village provides
the spatial context for mutuality and social bonds surpassed in Works and Days
only by the οἶκος.²⁹ The κώμη comprises within the social geography of Works
and Days an alternative form of settlement to the πόλις that is much more closely
connected to the land and the life of agriculture.
Much as the πόλις is represented in Works and Days by the ἀγορή, the chief
feature of the κώμη is the οἶκος, associated in Hesiod’s mind with the bounty of
the fields.³⁰ He is in particular preoccupied with the interior of the house as a
protected zone where βίοτος is stockpiled. This perspective upon the house ap-
pears early in the poem in Hesiod’s opening address to Perses when he admon-
ishes that there is no leisure for lawsuits and ἀγοραί for the man who has not
laid away a year’s food “inside” (ἔνδον, 31). This association of the interior of
the house with the stored product of the fields is repeated throughout the
poem. For example, at 475 – 6 Hesiod congratulates Perses on the good harvest
resulting from his advice: καί σε ἔολπα/ γηθήσειν βιότου αἰρεύμενον ἔνδον
ἐόντος (“I expect you will be pleased drawing on the food stored inside”), and
in a later passage he moves from the harvest to his next topic with the words
αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν δὴ/ πάντα βίον κατάθηαι ἐπάρμενον ἔνδοθι οἴκου (“but once/
you’ve laid up all your livelihood secure within your house”, 600 – 1).³¹ This as-
sociation of the house with the produce of the fields is focused upon the καλιή,
the “granary”. The phrase Δημήτηρ/ αἰδοίη, βιότου δὲ τεὴν πιμπλῇσι καλιήν (
“that revered Demeter fill your granary with livelihood”, 300 – 1) suggests in con-
nection with the strong association between the house itself and βίοτος that the
καλιή is located in the village as an adjacent structure to the house. The καλιή is
closely tied to the theme of labor and the abundance that it brings to the indus-
trious man (306 – 7, 411– 12), and so to the values attached to the ἔργον. The pre-
sentation of οἶκος and καλιή as the repositories of βίοτος links the κώμη in
which they are located even more intimately to the region of the ἔργον and
the values associated with it.

 See Radermacher 1918, 3 – 16, Latte 1968, 252– 9, Weber 1978, 360 – 3, and Edwards 2004, 89 –
118.
 See Spahn 1980, 538 – 41 and Millett 1984, 93 – 9.
 See also Op. 363 – 7, 575 – 6; cf. 494– 5, 554– 6, 611, 632, 733. Equipment is also stored in the
house: Op. 407, 422– 36, 452– 4, 627.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 107

Ἀγορή

The ἀγορή is the antithesis of the ἔργον and what it stands for within the spatial
ethics of Works and Days. In his opening harangue, introducing the contrast be-
tween these locales, Hesiod situates the ἀγορή within a nexus of themes that ex-
tend their influence across the poem as a whole.³² Δίκη, which as “justice” serves
a central role especially in the first half of the poem, occurs in this introductory
passage in the sense of “lawsuit” (τήνδε δίκην, 39) and in opposition to the
“straight judgments” of Zeus (ἰθείῃσι δίκῃς, 36). The chain of terms leading up
to this occurrence of δίκη-lawsuit begins with the wicked Ἔρις. Hesiod character-
izes it as “worthy of blame” (ἐπιμωμητή, 13), “relentless” (σχετλίη, 15), “heavy”
(βαρεῖαν, 16), the cause of war and “discord” (δῆριν, 14), and a divinity which no
mortal loves but worships only due to the compulsion of the gods (15 – 16). This
Ἔρις leads Perses from his farm to the ἀγορή where he observes “strife” (νείκε’,
29; cf. νεικέων τ’ ἀγορέων τε, 30). Hesiod refers to the effects of this Ἔρις again
through the generics νείκεα καὶ δῆριν (33) and νεῖκος (35) before deploying the
specific name of the “strife” of the ἀγορή, τήνδε δίκην (39). Hesiod equates
the δίκη-lawsuit of the ἀγορή with Ἔρις κακόχαρτος, νεῖκος, and δῆρις, designat-
ing it as a disruptive and destructive force in the community.³³
The moral status of the ἀγορή as a site is largely expressed through Hesiod’s
characterization of the suit with which Perses threatens him. The condemnation
of Perses’ action, moreover, (Ἔρις κακόχαρτος, 28; ἁρπάζων ἐφόρεις, 38;
βασιλῆας/ δωροφάγους, 38 – 9) can reasonably be taken to imply that Hesiod ex-
pects Perses to rely upon false-swearing to win his point before the kings.³⁴ Hes-
iod returns to the threatened lawsuit in a later passage addressed to the kings
(248 – 73) in which he urges them too to give some thought to this lawsuit
(τήνδε δίκην, 249) since the immortals keep their eyes on those practicing
crooked judgments (σκολιῇσι δίκῃσιν, 250). Hesiod constructs this passage
around a generic contrast between the justice sanctioned by the gods (254,

 Op. 269 requires that the ἀγορή lie within the city; see Edwards 2004, 66. West 1978 ad 38
suggests that by βασιλῆας Hesiod refers to the descendants of the seven δημοῦχοι who in the
historical period ruled Thespiae; cf. Broadbent 1968, 283 – 6. See also Buck 1979, 90 – 2 on the
coalescence of incipient noble classes in the emergent cities while independent villages conti-
nued to survive.
 Pucci (1977, 63 – 71) analyzes the equivalencies and oppositions into which δίκη is inter-
woven, including its relation to the ἀγορή.
 See my analysis of relations among Hesiod, Perses, and kings at Edwards 2004, 38 – 44,
70 – 1. At this point Perses has only threatened to go before the kings, with whom his gifts have
established a relationship of reciprocity (Edwards 1993, 41– 3) in a bid to gain leverage over
Hesiod for further assistance.
108 Anthony T. Edwards

256, 259 – 61) and the crooked judgments practiced by the kings (250, 258, 260,
262– 4), who can expect retribution in return from the watchful gods. At length,
however, he refocuses upon the topic announced in his initial address to Perses
first through the phrase καί νυ τάδ’ (268) and then with the line οἵην δὴ καὶ
τήνδε δίκην πόλις ἐντὸς ἐέργει (“what sort of a lawsuit/justice this is that the
city holds within it”, 269) in which πόλις restates the theme of the ἀγορή and
τήνδε δίκην recalls Perses’ threatened suit. Δίκη in the spatial context of the
ἀγορή, the lawsuit, is tied, paradoxically, to perjury and injustice in Works
and Days.
Hesiod describes the prosperity held out by the ἀγορή, an alternative pros-
perity to that acquired from labor on the land, through the phrase κτήμασ’ ἐπ’
ἀλλοτρίοις (34). Rather than seeking a livelihood by means of his own labor
on his own land, Perses prefers to lay claim in the ἀγορή to what is in truth
the property of others. At 314– 16 Hesiod reverts to this theme when he warns
Perses that working is better εἴ κεν ἀπ’ ἀλλοτρίων κτεάνων ἀεσίφρονα θυμὸν/
ἐς ἔργον τρέψας μελετᾷς βίου (“if, turning your witless mind from the posses-
sions of others towards work, you take pains for your own livelihood”, 315 –
16). The gnome following only a few lines later χρήματα δ’ οὐχ ἁρπακτά,
θεόσδοτα πολλὸν ἀμείνω (“property must not be stolen; what is given by god
is better by far”, 320), recalls the phrase ἁρπάζων ἐφόρεις (38) from the initial
speech to Perses, describing how Perses has apparently carried off jointly held
property to make gifts to the kings. Ἁρπακτά and θεόσδοτα, moreover, contrast
in this line much as the fruits of judicial theft differ from the product of one’s
own labor in Hesiod’s initial harangue. As glosses on ἁρπακτά Hesiod contrasts
force of hands (χερσὶ βίῃ) with theft through words (ἀπὸ γλώσσης ληίσσεται,
322), thus equating the lying speech used in the litigation of the ἀγορή with
physical violence. The conflicting alternatives of wealth won by one’s own
labor and the attempt to acquire the property of another through intrigue are
fundamental to Works and Days’ vision of the world.³⁵ These alternatives are spa-
tialized by Hesiod through the contrast of ἔργον and ἀγορή.
The σκολιαί δίκαι purveyed by the judges in the ἀγορή are also equated with
false-swearing and characterized as examples of ὕβρις. In the passage introduc-
ing the paired descriptions of the city of δίκη and the city of ὕβρις Hesiod urges
Perses to hearken to δίκη and abandon ὕβρις since the former always wins out in
the end (213 – 18). This contrast is developed in terms of the conflict of the deities

 See Op. 305 – 6 (cf. Th. 599) and 381– 95. The association of ease with living off of another’s
toil is evident as well in the contrast of the ἡμερόκοιτος ἀνήρ (605), the “day sleeper” or thief,
with Hesiod’s warnings that a successful farmer must rise at dawn (574– 5, 578 – 81).
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 109

Ὅρκος, “oath”, and Δίκη with the σκολιαὶ δίκαι of ἄνδρες δωροφάγοι, “gift-de-
vouring men”, the same as the kings of the poem’s opening harangue (219 –
24). The introduction of Ὅρκος as the avenger of “crooked judgments” incrimi-
nates such judicial acts as a form of false-swearing, much as the perjury of Pers-
es.³⁶ These “crooked judgments”, moreover, exemplify ὕβρις and indeed com-
prise the salient form of ὕβρις for Works and Days. The appeal itself, finally, to
hearken to δίκη and not to foster ὕβρις, repeats in ethical terms the spatial ref-
erence points of Hesiod’s initial exhortation to Perses not to abandon his ἔργον
and hearken to the ἀγορή (28 – 9). A similar configuration of values occurs at
190 – 1 where in his description of the generation of iron Hesiod opposes the
man who keeps his oaths (εὐόρκου), the just man (δικαίου), and the good
man (ἀγαθοῦ) to the perpetrator of evil (κακῶν ῥεκτῆρα) and the man of ὕβρις
(ὕβριν/ ἀνέρα). A final passage repeats the contrast of δίκη and ὕβρις found at
213 but in terms of δίκη and βίη (275). Here too the concrete terms in which
this generic contrast is realized are those of true testimony and breaking one’s
oath through false testimony (280 – 3).³⁷ The false swearing that typifies Hesiod’s
ἀγορή casts that site as the locus of ὕβρις for the poem.
In the opening speech to Perses Hesiod urges his brother not to permit the
bad Ἔρις to draw him from his ἔργον – both “farm” and “labor” – to the
ἀγορή. Only a few lines earlier Hesiod has praised the good Ἔρις for stirring
even a lazy man (καὶ ἀπάλαμόν περ ὁμῶς, 20) to work in rivalry with the wealth
of his industrious neighbor. Implicit to the contrast between Perses and the
ἀπάλαμος who is nonetheless motivated to labor lies the judgment that Perses
pursues the path of injustice in the ἀγορή chiefly out of indolence, in flight
from his ἔργον. The theme of laziness recurs across Works and Days, but in Pers-
es’ case it is linked to litigation and the ὕβρις of the town square. The peculiar
prosperity of the ἀγορή is the product of indolence, not labor.
As I have argued, Hesiod characterizes the ἔργον as a place of toil, justice,
and prosperity. The ἀγορή in contrast is implicated in ὕβρις, the opposite of
δίκη in Works and Days. Hesiod associates it with ease as the refuge of the shift-
less such as Perses who flee their plots and seek out the aid of the βασιλῆες
there. The ἀγορή also possesses its own prosperity in the form of ἀλλότρια,
the possessions of others, with which loafers like Perses, much as the workless

 An equation of perjury with rendering “crooked judgments” is further suggested by the

parallel between lines 258 and 282– 3 in which “hindering” (βλάπτῃ, 258; βλάψας, 283) justice is
glossed respectively by crooked judgments (σκολιῶς ὀνοτάζων; cf. West 1978 ad 258) and by
giving false testimony (ἐπίορκον ὀμόσσας, 282).
 West 1978 ad 275 notes that that line repeats the contrast of δίκη with ὕβρις and compares
Il. 16.387– 8.
110 Anthony T. Edwards

drones (305 – 6), can enrich themselves. Hesiod warns, however, that such
wealth, in contrast to what is god-given (320, θεόσδοτα), is short-lived. For
when someone seizes great wealth by force or loots it with the tongue, this
wealth remains in his possession only a short time (παῦρον δέ τ’ ἐπὶ χρόνον
ὄλβος ὀπηδεῖ, 326). At 352 Hesiod generalizes μὴ κακὰ κερδαίνειν· κακὰ κέρδεα
ἶσ’ ἄτῃσι. Illicit profits are no gain at all but the equivalent rather of ἄται
(“ruin”, “calamity”).³⁸ The status of such ill-gotten gains for Works and Days is
illuminated at 214– 16 where Hesiod tells us that ὕβρις leads a man into ἅται.
By contrast neither famine (Λιμός) nor ἄτη pursue men of straight judgment (ἰθυ-
δίκῃσι μετ’ ἀνδράσι, 230). The theme that ill-gotten prosperity lasts only for the
short term and that over the duration it results in further losses runs throughout
Works and Days and in fact stands at its ethical core as the corollary of the prin-
ciple that prosperity can be won by toil alone. This is precisely the point of the
gnome addressed to the kings at the conclusion of Hesiod’s opening harangue
that the half is more than the whole and there is a benefit in a diet of mallow
and asphodel (40 – 1). He warns them that the wealth reaped from the likes of
Perses in exchange for their crooked judgments will profit them only for the mo-
ment and will shortly turn to ruin.³⁹ True δίκη, however, labor upon one’s own
plot, brings, as I have discussed, ὄλβος. The ensemble of justice, labor, and plen-
ty native to the ἔργον is matched in the ἀγορή by the trio of ὕβρις, ease, and a
prosperity with ruin hot on its heels.⁴⁰
Only in his vision of the city of justice (225 – 37), defined in contrast to the
city of violence, does Hesiod offer a positive portrayal of the ἀγορή. The reference
to “judgments” (δίκας, 225) in the first line of the passage draws our attention to
the ἀγορή and the actions of the βασιλῆες, essential elements of Hesiod’s πόλις.
The straight justice that is the defining characteristic of this city’s ἀγορή and
βασιλῆες, reminiscent of the generation of gold but generally untypical of the
city in Works and Days, unexpectedly, however, refocuses the description of
this πόλις upon the countryside, the land and its fertility: εἰρήνη δ’ ἀνὰ γῆν
κουροτρόφος (228); οὐδέ… λιμός (230); μεμηλότα ἔργα νέμονται (231); φέρει
μὲν γαῖα πολὺν βίον (232); οὔρεσι δὲ δρῦς/ … φέρει βαλάνους… μελίσσας
(232– 3); ὄιες μαλλοῖς καταβεβρίθασι (234); καρπὸν δὲ φέρει ζείδωρος ἄρουρα

 Cf. the formulation at Op. 356: ἅρπαξ δὲ κακή, θανάτοιο δότειρα. Similarly the procrastinator
(413, ἀμβολιοεργός) also struggles with ἄται since, as I have shown, shiftlessness leads to
attempts to seize the livelihood of the diligent.
 For this sentiment see also Op. 89, 213 – 18, 265 – 6, 320 – 6, 333 – 4, 352, 356 – 62, 760 – 4. The
comments of Verdenius (1985 ad 40 – 1) are to the point.
 Heath (1985, 246), in a brief but lucid analysis, comes to similar conclusions.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 111

(237).⁴¹ The reign of justice within the city, for the ἀγορή is the site where kings
dispense their judgments, produces abundance and bounty outside the walls, in
the fields. This depiction of the city of justice represents the villager’s conception
of the ideal city, one that in its justice simply evaporates from the landscape and
leaves behind it a utopian fertility in the countryside. Importing the straight jus-
tice of the rural region into the heart of the city, paradoxically, liberates the
ἔργον of the city’s malign influence, the effect of its customary injustice, and
leaves it free to flourish.
These lines present a conventional epic topos, the theme of the good king. In
the Odyssey (19.109 – 14) and in a related passage in Theogony (81– 93) the topos
serves to build the reputation and celebrity of the king.⁴² The negative view of
the city that predominates in Works and Days, however, redirects the emphasis
of this theme away from its customary focus upon the king and towards the
bounty of the countryside as a region distinct from the city. The prominent posi-
tion occupied in the poem by toil on the land as the sole source of prosperity and
as the essence of justice and by Hesiod’s condemnation of the πόλις as the refuge
of sloth and judicial meddling drives the city and its elite from the spotlight. A
celebration of the agricultural region as the true locale of fertility and justice re-
sults from this peculiar contextualization of the theme of the good king.⁴³
For Works and Days the city of justice marks the ideal against which the vi-
olent ἀγορή of Thespiae must be judged as much as the depraved city of vio-
lence. The city of ὕβρις exemplifies a city dominated by its ἀγορή and represents
for Hesiod the sort of place to which Perses threatens to resort. I have already
discussed the specificity of ὕβρις in Works and Days to the dealings of the
ἀγορή, false-swearing in particular, and the σχέτλια ἔργα of the city of ὕβρις
(238), in their opposition to the δίκας… ἰθείας of 225 – 6, promise more of the
same. The descriptions of the two cities share the motifs of the fertility of
women (235, 244), famine (230, 242– 3), and the vitality of the population (227,
243), but the emphasis placed upon the fertility of the land for the city of justice

 See Il. 18.502– 8, for the ἀγορή and straight judgments. The description of the city of justice
echoes elements of the characterization of the golden age. To Op. 231– 2 compare 118 – 19 and to
237 compare 117. Note also the correspondence of his comments on sailing at 236 – 7 to 45 and
633 – 8. See Vernant 1960, 32 and Pucci 1977, 105 – 7.
 The theme also appears at 170 – 3a where it adds to the glory of the heroes inhabiting the
isles of the blessed and it may stand behind the complex of wealth, justice, and kingship at
122 – 6 (see Verdenius 1985 ad 126). Od. 11.134– 7 also offers a hint of the topos. West 1978 ad 225 –
47 collects further examples from other literatures.
 Cf. Edwards 1993, 46 – 8. The theme that the λαός or δῆμος must pay for the injustice of a
wicked king is the inverse of the topos: 238 – 47, 258 – 62, Hesiod fr. 30.10 – 19, Il. 16.384– 92,
24.25 – 30.
112 Anthony T. Edwards

is countered in the city of violence by Zeus’s retribution upon the πόλις proper:
the destruction of armies, the city’s wall, and its ships (246 – 7).⁴⁴ The contrast
delineated here between the righteous city and the wicked suggests that the
boundary between city and country is attenuated under the regime of δίκη but
is affirmed under ὕβρις. The city of violence expresses in brief the character
which Hesiod assigns to his own iron age and to the city of the kings, and it
is the role of the city of justice to serve as a foil to these, a utopian vision of
the city which causes the normative characterization of the city in Works and
Days to appear all the more grim.

Θῶκοι, Λέσχη, and the Blacksmith’s

Hesiod mentions several sites that are difficult to tie with certainty to either vil-
lage or πόλις. At 574 he advises to avoid σκιεροὺς θώκους when it is time for the
grain harvest. This site is clearly distinct from the χαλκεῖον θῶκον of 493, the
blacksmith’s forge. The basic meaning of θῶκος is “chair”, “seat”, and the
term has strong connections with the ἀγορή. ⁴⁵ At Hes. fr. 1.6 M-W, moreover,
θόωκοι occurs in a context where it refers to festivals of some sort, paralleling
the festivities set in the ἀγορή at Th. 435 (cf. 91 and Sc. 201– 6, 305 – 13). The ex-
ternal evidence would suggest that the σκιεροὶ θῶκοι lie within the city and dou-
ble as both a ceremonial space and a cool retreat for loafers. Hesiod pointedly
warns against such unproductive idling.
Much as with the σκιεροὶ θῶκοι, Hesiod recommends passing by the com-
panionable distractions of the blacksmith’s forge and the warm λέσχη (Πὰρ δ’
ἴθι χάλκειον θῶκον καὶ ἐπαλέα λέσχην, 493) even when it seems too cold to
work outside. Λέσχη in fact closely parallels θῶκος semantically. Chantraine pro-
poses that λέσχη is derived from *λεχ-σκα related to λέχομαι and meaning a seat
or place to sit.⁴⁶ The word in fact comes to mean “small talk” or “chatter” and is
repeatedly glossed as φλυαρία. Yet λέσχη commonly refers to serious political de-
liberations, the assembly as a body, and even the council chamber, again paral-

 In this line, the phrase ξύμπασα πόλις (240) may refer to the city alone and not the sur-
rounding territory: cf. πᾶσαν δὲ πόλιν θαλίαι τε χοροί τε/ ἀγλαΐαι τ’ εἶχον. τοὶ δ’ αὖ προπάροιθε
πόληος/ νῶθ’ ἵππων ἐπιβάντες ἐθύνεον, Sc. 284– 6; contra, Verdenius 1985 ad 162, LSJ s.v. III.
 See Od. 2.26 and 15.468, for which the scholiast glosses εἰς θῶκον] εἰς βουλήν. For the link
between a ceremonial chair and the assembly place, see Od. 2.10 – 14, 5.3, 12.318 – 19, Il. 8.438 –
45, and 1.532– 6 (with 20.4– 6 where the Olympian ἀγορή is located Διὸς πρὸς δῶμα).
 Chantraine 2009 s.v.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 113

leling the semantic range of θῶκος.⁴⁷ It is also characterized as a hangout for the
idle poor. Melantho, for example, likewise pairs the blacksmith’s and the λέσχη
as refuges for slackers (Od. 18.327– 9). It is safe to infer that it is a building, heat-
ed by a fire, and located within the πόλις where the men of the area can go idly
to shoot the breeze but whose official purpose is of a civic nature.⁴⁸
Evidence suggests that these sites lie within the πόλις, but there can be no
certainty. Hesiod is distrustful of these locations as snares for the lazy but he
hardly exhibits towards them the hostility that he reserves for that other sink
of indolence, the ἀγορή. These haunts are a danger only to the fools who take
refuge there against summer’s heat and winter’s cold, but the litigations of the
ἀγορή are a threat to the diligent as well. Even if, moreover, we assume them
to be located rather in the village, they are nevertheless inscribed within
Works and Days’ geography of labor and ease in opposition to the ἔργον.

Πόντος

Within the spatial contrasts of Works and Days the sea comprises a third and al-
most intermediate space. The sea is not, of course, socially produced space in the
way that a city or farm is – physically refashioned to serve human ends – but it is
exploited as a medium for networks and relationships among nodes of social
space.⁴⁹ Its simultaneous resistance to transformation through human effort
and its location amid places created for human use nevertheless establishes
the sea as a specific type of space and invests it with specific associations and
values. In particular some have seen the passage devoted to seafaring in
Works and Days, the so-called Nautilia (618 – 94), as a portal into the epic
space of the war at Troy and poetic competition or into the space of the itinerant
epic singer. Others have mined the Nautilia for evidence on the state of trade in
Archaic Greece.⁵⁰ It is trade that explicitly attracts Hesiod’s attention in Works

 The λέσχη is consistently characterized as a τόπος δημόσιος (cf. the intriguing lines at
Od. 20.262– 5). See Chantraine 2009 and LSJ s.v. λέσχη along with other words formed on λεσχ-.
Cf. Σ ad Hes. Op. 493 – 5 and Σ ad Od. 18.329 as well as Thgn. 613, Heraclit. fr. 5.5 – 7 D, A.
Ch. 665 – 7 and Eu. 365, S. Ant. 161 (to which cf. Vita Herodotea Homeri 141– 59).
 The accepted interpretation of ἐπαλέα at 493 seems to be “warm” rather than “crowded”. See
West 1978 ad loc. Σ 493b quotes Neoptolemus to the effect that λέσχην εἶναι ὄνομα αὐλῆς ἐν ᾗ
πῦρ ἐστι.
 See Vlassopoulos 2007, 162– 5 and 168 – 81, regarding the role of such interconnecting net-
works.
 For the Nautilia as a metaphor for poetic competition, see Rosen 1990, Steiner 2005, and
Tsagalis 2009, 152– 7; for the Nautilia and the itinerant singer, see Martin 1984; for the Nautilia
114 Anthony T. Edwards

and Days. As a space, moreover, that is beyond human management, the sea is
distinguished by the dangers that await those who venture there, a theme which
Hesiod employs in his warning against being at sea too late in the season and in
his description of spring sailing (673 – 94).⁵¹
Hesiod explicitly inscribes maritime trade within the category of labor
(ἔργον) and the seasonal cycle of agricultural tasks with his injunction at 641– 2:

τύνη δ’, ὦ Πέρση, ἔργων μεμνημένος εἶναι

ὡραίων πάντων, περὶ ναυτιλίης δὲ μάλιστα.

But you, Perses, be mindful of all your tasks

according to season, especially regarding seafaring.

It is a repeated theme of work in the poem that the farmer must complete his
tasks in sequence and in season (ὡραῖος), so the use of this epithet along
with the noun ἔργον itself establishes trade undertaken at sea as a counterpart
to his normal labors on the land.⁵² The equation suggested, moreover, between
staying off the sea out of season and working the land instead (γῆν δ’ ἐργάζε-
σθαι, 623) implies that the two endeavors are complementary, the types of
labor appropriate each to its own season. Similarly, to characterize the absence
of toil through the image of the steering oar hanging above the hearth (45 – 6,
cf. 629 – 30) clearly includes sailing in the poem’s privileged category of work.
At lines 646 – 9 Hesiod announces the Nautilia’s theme once again with the invi-
tation to Perses to turn his foolish mind towards trade (ἐπ’ ἐμπορίην τρέψας
ἀεσίφρονα θυμόν, 646) and to flee debt and hunger (χρέα τε προφυγεῖν καὶ
λιμὸν ἀτερπέα, 647) by learning from Hesiod the measures of the thundering
sea (μέτρα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης, 648). The phrase ἀεσίφρονα θυμόν occurs
at 315 to urge Perses to redirect his attention away from others’ possessions and
towards work (ἔργον) and similarly at 334 away from a multitude of unjust deeds
(ἄδικα ἔργα). The ἀεσίφρονα θυμόν appears to be one turned in the wrong direc-
tion, so the invitation here to redirect it towards trade would imply the legitima-
cy of that pursuit alongside farming as a form of ἔργον. At 404, moreover, the
evasion of debt and hunger (χρειῶν τε λύσιν λιμοῦ τ’ ἀλεωρήν) through seafar-

and the economy of Archaic Greece, see Mele 1979 and Tandy 1997, with citations and discussion
at Edwards 2004, 44– 8.
 See West 1978 ad 686; cf. Solon 13.43 – 6 W. See also Lateiner’s (this volume) analysis of
Homer’s presentation of sea travel.
 Cf. ὡραῖον… πλόον at 630 and 665; ὡραῖος linked to labor or the fruits of labor appears at
31– 2, 306 – 7, 392– 3, 616 – 17. See West 1978, 253 and Jones 1984, 307– 16. Th. 440 refers to fishing
as a form of work at sea: οἳ γλαυκὴν δυσπέμφελον ἐργάζονται. Haubold (this volume) discusses
a fascinating vision of life on the sea unimagined in Works and Days.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 115

ing recapitulates the exhortation to work occurring a few lines earlier (391– 4,
397– 8). Hunger (λιμός) appears also as the companion of those who will not
work (299 – 302) and afflicts the inhabitants of the city of wickedness (242– 3),
but it lets alone men of straight judgment (ἰθυδίκῃσι) to dwell upon their culti-
vated fields (230 – 1). The vocabulary of 646 – 9 within the web of associations
created by Works and Days clearly aligns seafaring with the values of work
and justice.
The ἀγορή differs from seafaring in that it is not fixed within the cycle of sea-
sonal tasks and its characteristic activities are not regarded by Hesiod as work.
Yet, maritime trade and the ἀγορή are linked in so far as both offer κέρδος. Nei-
ther of the two specific voyages mentioned by Hesiod in the Nautilia, his own
voyage to Euboean Chalcis to compete for prizes (650 – 60) and his father’s voy-
age of emigration from Cyme to Ascra (633 – 40) in flight from poverty rather than
riches, was undertaken for trade although both were made in pursuit of rewards
if not explicitly κέρδος.⁵³ The word κέρδος itself occurs outside the Nautilia as
many times as within. Lines 322– 4 refer obliquely to the behavior of Perses by
reference to robbery with the tongue (ἀπὸ γλώσσης ληίσσεται, 322) that occurs
when κέρδος beguiles the mind and shamelessness supplants shame (αἰδῶ δέ
τ’ ἀναιδείη κατοπάζῃ, 324). In these lines Hesiod ties κέρδος to the theme of
false-swearing that, as I discuss below in more detail, is linked in Works and
Days to the kings and the ἀγορή. At 352 in a passage discussing relations be-
tween neighbors Hesiod enjoins Perses that he not win profit wickedly, and
that wicked profits are the same as ruin (μὴ κακὰ κερδαίνειν· κακὰ κέρδεα ἶσ’
ἄτῃσι, 352). These lines caution against attempting to profit from exchanges
with neighbors that ought to promote reciprocity. These passages draw κέρδος
within the orbit of the general greed and lawlessness, focused upon the space
of the ἀγορή, against which Hesiod struggles. As I have shown, Hesiod certainly
prizes the stored food that the farmer brings in from his fields but he does not
refer to it as κέρδος. Yet the gain that proceeds from maritime trade is designated
as κέρδος with no apparent sinister connotation. So, at 631– 3 Hesiod recom-
mends hauling one’s boat down to the shore and loading it with cargo in
order to bring home κέρδος (644) and at 643 – 5 he advises a larger vessel for
a larger cargo that will return greater κέρδος. The negative connotations attached
in Works and Days to κέρδος of ἄτη, ἀναιδείη, ἀπάτη, and ληϊστύς are shed at
sea where this “profit” is the product of legitimate labor that is firmly anchored

 These lines on Hesiod’s father’s emigration from Cyme are introduced as a comparison (ὥς
περ ἐμός τε πατὴρ καὶ σός…/ πλωίζεσκ’ ἐν νηυσί, 632– 3). It is clear from lines 633 – 4 that the
point of comparison is the journey by sea itself (629 – 30a) rather than maritime trade (630b-1).
116 Anthony T. Edwards

within the cycle of seasonal ἔργα. In fact, the parallel ideas of lines 644 (μείζων
μὲν φόρτος, μεῖζον δ’ ἐπὶ κέρδεϊ κέρδος), dealing with the ratio of cargo to κέρ-
δος, and 380 (πλείων μὲν πλεόνων μελέτη, μείζων δ’ ἐπιθήκη), concerning the
ratio of labor inputs to the size of the harvest, suggest that Hesiod did attribute
to farming and the labor of the countryside a “profit” or “gain”, designated here
as ἐπιθήκη. As a place, then, the sea is posed between the positive values of
ἔργον ὡραῖον since it is, no doubt, the surplus crop from his fields that Hesiod
envisions committing to trade, and the κέρδος that he eyes with a physiocrat’s
skepticism.
To sum up at this point, for Hesiod the ἔργον comprehends the values of toil,
livelihood, abundance, what is one’s own, and above all straight justice. In con-
trast the ἀγορή is the locus of litigation, indolence, the acquisition of others’ pos-
sessions, and of the crooked justice and ὕβρις of the kings. The οἶκος as a sub-
sidiary site of the village is linked to the ἔργον as the repository for its produce.
The contrast, as we see, between the farm and the town square dominates the
poem’s ethical geography, its phenomenology of place.
The πόλις, otherwise so central and so visible in Greek literature and culture,
effectively disappears from view in this poem except for a single location, the
ἀγορή. Even the ἀγορή, moreover, appears only as the site of judicial proceed-
ings. Similarly, were we to rely upon Works and Days alone, we would never
guess that the kings might also run the city, lead the army, or own land.⁵⁴ The
ἀγορή represents the πόλις as a whole within Works and Days and functions
in that capacity as a distorted and interested representation. So much is evident
from the simultaneous presence in Works and Days of a more positive treatment
of the city, for example, in his presentation of the Euboean city of Chalcis (650 –
62),⁵⁵ or in the contrast of the city of justice with that of ὕβρις (225 – 47). Hesiod’s
use in these two passages of the encomiastic self-conception of the city familiar
from Homer’s poetry – the first to enhance his own reputation as a poet and the
second as a mere foil to the more salient depiction of the city of ὕβρις – reveals
the πόλις of Works and Days as a studied distortion, one side from a dispute over
the meaning of place.

 Regarding the role of βασιλῆες in Ascra, see Edwards 2004, 64– 77 and 118 – 23. Hesiod’s
effacement of the city in Works & Days is discussed at Welles 1967, 9 – 11, Spahn 1980, 544– 5,
Millett 1984, 90 – 3, and Edwards 2004, 176 – 84.
 Hesiod’s abandonment of the persona of farmer in favor of that of poet and the specificity of
these lines suggests that they recount a historical event though there can be no certainty that the
reference is not fictive or generic. See Rosen 1990, Pucci 1996, 200 – 4, and Edwards 2004, 19 –
25.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 117

The πόλις as a human transformation of the landscape arose from a specific

set of social, political, and economic relations. Similarly Hesiod’s κώμη as a so-
cial institution comprises a historically produced space. As the spatial dimen-
sion of a community, the κώμη depicted by Hesiod presupposes the existence
of self-sufficient farmers free to organize themselves as a community according
to their mutual interests much as Homer’s πόλις presupposes a hierarchized
community in which a martial elite benefits from the control of land and
labor.⁵⁶ Each site consequently produces its own representation of space, and
each of these representations is equally partial and distorted although the stri-
dency of Hesiod’s assault on the βασιλῆες may suggest a moment of heightened
confrontation.

III. Ἔργον, Ἀγορή, and the Generation of Gold

Hesiod provides in Works and Days a mythic account for the origin of the spatial
division separating the village as the locus of justice, prosperity, and toil from
city as the locus of injustice, short-lived prosperity, and ease that thus projects
this spatial opposition onto the chronological axis of myth time. In Hesiod’s ex-
planation the event precipitating this fundamental split in human geography is
the imposition of labor as an element of the human condition. Hesiod turns to
the origins of labor in the lines (42– 52) concluding his opening harangue to
Perses and introducing the story of Pandora. Through these lines he offers veri-
fication of his central theme that livelihood can be acquired only through work.⁵⁷
As Hesiod explains:

Κρύψαντες γὰρ ἔχουσι θεοὶ βίον ἀνθρώποισιν.

ῥηιδίως γάρ κεν καὶ ἐπ’ ἤματι ἐργάσσαιο,
ὥστε σε κεἰς ἐνιαυτὸν ἔχειν καὶ ἀεργὸν ἐόντα·
αἶψά κε πηδάλιον μὲν ὑπὲρ καπνοῦ καταθεῖο, 45

 Regarding the social and economic arrangements supporting the political order of the πόλις
system as it is presented by Homer, see Qviller 1981, and Donlan 1989. I analyze the organization
of Hesiod’s community and its relations with Thespiae in Edwards 2004, 30 – 126.
 The role of this myth and the myth of the races as etiologies of labor is discussed by Welles
1967, 14– 17, Walcot 1970, 84– 7, Pucci 1977, 82– 3, Liebermann 1981, 404– 8, Rowe 1983, 132– 5,
Descat 1986, 188 – 9, Sihvola 1989, 39 – 42. Contra, see Beall 2005/6, 161– 4. To inject a judicious
note of caution, I believe that these two segments were placed in Works & Days to provide
etiologies of labor, but I acknowledge that that purpose alone cannot encompass the multiple
ramifications of such rich and complex narratives.
118 Anthony T. Edwards

ἔργα βοῶν δ’ ἀπόλοιτο καὶ ἡμιόνων ταλαεργῶν.

ἀλλὰ Ζεὺς ἔκρυψε χολωσάμενος φρεσὶ ᾗσιν

For the gods keep men’s livelihood hidden.

Indeed, you could easily have worked even for a day
to keep yourself for a year, though remaining idle.
Immediately you could hang your steering oar over the fireplace 45
and the toils of oxen and hardworking mules would cease.
But Zeus, because of the anger in his heart, hid it.

It would be possible for men to labor for only a day to produce enough to live
from for a year even though remaining otherwise at ease (ἀεργὸν ἐόντα, 44) ex-
cept that Zeus has hidden their livelihood (βίον, 42) from men in anger, as Hesiod
goes on to explain, over Prometheus’s theft of fire. Hesiod returns to this intro-
ductory theme toward the end of the Pandora segment (90 – 2) when he tells us
that formerly the human race lived upon the land without evils (disease and
death) and without harsh toil (χαλεποῖο πόνοιο, 91). These lines reassert the pri-
orities of the framing narrative, the origins of labor as an explanation of why in-
dividuals such as Perses must work, in the face of the Pandora narrative’s local
emphasis upon λυγρά and νοῦσοι.⁵⁸ It is Zeus’s κρύψις βίου that marks the wa-
tershed between a utopian golden age when mankind neither suffered disease
and death nor endured harsh labor and the present degenerate state in which
these ills are daily reality. The Pandora narrative responds to the preceding ha-
rangue of Perses by offering an etiology of labor. Hesiod specifies, moreover, that
the labor imposed upon men by Zeus’s malevolent regime is not surprisingly ag-
ricultural labor, the necessity of toiling in order to gain one’s βίος. Hesiod intro-
duces the theme of a utopian golden age for the first time in Works and Days only
to recount how it was irrevocably lost along with the possibility of a life combin-
ing plenty and justice with ease.
The preceding Pandora narrative has provided an account of how men and
gods lived alike until the institution of sacrifice separated them, an event chiefly
marked by the imposition of labor upon men. The story of the generations of
man (Op. 106 – 201), following immediately on the Pandora narrative, sets out
to provide an account of the same event, how men once possessed a livelihood
similar to the gods’ (ὡς ὁμόθεν γεγάασι θεοὶ θνητοί τ’ ἄνθρωποι, 108) but now
have fallen from the utopian circumstances enjoyed by the generation of

 As West (1978) points out in his introductory comments to line 42, Hesiod has some diffi-
culties adapting the Pandora story to the theme of the origins of labor. Apropos of that theme,
however, see Sihvola 1989, 39 – 42. See also Pucci 1977, 92.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 119

gold.⁵⁹ The focus in lines 112– 15, where Hesiod picks up again the comparison of
men to gods (ὥστε θεοὶ δ’ ἔζωον, 112), upon freedom from labor and evasion of
old age thematizes these elements as central to the segment. As West points
out,⁶⁰ the generations of man narrative takes an unexpected turn from the cen-
tral issue of labor to those of injustice, violence, and godlessness, but the con-
trast between a life of idle plenty like the gods’ and one dominated by the neces-
sity of work remains unmistakable in the contrast between the first and last gen-
erations, those of gold and of iron respectively. As I have already demonstrated,
moreover, the theme of labor is interwoven in Hesiod’s mind with those of injus-
tice and violence. The segment commences, of course, with gold (109 – 26):

Χρύσεον μὲν πρώτιστα γένος μερόπων ἀνθρώπων

ἀθάνατοι ποίησαν Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχοντες. 110
οἳ μὲν ἐπὶ Κρόνου ἦσαν, ὅτ’ οὐρανῷ ἐμβασίλευεν·
ὥστε θεοὶ δ’ ἔζωον ἀκηδέα θυμὸν ἔχοντες
νόσφιν ἄτερ τε πόνων καὶ ὀιζύος, οὐδέ τι δειλὸν
γῆρας ἐπῆν, αἰεὶ δὲ πόδας καὶ χεῖρας ὁμοῖοι
τέρποντ’ ἐν θαλίῃσι, κακῶν ἔκτοσθεν ἁπάντων· 115
θνῇσκον δ’ ὥσθ’ ὕπνῳ δεδμημένοι· ἐσθλὰ δὲ πάντα
τοῖσιν ἔην· καρπὸν δ’ ἔφερε ζείδωρος ἄρουρα
αὐτομάτη πολλόν τε καὶ ἄφθονον· οἳ δ’ ἐθελημοὶ
ἥσυχοι ἔργ’ ἐνέμοντο σὺν ἐσθλοῖσιν πολέεσσιν.
[ἀφνειοὶ μήλοισι, φίλοι μακάρεσσι θεοῖσιν.] 120
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ τοῦτο γένος κατὰ γαῖα κάλυψε,
τοὶ μὲν δαίμονες ἁγνοὶ ἐπιχθόνιοι τελέθουσιν
ἐσθλοί, ἀλεξίκακοι, φύλακες θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων,
[οἵ ῥα φυλάσσουσίν τε δίκας καὶ σχέτλια ἔργα
ἠέρα ἑσσάμενοι πάντη φοιτῶντες ἐπ’ αἶαν,] 125
πλουτοδόται· καὶ τοῦτο γέρας βασιλήιον ἔσχον.

The immortal gods dwelling on Olympus made

the golden race of mortal men first. 110
They lived in the time of Cronus, when he ruled in heaven.
They lived like gods, with minds free of care,
far removed from all toils and hardship, nor did wretched
old age come upon them, but ever the same in arms and legs
they took pleasure in their banquets, far from all evils. 115
They died as if going to sleep. Every noble thing
was theirs. The graingiving fields bore produce
of their own accord, abundantly and without stint. And in contentment
and at peace they lived amid their fields with great prosperity,

 The meaning of this line (108) remains uncertain. I follow the indications offered by West
1978, 49 and ad loc. and by Verdenius 1985 ad loc. See also Peabody 1975, 248 – 50.
 West 1978, 49.
120 Anthony T. Edwards

[wealthy in flocks and dear to the blessed gods.] 120

But when the earth covered over this race,
they became sacred earthly spirits,
benevolent, keeping off evil, guardians of mortal men,
[who watch over judgments and wicked crimes,
cloaked in mist and wandering over the land,] 125
givers of wealth – they had this royal prerogative too.

These men live under the reign of Cronus and before the necessity of labor has
been imposed upon human kind (νόσφιν ἄτερ τε πόνων καὶ ὀιζύος, 113).⁶¹ They
lead a life characterized by ease and plenty. Their continuous banqueting
(τέρποντ’ ἐν θαλίῃσι, 115) belongs to a world that knows neither begging nor
hoarding. Their days are devoted to the pursuits of pleasure since the land offers
up her fruits to them αὐτομάτη (118). They dwell amidst their fields, not in cities
(ἥσυχοι ἔργ’ ἐνέμοντο, 119).⁶² The epithet αὐτομάτη (118) appears to rule out the
practice of agriculture for this race (though the phrases ζείδωρος ἄρουρα [117]
and ἔργ’ [119]⁶³ exhibit the difficulty Hesiod has expressing this notion in
Works and Days), but they are nonetheless endowed with the plenty provided
by the land: ἐσθλὰ δὲ πάντα (116), καρπὸν…/ πολλόν τε καὶ ἄφθονον (117– 18),
ἐσθλοῖσιν πολέεσσιν (119), and ἐσθλοί (123). In the wake of their destruction,
Hesiod assigns to this first generation a role of terrestrial spirits guarding mortals
as protectors of justice and dispensers of wealth. The epithet ἐσθλοί (123) in this
context, as Verdenius notes,⁶⁴ already indicates that these δαίμονες are a source
of benefits, and πλουτοδόται (126) refers within Works and Days’ frame of refer-
ence to ensuring a good harvest.⁶⁵ The golden generation is associated with the
notion of justice in a general way through the epithets ἐθελημοί (118) and ἥσυχοι

 Sinclair 1966 ad 111 in fact equates the generation of gold with the pre-Pandoran world of
lines 43 – 6 though Verdenius 1985 ad 113 is rightly more qualified.
 The verb νέμω occurs in Hesiod in the middle voice on two occasions, at Op. 119 and 231,
both times complemented by ἔργα. West (1978) renders the phrase at 119 “lived off their fields”
citing 231 in support, and Hofinger 1978 s.v. glosses these attestations “profiter de, jouir de”. West
1978 additionally cites Iliad 2.751: οἵ τ’ ἀμφ’ ἱμερτὸν Τιταρησσὸν ἔργα νέμοντο. Νέμοντο here,
however, as Kirk 1985 ad loc. points out, clearly means “inhabit” as can be seen from the parallel
phrase οἰκί’ ἔθεντο in the line preceding. This meaning for νέμομαι with ἔργα appears secure at
Od. 7.26, to which cf. Il. 20.8 – 9, 2.496, 2.504, and Od. 2.167. The golden race is pictured in this
passage as living in a community resembling in its physical details a village like Ascra, amidst
its fields. Since there is no mention of cities in this description, “inhabit” seems to me the best
sense for ἐνέμοντο.
 See West 1978 ad loc.
 See Verdenius 1985 ad loc.
 See West 1978 ad loc.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 121

(119), which, as Verdenius discusses,⁶⁶ contrast with the ὕβρις of the age of silver.
This quality surfaces in the function specified at 124– 5 of watching over τε δίκας
καὶ σχέτλια ἔργα (124) as these spirits wander over the land.⁶⁷ Hesiod offers us
here a utopian society characterized through the same ease and plenty enjoyed
by humans before the creation of Pandora. As line 111 stresses, the prosperity of
this epoch is closely associated with the kingship of Cronus. The segment is in
fact a development of the theme that prosperity accompanies the rule of a
good king.⁶⁸ As we see, for the generation of gold life harmonizes the qualities
of justice, plenty, and ease.
As it is, we hear no more of labor until the final generation is reached (174–
201):

Μηκέτ’ ἔπειτ’ ὤφελλον ἐγὼ πέμπτοισι μετεῖναι

ἀνδράσιν, ἀλλ’ ἢ πρόσθε θανεῖν ἢ ἔπειτα γενέσθαι. 175
νῦν γὰρ δὴ γένος ἐστὶ σιδήρεον· οὐδέ ποτ’ ἦμαρ
παύσονται καμάτου καὶ ὀιζύος οὐδέ τι νύκτωρ
φθειρόμενοι· χαλεπὰς δὲ θεοὶ δώσουσι μερίμνας.
ἀλλ’ ἔμπης καὶ τοῖσι μεμείξεται ἐσθλὰ κακοῖσιν.
Ζεὺς δ’ ὀλέσει καὶ τοῦτο γένος μερόπων ἀνθρώπων, 180
εὖτ’ ἂν γεινόμενοι πολιοκρόταφοι τελέθωσιν.
οὐδὲ πατὴρ παίδεσσιν ὁμοίιος οὐδέ τι παῖδες
οὐδὲ ξεῖνος ξεινοδόκῳ καὶ ἑταῖρος ἑταίρῳ,
οὐδὲ κασίγνητος φίλος ἔσσεται, ὡς τὸ πάρος περ.
αἶψα δὲ γηράσκοντας ἀτιμήσουσι τοκῆας· 185
μέμψονται δ’ ἄρα τοὺς χαλεποῖς βάζοντες ἔπεσσι,
σχέτλιοι, οὐδὲ θεῶν ὄπιν εἰδότες· οὐδέ κεν οἵ γε
γηράντεσσι τοκεῦσιν ἀπὸ θρεπτήρια δοῖεν·
χειροδίκαι· ἕτερος δ’ ἑτέρου πόλιν ἐξαλαπάξει·
οὐδέ τις εὐόρκου χάρις ἔσσεται οὐδὲ δικαίου 190
οὐδ’ ἀγαθοῦ, μᾶλλον δὲ κακῶν ῥεκτῆρα καὶ ὕβριν
ἀνέρα τιμήσουσι· δίκη δ’ ἐν χερσί· καὶ αἰδὼς
οὐκ ἔσται, βλάψει δ’ ὁ κακὸς τὸν ἀρείονα φῶτα
μύθοισι σκολιοῖς ἐνέπων, ἐπὶ δ’ ὅρκον ὀμεῖται.
ζῆλος δ’ ἀνθρώποισιν ὀιζυροῖσιν ἅπασι 195
δυσκέλαδος κακόχαρτος ὁμαρτήσει στυγερώπης.
καὶ τότε δὴ πρὸς Ὄλυμπον ἀπὸ χθονὸς εὐρυοδείης
λευκοῖσιν φάρεσσι καλυψαμένω χρόα καλὸν
ἀθανάτων μετὰ φῦλον ἴτον προλιπόντ’ ἀνθρώπους

 See Verdenius 1985 ad loc.

 I believe that Verdenius 1985 ad loc. adequately and correctly defends 124– 5.
 See Verdenius 1985 ad 126. Cronus as good king serves as a foil for the wicked kings of Works
& Days. Regarding Cronus here cf. 173a and in general see Versnel 1987, esp. 121– 7.
122 Anthony T. Edwards

Αἰδὼς καὶ Νέμεσις· τὰ δὲ λείψεται ἄλγεα λυγρὰ 200

θνητοῖς ἀνθρώποισι· κακοῦ δ’ οὐκ ἔσσεται ἀλκή.

I wish that I did not live in the fifth race

of men, but had died before them or were born after. 175
For now is the race of iron. Neither by day
will they cease being worn down by toil and hardship nor by night.
The gods will give them harsh cares.
But just the same good things will be mixed with evils even for them.
Zeus will destroy this race of mortal men, too, 180
when they come to be born with greying hair.
Neither will fathers agree with their sons, nor sons at all with their fathers.
Nor will guest be dear to host, nor friend to friend,
nor brother to brother, as once used to be.
Straightaway children will humiliate their aging parents; 185
they will abuse them, speaking harsh words,
hardhearted, ignorant of the gods’ will. Nor will they
recompense their parents for their rearing.
Fists are their justice: one will sack the other’s city.
Nor will there be any gratitude towards a truthful man, a just man, 190
or a good man. Rather they will honor the perpetrator of evils and
the violent man. Justice will reside in fists and respect
will not survive. The wicked man will harm the better man
by testifying with twisted accounts, and he will swear an oath on it.
And Envy, foul-mouthed, enjoying evil, with her hostile gaze, 195
will keep company with all wretched mortals.
And then, Respect and Indignation, leaving men behind,
cloaking their lovely skin in white robes,
go among the family of the immortals, towards Olympus
from the wide-wayed earth. These dismal sorrows will be left 200
for mortal men. There will be no defense against evil.

The central contrast between Hesiod’s own age, that of iron, with the generation
of gold finds immediate expression in the necessity of ceaseless κάματος and
ὀϊζύς (177). Labor is a defining reality for this depraved age: it is the first attribute
Hesiod mentions for this generation, and the men of iron never cease from it
(οὐδέ… / παύσονται, 176 – 7). The coincidence, moreover, for the age of gold of
“automatic” fertility with freedom from labor suggests through the contrast be-
tween the ages of gold and of iron that the specific variety of toil plaguing the
latter age is that required to ensure a livelihood, agricultural labor, the salient
form of labor for the poem as a whole. The necessity of labor imposed upon
the race of iron links their lot as well with the conditions ushered in by the cre-
ation of Pandora in the preceding narrative.
The stark contrast between the epochs of gold and of iron continues in the
predominance in the latter of enmity among kin (182– 4), perjury and violence
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 123

(190 – 2, 194), in the neglect of δίκη, αἰδώς, and Νέμεσις (192– 4, 200), and in the
power of ζῆλος…/ δυσκέλαδος κακόχαρτος (195 – 6). These qualities, moreover,
integrate the epoch of iron, Hesiod’s own, with the framing narrative of Hesiod’s
struggle with Perses. In particular the ζῆλος… / δυσκέλαδος κακόχαρτος of the
age of iron recapitulates the wicked strife, the Ἔρις κακόχαρτος (28), which ini-
tially turns Perses from his work and land to litigation in the ἀγορή.⁶⁹ These el-
ements of the age of iron presuppose within the context of Works and Days the
ἀγορή. This inference is confirmed by the indications of habitation patterns sup-
plied for these two epochs. The race of gold, as noted above, dwell amidst their
fields, not in cities. Hesiod notes, however, that the race of iron, among other
deeds of violence, sack each other’s cities (ἕτερος δ’ ἑτέρου πόλιν ἐξαλαπάξει,
189). While the men of gold all shared a happy existence on their land, the gen-
eration of iron is divided between city and country in the same moment that the
necessity of laboring for one’s livelihood is established.⁷⁰ The respective absence
and necessity of labor produce two different geographies, two different modes of
organizing space. From the perspective of the village, the πόλις system, epito-
mized by the calamities of the age of iron, is the by-product of the close of
the golden age and the imposition of the need to toil for one’s survival. For,
the golden age, free of the necessity of labor, lacks the fundamental spatial di-
vision between the city’s walled enclave and the surrounding fields.
The men of bronze do know the “groaning labors of Ares” (Ἄρηος/ ἔργ’…
στονόεντα, 145 – 6), but Hesiod’s statement that they do not eat grain (146 – 7)
rules out agricultural labor in their case.⁷¹ Hesiod mentions in the segment de-
scribing the heroes that they perished around Thebes and Troy, clearly acknowl-
edging the existence of cities in this prior, if problematic, age. But it would be
difficult to avoid referring to these two cities in this passage dedicated to sepa-
rating the figures of heroic epic from the circumstances of the iron age. Hesiod,
however, would also know from Homer’s and other heroic narratives that agricul-
ture and husbandry were practiced in this age too, much as men dwelled in cit-

 The use of ζηλοῖ for the effects of the good Ἔρις at 23 secures the synonymy of ζῆλος and
ἔρις.
 West (1978 ad loc.) seems to me to defend successfully this frequently condemned line. As
West appreciates, the discussion of oaths, ὕβρις, δίκη, false testimony, etc. comprise civic
matters introduced by mention of the πόλις in 189. Thus, to eliminate 189 will not diminish the
harsh transition that troubles Verdenius 1985 and Sinclair 1966 ad loc. In fact, the line only
repeats the swift changes of topic in this catalogue found at 182– 3 and 184– 5. Regarding the
city’s appearance here, see Walcot 1970, 96 – 9 and Hamilton 1989, 84.
 I take the phrase χαλκῷ δ’ εἰργάζοντο (151) to refer precisely to the Ἄρηος/ ἔργ’… στονόεντα
(145 – 6 – i. e., not to farming implements); cf. the reference to bronze armor (χάλκεα μὲν τεύχεα)
in line 150.
124 Anthony T. Edwards

ies, but he makes no mention of this. Rather as far as the matter of livelihood is
concerned, Hesiod describes this only in the setting of the isles of the blessed
where the heroes enjoy a livelihood resembling the βίος αὐτόματος of the race
of gold (170 – 3, cf. 112– 13, 117– 18). This focus forestalls any thought that the gen-
eration of heroes shared the burden of labor with the iron men and distracts at-
tention from the implications of cities for this epoch.⁷² Hesiod of course attrib-
utes wickedness to the ages of silver and of bronze, not just to that of iron.
The silver men exhibit a generic ὕβρις without elaboration and fail to perform
sacrifice (134– 7) while the brazen men’s love of war comprises their specific
form of wickedness (ὕβριες, 146). As we have seen, however, the faults of the
epoch of iron are developed in much greater detail and with far greater specific-
ity to the framing scenario of Hesiod’s conflict with Perses. Only in that age does
the element of labor appear and only there are the salient forms of injustice and
violence displayed.
In the Generations of Man segment Hesiod likely adapts a pre-existing nar-
rative motif to the local topic of the origin of labor.⁷³ The salient feature of this
traditional topos for the context, the theme linking it to the preceding Pandora
narrative and to the framing scenario of Hesiod’s dispute with Perses, is of
course the contrast between the ages of gold and iron in the terms explored
above. Hesiod, indeed, does not present an evolutionary sequence of progressive
stages in his Generations of Man narrative. In view of the overriding purpose of
explaining the origins of labor, the contrast of the wicked ages of silver and
bronze with that of the virtuous heroes appears as a subordinate repetition of
the contrast between the first and last terms of the series, gold and iron. The in-
troduction of the theme of justice into the segment, moreover, does not comprise
a loss of focus since this theme is closely associated in Hesiod’s mind with the
issue of labor.⁷⁴ The ages of gold and of iron, then, contrast decisively with each
other in the first place in terms of labor: the men of gold are free of it while the

 Walcot (1970, 96 – 9) argues that the generation of heroes is more closely associated with
pastoralism, contrasting with the cereal-cultivation of the iron age. Heath (1985, 246– 9) mai-
ntains that the heroes’ life of ease on the isles of the blessed serves to provide a strong contrast
with the regime of labor imposed upon the men of iron (176 – 8). Most (1997, 108 – 14), in fact,
contends Hesiod does not distinguishes the heroes from the men of iron as distinct γένη,
intending to preserves the possibility of heroic genealogies for contemporary aristocrats (cf.
Finkelberg 2004). Clearly the thematic priorities of Works & Days shed more light on the pre-
sence of the heroes in the Ages of Man segment than does concern for Homer.
 West 1978, 173 – 7.
 Regarding the importance of the contrast between Gold and Iron within the segment, see
Heath 1985, 246– 9, Querbach 1985, 1– 6, Most 1997, 114– 15, and Brown 1998, 388 – 9, reinforced
by his discussion at 397– 409.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 125

men of iron are oppressed by it. The golden men, moreover, dwell upon their
fields in a landscape undivided by the boundary between urban and rural
while by the age of iron the city has been established. Finally, for the generation
of gold ease, plenty, and justice comprise an organic unity, but the logic ruling
the age of iron imposes a choice of either toil or injustice to achieve prosperity.
Through the governing contrast of gold with iron in the Generations of Man
narrative Hesiod presents the birth of labor as a temporal process. The originary
age of gold is characterized by ease and justice but the age of iron exhibits the
qualities of labor and injustice. This diachronic scheme produces, however, an
apparent paradox since, as I have already argued, Hesiod elsewhere equates
labor precisely with justice and ease with injustice. The history of ease/labor
and justice/injustice appears to organize these oppositions quite differently
from the geography of ease/labor and justice/injustice of Hesiod’s own iron
age. From the diachronic perspective of origins the formulation gold is to justice
as iron is to ὕβρις is accurate enough since, as I have suggested, it is the neces-
sity of working for a living that supplies the motive for the acts of injustice un-
known to the age of gold. Zeus’s imposition of labor, however, inaugurates the
divided iron age spatiality of πόλις and ἔργον within which labor is the path
of justice since only through one’s work is it possible to avoid the poverty that
can drive a man to false-swearing, violence, and other deeds of ὕβρις. Within
the system of contrasts organizing the age of iron, therefore, that epoch finds
its purest expression in the ease of the city while the ἔργον preserves through
its toil elements of the age of gold.
As I have argued, a defining feature of the life led by the generation of gold
is the conjunction of justice, ease, and plenty. These happy men enjoyed prosper-
ity without toil, yet did not need to turn from the path of justice in order to do so.
As we have seen, however, for his own epoch Hesiod associates the ἀγορή with
ease (laziness), shortage due to indolence but the wealth as well of others
(ἀλλότρια κτήματα), and injustice (ὕβρις) while the ἔργον define a space of
toil, a hard prosperity, and justice. The city’s combination of ease and wealth
can only be achieved through injustice, and the justice and wealth of the coun-
tryside are won only through toil. The impossibility of living in ease and prosper-
ity with justice marks for Hesiod’s epoch the forfeiture of the golden age. This is
of course the effect of Zeus’s κρύψις βίου and the consequent necessity that men
labor. The regret for the loss of the golden age and the catastrophic reorganiza-
tion of life that it provoked finds striking expression in Hesiod’s observation that
formerly only a day’s work could supply an entire year’s livelihood even to a
“workless” man (καὶ ἀεργὸν ἐόντα, 44). As I have already shown, the epithet
ἀεργός serves elsewhere in the poem as a reproach. That it bears no such nega-
tive connotation in the present context expresses the utopian logic of the lost
126 Anthony T. Edwards

golden age, before Zeus’s concealment of livelihood, when justice and ease func-
tioned as complementary rather than opposed terms. The imperfect alternatives
of justice with labor or ease through injustice that organize life in the age of iron
give rise in their train, however, to a geographical division between ἀγορή and
ἔργον, between πόλις and ἀγρός.
Paradoxically, however, Hesiod offers a road out of this impasse through the
very necessity that brought it into being: labor. That wealth and prosperity,
ὄλβος, can be acquired only through toil is a theme repeated over the course
of Works and Days. At least, as we have seen, this is the only way to acquire
wealth justly and for the long run. This principle assigns to labor a recuperative
role: through toil men can approach the condition of the race of gold – plenty
and justice along with ease – though it will never be possible fully to escape
the necessity of labor. The clearest articulation of this principle occurs in a seg-
ment in which Hesiod sketches out two paths open to Perses: that of wickedness
(κακότης) and that of excellence, achievement (ἀρετή, Op. 286 – 92).⁷⁵ The road
of wickedness is easy and near at hand. The gods have placed sweat, however,
before the road of virtue. Its approach is steep, and it is rough at first. But after
the ascent it is easy. In this allegory Hesiod links ἀρετή, the prestige and sense of
self-worth acquired from success, to sweat and a steep climb, that is, to toil as
elsewhere in the poem. But after initial hardship, the road then becomes easier –
that is, sweat eventually brings prosperity and an easier life. This is the opposite
of what Hesiod predicts for those who turn to ὕβρις, prosperity and ease for the
moment but ruin later on. The sweaty path of ἀρετή serves, of course, as an al-
legory for the life of agricultural toil that Hesiod presses upon Perses throughout
the poem.
Hesiod refers in Works and Days to this easier life won by hard work through
such images as a full grain bin, exporting surplus crops by sea, acquiring a
neighbor’s land, or becoming his creditor. The poem’s most powerful image of
the approximation of the golden age by men of Hesiod’s epoch occurs, however,
at 582– 96 in a passage describing the dog days of mid-July when there is little
work to be done but the fruits of the farmer’s labors abound. This is the plenty
of midsummer when everything is at its peak except for man himself, whose
knees, head, and skin are parched by the heat (585 – 7). The wine, bread,
sheep, goats, and beef, however, are all at their best, and the shade beckons

 See Detienne 1963, 34– 41, Heath 1985, 250 – 1, Hamilton 1989, 64– 5 on these lines, and
Bongert 1982, 192– 9, Descat 1986, 192– 3, Brown 1998, 396, and more generally Brout 2003,
100 – 1 on labor as a bridge between human and divine. I think the roads of ἀρετή and κακότης
in this passage recapitulate the alternatives of δίκη and ὕβρις at 213 – 18 and at 225 – 6. Regarding
hard work and prestige within the village, see Edwards 2004, 91– 2, 111– 16.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 127

the enervated farmer to come and sit down with his face to brisk Zephyr where
he can drink wine after satisfying his hunger. This description of midsummer
contrasts with the earlier passage (493 – 503) where Hesiod warns against
using the λέσχη or the blacksmith’s as a refuge from the frigid weather of
mid-winter. The thought of passing time there when it is too cold to work pro-
vokes a tirade against indolence and the shiftless man who continues to hope
while his grain bin is empty (495 – 9). The two seasons resemble each other in
their extreme weather and in the lack of seasonal work, but Hesiod apparently
feels no inclination to warn against the dangers of laziness in midsummer as
he does in midwinter when there is equally little to be done.⁷⁶ The stem
καματ-, evoking the theme of labor in Works and Days, does appear in the pas-
sage, but to describe the debilitating effect of the season’s heat (θέρεος
καματώδεος ὥρῃ, 584) rather than in the usual exhortation to work. In a surpris-
ing semantic effect paralleling the positive evaluation given to ἀεργόν (44) in the
description of the pre-Pandoran golden age, Hesiod recommends that one flee
this particular “weariness” by seeking out a shady rock. Similarly, although Hes-
iod warns, as we have seen, against the idleness of the σκιεροὺς θώκους (574),
Hesiod does not hesitate to enjoy the “rocky shade” (πετραίη τε σκιή, 589) of the
present passage. The leisure offered by the two seasons receives such different
treatments because the period in summer between the threshing and the vintage
offers up all of the benefits of the preceding months of labor while in the corre-
sponding period of winter, following the plowing, the labor invested in a crop
still remains in doubt and dependent on much more toil to come. The days of
mid-summer resemble the universal condition of the golden age in the abun-
dance of the earth’s produce and the suspension of the regime of toil. But for
Hesiod’s epoch this condition lasts only a fleeting moment and it can be enjoyed
only by those who have been unrelenting in their work throughout the other
months of the year.⁷⁷
In sum, Hesiod presents in Works and Days a world marked by a fundamen-
tal spatial division between those who live a life of ease, dwelling within the city,
and those who live by toil amid the fields. The countryside offers justice and
prosperity with toil while the city offers ease and wealth through injustice.
Through his etiologies of labor Hesiod provides as a backdrop to this ethical ge-
ography a golden age which did not impose a choice between justice and injus-
tice, between labor and ease, between legitimate and ill-gotten prosperity, or be-
tween village and city. This golden age casts its shadow over the world of Works

 See Hamilton 1989, 82 on these two passages.

 Cf. Versnel, 1987, 127– 39, Petropoulos 1994, and Brown 1998, 389 – 91.
128 Anthony T. Edwards

and Days as a moment of primordial unity in comparison to which Hesiod’s own

reality appears irrevocably ruptured.⁷⁸ From the perspective of these myths one
can thus say that the countryside and the city are the very creations of labor
since for the epoch of gold and the pre-Pandoran world the geography of toil
and ease did not exist. Hesiod’s view of labor and the particular formulation
he gives to the country/city topos in Works and Days can be grasped only against
the backdrop of a golden age that was geographically undivided and that en-
joyed a primordial estate of bountiful ease and justice. The influence exercised
by this myth over Hesiod’s own age of iron provides the ideological foundation
for investing labor with its recuperative force and identifying it with justice. For if
the pursuit of wickedness only exacerbates the rupture afflicting Hesiod’s epoch,
pursuing justice, as I have suggested, has a restorative effect.

IV. Contradictory Doubles

The dialectical character of Works and Days is announced in the poem’s opening
lines where Hesiod describes Zeus’s power to make men ἄφατοί τε φατοί τε,/
ῥητοί τ’ ἄρρητοί τε (3 – 4), and how he βριάει, ῥέα δὲ βριάοντα χαλέπτει,/
ἀρίζηλον μινύθει καὶ ἄδηλον ἀέξει (5 – 6), or ἰθύνει σκολιὸν καὶ ἀγήνορα
κάρφει (7).⁷⁹ We have already considered in detail, moreover, a series of narrative
segments exhibiting this same dialectical structure. Hesiod constructs his open-
ing harangue around the spatial opposition of ἔργον and ἀγορή. The Pandora
narrative contrasts the life before with that after Zeus’s κρύψις βίου, and the
complementary opposition of the generation of gold to that of iron repeats
this theme. I have also analyzed the double cities of δίκη and of ὕβρις, and
the twin paths of ἀρετή and of κακότης. Labor, because it occupies the pivotal
position between each of these opposed terms, consequently leads back inexor-
ably into the geographical opposition between country and city. If labor is cru-
cial to these oppositions, then within Works and Days’ local mythology they
ought not to have existed prior to the imposition of labor. In Works and Days’
pre-Pandoran golden age the homogeneity and integrity of a world without dia-
lectical oppositions is the effect of the absence of the city, which has yet to ap-
pear. Such dialectical balancing around the pivot of labor organizes a series of

 See Liebermann 1981, 406 – 7 and Bongert 1982, 199 – 202.

 Regarding this dialectical quality of Works & Days, see Pucci 1977, 22– 4, 63, 95 – 8, and
passim; Liebermann 1981, 400 – 2; and Gagarin 1990, 177– 8. On the programmatic status of the
twin Strifes, see Peabody 1975, 239 – 56 and Hamilton 1989, 53 – 65. For further discussion and
bibliography, see Edwards 2012, 6 – 8.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 129

key concepts in the poem, in effect splitting them into good and bad aspects and
distributing them according to the spatiality of ἔργον and ἀγορή.

Ἔρις

Exemplary of this phenomenon is Hesiod’s announcement at the outset of the

poem that the Ἐρίδων γένος is not single (μοῦνον, 11), but double (δύω, 12).
The first born of these one would praise (12, 17– 24), Hesiod tells us, since it
spurs the lazy or poor man on to plow and sow in rivalry with the wealth of
his neighbor. But its twin is evil, the Ἔρις βαρεῖα (16) and Ἔρις κακόχαρτος
(28), that turns men from their farms to the disputes of the ἀγορή with designs
upon other men’s property (28 – 34). Hesiod urges Perses to abandon the rivalry
of the ἀγορή in favor of the rivalry among neighbors, encircled by the borders of
the village. These double Ἔριδες align themselves respectively with work and
with indolence and they separate not only countryside from city but Hesiod
from Perses as well.⁸⁰ The notion of strife, ἔρις, is absolutely central to Hesiod’s
encomiastic exposition of rural life. Within the narrow boundaries of the agricul-
tural village strife assumes a constructive role in human affairs, converted into
emulation, a positive competition for status and prosperity. Yet, as we see, this
concept is divided against itself. The strife of Works and Days is complicated
by the retention of the concept’s negative aspect, familiar from other epic
texts, so as to produce a doubling that recapitulates the opposition between
country and city.
The eccentricity of Works and Days’ dialectical presentation of ἔρις is high-
lighted by the treatment of this same phenomenon in Theogony. There Hesiod
makes Ἔρις the child of “destructive Night” along with Nemesis, Deceit, Love,
and Old Age (Th. 223 – 5) and describes her as καρτερόθυμος (Th. 225) and
στυγερή (Th. 226). She in turn gives birth to Πόνον ἀλγινόεντα (Th. 226), “griev-
ous Toil”, as her first child, along with famine, grief, battles, dysnomy, Ἄτη, dis-
cord, and other plagues. As we can see, for Theogony Ἔρις is all bad, a force poi-
soning human existence and lacking any beneficial or constructive aspect. One
need not maintain that this doctrine of two Ἔριδες represents an explicit revision
of an earlier view expressed in Theogony – though that could certainly be the
case – to argue that the difference between the two poems is the effect of the

 See the discussions of the Ἔριδες by Walcot 1970, 87– 92, Pucci 1977, 130 – 2, Pucci 1996,
204– 7, Liebermann 1981, 396 – 400, Descat 1986, 175 – 86, Kapsalis 1986/8, 29 – 35, and Thal-
mann 2004.
130 Anthony T. Edwards

central place occupied by labor in Works and Days. The good Ἔρις is precisely
the positive competition among villagers waged through labor, something invis-
ible from the normative vantage point occupied by the city.

Δίκη

The notion of δίκη too is divided. Δίκη is, as we have seen, the course that Hesiod
urges upon Perses as right in itself, the will of the gods, and the only sure means
of prosperity. The pursuit of δίκη keeps a man on his plot and busy at his work.
This is the principle of justice sponsored by the goddess Δίκη whom the kings
outrage and drive forth (219 – 24) and who is obstructed by their crooked judg-
ments (256 – 62). For as we have seen, Hesiod locates straight judgments
(ἰθείῃσι δίκῃς, 36) in the countryside (αὖθι, 35), but the city is host to the
kings’ “crooked judgments” (σκολιαὶ δίκαι, 220 – 4, 248 – 51, 258 – 62). Indeed,
the very expression σκολιαὶ δίκαι opens a rift within the concept of δίκη by ac-
knowledging that a judgment-δίκη can contradict justice-δίκη.⁸¹ It is, moreover,
a δίκη to which Perses summons Hesiod in the ἀγορή and which the βασιλῆες
δωροφάγοι are eager to judge (39, similarly 249 and 269). This latter δίκη serves
as a synonym for νεῖκος, δῆρις, and even the evil Ἔρις (33 – 6). These conflicting
notions of justice produce paradoxical results in the striking verses at 270 – 2:

νῦν δὴ ἐγὼ μήτ’ αὐτὸς ἐν ἀνθρώποισι δίκαιος

εἴην μήτ’ ἐμὸς υἱός, ἐπεὶ κακὸν ἄνδρα δίκαιον
ἔμμεναι, εἰ μείζω γε δίκην ἀδικώτερος ἕξει.

Now therefore may neither I be just among men

nor a son of mine since it is ill to be just
if the less just man will win the larger judgment.

According to the logic of the passage if a less just (ἀδικώτερος, 272; i. e. “unjust”,
cf. Verdenius ad loc.) man obtains the larger judgment (δίκην, 272), or award,
then it is “bad” (κακόν, 271), i. e. “disadvantageous”, to be “just” (δίκαιον, 271)
relative to this distorted standard.⁸² Hesiod rejects the course of justice under
such conditions though, as he finally assures us (273), Zeus will not let it
come to pass. Hesiod plays upon the specialized meaning of “judgment”,
“award” for δίκη to produce the paradoxical formulation that the man who is

 Equally contradictory is the notion of δίκη δ’ ἐν χερσί (192) and χειροδίκαι (189). See Lie-
bermann 1981, 400 – 2, Munding 1983, 163 – 4, and in general Janik 2003 and Allan 2006.
 See Claus 1977, 74– 8 and Gagarin 1990, 92– 3.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 131

more unjust receives more “justice”. As lines 267– 9 make clear, moreover, this
perverse justice belongs to the city and is in fact the “suit” that Perses threatens
against Hesiod (οἵην δὴ καὶ τήνδε δίκην πόλις ἐντὸς ἐέργει, 269). Similarly, the
kings as dispensers of crooked justice are located squarely in the ἀγορή, but the
king of the city of justice is associated through his judgments with the country-
side. The boundary marked by labor between countryside and city gives rise to
severe problems for the notion of δίκη in Works and Days.
The contradictions plaguing δίκη in Works and Days, however, are not found
in Theogony. The δίκαι of that poem are all ἰθεῖαι (Th. 86; cf. 434). Δίκη is closely
associated there with the βασιλεύς and ἀγορή, but there is no hint of either the
negative associations attached to the “justice” of the ἀγορή in Works and Days or
of the dialectic between the two types of δίκη found there. This treatment of δίκη
follows from the presentation of those associated elements, βασιλεύς and ἀγορή.
Hesiod appears to acknowledge in Theogony the possibility of a bad king
(Th. 81– 2), but no examples occur there. Rather, we are told, kings bring an
end to dispute (νεῖκος, Th. 87) and enforce restitution (μετάτροπα ἔργα,
Th. 89) through persuasion and straight judgments (ἰθείῃσι δίκῃσιν, Th. 83 –
90; cf. 434– 30 [following Solmsen’s numbering]). The subsidiary concepts at-
tached to δίκη-justice – the goddess Justice, litigation, judgment, and award –
do not normally interact in a state of mutual contradiction but rather of harmo-
ny.⁸³ This harmony is presupposed by the use of a single word for these various
concepts as well as by the social necessity that the forms of social interaction
designated by δίκη be assumed to be just. Comparison with Theogony, whose
ideological horizon is bounded by the limits of the πόλις, supports the conclu-
sion that the contradictory conception of δίκη found in Works and Days is an ef-
fect of the country-city opposition at work in that poem.

Eating

Eating is closely linked to central themes of Works and Days through βίοτος,
“livelihood”, the grain that the farmer wins from his fields by his labor and
then stores within his οἶκος. It is the single goal that grounds the agricultural
economy and village life as a whole. When Hesiod introduces the theme of eating
at the end of his opening harangue, he places it squarely in the opposition he is
constructing between the city and the countryside. At lines 38 – 41 Hesiod de-
nounces the “gift-eating kings” (βασιλῆας δωροφάγους), whom he derides as

 See s.v. δίκη Hofinger 1978 and LfgrE.

132 Anthony T. Edwards

“fools” (νήπιοι, 40) because they “…do not understand by how much the half is
greater than the whole/ nor how great a gain there is in asphodel and mallow”
(40 – 1). These lines clearly contrast the cuisine of the city and its elite with that
of the countryside. The kings dine on gifts raked in from the country while turn-
ing up their noses at the asphodel and mallow which poor men collect in the
countryside.⁸⁴ These lines, though somewhat enigmatic at this point in the
poem, also inscribe the kings within one of the fundamental moral principles
of Works and Days: gains gotten through injustice bring retribution in their
wake. The kings would be better off, Hesiod suggests, if instead of gifts they
would rather eat the asphodel and mallow that are there for the picking. This
is what Hesiod has in mind when he warns the “gift-eating kings” that a man
who plots evil for another in fact plots it for himself (263 – 6).
By designating them “eaters of gifts” Hesiod accuses the kings of the city of
greed and rapacity, of “eating” the resources of the village in the form of gifts. A
related image of eating occurs at lines 304 – 6 in a simile comparing the shiftless
man (ἀεργός, 303) to the drones who in their indolence (ἀεργοί, 305) eat (τρύ-
χουσιν…/ ἔσθοντες, 305 – 6) the toil (κάματον, 305) of the bees. Idlers literally
“eat” the work of their neighbors much as the suitors of Penelope are repeatedly
said to “eat” the house of Odysseus (Od. 4.318 – 19, 15.12– 13, 21.68 – 70, e. g.). This
theme of eating is incorporated within the poem’s broader ethical framework in a
warning (274– 80) to Perses to hearken to justice and abandon violence since
Zeus has established a law (νόμον, 276) for men:

ἰχθύσι μὲν καὶ θηρσὶ καὶ οἰωνοῖς πετεηνοῖς

ἔσθειν ἀλλήλους, ἐπεὶ οὐ δίκη ἐστὶ μετ’ αὐτοῖς·
ἀνθρώποισι δ’ ἔδωκε δίκην, ἣ πολλὸν ἀρίστη
γίνεται·
(Op. 277– 80)

for the fish, the wild animals, and the winged birds,
[the rule is] to eat each other since they do not have justice.
But to men Zeus gave justice, the best thing by far.

In these lines, marking the culmination of Hesiod’s treatment of the theme of

justice, Hesiod has chosen the image of eating to express the opposite of justice
as the savagery of wild beasts who have not received a “law” from Zeus, a guide
to civilized behavior substituting cooperation for violence. The alternatives of vi-
olence and justice in this passage refer within the poem’s moral landscape spe-
cifically to the choice Hesiod urges upon Perses between litigation before the

 Cf. West 1978 ad 41.

 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 133

kings and returning to work on his land. Within the logic of this thematic code
the kings’ consumption of gifts appears to be as lawless and anti-social as the
mutual depredations of wild beasts.⁸⁵
The countryside’s humble fare of mallow and asphodel, which the lords of
the city despise, resembles, however, the fare of the golden age. It too appears
of its own accord, αὐτομάτη (118), and is there to take for those who need.
The plenty and respite of the country’s mid-summer feast (582– 96) likewise re-
capitulates the blessings of a golden age for the farmer who has toiled ceaseless-
ly throughout the rest of the year. The sacrificial banquet within the village (336 –
43) serves to express the principle of balanced reciprocity among neighbors rath-
er than the superiority and power of a king much as distributing rations to one’s
slaves (766 – 7) inverts the kings’ gift-eating. For Hesiod, though, the best meal is
the “livelihood” (βίοτος) from a successful harvest securely stored away in one’s
grain bin.
In his scornful rebuke to the kings Hesiod identifies asphodel and mallow as
the cuisine of the countryside in contrast to the fare of the city. In condemning
the city’s rich diet of gifts, however, Hesiod hardly makes a virtue of poverty.
Rather he polemically attributes a positive ethical value to the discipline and for-
titude required to make a living at farming. The kings ought not to meddle in vil-
lage matters, but they are enticed to do so since they do not appreciate the limits
imposed upon their greed by justice. So they eat gifts. Within the village, among
neighbors, however, it is understood that for the long run one does better to fore-
go unjust gains and so avoid divine retribution even if that entails a diet of mal-
low and asphodel. This stark distinction between the cuisines of country and
city, incorporating within it such major themes as justice, work, saving, hubris,
and living off of others, asserts again the moral boundary between the two re-
gions.

Zeus

The mythic etiologies of labor and the consequent opposition of city and village
in Works and Days likewise produces a distorted presentation of Zeus. He is, of
course, the source of fertility as well as the guarantor of δίκη through his retri-
bution. So at 36, for example, Hesiod designates Zeus as the source of ἰθεῖαι

 Perhaps similar are Polyphemus’s dining on his guests (Od. 9.106, 112– 15, 287– 93, 347– 52,
etc.) and Cronus’s swallowing of his children (Th. 453 – 67). Cf. the analysis of Brout 2003, 97–
102.
134 Anthony T. Edwards

δίκαι, at 238 – 40, opening the description of the city of ὕβρις, Zeus is said to or-
dain δίκη for those who love violence and wicked deeds, or at 327– 34 Hesiod
concludes a catalogue of misdeeds with the warning that Zeus has stored up a
harsh return for ἔργα ἄδικα (see 252– 62 and 270 – 85). The fertility of the land
is attributed to Zeus at 465 – 6 when Hesiod recommends a prayer to him (Διὶ χθο-
νίῳ) and Demeter that the grain grow heavy,⁸⁶ at 415 – 16 and 488 Zeus is pic-
tured causing the rain, and at 473 – 4 it is Zeus (Ὀλύμπιος) who grants a success-
ful harvest (cf. 379, 638, and 667– 8). Yet, as we have already seen, Zeus is at the
same time the malevolent heir of Cronus, the god who cursed humans with the
necessity of toil by concealing their livelihood from them and who hid the good
Ἔρις away at the roots of the earth (18 – 19).⁸⁷ Zeus contrasts, on the one hand, as
the good deity who secures the land’s fertility for those who work it and protects
an individual’s possessions from the rapacity of others through his justice, but,
on the other, as the hateful god who imposed upon human kind the necessity of
toiling for a living, the condition of the age of iron.
Again, Theogony offers a one-sided picture of Zeus in comparison to Works
and Days’ dialectical conception.⁸⁸ Themis, a goddess difficult to distinguish
from Δίκη, bears to Zeus the Horae: Eunomia, Justice (Δίκη), and Peace
(Th. 901– 6). As Hesiod tells us, this trio ἔργ’ ὠρεύουσι καταθνητοῖσι βροτοῖσι
(“watch over their farms/ labors for mortal men”, Th. 903). This same collocation
of peace, justice, good governance, and fertility of the land is found in Works and
Days’ city of justice, an approximation of the age of gold and Cronus’s reign. In
Theogony’s interpretation, however, these deities belong to the reign of Zeus, and
could hardly be associated with Cronus’s rule. For Cronus plays the heavy in
Theogony while Zeus takes the role of protagonist. In this narrative of the strug-
gle between Zeus and successive adversaries – Cronus (Th. 453 – 506), the Titans
(Th. 617– 745), and Typhoeus (Th. 820 – 68) – Hesiod presents the reign of Zeus as
the imposition of order and justice over monstrous, chaotic forces. The selection
of Zeus as king and his equitable division (ἐὺ διεδάσσετο, Th. 885) of the τιμαί
won from the defeated Titans present Zeus in stark contrast to his tyrannical
and violent predecessors.

 See West 1978 ad loc.

 See Peabody 1975, 264– 5, Sihvola 1989, 17– 23 and Nelson 1996/7, 245 – 7. Placing the good
strife γαίης τ’ ἐν ῥίζῃσι is to conceal it. Men fail to pursue the life of the good Ἔρις because it is
hard. In this sense it is as hidden away and inaccessible as the βίος (42) that Zeus also concealed
and that only labor, to which the good Strife spurs a man, can bring forth from the earth. Cf.
Thalmann 2004, 364; contra, West 1978 and Verdenius 1985 ad 19.
 See, however, Nagler 1992, 84– 5.
 The Ethical Geography of Hesiod’s Works and Days 135

The treatment of Zeus in Theogony lacks the dialectical complexity of Works

and Days’ narrative. The association of Zeus with fertility and with justice in
Works and Days harmonizes with the presentation of Zeus in Theogony. But,
the central importance granted in Works and Days to labor and the myth of
the golden age complicates the presentation of Zeus. The myth of the golden
age, the time before Pandora, places Zeus in an unfavorable contrast with Cro-
nus, and the etiologies of labor, as explanations of why men must work, intro-
duce Zeus as the concealer of livelihood. The spatiality of Works and Days in
the form of the opposition between village and πόλις inaugurated by the impo-
sition of labor requires that the contradiction of rural life – that plenty is won
only through backbreaking toil – be absorbed by Zeus as regent of the cosmos
and founder of the current epoch.

Labor

Labor itself exhibits a similar ambivalence to that observed in the case of Zeus,
arising likewise from the conflicted spatiality of the poem. Hesiod’s etiological
myth presents labor – ἔργον, πόνος, κάματος, ὀϊζύς – as the loss of the golden
age, a curse imposed upon men by Zeus and, as I have argued, the cause of in-
justice and wickedness. Yet for Hesiod’s depraved age labor serves at the same
time as the path of justice, the means of a partial recuperation of the golden
age, and the source of a secure livelihood. ⁸⁹ Labor is, of course, restricted geo-
graphically in Works and Days to the ἔργον, the site of labor, and absent from the
πόλις, the locus of ἀεργίη. For the farmer it is always simultaneously curse and
salvation: a curse since it separates the present epoch from the leisure, justice,
and plenty of the golden age, but salvation since it evades the ease, injustice,
and doomed prosperity of the city. This contradiction within the notion of
labor is rooted in the ambivalence of the ἔργον itself as a place, the site of toil
but the source of plenty. While it defines the condition of the generation of
iron, labor simultaneously offers the only means of restoring some part of the
epoch of gold.
Theogony’s presentation of labor, however, appears again rather flat in com-
parison with the complexity found in Works and Days. The goddess Night brings
forth Ὀϊζὺν ἀλγινόεσσαν (Th. 214) in the company of Fate, Doom, Death, Sleep,
and Blame. As already noted, another of Night’s children, Ἔρις, who is charac-
terized as καρτερόθυμον (Th. 225) and στυγερή (Th. 226), gives birth to Πόνον

 See Nussbaum 1960, 217 and Bongert 1982, 191, 199.

136 Anthony T. Edwards

ἀλγινόεντα (226) along with famine, grief, battles, dysnomy, Ἄτη, discord, and
other evils. Labor in this company contrasts with the children of Zeus and The-
mis: Eunomia, Justice, and Peace (Th. 901– 6). Theogony articulates a decisive
opposition between the values of peace, eunomia, justice, and fertility, on the
one hand, and those of strife, dusnomia, labor, and famine on the other. Theog-
ony’s attitude toward labor expresses the condescension of the city, whose out-
look dominates the poem, for the country and its population. Works and Day’s
contradictory treatment even of labor is again rooted in the poem’s complex ge-
ography of ἔργον and ἀγορή set against the backdrop of the age of gold.
To conclude, Works and Days provides for itself a context of conflict between
brothers, Hesiod and Perses, that opens in turn onto a conflict between opposing
sites, the village and the πόλις, embodied in the poem as ἔργον and ἀγορή. This
fraternal conflict launches Hesiod on an intensive project of place construction,
producing an ethical geography of village and πόλις within Works and Days. As
Hesiod presents it, the city stands as a locus of ease, injustice, and a prosperity
that feeds upon the possessions of others while the village and surrounding
fields are tied to the values of labor, justice, and the self-sufficiency of one’s
own prosperity. The mythic etiologies of labor, the story of Pandora and the Gen-
erations of Man narrative, establish a chronological boundary between a lost age
in which justice and plenty accompanied a life of leisure and the present epoch
in which justice and plenty are won only at the price of ceaseless toil. The impo-
sition of labor divided the originary, homogeneous landscape of the golden age
into the opposed regions of city and countryside and destroyed the possibility of
a life of simultaneous justice, ease, and plenty. Henceforth men must choose ei-
ther toil or injustice. The effects of this catastrophe for humanity can be traced in
a series of the poem’s key concepts and practices that have been divided along
the geographical boundary of village and πόλις. The ethical geography of Works
and Days is formulated from the distinctive vantage point of the village, much as
Homer presents space as it is perceived from within the city wall. Hesiod’s ex-
haustive effort to articulate the values of place for his village within Works
and Days can perhaps be understood as a response to a real conflict, anticipated
or ongoing, between Ascra and Thespiae through which he hopes to forestall the
absorption of his village within the spatial order of the neighboring πόλις.⁹⁰

 On Homer’s perspective, see Zanker 1986 and Edwards 1993. Regarding Ascra’s relations with
Thespiae, see Edwards 2004, 73 – 7 and 166 – 75.
Kirk Ormand
Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in
the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta
Geographic space is never an undefined blank, a set of unexamined topographic
features waiting in pure state to be delineated by bold explorers, assiduous car-
tographers, or mercantile activity. Rather, space is always defined, always in a
process of definition, by the activities of those who inhabit it.¹ While some social
spaces have relatively stable functions, such as a shopping mall, a bathroom, or
a recording studio, any space can be transformed by human activity into a differ-
ent kind of place: a city street becomes a parade route, the Lincoln monument
becomes the backdrop for a political speech, a church basement becomes a
meeting space for the counter-revolution. The physical attributes of the defined
space in each of these cases has not changed, but that is of little consequence:
the meanings produced by each of these transformed spaces, the kinds of human
interactions that they contain, enable, and ultimately produce, are in each case
significantly different from the meanings that they “normally” – which is to say,
sometimes, and not quite arbitrarily – embody.
More importantly, the shifting parameters of different spaces produce differ-
ent kinds of meanings, both in real life and in literary representations. In the
course of this paper, I examine a simple scene, in which a man and a woman,
one in pursuit of the other, traverse a plane. But the manner of their itinerary
– even if it does not affect the course – is crucial for understanding their inter-
relation. Are they running, swift of foot, in a race? Or is one of them pursuing the
other with intent to kill, as in a hunt? Or is what we see something more akin to a
battle, in which one of them runs, as our weakened metaphor goes, for his life?
In each instance, the distance covered does not change, nor does the description
of the place itself. But in each possibility, the meaning of the place is different,
and different specifically in the way that it represents a different relationship be-
tween the two players: one of hostility, or simple competition, or – the most dif-
ficult case – desire. It is this last possibility which is, of course, the one most
often figured as something else: desire is like a hunt, or like a battle, or like a

 For a useful discussion of the production of “space” and its problematic relation to the notion
of “place,” see Hubbard 2005. I draw here particularly on the work of Lefebvre in defining space
as “socially produced and consumed” (Hubbard 2005, 41). I try to avoid the controversy about
the distinction drawn by theorists between “space” and “place” which, as Hubbard shows,
easily devolves into a debate about which concept provides the master trope against which the
other plays off. See, however, the useful discussion of Skempis (this volume).
138 Kirk Ormand

race, or like almost anything other than a pursuit of the object of erotic feeling.
The love-relationship occupies conceptual space to be made into something else,
not unlike the ground over which the lovers run. And so I hope to show, through
two interrelated texts, that the always problematic concept of female desire is
display in archaic Greek poetry as a series of shifts and dodges that serve, ulti-
mately, to display nothing so much as the impossibility of representing the
ground of such a pursuit. In this way, the indeterminacy of the space over
which Atalanta runs comes to figure the unimaginability of her desire.
The primary site of my analysis is a series of relatively coherent fragments
from the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (frs. 73 – 6 M-W)², in which we are told
the story of the marriage of Atalanta, daughter (in this text) of Schoeneus. The
Catalogue as a whole has received relatively little scholarly discussion, not
least because of the fragmentary state of our current text, and so requires a
brief introduction. The Catalogue was ascribed in antiquity to Hesiod, with no
questions about its authorship, and indeed the text has a number of Hesiodic
characteristics, both in terms of formulaic diction and overall outlook.³ Most
scholars, however, now ascribe the work to a later poet, and the date for the
work is hotly debated. I am content with a date early to mid-sixth century,
though the argument of this essay does not depend on such a date.⁴ In any

 I refer to the Catalogue throughout using the standard fragment numbers of Merkelbach and
West’s OCT edition. In a few places I quote the text from Most’s 2007 Loeb Classical Library
edition, an excellent new text and translation, which contains numerous useful additions and
conjectures.
 The bibliography on the Catalogue is rapidly growing. West (1985) provides an invaluable
discussion of the text’s history and overall structure; the collection of Hunter (2005) includes
articles discussing numerous literary and historical aspects of the text as we have it. I have
found the discussion of J. Strauss Clay in that volume (Clay 2005) as well as Clay (2003)
particularly helpful. Hirschberger (2004) provides a comprehensive text and commentary. Ru-
therford (2000) discusses the genre of the work, in light of catalogue-poetry and genealogical
poetry. The most important reading of the Atalanta-episode for my purposes is now Ziogas
(2011); Ziogas comments on Ovid’s use of Hesiod’s intertextual play with Homer.
 West (1985, 130 – 7), arguing from internal evidence, puts it between 580 and 520. March (1987,
158 – 9) prefers the earlier part of this range, 580 – 550. Koenen (1994, 26) thinks it can be no later
than the early sixth century. Rutherford (2000) suggests that the “canonical version” may belong
to the sixth century, but is willing to believe that some material may be much older. Fowler
(1998, 1 n. 4) argues for a date before the death of Kleisthenes in 575, and suggests a date near
580. The one significant outlier is Janko (1982, 87 and 247– 8 nn. 37– 8) who, based on stylistic
evidence, believes that the Catalogue is closely contemporary to the Theogony and Works and
Days, which he puts at the end of the eighth or beginning of the seventh centuries. Solmsen
(1981, 355 – 8) argues that the text was highly variable, and changed by local rhapsodes, until the
Alexandrian period. If this is the case, it is impossible to fix either date or place of any fragment.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 139

case, the text as we have it purports to tell the story of the Greek hemitheoi, the
heroes who are born during that brief moment in human history when gods (pri-
marily male) had sex with humans (mostly female).⁵ As such the material in the
text is arranged genealogically, and through these genealogies, it appears that
the Catalogue provided a remarkable compendium of Greek heroic myth.
If the stories in the Catalogue are arranged genealogically, they are also nec-
essarily clumped together geographically: though the gods of epic are notorious-
ly lacking in place-epithets, most of the mothers of heroes belong to a particular
place, and each story takes place in the geographic region, and local community,
of Greece where a particular hero is born.⁶ As Osborne has noted, this pattern is
seriously disrupted by the story of the suitors of Helen, in which the young men
who woo for this particular woman’s hand come from all of the major kingdoms
of Greece; as Osborne provocatively puts it, the story of the marriage of Helen is
“geographically promiscuous.”⁷
My concern in this paper, however, is with another story that is “geograph-
ically promiscuous,” both in that it presumes suitors from all over Greece, and in
other senses. Atalanta, as is perhaps appropriate for a heroine who is best
known for her ability to run with astonishing swiftness, proves to be remarkably
difficult to place. Like Elvis after his death, more than one Atalanta is reported,
bounding through the pages of Greek mythology: an Arcadian, the daughter of
Iasos, and a Boiotian, the daughter of Schoeneus. These curious doublets, how-
ever, share the significant attributes of aversion to marriage and swiftness of
foot, and it seems likely that both Atalantas were, at one time, a single character
who became split in the mythological tradition and then re-united later.⁸

Clay (2003, 165 n. 51) surveys previous opinions and discuses the difficulty of reaching a sure
conclusion. Hirshberger (2004, 32– 51) cautiously settles for a date between 630 and 590.
 Clay (2005) argues, rightly in my view, that the Catalogue ends with the story of the suitors of
Helen precisely because the Trojan War marks the end of the heroic genealogies. See now
González (2010), who also argues that the end of the Catalogue marks the end of the age of
heroes precisely by ending sexual relations between mortals and heroes.
 For the geographical implications of Circe in the Catalogue, see Skempis (this volume). West
(1985) argues for an overall structure that is largely geographical. See also Cole 2004, 24– 6.
Fowler (1998) locates the final redaction of the Catalogue to the First Sacred War in the region of
Delphi. For a thorough discussion of the invention of the “Hellenic genealogy,” see Hall 2002,
125 – 72.
 Osborne 2005, 22.
 A brief but useful discussion of the disparate traditions is provided by Barringer (1996, 48 – 9).
Both Atalantas are said separately to participate in the hunt for the Calydonian Boar by Apol-
lodorus, without apparent awareness that they are different; see Apollodorus 1.8.2 and 3.9.2. As
Ziogas points out, Ovid keeps the two Atalantas separate in his Metamorphoses, though he
conflates them elsewhere (Ziogas 2011, 255 n. 22). Detienne (1979 [1977], 31– 2) argues for a
140 Kirk Ormand

The central episode of this essay is relatively well-known, though the version
in the Hesiodic Catalogue is not. Atalanta, swift of foot and lovely of limb, wishes
to avoid marriage. She convinces her father to establish a footrace between Ata-
lanta herself and each of her would-be suitors. Any suitor who competes and
loses is killed (though the method of death varies, as we will see). Only that sui-
tor who is able to surpass Atalanta as she runs against her suitor and away from
marriage will win both his own life and Atalanta as a bride. What is remarkable
about this race in Hesiod is that it appears to partake in an identity crisis: the
story cannot decide if the race is a race, or alternately, a hunt or, still more met-
aphorically, an epic battle. In each of these scenarios, the space traversed re-
mains the same but the redefinition of the event necessitates a rethinking of
its place, and the meaning of that place.⁹

Theognis Pursues Atalanta

Before we turn to the Catalogue, however, I analyze another moment of erotic
pursuit, in which both the space of pursuit and the site of desire becomes less
concrete than we might wish. Theognis’ brief poem (lines 1283 – 94 in the stan-
dard corpus), in which a fleeing eromenos is compared to Atalanta, provides a
particularly good example of geographical landscape being used to evoke a so-
cial status, bolstered perhaps by an ambivalent emotional state.¹⁰ A thorough
reading of Theognis’ poem will make the Catalogue’s mutations of geography
all the more striking:

Ὦ παῖ, μή μ’ ἀδίκει – ἔτι σοι καταθύμιος εἶναι

βούλομαι – εὐφροσύνηι τοῦτο συνεὶς ἀγαθῆι·
<οὐ γάρ τοί με δόλωι> παρελεύσεαι οὐδ’ ἀπατήσεις·
νικήσας γὰρ ἔχεις τὸ πλέον ἐξοπίσω.
ἀλλά σ’ ἐγὼ τρώσω φεύγοντά με, ὥς ποτέ φασιν
Ἰασίου κούρην, παρθένον Ἰασίην,
ὡραίην περ ἐοῦσαν ἀναινομένην γάμον ἀνδρῶν
φεύγειν. ζωσαμένη δ᾿ ἔργ’ ἀτέλεστα τέλει

homology between the activities of the two supposedly separate characters, and treats them as
structural variants of a single story.
 See the useful remarks of Skempis (this volume) on the relation between myth and space.
 Theognis’ corpus, though not so tattered as the Catalogue of Women, has its own complex
history, for which see West 1974, 40 – 72. I agree with West that the date of Theognis is likely to
be the end of the 7th to beginning of the 6th centuries BCE. This places Theognis possibly earlier
than the Catalogue, at least in terms of its final redaction, though the traditional material in the
Catalogue may well pre-date the Theognidean poem.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 141

πατρὸς νοσφισθεῖσα δόμων ξανθὴ Ἀταλάντη·

ὤιχετο δ’ ὑψηλὰς εἰς κορυφὰς ὀρέων
φεύγουσ’ ἱμερόεντα γάμον, χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης
δῶρα· τέλος δ’ ἔγνω καὶ μάλ’ ἀναινομένη.

Boy, do not wrong me – I wish to be dear to you still –

understanding this with noble grace.¹¹
You will not pass by me with a trick, nor will you deceive me.
Having won, you have still more in the future,
but I will injure you as you flee from me, as once, they say
the daughter of Iasios, the Iasian maiden,
though she was ripe, spurned marriage with men,
and fled. Having girded herself, she fulfilled fruitless deeds
having shrunk from the home of her father, blonde Atalanta.
And she lived in the high crowns of the mountains,
fleeing desirable marriage, the gifts of golden Aphrodite.
But finally she knew, though refusing strongly.
[or: But she knew completion, though refusing it strongly].
(Thgn. 1283 – 94)¹²

This poem, as we will see, plays curiously with the geography of desire, making
even the idea of pursuit into a kind of cipher. The logic of the poem seems
straightforward enough, at first: the speaker urges his beloved not to try to es-
cape his erotic desire; if he does, the speaker will capture him, just as Atalanta
was eventually captured and married. The suggestion that the speaker will “in-
jure” the boy as he flees may carry a double-entendre, suggesting that the speak-
er will penetrate the youth from behind.¹³ Both the youth and Atalanta are de-
picted as running physically from their respective relationships, indicated by
the word φεύγειν, to flee. Just as Atalanta was not able to avoid marriage,
then, so the beloved boy of Theognis’ poem will not escape the speaker’s sexual
desire.
Both stories present, then, a spatial element to desire and its avoidance.
Though the boy’s rejection of the speaker’s desire may not involve literal, phys-
ical flight, the language of the lines suggest a footrace. The word παρελεύσεαι,

 There is considerable disagreement about the meaning of this couplet, and whether the
participle συνείς (“understanding”) should go with the speaker or the beloved. If the latter, we
must understand the phrase “for I still wish to be dear to you” as parenthetical, as I have printed
here. If the former, then τοῦτο “this,” must refer to some unspecified situation, possibly the
boy’s infidelity, hinted at in the following line. See the useful discussion in West 1974, 165 ad
1283 – 94.
 This and all other translations are my own, and are intended to be as literal as possible.
 See West 1974, 166; Hubbard 1993, 43 n. 51.
142 Kirk Ormand

from παρέρχομαι (1285), to overtake or pass beyond, suggests a competition of

speed, and this imagery is picked up in the idea that the boy has “been victori-
ous” in the next line.¹⁴ Lover and beloved are imagined in a competition. This
suggestion should make the comparison to Atalanta in the second half of the
poem particularly relevant but, as we will see, Atalanta’s footrace is carefully el-
ided in this work. In the next line, moreover, the imagery shifts once again: in
the suggestion that the speaker will “injure” (or perhaps, “stab”) his beloved
as he flees, we are transported to a different kind of space, that of a battle or
hunt.
I will return to the question of how the two halves of the poem work together
a little later; first, we must consider the story of Atalanta that is presented here.
Most striking is that Atalanta’s flight from marriage (φεύγειν, 1290; φεύγουσ’,
1293) is represented by a physical removal from the sphere of civilized life to
one of wilderness (“the high crowns of mountains”, 1292).¹⁵ As has been elucidat-
ed by Detienne and Lewis, the geographical remove here echoes Atalanta’s per-
sonal state.¹⁶ In a normally functioning archaic Greek civilization, when a daugh-
ter leaves her father’s home, she does so because she is entering into the home of
her husband; this geographical transition helps to signify the woman’s marriage,
which is considered a τέλος, a fulfillment of her personal being.¹⁷ Elsewhere in
the Hesiodic Catalogue, Mestra is a troublesome bride who, after marriage, re-
turns to father’s house in order to marry again (fr. 43a.31 M-W). Her failure to
move to another man’s house and stay there becomes a marker of her failure
to achieve a new state of being, to become a gunê (wife) rather than a parthenos
(young unmarried woman).¹⁸ Here, Atalanta leaves her father’s house, but in a
different mode. In this poem, the house of her father is not replaced by another
dwelling, but literally unbounded space: the highest peaks of mountains.¹⁹ Her
flight from father, home, and marriage, then, is signified by the geographic wild-
ness to which she momentarily escapes.

 See Purves 2011, esp. 526 – 8, 532– 3. I am grateful to Prof. Purves for allowing me to see her
work in an unpublished version. Interestingly, the word in this form (παρελεύσεαι) appears once
in the Iliad, where it has a metaphorical meaning similar to its use here. Agamemnon tells
Achilles that he will not “pass by or persuade” him in their dispute over Chryseis (Il. 1.132).
 See the useful discussion of Lewis 1985, 214– 16.
 Detienne 1979, 31– 2; Lewis 1985, 214– 16.
 Vernant 1983, 133; Ormand 1999, 12– 14, 18 – 25.
 See Ormand 2004 for a full discussion of this episode.
 In the Odyssey the Cyclopes live “in hollow caves on the peaks of high mountains,” ἀλλ’ οἵ γ’
ὑψηλῶν ὀρέων ναίουσι κάρηνα/ ἐν σπέεσι γλαφυροῖσι, 9.113 – 14. This description takes place in
the context of describing the Cyclopes’ lack of culture or community. In Theognis’ poem, Ata-
lanta is not even granted a hollow cave; she exists simply on the mountains.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 143

This ill-defined space fulfills the conditions that Foucault briefly and engag-
ingly called a “crisis heterotopia”:

In the so-called primitive societies, there is a certain form of heterotopia that I would call
crisis heterotopias, i. e., there are privileged or sacred or forbidden places, reserved for in-
dividuals who are, in relation to society and to the human environment in which they live,
in a state of crisis: adolescents, menstruating women, pregnant women, the elderly, etc.²⁰

Atalanta exists in this other space precisely because she is at a moment of per-
sonal crisis, which she wishes to make permanent. Rather than undergoing the
transition of marriage that would give her a set place in society, she resists that
transformation, and her resistance is marked by the unbounded nature of the en-
vironment to which she retreats.
While there, moreover, this Atalanta engages in particularly curious activi-
ties. Theognis’ poem seems to refer here to an episode in the various myths of
Atalanta in which she lives in the wild, as a hunter (cf. Apollod. 3.9.2). Even
this is uncertain; though various scholars have connected this part of the
poem with that known episode from Atalanta’s life, we must admit that the
poem does not actually mention that Atalanta hunts anything while on her
mountain retreat. Instead, we are told that she “brings to fulfillment unfinisha-
ble things” (1290). Detienne argues that this curious phrase, ἀτέλεστα τέλει, has
a double meaning:

Instead of the fulfillment of marriage (télos…gámoio) she chooses to fulfill (teleîn) exploits
whose essential virtue is to be deprived of conclusion and limit. They are atélesta in two
senses: without end, since they must never cease, but also fruitless, since they are vain
and useless. Atalanta’s hunt is interminable just as the race to flee marriage has no finish.²¹

In Detienne’s formulation Atalanta’s hunting is atelesta, without completion, be-

cause, unlike the activities that are associated with domestication and culture,
hunting does not produce a completed product (grain, children) as do agricultur-
al and sexual activities. At the same time, Atalanta’s activities in the mountains
are distressingly unbounded: there is literally no mechanism for ending her
avoidance of “desirable marriage” (1293). Here, however, there is a curious am-
biguity of roles that we should note, brought about because Atalanta is insistent-
ly fleeing things in this passage. She flees to the mountains to avoid marriage
with men, and she lives in the mountains fleeing “desirable marriage” (desirable

 Foucault, “Heterotopias,” 1967.

 Detienne 1979, 33.
144 Kirk Ormand

to whom?). Though she is busy hunting animals – if that is what is meant by

ἀτέλεστα τέλει – it appears that she is also, like the boy at the beginning of
the poem, being pursued as if the object of a hunt.
Who or what is pursuing Atalanta? One would presume a potential bride-
groom, but the poem leaves him undefined as well. Atalanta flees only from mar-
riage, and flees only to the unbounded space of mountaintops. In the last line of
the poem, Atalanta’s avoidances come to an end, rather abruptly, through the
common trope of sexual experience as a form of knowledge. That, Lewis sug-
gests, is the point of the speaker’s metaphor:

Atalanta, who became a huntress beyond civilization, becomes the quarry for a different
kind of hunter, one who, inspired by eros, seeks to reincoporate her into human society.
The would be erastes of Theognis 1283 – 1294 presents the story of Atalanta as a paradigm
for his own approach to the eromenos. ²²

This is a coherent enough reading, but again, we must note that no bridegroom
appears in Theognis’ poem. Rather, Atalanta simply “knew” although she had
been avoiding. It is not even fully clear if the word τέλος in line 1294 is used ad-
verbially (as I have translated it, “finally”) or if it is the object of the verb of
knowing, “But she knew a τέλος, (that is, a marriage).” There is, in other
words, a thoroughly confounding lack of definition to Atalanta’s experience of
desire, so much so that her act of fleeing has come to be understood as an act
of pursuit: a pursuit of emptiness, as it were (ἀτέλεστα τέλει). That lack of def-
inition is also a lack of limit, and is here represented by Atalanta’s move to un-
bounded, uncivilized space.
The more confusing aspect of the poem, however, is the way that it suppress-
es the expected story of Atalanta’s footrace. As mentioned above, the first four
lines of the poem use vocabulary appropriate to a race: the boy will not surpass
the speaker, and has been victorious. The speaker presents himself pursuing the
boy. We expect, then, that when the poem turns to an extended metaphor about
Atalanta, that the myth told will be that of her famous race, in which she literally
fled from marriage, by racing against her potential bridegrooms.²³ Indeed, lines
1287– 90 clearly set us up to expect such a race: “…as they say/ the daughter of
Iasios, the Iasian maiden, although ripe, refusing marriage with men,/ fled.” In
that race, as we will see, it appears that Atalanta is often portrayed as pursuing
even as she is pursued; for now, however, I wish to concentrate on the effects of

 Lewis 1985, 216.

 See the useful note of Bing/Cohen 1991, 98 n. 4; they suggest that the poem here deliberately
conflates the two episodes from Atalanta’s life.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 145

this curious ellipsis. Indeed, had Theognis gone forward with the story of Atalan-
ta’s race, the poem as a whole would have made, it seems, more sense. The
speaker warns his beloved that the speaker will overtake him, just as Atalanta
was overtaken in her footrace, and will thus bring him into the civilized world
of affective relationships.
This, in effect, is how Lewis interprets the poem that we have (above).²⁴ But
of course, we do not get the story of Atalanta’s race, or even a clear narrative of
her marriage. Instead, Atalanta “flees” marriage by means of a curiously static
verb: she “lives,” or “inhabits” (ὤιχετο). West, a literal and careful reader of
the poem, points out the incongruity that is thus created:

We are told (as also in the Hesiodic Catalogue, with which there are verbal parallels: cf.
fr. 73.4– 5; 76.6) that Atalanta refused to consider marriage, and that she ‘fled’ from it
and took to the mountain heights (this is not attested for the Catalogue, but there is a par-
allel case in Porthaon’s daughters, fr. 26.10 ff.); but in the end she came to know the gifts of
Aphrodite all the same. In order that this may be parallel to ἀλλά σ᾿ ἐγὼ τρώσω φεύγοντά
με, we must imagine Hippomenes pounding up the mountain slopes and finally catching
and raping the runaway at a gusty altitude.²⁵

Faced with this illogical set of meanings, West suggests that, in fact, the poem as
we have it is corrupt. He argues that the original poem did contain a story of Ata-
lanta’s race, and that the first half of it has been inexpertly joined with a story
about Atalanta’s mountain sojourn. There is even a spatially convenient spot for
this unhappy juncture, namely line 1288, which consists, quite strangely, of two
phrases that mean exactly the same thing, arranged chiastically: Ἰασίου κούρην,
παρθένον Ἰασίην, “of Iasios the daughter, maiden Iasionic”. This phrase, pro-
vides a perfect midpoint, as it were, for the poem’s unhappy break and rejoin.²⁶
If we are willing to read the poem as we have it, however, we must interpret
it differently. I suggest that the curious ellipsis of Atalanta’s race produces both
effect and meaning. As Detienne has shown, both episodes of Atalanta’s myth-
ical life – living in the mountains as a huntress, and racing against her potential
bridegrooms – have the same structural function. Indeed, as we will see, in some
versions of the story of the race, the race itself is structured as a hunt. Both are
means of avoiding marriage, and both result, in a sense, in ἀτέλεστα: a state of
non-completion, non-marriage on the part of Atalanta. But, where the race has
certain advantages as a metaphor for the speaker, namely in suggesting his

 Lewis 1985, 216.

 West 1974, 166.
 West 1974, 166 – 7.
146 Kirk Ormand

avid pursuit of his eromenos, the story of Atalanta’s time in the wild gives us the
geographical image that corresponds to Atalanta’s – and the eromenos’s – undo-
mesticated state. The ground over which lover and beloved race for completion
of desire, then, becomes replaced by an unbounded geographical state from
which the speaker must rescue his beloved, so that he, like Atalanta can
enjoy the “gifts of Aphrodite” (1293).²⁷
In all of this, it is important to note that Atalanta’s desire – if there is such a
thing – is never mentioned. She flees from marriage, but the poem never express-
es motion towards anything. She inhabits the mountains, but we do not see her
seeking even them out. Her desire here, is simply one of avoidance, in contradic-
tion of her natural state of ripeness, and thus can only be expressed by this geo-
graphical metaphor of unlimited, uncultivated wilderness, which is also a state
of innocence; her change of state is announced simply by the verb “she knew”
(1294). The story of her race, however, leaves Atalanta less thoroughly indetermi-
nate, and in some versions presents her as pursuing as much as pursued, as
much a subject as a sexual object. By suppressing this aspect of Atalanta’s nar-
rative, Theognis’ speaker preserves her (and by extension, his beloved pais) as
passively fleeing, unmoved by any desire of her own. As we will see, the version
of her race presented by the Catalogue, such a desire threatens to destabilize the
rules of both gender and genre. Atalanta’s lack of cultural boundaries in Theog-
nis becomes, paradoxically, a curtain over her potentially disruptive desire.

Atalanta in the Hesiodic Catalogue ²⁸

If, in Theognis’ version of Atalanta, the story of a race has been supplanted by an
excursion into heterotopia, in the Catalogue of Women the story of the race itself
seems protean, changing shape into both hunt and battle. The poem explores, in
other words, three different ways of traversing the same physical space, and in
the process, three different ways of marrying Atalanta. Once again, Atalanta
flees from marriage with mortal men; but as she runs, she is distracted by a
form of desire. Her desire is figured as a kind of turning aside from her previous
flight: not a motion towards something, but a deviation of her motion away. I

 So Lewis 1985, 216.

 I present a fuller account of Atalanta’s race in my book on the Catalogue of Women, fort-
hcoming from Cambridge University Press. Some of the ideas presented here will appear in ch. 4
of that volume. In this essay I focus primarily on the idea of the race – that is, of ground
traversed in competition – as a representation of Atalanta’s change of state.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 147

suggest that the very indeterminacy of this representation is what makes the
ground over which she runs so strikingly polyvalent.
The Catalogue, of course, comes to us only in fragments, and is challenging
at best to read. The story of Atalanta in the Catalogue is preserved in three frag-
ments, the last of which is of greatest interest here. Given the unfamiliarity of the
text, I present all three fragments with a translation:

(fr. 73 M-W) P. Lond. 486C, post Mahaffy ed. Milne; P. Oxy. 2488B, ed. Lobel
[ ]ιτοιο ἄνακτος
[ ]σ̣ι ποδώκης δῖ’ Ἀταλάν[τη
[ Χαρί]των ἀμαρύγματ’ ἔχο[υσα
[ πρὸς ἀνθρώπων ἀ]παναίνετο φῦλον ὁμιλ[εῖν
ἀνδρῶν ἐλπομένη φεύγ]ε̣ιν γάμον ἀλφηστάων̣[. 5
[ ]τ̣ανι̣σ̣φ̣ύ[̣ ρ]ο̣υ̣ εἵνεκα κού[ρης
[ ].α̣μ[̣ ]ν̣ον εννε[
[ ].[.]ρ̣δ[̣

(fr. 75 M-W) P.S.I. 130 col. i, ed. Vitelli

[ ]ο̣παζε[
[ ]
[ ]α̣σιππ[
[ ]σ̣σι̣
[ ]ἔνθα· 5
[….. ….. ….. ..τ]ανίσφυρ[ο]ς̣ ὤ̣ρν̣υτο κούρη
[….. ….. ….. …]α· πολὺς δ’ ἀμφίσταθ’ ὅμιλος
[….. ….. ….. ..θ]άμβος δ’ ἔχε πάντας ὁρῶντα[ς
[….. ….. ….. .πν]οιὴ Ζεφύροιο χιτῶνα
[….. ….. ….. .πε]ρὶ στήθεσσ’ ἁπαλοῖσι 10
[….. ….. …. πολ]λ̣ὸς δ’ ἐπεγείρετο λαός
[….. ….. ….. Σχ]οινεὺς δ’ ἐγέγωνε βοήσας·
“κέκλυτέ μευ πάντες, ἠμ]ὲ̣ν νέ̣οι ἠδὲ γέροντες,
ὄφρ’ εἴπω τά με θυμὸς] ἐνὶ στήθεσσι κελεύει.
[….. ….. ….. ..] ἐμὴν ἑλικώπιδα κούρην 15
[….. ….. ….. ..]οι εἰρημένος ἔστω·
[….. ….. . Ζεὺς δ’ ἄμ]μ’ ἐπιμάρτυρος ἔστω·
[….. ….. ….. …..].ήσεται· εἰ δέ κεν οὗτος
νικήσηι καί οἱ δώηι Ζεὺς] κ̣ῦδος ἀρέσθαι
ἄλλοί τ’ ἀθάνατοι, οἳ Ὀλύμ]πια δώματ’ ἔχουσι, 20
….. ….. ….. ..φί]λ̣ην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν·
….. ….. ….. . ὠκυ]πόδων σθένος ἵππων
….. ….. ….. ..κε]ιμήλια· καί νύ κε θυμῶι
….. ….. ….. …]α̣ ἀνιηρὸν ἄεθλον.
εἰ δέ κε μὴ δώηισι πατ]ὴ̣ρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε 25

(fr. 76 M-W) P.S.I. 130 col. ii, ed. Vitelli

.].[.]….. .α̣ρ[̣
148 Kirk Ormand

δεξιτερῆι δ’ α̣ρ… ̣ ει̣[

κ]αί μιν ἐπαΐσσων̣ επ[
ἦχ’ ὑποχωρήσασ’· οὐ̣ γ̣ὰ̣ρ̣ ἴ̣σ̣[ον ἀμφοτέροισιν
ἆθλον ἔκειθ’· ἣ μέν̣ ῥ̣α π[οδώκης δῖ’ Ἀταλάντη 5
ἵετ’ ἀναινομένη δ̣ῶρα̣ [χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης,
τῶι δὲ̣ περὶ ψυχῆς πέλε[το δρόμος, ἠὲ ἁλῶναι
ἠ̣ὲ φυ̣γε̣ ῖν· τῶι καί ῥα δολο̣[φρονέων προσέειπεν·
“ὦ̣ θύγατερ Σχοινῆος, ἀμ[είλιχον ἦτορ ἔχουσα,
δ]έ̣ξο τάδ’ ἀγλα̣[ὰ] δ̣ῶρ̣α̣ θ̣ε[̣ ᾶς χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης 10
…..]π̣ό.̣ μ̣[…]ω̣εθο̣[
….. ….. ..]ρ̣ων πα̣[
….. ….. ..]ν κάββαλ̣[ε
….. ….. ..]ε̣ις̣ χρυ̣[ς
.[…. ….. ..].[.]κ̣ηπ̣α[̣ 15
τυφ̣.[……..].[.]χ̣αμα̣[
αὐτὰρ ὃ̣ […..πό]δ̣ε̣σσι μ̣[
ἣ δ’ αἶψ’ ὥσθ’ Ἅρπυια μετ[αχρονίοισι πόδεσσιν
ἔμμαρψ’· αὐτὰ̣[ρ ὃ] χειρὶ τὸ δεύτερον ἧ[κε χαμᾶζε·
. . . . . . .
καὶ δὴ ἔχεν δύο μῆλα ποδώκης δῖ’ Ἀτ[αλάντη· 20
ἐγγὺς δ’ ἦν τέλεος· ὃ δὲ τὸ τρίτον ἧκε χ̣[αμᾶζε·
σὺν τῶι δ’ ἐξέφυγεν θάνατον καὶ κῆ̣[ρα μέλαιναν,
ἔστη δ’ ἀμπνείων καὶ [..]..[..]..σ̣ομ̣.[

Fragment 73
] of the king²⁹
] swift-footed godlike Atalanta
] possessing the twinklings of the Graces
she refused to mingle with the tribe of men
hoping to flee marriage with men who eat bread
] because of the slender-ankled girl
(traces of two more lines)

Fragment 75
(traces of 5 lines)
] the slender-ankled girl arose³⁰ 6
] a great crowd stood around
] astonishment held all as they saw
] the breath of Zephyros … the chiton
] around her tender breasts 10
] a great crowd was gathered
] Schoeneus declared, speaking loudly,

 Most (2008) plausibly reconstructs the name Schoeneus at the beginning of this line.
 The verb ὄρνυμι here could mean “rushed” (so Most 2008 ad loc.) but since the race with
Hippomenes seems not to have started yet, I prefer to think that this line refers to Atalanta
coming forward where the crowd can see her.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 149

“Let everyone hear me, both young and old,

so that I can say what the spirit in my breast orders me:
] my glancing-eyed daughter 15
] let it be as stated.
] Let Zeus be our witness.
] …. But if somehow he
wins, and Zeus grants to him to win glory,
and the other immortals who have homes on Olympos, 20
] to his dear fatherland
] strength of swift-footed horses
] treasures; and now in his spirit
] grievous contest.
But if he does not grant it, the father of gods and men…” 25
(there are lines missing here)

Fragment 76
(trace of one line)
on the right
and he, rushing towards her
having retreated a little.³¹ For the prize was not equal
for them both: for she, swift-footed godlike Atalanta 5
ran refusing the gifts of golden Aphrodite
but for him the race was a matter of life, either to be taken
or to escape. And so, planning a trick, he said
“Daughter of Schoeneus, having a pitiless heart,
receive these shining gifts of the goddess, golden Aphrodite…” 10
(traces of two lines)
] threw down [
] golden [
(traces of two lines)
then he ] with feet [ 17
She, straightaway like a Harpy with feet flying behind
grasped; but he sent groundward the second with his hand
(there may be lines missing here)
And now swift-footed godlike Atalanta held two apples; 20
the finish-line was near; he threw the third groundward
and with this he escaped death and dark fate
and he stood breathing and [ ] (?) [

 As printed, the participle is feminine, and goes with Atalanta. It is difficult to know, however,
what “retreating” means in this context, unless we picture Atalanta as pursuing Hippomenes,
which seems to contradict the preceding line. If we take the participle as masculine (without
elision) then we must read Hippomenes as slowing down as part of his deception. See
Hirschberger 2004 ad loc. for a brief discussion of the possibilities. It is possible that the
participle ὑποχωρήσας/-σα here anticipates the implied comparison to Achilles and Hector (on
which, see below); it makes more sense in a battle than in a race.
150 Kirk Ormand

The narrative is surprisingly lively. Though Atalanta does not speak – no woman
in the Catalogue does – she has evidently convinced her father to set up the race
with suitors that we hear about in other accounts.³² The stakes of the race are not
quite preserved in our fragments, but seem clear enough: the suitor who wins in
a race against Atalanta will win her hand in marriage along with (probably)
some horses and other valuable items (fr. 75.18 – 23 M-W). What would happen
to the suitor who loses is, unfortunately, lost in a gap in the papyrus (fr. 75 M-
W, post 25), but fr. 76 M-W makes it clear that, for Hippomenes, death is one pos-
sible outcome.
So we have, here, the story of the race; and as in the poem by Theognis, Ata-
lanta is described as “fleeing” from marriage with men (fr. 73.5 M-W). As Ziogas
has pointed out, this act of flight meshes well with the story of the race, and in
fact forms a syllepsis around the word φεύγειν (to flee): “Both Hesiod and Ovid
employ the literal and metaphorical meaning of φεύγω/fugere simultaneously.
The oracle advises Atalanta that she “avoid” marrying, but Atalanta’s way of “es-
caping” marriage is to run away from her suitors.”³³ At the same time, this act of
physical flight is also a moment of “refusing the gifts of golden Aphrodite”
(fr. 76.10 M-W), a line that recalls the last couplet of Theognis’ poem, above.
So although Atalanta’s flight here does not take her to new geographic space,
her traversal of the racecourse ahead of her suitors preserves in her a state of in-
nocence of sex. In this version she is not, of course, thrown out into the wilder-
ness, but simply remains in the home of her father; her “flight” then, takes the
implicit form of a refusal to leave her natal domestic space, but in order to re-
main in that space, she must continually “flee” in a series of footraces against
suitors.
A careful reading of the fragment at hand, however, raises serious questions
about who is fleeing from whom. Though it is not entirely clear if this version
preserves such a tradition, in some retellings of Atalanta’s race the race is itself
figured as a hunt. In Apollodorus’ version, for example, the “race” goes as fol-
lows: Atalanta sets up a marker halfway down the racecourse, from which the
suitor begins running. Atalanta, on the other hand, starts from the starting
line, and runs fully armed. If she catches her suitor, she kills him herself (Apol-
lod. 3.9.2). So, as Detienne has argued, “…the race to which the suitors are invit-
ed is only a kind of hunt in which they are obliged to play the role of quarry, of
the harried beast that only owes its safety to the swiftness of feet.”³⁴ The imagery

 Apollod. 3.9.2; Ovid Met. 10.560 – 707. On the episode in Ovid and its relation to the Cata-
logue, see now Ziogas 2011.
 Ziogas 2011, 256.
 Detienne 1979, 33.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 151

of hunting is, of course, commonly employed to describe erotic pursuits, and was
something of a trope on Athenian vases.³⁵ But Atalanta is unique as a mortal
woman in playing the role of hunter, chasing down her fleeing prey, not in
order to marry him, but to avoid such marriage by killing him.
It is important to note that in the “hunt” variation of Atalanta’s race not only
the roles of the players have shifted: their relation to the space in which the race
takes place is now entirely different. Unlike a race, both runners do not begin at
the same spot; the course must be altered (at least in Apollodorus’ version) with
the placement of a marker midway for the “suitor’s” starting line. We might well
imagine that the manner of running would be different; and most paradoxical of
all, Atalanta’s desire in such a case undergoes a modulation: she must chase
after and catch her suitor – and kill him – in order to “flee from” marriage. As
Detienne suggests in a slightly different context, “…for Atalanta hunting is the
chosen means of denying amorous desire and refusing the gifts of Aphrodite
by forcing the space reserved for marriage to become nothing more than the
hunter’s domain…”³⁶
Is the “hunt” supported by the Catalogue’s version of the race? I believe that
it is, for several reasons. First, there is the fact that elsewhere in myth Atalanta is
a paradigmatic huntress herself, a devotee of Artemis and participant in the Ca-
lydonian boar hunt. In addition, we are told in fr. 74 M-W (Schol. in Il. 23.683b1)
that Hesiod introduced the idea that Hippomenes was nude when he competed
with Atalanta. His nudity, though it would be normal for a man in a footrace and
might also have erotic connotations, would certainly increase his vulnerability.
More telling are the final lines of fr. 76 M-W, in which it appears that Atalanta
is trying to overtake Hippomenes, and is in that act likened to a harpy, a threat-
ening figure whose name is derived from the verb ἁρπάζω, to seize or to snatch.
Hippomenes’ arrival at the finish line also seems to have a sense of immediacy,
as if he has avoided death right then, and not after some summary judgment.
One other line might support such a reading. Fragment 76, line 16 has been
read by West and Merkelbach as beginning with the letters τυφ; Hirschberger,
however, prefers the reading τυψε, and records Franz’s suggestion of τυψέ[μεναι
μεμαυῖα, “(she) desiring to strike” (Hirschbeger 2004 ad loc.).³⁷

 See Sourvinou-Inwood 1987. In this regard, there is a particularly nice glass bowl of the 2nd c.
CE, perhaps from Egypt, in which an armed Atalanta pursues a nude Hippomenes (Reims Musee
2281).
 Detienne 1979, 34.
 Against this suggestion, however, is fr. 76 line 3, in which a masculine participle (ἐπαΐσσων)
suggests that Hippomenes is rushing towards someone, his object indicated by the in-
determinate pronoun μιν. The easiest reading of this line is that Hippomenes is trying to catch up
152 Kirk Ormand

Most interesting of all, however, is the question of what happens to Atalan-

ta’s desire in the scenario of the hunt: the lines preceding this somewhat ambig-
uous possibility are arresting, in that they depict both Atalanta and Hippomenes
as fleeing, and neither of them pursing. In fr. 76.4– 8 M-W we are told that:

For the prize was not equal

for them both: for she, swift-footed godlike Atalanta 5
ran refusing the gifts of golden Aphrodite
but for him the race was a matter of life, either to be taken
or to escape.

The vocabulary, significantly, is almost identical to that in the poem by Theog-

nis: Atalanta refuses (ἀναινομένη) the gifts of Aphrodite (δῶρα… Ἀφροδίτης),
just as she refused (ἀναινομένη) marriage with men, and fled (φεύγειν) the
gifts of Aphrodite (δῶρα… Ἀφροδίτης) in the earlier poem. In these lines, she
is not actively pursuing anything. Hippomenes, however, is clearly being pur-
sued. Like the prey of a hunt, he has only two options: “to be taken, or to es-
cape.”
This curious ambiguity is picked up, and toyed with, in the final lines of
fr. 76 M-W:

And now swift-footed godlike Atalanta held two apples; 20

the finish-line was near; he threw the third groundward
and with this he escaped death and dark fate
and he stood breathing and [] (?) [
(fr. 76.20 – 4 M-W)

The word that I have translated “finish line,” is, of course, τέλος, that versatile
word that means a boundary, a goal, and also the moment of a ritual word of
state. Clearly here the primary meaning of the word is physical: Hippomenes
has reached the end of the course before Atalanta, with the help of his golden
apples, and so won the race. But the τέλος is also near in another sense: because
Hippomenes reaches the end first, Atalanta must give up her flight from mar-
riage, and undergo a personal τέλος, a marriage. Thus by “escaping” (ἐξέφυγεν)

to Atalanta, who must be understood as running ahead of him, towards the finish line. Further
complicating the issue is the participle in the following line, ὑποχωρήσασ’, “having retreated,”
or, perhaps, “having held back.” As printed, the participle is an elided feminine, referring to
Atalanta; but it could just as easily be an unelided masculine nominative, referring to Hippo-
menes. All of this begins to sound more like a battle than a race, with one party rushing the
other, and the second initially giving way. Who is retreating, or perhaps, “holding back” from
whom? The text is too fragmentary here to know with certainty.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 153

dark death (which also would have been a τέλος, had he not avoided it), Hippo-
menes also puts an end to Atalanta’s serial “flight” (φεύγειν).³⁸ In this poem
there is almost no direct pursuit, only flight; and insofar as Atalanta is trying
to catch Hippomenes, that act of almost grasping (fr. 76.18 – 19 M-W), is not of
erotic desire – so far as we can tell – but figured as an act of avoidance, of es-
cape.
The apples, of course, are crucial to our understanding of the race and to
Atalanta’s desire, and their physical function requires some explanation. Else-
where I have argued, following the work of Faraone and Detienne, that in stoop-
ing to pick up the apples, Atalanta (perhaps unconsciously) signals her accept-
ance of Hippomenes as a suitor. Apples, as Faraone has argued, are used as “bal-
listic aphrodisiacs” in love-charms throughout the ancient Mediterranean. Sig-
nificantly, the apples here are described as δῶρα Ἀφροδίτης, “gifts of Aphro-
dite,” the very phrase used a few lines earlier to designate the experience of
sex that Atalanta is fleeing from.³⁹ When Atalanta receives these “gifts of Aphro-
dite,” then, she metaphorically accepts the sexual experience that they repre-
sent.⁴⁰ At the same time, the apples are literally a physical distraction from Ata-
lanta’s flight. Though the Hesiodic text does not give us much detail about how
Hippomenes releases the apples, it does not appear that he throws them off to
the side. In line 12 he evidently throws something down (κάββαλ̣[ε); and in
lines 19 and 21 apples two and three are sent “groundward” (χαμᾶζε). The
image that comes up, then, is not one of Atalanta driven off the course of the
race, but merely having to stoop to pick them up.
Atalanta’s desire, then, is physically redirected, groundward, by the apples.
In fr. 76.18 – 19 M-W, Atalanta, described as harpy-like, has just “taken hold of”
(ἔμμαρψ’) Hippomenes. The word μάρπτω is not a racing word; its usual context
is, as we will see in the next section, one of battle. Men take hold of their ene-
mies; abstract concepts, such as sleep, old age, or death take hold of men. Hip-
pomenes, then, is all but in Atalanta’s grasp when he drops the second apple,
and by means of the third he escapes death and dark fate. There is a remarkable
confluence of literal and metaphorical here, as what he really escapes is, of
course, Atalanta. And she, pausing in her desire to grab Hippomenes, grasps in-
stead a “gift of Aphrodite,” and so no longer flees from marriage. The space oc-
cupied by the footrace has, remarkably, served also as the place from which Ata-

 See Ziogas 2011 for an astute reading of Ovid’s use of this paradoxical formulation.
 Ormand (forthcoming). Faraone 1990, 238; Detienne 1979, 42– 4.
 Faraone 1990, 238; Barringer 1996, 74; Detienne 1979, 41– 2.
154 Kirk Ormand

lanta will marry, and, in accordance with her father’s declaration from which she
will go to her husband’s “dear fatherland” (fr. 75.21 M-W).

From Hunt to Battle

If Atalanta’s race seems, in some respects, like a hunt, however, in other ways
the story recalls a battle. And so we have our third transformation of geograph-
ical space: the race course is not merely a representative of the space that Ata-
lanta must traverse in order to become a wife, but on an intertextual level be-
comes a reenactment (or pre-enactment, if you like) of the fight between Hector
and Achilles in Book 22 of the Iliad. ⁴¹
Early in the extant fragments Atalanta is identified as ποδώκης δῖ’
Ἀταλάν[τη, “swift footed Atalanta” (fr. 73.2 M-W). The epithet must call to
mind the most famous of swift-footed heroes, Achilles.⁴² The epithet is repeated
at least once more (fr. 76.20 M-W) and has been plausibly reconstructed in anoth-
er instance (fr. 76.5 M-W). “Swift-footed” is, of course, a reasonable epithet for
Atalanta, and that alone is not sufficient to make an identification with Achilles.
Parallels soon become more explicit, however, and in fact refer to a remarkable
moment in the Iliad. Returning for a moment to the passage discussed just
above, consider the different motivations that the two runners have in their dan-
gerous footrace:

οὐ̣ γ̣ὰ̣ρ̣ ἴ̣σ̣[ον ἀμφοτέροισιν

ἆθλον ἔκειθ’· ἣ μέν̣ ῥ̣α π[οδώκης δῖ’ Ἀταλάντη 5
ἵετ’ ἀναινομένη δ̣ῶρα̣ [χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης,
τῶι δὲ̣ περὶ ψυχῆς πέλε[το δρόμος, ἠὲ ἁλῶναι
ἠ̣ὲ φυ̣γε̣ ῖν·

… For the prize was not equal

for them both: she, swift-footed godlike Atalanta
ran refusing the gifts of golden Aphrodite
but for him the race was a matter of life, either to be taken
or to escape.
(fr. 76.4– 8 M-W)

 Some of the ideas here are forthcoming in my book on the Catalogue of Women as well. For
combat as a common metaphor for athletic competition, see Scanlon 1988.
 Hirschberger (2004) provides several parallels; the most common similar formula is
ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς, which occurs some 21 times in the Iliad. See also the useful and
perceptive discussion of Ziogas (2011, 258): “Cast as a female Achilles, Atalanta exemplifies a
gendered shift from the male oriented Iliad to the heroines of the Ehoiai.”
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 155

This passage, in addition to characterizing Atalanta’s pursuit as a moment of

flight, also contains a clear reference to that most famous of grim footraces,
the moment when Achilles is chasing Hector before the walls of Troy. But be-
cause Achilles and Hector are in a war, not a race, the “race” exists only at
the level of metaphor, and the prize of this race is not the usual prize, but the
life of Hector himself.⁴³

τῇ ῥα παραδραμέτην φεύγων ὃ δ’ ὄπισθε διώκων·

πρόσθε μὲν ἐσθλὸς ἔφευγε, δίωκε δέ μιν μέγ’ ἀμείνων
καρπαλίμως, ἐπεὶ οὐχ ἱερήϊον οὐδὲ βοείην
ἀρνύσθην, ἅ τε ποσσὶν ἀέθλια γίγνεται ἀνδρῶν, 160
ἀλλὰ περὶ ψυχῆς θέον Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο.
ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἀεθλοφόροι περὶ τέρματα μώνυχες ἵπποι
ῥίμφα μάλα τρωχῶσι· τὸ δὲ μέγα κεῖται ἄεθλον
ἢ τρίπος ἠὲ γυνὴ ἀνδρὸς κατατεθνηῶτος·
ὣς τὼ τρὶς Πριάμοιο πόλιν πέρι δινηθήτην 165
καρπαλίμοισι πόδεσσι·
(Il. 22.157– 66)

So there they ran about, the one fleeing and the other pursuing from behind,
and a noble man fled in front, but behind a much better man pursued,
swiftly, since they did not strive for a sacrificial animal, nor an ox-hide,
which are prizes for races run by men, 160
but they ran for the life of Hector, tamer of horses.
Thus when single-foot horses that bear away prizes run very lightly
around the turning-posts; and a big prize is at stake,
a tripod, or a woman, when a man has died,
thus three times the two whirled around the city of Priam 165
with swift feet.

In the Iliad, the comparison to a footrace affects the listener because of the con-
trast between sport and war. The footrace that the chase is compared to is, in-
deed, a serious one – but even a race where the prize is a woman is trivial com-
pared to the grim conditions of Hector’s running. To lose the race is, for Hector,
to lose his life – a “prize” only in the blunt devaluation brought about by the
metaphor. In the Catalogue, however, this same metaphor has been made literal:
Hippomenes is actually in a race, structured as a race, in which the prize, if he
loses, is his life. As Ziogas has put it in a recent and perceptive analysis, “Hesiod
synthesizes Homer’s simile and narrative proper, turning the Iliadic fatal race of

 The parallels were noted by Laser 1952. Laser, however, assumes that the lines have been
interpolated in the Iliad, since they are not as appropriate there as they are in the Catalogue
episode, and he posits a common early source for both works. See now Ziogas 2011, 258 – 61 for a
brief but illuminating discussion of the relation between these two passages.
156 Kirk Ormand

the greatest Achaean and Trojan hero into a contest for a maiden’s hand.”⁴⁴ At
the same time, the prize of Hippomenes’ winning carries an unspoken benefit
that is only mentioned as the more normal prize in the passage in the Iliad:
though the Catalogue does not say so, Hippomenes stands not only to win his
life, but also “a woman,” – namely, the other contestant, Atalanta.
The passage in the Catalogue, moreover, uses diction that adds to the im-
pression that what goes on here is more battle than race. In a recent study of
the concept of “overtaking,” Alex Purves has shown that the vocabulary used
for overtaking in battle is usually different than that used for overtaking in a
race, as the different objects of the two kinds of pursuit might suggest.⁴⁵
When Homer describes warriors chasing a target in battle, we see verbs of pur-
suit, notably διώκω (to chase) and catching up like μάρπτω and καταμάρπτω (to
seize). The person running away is typically described using φεύγω (to flee) and
its compounds. In races in the Iliad, by contrast, the act of running is marked by
a series of verbs that deal with the act of overtaking in the sense of passing by:
φθάνω, παρέρχομαι, παρεξέρχομαι, παραφθάνω, παρατρέχω, παρελαύνω, παρε-
ξελαύνω. In the passage from the Catalogue above, it is clear that the vocabulary
for Atalanta’s running comes from Achilles’ pursuit of Hector, and as such, the
stakes for Hippomenes are no less serious than for the Trojan hero. If he is
not successful in the act of fleeing (φεύγω), he will die just as Hector does.
A second verbal parallel to the Iliad appears towards the end of our extant
fragment, just as the race ends:

ἣ δ’ αἶψ’ ὥσθ’ Ἅρπυια μετ[αχρονίοισι πόδεσσιν

ἔμμαρψ’· αὐτὰ̣[ρ ὃ] χειρὶ τὸ δεύτερον ἧ[κε χαμᾶζε·
. . . . . . .
καὶ δὴ ἔχεν δύο μῆλα ποδώκης δῖ’ Ἀτ[αλάντη· 20
ἐγγὺς δ’ ἦν τέλεος· ὃ δὲ τὸ τρίτον ἧκε χ̣[αμᾶζε·
σὺν τῶι δ’ ἐξέφυγεν θάνατον καὶ κῆ̣[ρα μέλαιναν,
ἔστη δ’ ἀμπνείων καὶ [..]..[..]..σ̣ομ̣.[
(fr. 76.18 – 23 M-W)

She, straightaway like a Harpy with feet flying behind

seized; but he sent groundward the second with his hand
(there may be lines missing here)
And now swift-footed godlike Atalanta held two apples;
the finish-line was near; he threw the third groundward
and with this he escaped death and dark fate
and he stood breathing and [] (?) [

 Ziogas 2011, 260.

 Purves 2011.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 157

These lines clearly parallel a moment in the grim race between Hector and
Achilles, when Apollo gives Hector just enough assistance to keep him alive,
and the poet suggests that this “race” is like a race in a dream:

ὡς δ’ ἐν ὀνείρῳ οὐ δύναται φεύγοντα διώκειν·

οὔτ’ ἄρ’ ὃ τὸν δύναται ὑποφεύγειν οὔθ’ ὃ διώκειν· 200
ὣς ὃ τὸν οὐ δύνατο μάρψαι ποσίν, οὐδ’ ὃς ἀλύξαι.
πῶς δέ κεν Ἕκτωρ κῆρας ὑπεξέφυγεν θανάτοιο,
εἰ μή οἱ πύματόν τε καὶ ὕστατον ἤντετ’ Ἀπόλλων
ἐγγύθεν, ὅς οἱ ἐπῶρσε μένος λαιψηρά τε γοῦνα;
(Il. 22.199 – 204)

As in a dream, one is not able to pursue the one fleeing,

nor is the one able to completely escape the first, nor the other to pursue;
Thus the one was not able to catch the other with his feet, nor the other to escape.⁴⁶
And how could Hector have escaped the fates of death,
if not that Apollo, for the last and latest time came to him
nearby, and roused his strength and his swift knees?

We should, perhaps, not make much of the verbal echo of μάρψαι (Il. 22.201) in
the description of Atalanta pursuing like a harpy overtaking (ἔμμαρψ’, fr. 76.19
M-W). But clearly Hippomenes’ escape from “death and dark fate” is an echo
of Hector’s similar, though temporary escape.⁴⁷
In both cases, the two heroes escape death through the assistance of a divin-
ity, though Hippomenes’ help has the more concrete form of the golden apples.
The more interesting thing about the parallel, however, is that the Catalogue
takes a temporary, provisional moment in Hector’s flight from Achilles and
makes it into the successful conclusion of Hippomenes’ story. Just as the basis
for the Catalogue’s literal race is the hypothetical and metaphorical one in the
Iliad, the Catalogue takes a momentary pause in the Iliadic passage (itself
phrased as a rhetorical question) and makes it concrete and permanent. Unlike
Hector, Hippomenes really has escaped from the fate of death and, we presume,
will go on to marry Atalanta.

 The deliberate ambiguity about who is pursuing and who is pursued in this passage is
remarkable, and perhaps also enables the ambiguity in the Hesiodic parallel. My thanks to an
anonymous reader for pointing this out.
 Ziogas (2011, 259) also sees in this passage a parallel to the temporary “escape” of Lycaon in
Il. 21.64– 6, as he supplicates Achilles. In both of these cases, of course, the escape is of limited
duration; both heroes will be cut down. Ziogas’ careful lexical analysis supports his conclusion
that this is a true intertextual moment, and not merely a case of shared epic diction. He points
out, further, that Achilles is twice described as “swift-footed godlike Achilles” in this episode.
158 Kirk Ormand

What, then, is the literary effect of this complex invocation of the most fa-
mous footrace of the Trojan War? The basic mode of the narrative is to take mo-
ments of fantasy, of potential, and of wishful thinking in the Iliad and to put
them in a narrative where they are real. The metaphorical race of the Iliad is a
real race in the Catalogue, and the momentary escape of Hector becomes Hippo-
menes’ successful avoidance of death and winning of “a woman.” In that regard,
I would like to suggest that Hippomenes’ experience is also presented as the re-
alization of one of Hector’s fantasies, one that occurs before the metaphor of the
race begins in the Iliad. Hector speaks to himself early in book 22, and wonders if
he could approach Achilles unarmed and negotiate a settlement with him; he
then realizes that such thoughts are pointless:

ἀλλὰ τί ἤ μοι ταῦτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός;

μή μιν ἐγὼ μὲν ἵκωμαι ἰών, ὃ δέ μ’ οὐκ ἐλεήσει
οὐδέ τί μ’ αἰδέσεται, κτενέει δέ με γυμνὸν ἐόντα
αὔτως ὥς τε γυναῖκα, ἐπεί κ’ ἀπὸ τεύχεα δύω. 125
οὐ μέν πως νῦν ἔστιν ἀπὸ δρυὸς οὐδ’ ἀπὸ πέτρης
τῷ ὀαριζέμεναι, ἅ τε παρθένος ἠΐθεός τε
παρθένος ἠΐθεός τ’ ὀαρίζετον ἀλλήλοιιν.
(Il. 22.122 – 8)

But why does my heart debate these things with me?

May I not go, supplicating him, and he will not pity me,
nor will he respect me, but kill me while I am naked,
like a woman, since I have put aside my armour.
There is not now any way to talk lightly with him
from an oak or a rock, as a parthenos and a youth
– a parthenos and a youth – talk lightly with one another.

Hector’s imagined, but rejected, scene with Achilles casts a surprising erotic light
on their relationship. Not only does Hector suggest that he would, in such a sit-
uation, be “nude” (γυμνόν, 124), but, as a Richardson points out, “… Hektor has
just referred to being killed ‘like a woman’, and this is perhaps what gives rise to
the idea of the two lovers conversing.”⁴⁸ The verb ὀαρίζειν (“talk lightly) in line
128 also seems to have erotic connotations: Hector is described as conversing
with Andromache using this word at 6.516.⁴⁹ It is the kind of talk that husbands
and wives, or perhaps young lovers, share.

 Richardson 1993 ad 123 – 5. Richardson argues that γυμνόν “must mean ‘unarmed’”; but it is
entirely possible that the Catalogue poet has picked up on this term’s more usual primary
meaning.
 See Richardson 1993 ad Il. 22.127.
 Uncertain Geographies of Female Desire in the Hesiodic Catalogue: Atalanta 159

Hippomenes and Atalanta are exactly a youth and a parthenos, and if we ac-
cept the information that Hippomenes ran literally nude in the Catalogue’s ver-
sion of his tale, then there is a further point of similarity between Hippomenes
and Hector’s imagined negotiator. But in the Catalogue the impossibility of a lov-
er’s chat again becomes reality: Hippomenes’ combination of verbal appeal and
fruitful offering convinces Atalanta despite her “pitiless heart” (fr. 76.9 M-W).
Atalanta accepts the apples, Hippomenes escapes dark death. Hector imagines
a different resolution to his conflict with Achilles, one in an erotic register.
The Catalogue enacts that resolution.
For Hector to have such an erotic encounter with Achilles, however, it is im-
portant to note that he must simultaneously imagine a different location from
which to do so. A youth and a parthenos do not dally together on the battlefield,
fighting to take one another’s life; instead, they chat “from and oak and a rock,”
a particularly baffling phrase that has a parallel, equally baffling, at Theogony
35. Richardson, admitting to uncertainty about the phase, suggests that “What-
ever the original sense, to a modern reader the phrase conjures up a pastoral
scene of a lover’s meeting in the countryside, which… does form a suitable con-
text.”⁵⁰ For Hippomenes and Atalanta, the geographic space that defines their
contest is more fluid: it is racecourse, and hunting ground, and battlefield,
with all the attendant dangers of each.
In part the geographic space of this episode is able to exist on three homol-
ogous planes, it seems, because of the undefined nature of Atalanta’s desire. As
this paper has explored at length, the function of Atalanta’s race is not to achieve
anything: indeed, insofar as Atalanta is trying to avoid a τέλος, an end, the point
of the race is merely to keep running on and on without resolution. In this way,
the space of Atalanta’s marriage race represents her desire, which is no desire,
but rather a desire to avoid, to flee, to run away. Also, perhaps, to catch: but
in catching Hippomenes (were she to do that) she would deny her erotic desire,
either by transferring it to the desire of the hunt, or to the more violent desire
that men experience when they try to kill one another in the space of battle. In-
deed, this may be the most clever bit of intertextuality in Hesiod’s story: Atalan-
ta’s desire is implicitly likened to a moment in the Iliad when Hector imagines
some such form of desire (between himself and Achilles), but immediately re-
jects it as impossible. Atalanta’s desire, then, is defined by a reference to a
place in which such desire cannot be. To quote again from a modern theorist
of space:

 Richardson 1993 ad Il. 22.126 – 8.

160 Kirk Ormand

Rather than being one definite sort of thing – for example, physical, spiritual, cultural, so-
cial – a given place takes on the qualities of its occupants, reflecting these qualities in its
own constitution and description and expressing them in its occurrence as an event: places
not only are, they happen. ⁵¹

Atalanta’s space happens as it does because it is a space of avoidance. She may

pursue, but if she has desire it is figured not as erotic desire, but the desire of
men as they kill, either animals or other men – which becomes, for Atalanta, an-
other form of the desire to avoid.
By way of conclusion, I would like to pause the course of this analysis to
consider how it is that Atalanta’s endless flight finally comes to an end. We
know that Hippomenes wins the race, and we know what he acquires as victor.
He does this by dropping golden apples, “gifts of Aphrodite” groundward, and
Atalanta must hesitate, and presumably stoop, to pick them up. In so doing
she acts both physically and metaphorically, accepting the state of marriage
(that is, the “gifts of Aphrodite”) as she accepts the gifts themselves. This act
of stooping, of interrupting flight, changes momentarily the mode of Atalanta’s
motion, the speed and course of her traversal of space. It is this interruption, this
pause, I would argue, that also signifies desire on her part. Atalanta must want
the apples.⁵² In physically admitting to that desire, she transforms her relation to
the geography of the race; she pauses. In so doing, she allows Hippomenes to
reach τέλος (finish line, marriage) ahead of her. By accepting this boundary,
as it were, she moves into the carefully defined and bounded space reserved
for objects of erotic desire. Ironically, for women, that acceptance means an un-
bounding of her physical body, as Catullus reminds us:

it pleases me as they say

the golden apple delighted the nimble girl,
loosening her belt so long tied tight.
(Catul. 2.11– 13)

 Casey 1996, 27.

 As Ovid perceptively realizes: at Met. 10.676 – 80 he has Aphrodite force her to pick up the
last apple.
Evina Sistakou
Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’
Argonautica
In epic the realm of reality cannot be sharply distinguished from the realm of
imagination. This premise is central to the study of the Homeric epics which
on the one hand seem to incorporate factuality by conveying a historical view
of the 8th/7th century Greek world (most prominently in the Iliadic Catalogue
of Ships), whereas on the other disclose their affinity with folktale and myth
by integrating fantasyworlds into their plot (and here the settings of Odysseus’
Apologoi are the classic example since Eratosthenes’ time). Not only does Apol-
lonius play by these rules in writing his adventure epic on Jason and the Argo-
nauts, but moreover he effectively historicizes the mythical voyage of the Argo by
inscribing it in the real world. From Iolcos through the Hellespont to the Black
Sea and back through the Ister, the Adriatic, Libya, Crete and the Aegean, the
Argonautica monitors a sea voyage with utmost geographical precision. Apollo-
nius has been hailed as a well-read scholar who draws upon historical and geo-
graphical sources of the Alexandrian Library as well as adopts the expanded
view of the known world which emerged after Alexander’s expedition to the
East and the subsequent Hellenistic explorations.¹ There is even an ideological
aspect in his preoccupation with geographical realism: the detailed account of
Greek colonization in the Black Sea and the West contained in the epic suggests
the new identity of 3rd century Hellenism within the multicultural Ptolemaic em-
pire.²
Thus factual geography is deeply rooted in Apollonius’ travel epic. As a
proper récit de voyage or a travelogue the Argonautica follows the logic of a peri-
plous. ³ Jason and his comrades engage in a voyage of exploration into the lands
and people of the East, some of which, like the Chalybes, the Tibarenians and
the Mossynoecians, have strange customs that are recorded in ethnographic di-

 For the geographical reading of the Argonautica Delage (1930) is indispensable; an updated
overview of Apollonius as a Hellenistic geographer is offered by Meyer (2008).
 On how space in the Argonautica embodies the cultural and social relations between Greeks
and others during the Hellenistic era, see Thalmann 2011 and Stephens 2011. For the politics of
the Argonautic voyage, also from a geographical viewpoint, see Mori 2008, esp. 46 – 51.
 A detailed analysis of the Argonautic itinerary in Books 1, 2 and 4 in Vian (1976b, 3 – 49) and
(1981, 3 – 68).
162 Evina Sistakou

gressions.⁴ An impressive feature of the epic is that accurate maps of the route
are embedded in the speeches of characters who function as guides during
the voyage: the prophecy of Phineus covers the outward journey towards Colchis
(2.317– 407), Argos explains the alternative route from Colchis to the Mediterra-
nean via the Ister (4.257– 93) and Triton gives the heroes instructions on how to
find the outlet from Libya to the sea (4.1573 – 85). A heightened awareness of
space, as would be natural for navigators, including the observation of land-
marks—harbours, cities, rivers, mountains or islands—, is obvious throughout
the Argonautic journey.⁵ Topographical data, cartographic overviews of entire re-
gions (a technique known as the ‘bird’s eye view’) and hodological principles in
combination with contemporary views on the oikoumene inform Apollonius’
strategy of spatial orientation within the Argonautica.
But epic is about myth after all, and it was not possible for Apollonius to
overlook the boundaries set by the genre. Conventional devices, such as the cata-
logue of the participating heroes, are textual spaces where reality and myth in-
tersect; the Argonautic catalogue of Book 1 is replete with heroic names connect-
ed to historical locations. The theme of nostos, of a heroic return, as developed in
Book 4, is an integral part of every epic plot, both of the cyclic and the Homeric
tradition. More importantly in the case of the Argonautica, the geographical con-
texts are subordinate to the literary intertexts among which the Odyssey is prom-
inent: the wanderings of the Argonauts, their passage through the Wandering
Rocks, the arrival on the islands of Circe and the Phaeacians, the encounter
with the Sirens or the Scylla and Charybdis are consciously modelled on Odys-
seus’ adventures.⁶ Moreover, the Argo is a symbolic ship, and its voyage has met-
atextual resonances. The sea route followed by the ship might as well function as
a metaphor for poetry itself—the ‘path of song’ traversed by the epic narrator and
retraced by his audience.⁷
In the present paper I will explore another facet of epic geography in the Ar-
gonautica, which provides an alternative both to the one identified as realistic/
historical and to the intertextual and metatextual readings of the poem’s topog-
raphy. I have termed it counterfactual in the sense that it contrasts markedly with
what may be considered as real or actual within the internal logic of an epic plot.
Counterfactuality therefore includes what might be perceived as straightforward-

 A comprehensive, though outdated, study of the ethnographic elements in the Argonautica is

the German dissertation by Teufel (1939).
 The central role of navigation in the Argonautica is discussed by Rostropowicz (1990).
 For a thorough discussion of how Apollonius incorporates Odyssean geography into his epic,
see Knight 1995, 122– 266.
 Albis 1996, 93 – 120; cf. DeForest 1994, 70 – 85; Clare 2002.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 163

ly fable-like, supernatural, marvellous, illusionary and visionary by characters

and readers; what belongs to a different temporal or spatial dimension than
the epic’s narrative universe; any crossing into other worlds, such as lands of
the dead, realms of gods or spaces of the past. Counterfactual occurrences in
the Argonautica are not secondary or marginal but pertinent to the plot-type
adopted by Apollonius, namely the quest. ⁸ For quests form the core of fantasy
literature and hence take place in fantasylands: these will be my point of depar-
ture for the exploration of uncharted territories in the Argonautica. ⁹

Fantasylands
Modern editions of the Argonautica come equipped with a map meant to be used
by the reader;¹⁰ though mapping the Argonautic voyage may seem at first an at-
tempt to actualize it, in effect a map displaying the detailed topography of a fan-
tasyland is a necessary supplement to many fantasy narratives.¹¹ Apollonius may
not provide us with a rough sketch of the narrative’s topography as fantasy au-
thors often do (Tolkien is legendary for supplying his books with maps of Mid-
dle-earth), yet he embeds the geographical outline of the voyage into the
words of the omniscient narrator and those of his characters. It is critical to ac-
knowledge that, though myth is involved, Apollonius’ geography is realistically
anchored in our own world; yet, at the same time, it is also true that lands of
fable are situated between this and other, impossible, worlds.¹² So, whereas
pure fantasy plays out the scenario of the lost world like The Lord of the Rings
or of an entirely fictional universe like Gulliver’s Travels, the Argonautic quest
features exotic adventures similar to those attributed to Sinbad the Sailor
where faraway places and locations become the theatre of supernatural events.

 For the model of the quest plot in literature, from Homer’s Odyssey to Tolkien’s The Lord of the
Rings, see Booker 2004, 69 – 86.
 For the Argonautica as a dark fantasy epic, see Sistakou (2012, 53 – 130).
 Vian (1976b; 1981) in the celebrated Belles Lettres edition merges realistic and mythical
geography in detailed maps of the Argonautic itinerary; five historical maps are appended to the
2008 Loeb edition by W.H. Race.
 For terms and definitions concerning the spaces of fantasy literature I mostly relie on Clute/
Grant (1997): especially relevant are the entries borderlands, fantasyland, land of fable, portals,
sea monsters and islands.
 Travel descriptions in the Argonautica between fact and fiction are explored by Harder
(1994).
164 Evina Sistakou

The key to distinguishing between the two lies in the essential idea of an
exotic quest, namely the undertaking of a mission to the ends of the earth.¹³
In the Argonautica, this is represented by Colchis which is contrasted to the
Greek world—by analogy travel fantasies in other cultures take place in the Ori-
ent, the far North, China or the Carribbean as opposed to the West. Jason states
the remoteness of the Colchian land in his speech to Phineus: Αἶα δὲ Κολχίς/
Πόντου καὶ γαίης ἐπικέκλιται ἐσχατιῇσιν, 2.417– 18 (“Colchian Aea lies at the
end of the Black Sea and of the world”).¹⁴ Prior to departure a rumour spreads
about a mission impossible: πόθι τόσσον/ ὅμιλον ἡρώων γαίης Παναχαιίδος
ἔκτοθι βάλλει; … ἀλλ᾽ οὐ φυκτὰ κέλευθα, πόνος δ᾽ ἄπρηκτος ἰοῦσιν, 1.242 – 6
(“To what place beyond the Panachean land is he sending so great a crew of her-
oes?… But the voyage cannot be avoided and the task is beyond accomplish-
ment”). The sense that Colchis is a borderland occupying the limits of human
geography is stressed everywhere in the epic, as for example upon arrival to
the Phasis: ἵκοντο/ Φᾶσίν τ᾽ εὐρὺ ῥέοντα καὶ ἔσχατα πείρατα Πόντου,
2.1260 – 1 (“they reached the wide-flowing Phasis and the furthest reaches of
the Black Sea”).
Faraway lands form the ideal background for fantasies to unfold. In the nar-
rative grammar of fantasy, space is defined by specific characteristics. For in-
stance, water is a border and a symbol, a boundary in all its forms—sea, river,
the Ocean—that has to be traversed. Colchis is enclosed by waters, a topography
that heightens not only the dangers for the Argonauts but also the mystery and
horror inherent in the water element. The river Ister, for example, which provides
an alternative route for the homeward journey, is depicted as a branch of the
semi-mythical Ocean that has its sources in the fabled Rhipaean mountains,
the territory of the Hyperboreans in Greek imagination (4.282– 93). Dark mystery
surrounds the intersection of the Rhone and the Eridanus, the edge of the earth
to the West:

ἐκ δὲ τόθεν Ῥοδανοῖο βαθὺν ῥόον εἰσεπέρησαν,

ὅς τ᾽ εἰς Ἠριδανὸν μετανίσσεται, ἄμμιγα δ᾽ ὕδωρ
ἐν ξυνοχῇ βέβρυχε κυκώμενον. αὐτὰρ ὁ γαίης
ἐκ μυχάτης, ἵνα τ᾽ εἰσὶ πύλαι καὶ ἐδέθλια Νυκτός,
ἔνθεν ἀπορνύμενος…
(4.627– 31)

 On how central to ancient thought was the idea that the earth has its own ends or borders,
see Romm 1992.
 All translations are taken from Race (2008).
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 165

From there they entered the deep stream of the Rhone, which flows into the Eridanus, and
in the strait where they meet the churning water roars. Now that river, rising from the end
of the earth, where the gates and precincts of Night are located…

A feature suggested by this topography is the portal. In fantasy, portals demar-

cate this world from otherworlds. Physical portals in the Argonautica are the
rocky passages encountered from Hellas to the East and vice versa, the Symple-
gades (2.549 – 606) and the Wandering Rocks (4.924– 63) respectively.¹⁵ A nauti-
cal fantasy also highlights the confrontation with the monsters that inhabit the
sea. Yet, as Odyssean reminiscences, the episodes on the Sirens (4.891– 919) and
Skylla and Charybdis (4.825 – 31) are compressed in Apollonius’ narrative, while
still carrying the dark and sinister undertones of similar accounts.¹⁶
In any case such challenges presuppose divine intervention, men skilled in
seafaring and definitely an archetypal ship. The Argo (in contrast to Odysseus’
ship) has a name and an identity, and is the forerunner of all ships of travel lit-
erature—the Nautilus, the Flying Dutchman, the Pequod, the Hispaniola, the
Black Pearl… For the Argo is not just an autonomous space alongside other
spaces of Apollonius’ epic, the background to the nautical enterprise, as well
as the dramatic setting, a kind of agora, for the assembly of the Argonauts; it
has a legendary past (νῆα μὲν οὖν οἱ πρόσθεν ἔτι κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί, 1.18), a his-
tory (Ἄργον Ἀθηναίης καμέειν ὑποθημοσύνῃσι, 1.19) and hence a personality.
Moreover Argo is animated (ὧς Ἀργώ… ἀμφεπόλει δηναιὸν ἐπὶ χρόνον,
4.1546 – 7) and even possesses an awe-inspiring voice (Πηλιὰς ἴαχεν Ἀργώ,
1.525; ὧς Ἀργὼ ἰάχησεν ὑπὸ κνέφας, 4.592).¹⁷ A fantasy ship par excellence.
Hovering between exploration literature and fantasy epic, the Argonautica is
set in alien territories, such as the semi-barbaric lands of the Propontis or the
Libyan desert. Apollonius blurs the boundaries between the two genres by turn-
ing exotic spaces into fantasy sites. Cyzicus is an illuminating example, since at
this site a civilized people, the Doliones, are presented as cohabitants of the
Earthborn, mythical warriors with six hands, resembling the Hesiodic Hecaton-
cheires—an adaptation of the Laestrygonian episode from the Odyssey. ¹⁸ Cyzicus

 Especially the extensive Symplegades episode with its dramatic depiction of a sublime and
terrifying natural phenomenon has attracted the attention of many scholars; see, e. g., Williams
1991, 129 – 45. For the Alexandrian penchant for unstable geographies as a symbol of primordial
chaos, see Nishimura-Jensen 2000.
 Knight 1995, 200 – 10; Sistakou 2012, 71– 4.
 Gaunt (1972) downplays the significance of the Argo in Apollonius’ plot, but nevertheless
gives a stimulating analysis of the related passages. The central role of the Argo in the journey is
restored by Clare (2002, 33 – 83); for the Argo as a metapoetic allegory, see Murray 2005.
 Knight 1995, 147– 52.
166 Evina Sistakou

is described as an island by Apollonius (ἔστι δέ τις αἰπεῖα Προποντίδος ἔνδοθι

νῆσος, 1.936) and islands are the venue of extraordinary events in fantasy liter-
ature.¹⁹ The Argonauts come across dozens of islands during their voyage, some
of which are miraculous. One of these is the island of Ares, the dwelling of the
birds that have darts instead of feathers; here the Argonauts embark on a heroic
adventure that equals Heracles’ labour against the carnivorous Stymphalian
birds with the metallic feathers (2.1030 – 89). The ensuing epic-like battle be-
tween the densely armed heroes and the fabulous birds concludes with a view
extending into infinity: ὧς πυκινὰ πτερὰ τοῖσιν ἐφίεσαν, ἀίσσοντες/ ὕψι μάλ᾽
ἂμ πέλαγος περάτης εἰς οὔρεα γαίης, 2.1088 – 9 (“thus did the birds cast a shower
of feathered darts upon them as they sped off high over the sea to the mountains
at the end of the earth”).

Landscapes of Epiphany
Landscape plays a key role in both genres incorporated into the Argonautica,
namely the travel adventure and fantasy epic.²⁰ Closely connected with Hellen-
istic aesthetics, the description of landscapes in Apollonius is consistent with
the refined sensibility towards nature displayed in Alexandrian poetry and
art.²¹ It is noteworthy that the sea and all its concomitants (harbours, winds,
cliffs, storms) form only part of the Argonautic landscape; other striking descrip-
tions involve symbolic landmarks, such as mountains, caves, plains, rivers, gar-
dens, groves and the desert. Landscape should also be viewed from a temporal
perspective: day, night or dawn significantly alter natural descriptions in the Ar-
gonautica. Occasionally, landscape may acquire sublime dimensions, especially
when dramatic images of nature arouse a heightened emotion or pathos; in other
cases sublimity may originate from merging the divine with the human map.²²
A case in point is the descent of Eros from the garden of Zeus on Olympos
towards the earth:

 A striking parallel comes from modern fantasy: the acclaimed writer of fantasy and science
fiction books Ursula Le Guin has created a fictional realm formed by an archipelago of islands,
called the Earthsea, where magic and fantasy reign.
 Williams (1991) gives a comprehensive analysis of landscape as a means of enhancing
characterization and foreshadowing the plot in the Argonautica. For the description of lands-
cape in ancient Greek poetry Elliger (1975) is a classic; for Apollonius see especially pp. 306 – 17.
 Fowler (1989) still remains the most valuable source for the study of Alexandrian aesthetics
(see especially pp. 23 – 31, 110 – 36 and 168 – 86 on nature and Apollonius).
 On the divine and human map in the Argonautica from a cultural perspective, see Hunter
1995.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 167

βῆ δὲ διὲκ μεγάλοιο Διὸς πάγκαρπον ἀλωήν,

αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα πύλας ἐξήλυθεν Οὐλύμποιο
αἰθερίας. ἔνθεν δὲ καταιβάτις ἐστὶ κέλευθος
οὐρανίη· δοιὼ δὲ πόλοι ἀνέχουσι κάρηνα
οὐρέων ἠλιβάτων, κορυφαὶ χθονός, ἧχί τ᾽ ἀερθείς
ἠέλιος πρώτῃσιν ἐρεύθεται ἀκτίνεσσιν.
νειόθι δ᾽ ἄλλοτε γαῖα φερέσβιος ἄστεά τ᾽ ἀνδρῶν
φαίνετο καὶ ποταμῶν ἱεροὶ ῥόοι, ἄλλοτε δ᾽ αὖτε
ἄκριες, ἀμφὶ δὲ πόντος, ἀν᾽ αἰθέρα πολλὸν ἰόντι.
(3.158 – 66)

He traversed the fruit-filled orchard of mighty Zeus and then passed through the ethereal
gates of Olympos. From there a path descends from heaven; and two peaks of lofty moun-
tains uphold the sky, the highest points on earth, where the risen sun grows red with its
first rays. And beneath him at times appeared life-sustaining earth and cities of men and
divine streams of rivers, and then at other times mountain peaks, while all around was
the sea as he traveled through the vast sky.

The gates of Olympos are clearly portals that allow transitions from the divine to
the human world, and Eros’ passing through them foreshadows his involvement
in the affairs of men. From a panoramic standpoint the reader takes a look at the
divine landscape (the pillars holding the sky evoke the archetypal image of the
mythical Atlas) and at the cosmos of mortals suggested through a set of land-
marks as if designed on a physical map. What is striking in this passage is the
ethereal path through which sky and earth, viz immortals and mortals, are for-
ever connected, a path not mentioned in similar Homeric accounts according
to which these worlds are poles apart.²³
Not so in Apollonius, for divine and mundane spaces regularly intersect in
the Argonautica. The scene on Mount Dindymon is a paradigm of how the sacred
and the profane co-exist in an archetypal landscape, namely the mountain.²⁴
The two climbs of the Argonauts to Dindymon are interrupted by the battle
with the Earthborn (1.985 – 8 and 1.1104– 52). At first, the Argonauts ascend to
Dindymon to view the route for the continuation of the voyage, and it is here
that the narrator gives prominence to historical geography and its visualiza-
tion—from the summit they get a stunning mountain panorama of Thrace, Bo-
sporus and Mysia. Eventually the real mission of the ascend is carried out, i. e.
the performance of ritual in honour of Rhea/Kybele. A wealth of details from

 Especially in the Iliad, where vertical distance between the two worlds is highlighted: see
Purves 2010a, 24– 64; Tsagalis 2012, 140 – 7.
 On the symbolism of the mountain as a remote natural space connected either with gods or
monstrous creatures, and for a detailed discussion of the Dindymon episode, see Williams 1991,
79 – 92.
168 Evina Sistakou

the natural landscape—the mysterious forest, the trunk of the vine, the tall
oaks—used in the ritual allude to the very symbolism of Mother Goddess as
the Soul of the Earth. Primitiveness, exoticism and fantasy are in play in this
landscape. And although an actual encounter with the goddess never takes
place, her presence is felt in the signs of a miraculous rebirth of nature (τὰ δ᾽ ἐοι-
κότα σήματ᾽ ἔγεντο, 1.1141), expressed in a sequence of Golden Age tableaux: the
trees are filled with fruits, flowers sprout from the grass, wild animals are tamed
and water gushes from the arid mountain. A realistically depicted site is thus
transformed into an enchanted space where men and the phantom of a goddess
meet.
As said, in archaic epic the realms of the gods are set on Olympos or in the
depths of the sea, spaces distant and estranged from those of humans; however,
it is not uncommon for gods to penetrate into the spaces of mortals, usually in
disguise, to act as helpers or advisers. In view of the new sensibility developed
during the Hellenistic period, such appearances usually take the form of an ep-
iphany. An epiphany occurs in specific spatiotemporal settings; typically it is
noon in an eutopic landscape. But Apollonius is innovative in choosing dawn
for the coming of Apollo, the god of the Sun, to the deserted island of Thynias
(2.669 – 713).²⁵ Although description is not part of the scene, dramatic change
in the natural landscape occurs as the blond god makes his epiphany. As Phoe-
bus walks, the earth shakes (ἡ δ᾽ ὑπὸ ποσσίν σείετο νῆσος ὅλη, 2.679 – 80) and
tidal waves strike the shore (κλύζεν δ᾽ ἐπὶ κύματα χέρσῳ, 2.680) causing the Ar-
gonauts to hide in amazement (τοὺς δ᾽ ἕλε θάμβος ἰδόντας ἀμήχανον, 2.681) and
avoid eye contact with the god (οὐδέ τις ἔτλη ἀντίον αὐγάσσασθαι ἐς ὄμματα
καλὰ θεοῖο, 2.681– 2). In this passage, Earth is simultaneously inhabited by
god and man—hence Thynias is a Garden of Eden before the Fall located in
the heart of Hellenistic epic.²⁶

Spaces of Desire
As a story of piracy and romance the Argonautica overflows with desire. Desired
places and objects are literal and metaphorical spaces longed for by the charac-

 Cf. Apollo’s second epiphany on the Melanteian Rocks which is perceived as a flash of light
(4.1706 – 10); the epiphany of Apollo on Thynias may be seen as a poetic version of the sunrise as
Hunter (1986) suggests.
 Cf. Gen. 3.8: καὶ ἤκουσαν τὴν φωνὴν κυρίου τοῦ θεοῦ περιπατοῦντος ἐν τῷ παραδείσῳ τὸ
δειλινόν, καὶ ἐκρύβησαν ὅ τε Ἀδὰμ καὶ ἡ γυνὴ αὐτοῦ ἀπὸ προσώπου κυρίου τοῦ θεοῦ ἐν μέσῳ
τοῦ ξύλου τοῦ παραδείσου.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 169

ters; visualization and appeal to the senses are techniques employed to describe
such spaces. Objects arousing desire are described in the form of ecphrasis sev-
eral times in the Argonautica. A case in point is the golden ball promised by Aph-
rodite to Eros, in effect a sphere depicting in miniature the harmony of the cel-
estial cosmos (3.131– 41).²⁷ Similarly desirable are the robes of Jason and Hypsi-
pyle, two objects strongly appealing to the senses.²⁸ Jason’s purple cloak in Book
1 is visualized in terms of its vibrant colour: τῆς μὲν ῥηίτερόν κεν ἐς ἠέλιον
ἀνιόντα ὄσσε βάλοις ἢ κεῖνο μεταβλέψειας ἔρευθος, 1.725 – 6 (“you could cast
your eyes more easily on the rising sun than gaze at that cloak’s red colour”).
In Book 4, the robe of Hypsipyle not only delights the senses (οὔ μιν ἀφάσσων
οὔτε κεν εἰσορόων γλυκὺν ἵμερον ἐμπλήσειας, 4.428 – 9 “neither by stroking it
or gazing upon it could you satisfy your sweet longing…”): it moreover bears
the memory of a legendary desire, since it once served as a bedcover upon
which Dionysos made love to Ariadne on the island of Dia (4.430 – 4).
What is desired is inaccessible and unrealizable, it has less relations with
reality than with the domain of fantasy. Spaces of desire are therefore counter-
factual in being both imagined and idealized. And if this applies to artefacts
made by the hands of gods that encompass the entire cosmos, such as the
ball of Eros and the cloak of Jason, it is even more evident when eutopias and
idyllic landscapes come into view.²⁹ Indeed Apollonius’ historical map slips
into the idyllic at the end of Book 1. After the epiphany of Mother Goddess caus-
ing the regeneration of nature on Mount Dindymon, the Argonautic landscape
emanates an otherwordly aura; in the subsequent episode on the abduction of
Hylas the Argonauts depart from factuality by immersing themselves in a
world of mystery and desire (1.1172– 363).³⁰ The Mysian mainland, where the
Hylas episode will take place, is apparently rooted in the real-world;³¹ but
once Heracles enters into the woods (βῆ ῥ᾽ ἴμεν εἰς ὕλην υἱὸς Διός, 1.1188), the
travelogue gives its place to fairytale.³² Then desire for water brings Hylas to
the eponymous spring, the Pegae, around which nymphs perform their dances

 For the cosmic symbolism of Eros’ golden ball, see Pendergraft 1991.
 Not only is love the central theme of the epic as argued by Zanker (1979), but, besides Medea
in Book 3, Jason is also identified as a sexual hero throughout the epic by Beye (1969): spaces of
desire in Apollonius’ epic mirror exactly this theme.
 Conventionally termed as locus amoenus, on which see the dissertation by Schönbeck (1962).
 On this sequence of dark sites, see Sistakou 2012, 103 – 7.
 Cf. e. g. the ‘Hesiodic’ description of the daily routine of a gardener or a ploughman at
1.1172– 8.
 See Clute/Grant (1997, s.v. Into the Woods); it is justly argued that entering the woods, a
theme often encountered in fairytale narratives, symbolizes a transformation, a rite of passage
or a quest for the heart’s desire.
170 Evina Sistakou

by moonlight. In this landscape of heightened sensation one nymph falls in love

with Hylas. Now the young boy’s body becomes the space of desire; yet with a
deadly embrace it is eventually absorbed by the swirling waters of the spring
(1.1221– 39). The outcome of the story clearly demonstrates how desire in an eu-
topia may turn into a nightmarish scenario.³³
But the main space of desire in the Argonautica is no other than Colchis, for
the Argonauts are, to a certain degree, pirates searching for a hidden treasure in
a faraway city of gold, a mythical Eldorado.³⁴ Seen from this perspective, the pal-
ace of king Aeetes may only convey images of authority and wealth to the invad-
ers into the desired land. Indeed opulence and grandeur dominate the descrip-
tion of Aeetes’ palace as focalized through the eyes of the amazed Argonauts
(3.213 – 38).³⁵ Not only do the palace’s architecture and gardens come close to
perfection, but moreover the techne of god Hephaestus is omnipresent in the
wondrous springs and bronze artefacts and the adamant plough decorating
the royal gardens. Book 3 and 4 are supplemented by descriptions of other mag-
ical and dark spaces which constitute the topography of Colchis: the shrine of
Hekate, the plain of Ares and the grove where the Golden Fleece is held.
The grove is yet another symbol of fantasy narratives and a typical abode of
the fairytale dragon, and Apollonius describes them extensively as horrifying
spaces (4.123 – 61). Against this dark background (πολύσκιον ἄλσος, 4.166) the
Golden Fleece stands out for its unearthly radiance, which is indirectly suggested
by a simile referring to the beam of the full moon (4.167– 70). Jason rejoices in its
sight and touch (4.170 – 82) until it comes into full view in the eyes of the crew:

θάμβησαν δὲ νέοι μέγα κῶας ἰδόντες

λαμπόμενον στεροπῇ ἴκελον Διός, ὦρτο δ᾽ ἕκαστος
ψαῦσαι ἐελδόμενος δέχθαι τ᾽ ἐνὶ χερσὶν ἑῇσιν
(4.184– 6)

The young men marvelled when they saw the great fleece shining like a thunderbolt of
Zeus, and each one leapt up, eager to touch it and take it in his hands…

 Apollonius indeed transforms an eutopic into a dystopic landscape by use of acoustical and
similar effects, on which see Williams 1991, 175 – 84.
 Though Jason diplomatically rejects Aeetes’ accusations of piracy (τίς δ᾽ ἂν τόσον οἶδμα
περῆσαι/ τλαίη ἑκὼν ὀθνεῖον ἐπὶ κτέρας;, 3.388 – 9), the idea of acquiring the Golden Fleece is
obsessively repeated throughout the epic (in phrases such as χρύσειον μετὰ κῶας, κῶας ἄγειν
κριοῖο μεμαότες, χρύσεον Αἰήταο μεθ᾽ Ἑλλάδα κῶας ἄγοιντο, ἑλεῖν δέρος Αἰήταο and so on).
 See Williams 1991, 151– 62; cf. Sistakou (2012, 81– 4 and 114– 16) for Aeetes as embodying the
dark lord and his palace the threatening edifice of Gothic fantasy.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 171

The sensuality of the object overcomes its value as a booty for the pirates. Sen-
suality is again stressed when the nymphs spread the bridal bed for Jason and
Medea in a cave in the land of the Phaeacians (4.1128 – 55); the Golden Fleece
is the cover upon which the newlywed couple will eventually unite (ἔνθα τότ᾽
ἐστόρεσαν λέκτρον μέγα· τοῖο δ᾽ ὕπερθε χρύσεον αἰγλῆεν κῶας βάλον,
4.1141– 2 “here, then, they spread the great bed and over it threw the gleaming
Golden Fleece…”). The Golden Fleece, with all its sexual connotations, thus be-
comes the ultimate space of desire (and tragedy) both for the pirates and Medea.

Heterotopias
Heterotopia is a broad term denoting spaces of Otherness, counter-spaces as op-
posed to hegemonic spaces, spaces of both here and there, both now and then,
spaces that represent and at the same time invert the norm, spaces of crisis and
deviation.³⁶ The Argonautica is probably the first work in literature—perhaps
alongside Callimachus’ Aetia—that is so conscious of communicating and dram-
atizing spatial and/or temporal displacement.³⁷ Apollonius experiments with all
types of heterotopic geography, thus calling into question the factual mapping of
the world that apparently dominates his epic. There are various types of hetero-
topias in the Argonautica. For instance, Jason’s cloak, as a representation of the
entire cosmos, encompasses spaces from the whole range of mythology (1.721–
67): in juxtaposing incongruous sites—the workshop of the Cyclopes, Thebes be-
fore foundation, the bedchamber of Aphrodite, the bloody meadow invaded by
the Taphians, Pelops’ chariot race in Olympia—Apollonius creates a mythical
heterotopia.³⁸ On the grand scale, the mythical otherworld encountered by the
Argo during its voyage is a counter-space to the historical route followed by
the Argonauts. Other heterotopias include fantasyworlds, sanctified sites and
spaces of desire as discussed above.

 The concept was introduced by French philosopher Michel Foucault in 1967 (on which see
Foucault 1986).
 Thalmann (2011, 34– 5 and passim) argues that the Argo is a heterotopia affirmative of Greek
culture; for a heterotopic/heterochronic reading of Callimachus’ poetry, see Selden 1998. It is
worth noting that in both approaches heterotopia concerns the cultural antithesis between Greek
and non-Greek (preferably Egyptian) in Apollonius and Callimachus, a view markedly different
from the one I adopt in my discussion of the Argonautica.
 The paradigm proposed by Foucault (1986, 25 – 6) for this type of heterotopia is the Persian
Garden and the Persian carpet, which, like the objects of epic ecphrasis, represent the totality of
the world in their microcosm.
172 Evina Sistakou

What merits special attention here are heterotopias suggesting isolation

from society or reality. A distinct category are the heterotopias of crisis, in
which characters are confined after alienating themselves from their social envi-
ronment. Lemnos is an example of such a closed heterotopia (1.609 – 39):
women, except for their queen Hypsipyle, commit a massive androcide on Lem-
nos; as a consequence, they become the only inhabitants and labourers of the
island, and live deprived of men and sex until the arrival of the Argonauts—
for the Argo is the only ship that has ever sailed to this wilderness.³⁹ Phineus
is also held in detention in the Thynian land (2.178 – 239). Punished by Zeus
for prophesying his intentions to men, Phineus is kept within the limits of his
house like a prisoner (ἔνθα δ᾽ ἐπάκτιον οἶκον Ἀγηνορίδης ἔχε Φινεύς, 2.178
“there Agenor’s son Phineus had his home on the shore”; cf. ἀλλά με πικρὴ
δῆτα καὶ ἄατος ἴσχει ἀνάγκη/ μίμνειν, 2.232– 3 “but a truly painful and unending
necessity compels me to stay there…”). The abode of Phineus is both a heteroto-
pia of deviation—a kind of prison for the hubristic seer—and a torture chamber
accessed by the Harpies: its heterotopic character is revealed by the mysterious
connection between Phineus’ feasting hall and heaven (Ἅρπυιαι στόματός μοι
ἀφαρπάζουσιν ἐδωδήν/ ἔκποθεν… καταΐσσουσαι, 2.223 – 5 “the Harpies swoop
down from some unseen place… and snatch the food from my mouth”; ἀπρόφα-
τοι νεφέων ἐξάλμεναι ἐσσεύοντο, 2.268 “without warning sprang from the
clouds and swooped down…”).
Yet, if one character deserves to be seen through the prism of crisis and de-
viation in the Argonautica, this is Medea, and consequently her spaces may be
considered as heterotopic. Apollonius is meticulous in designing Colchian topog-
raphy which is divided into spaces controlled by the hegemonic figure of
Aeetes—here the dazzling palace and the horrifying plain of Ares are of para-
mount importance—and into spaces where Medea moves and lives. As a young
maiden Medea is imprisoned in the house of the father, symbolically illustrated
by the closed space of the bedchamber. The bedchamber houses Medea’s desires,
dilemmas and nightmares, and in this respect it is emblematic of her emotional
crisis (3.616 – 824). Medea is symbolically liberated from patriarchal authority
once exiting the palace and the city (3.869 – 86): thence she enters into a differ-
ent kind of heterotopia, a realm of magic dominated by the dark powers of He-
cate (3.887– 8; cf. 3.250 – 2).⁴⁰ A third heterotopia is the Argo itself, where Medea

 That Lemnos is depicted as a wild heterotopic space is reinforced by images such as that of
the Thyiads awaiting on the shore: δήια τεύχεα δῦσαι ἐς αἰγιαλὸν προχέοντο,/ Θυιάσιν ὠμο-
βόροις ἴκελαι, 1.635 – 6.
 Caucasus, the space where the herb Prometheion grows, is another heterotopia of magic and
horror associated with Medea (3.844– 68).
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 173

eventually seeks shelter after having abandonded family and homeland in Book
4 (4.35 – 81).⁴¹
A different type of heterotopia suggestive of isolation is the domain of the
dead. Although the Argonautic plot does not feature a journey to the under-
world, it is nevertheless replete with spaces thematizing death.⁴² As the Argo-
nauts penetrate deep into the Black Sea, they come across the Acheron which,
despite signposting the portal to Hades, is fully integrated into the historical top-
ography and the natural environment of the region (2.720 – 51). Apollonius con-
founds the readers’ expectations that the Acherousian headland can develop
into a space of horror similar to the one described in the Odyssean Nekyia;
only the terrifying sound effects and the icy coldness of the landscape create a
chilling atmosphere but without any explicit reference to the dead.⁴³ Yet death
is a recurrent theme in the Argonautica, and dead heroes are evoked in the nu-
merous tombs found or erected during the voyage. Tombs are special places of
remembrance for the Argonauts but also serve as memorials for future genera-
tions (for example the tomb of Cyzicus, 1.1058 – 62, or of Idmon, 2.835 – 50);
they are sites of cult and veneration (of Tiphys, 2.924– 9), and, of course, of la-
ment (for Tiphys, 2.859 – 63); and they may also become the theatre of ghostly
apparitions (as in the case of Sthenelos’ tomb, 2.911– 22).⁴⁴ But the most impres-
sive death space is Circe’s plain where trees grow corpses; here the idyllic devel-
ops into the uncanny:⁴⁵

Κιρκαῖον τόγε δὴ κικλήσκεται, ἔνθα δὲ πολλαί

ἑξείης πρόμαλοί τε καὶ ἰτέαι ἐμπεφύασιν,
τῶν καὶ ἐπ᾽ ἀκροτάτων νέκυες σειρῇσι κρέμανται
δέσμιοι.
(3.200 – 3)

This plain is, I believe, called Circe’s, where many tamarisks and willows grow in rows, on
whose topmost branches hang dead bodies bound with cords.

 For the reading of Medea as a Gothic heroine and a victim of patriarchal authority, see
Sistakou 2012, 78 – 99.
 Apollonius eliminates a proper katabasis from his quest epic: on the allusions to the Ho-
meric Nekyia, especially in regard to Heracles, see Kyriakou 1995. For a close comparison
between the infernal atmosphere of several Argonautic passages and the Nekyia, see Nelis 2001,
228 – 35.
 Williams 1991, 145 – 50.
 On death and the tombs in the Argonautica, see Durbec (2008); on heroic tombs in Apol-
lonius’ epic cf. Saïd 1998, 17– 19.
 For this avenue made of corpses and the horror atmosphere created by it, see Sistakou 2012,
115.
174 Evina Sistakou

The route to and from the Colchis occasionally resembles a huge cemetery—the
spaces surrounding the Argonauts are a constant reminder of death awaiting all
humans, the heroes of the Argo included.

Mythical Places
Heterotopias may also develop into heterochronies, since the Argonauts are not
only travellers in space but also travellers in time. In transcending spatial and
temporal confines the Argonauts are confronted with different layers of mythical
time along the route.⁴⁶ An obvious example of timeslip is the intersection be-
tween Argonautic and Odyssean itineraries, as reflected in the Homeric sites en-
countered by the Argo. Different routes are more explicitly crossed in the case of
Heracles and the mythical spaces connected with his labours. As stated in the
catalogue (1.121– 32), Heracles is in the middle of killing the Erymanthian Boar
when he decides to join the Argo; in effect he is on the road (ἀλλ᾽ ἐπεὶ ἄιε
βάξιν ἀγειρομένων ἡρώων/ νεῖον ἀπ᾽ Ἀρκαδίης Λυρκήιον Ἄργος ἀμείψας…,
1.124– 5 “when he heard the report that the heroes were gathering, he had just
crossed from Arcadian to Lyrceian Argos…”). In departing from Mycenae (ἐνὶ
πρώτῃσι Μυκηνάων ἀγορῆσιν, 1.128 “at the edge of the Mycenaeans’ assembly
place”), and thus bringing his heroic endeavour to a standstill (αὐτὸς δ᾽ ᾗ ἰότητι
παρὲκ νόον Εὐρυσθῆος/ ὡρμήθη, 1.130 – 1 “and set out of his own accord against
the will of Eurystheus”), Heracles heads towards Argonautic spaces. Yet, once
Heracles is abandoned in Mysia, he resumes his labours for Eurystheus (ὁ δ᾽
Εὐρυσθῆος ἀέθλους/ αὖτις ἰὼν πονέεσθαι, 1.1347– 8 “Heracles was to go back
again and perform Eurystheus’ labours”); when in Book 4 the Argonauts eventu-
ally arrive at the Garden of the Hesperides, they almost run across Heracles, who
had been there the day before (cf. ἤλυθε γὰρ χθιζός τις ἀνήρ, 4.1436 “for a man
came yesterday…”). Despite this asynchronism (which in effect dramatizes the
asynchronism of the two mythological cycles), it is critical to recognize that

 Cf. Foucault (1986, 26) who notes that “there are heterotopias of indefinitely accumulating
time, for example museums and libraries…the idea of accumulating everything, of establishing a
sort of general archive, the will to enclose in one place all times, all epochs, all forms, all tastes,
the idea of constituting a place of all times that is itself outside of time and inaccessible to its
ravages, the project of organizing in this way a sort of perpetual and indefinite accumulation of
time in an immobile place, this whole idea belongs to our modernity”. That museums (and
libraries) are culturally significant for Apollonius is a fact that hardly needs any documentation:
hence, the Argonautica, as a mosaic of all mythological cycles coexisting in a single space,
clearly reflects the Alexandrian fascination with the preservation of the past.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 175

the Garden of the Hesperides is a site where two myths, the Argonautic expedi-
tion and the labours of Heracles, intersect.⁴⁷
The most striking feature of the Argonautic spaces is precisely the coexis-
tence of various mythical cycles in the same setting. There is an overall sense
that the Argonauts travel along an open-air museum where each site has its
own story to tell. The female domains that play a key role in the economy of
Apollonius’ geography are a case in point: nymphs, once sleeping with gods
and heroes, have still their abode in the spatial and temporal space surrounding
the Argonauts. In Book 1 the heroes pass by the island of Electra, the daughter of
Atlas (915 – 21); in Book 2 the blowing of the Etesian winds leads to a digression
on the love of the nymph Cyrene and Apollo (498 – 505), whereas the Assyrian
land is said to be the dwelling of Sinope, the daughter of Asopus (946 – 54),
and another mythical site, the island of Philyra, is presented as the setting of
Zeus’ lovemaking with the daughter of Oceanus (1231– 41); in Book 4 two islands
off Illyria, Corcyra and Nymphaea, conjure up the memory of Corcyra, Poseidon’s
beloved, and Calypso respectively (566 – 76). All these spaces are created by and
exist through narrative; such narrativized spaces become places, in the sense
that they cease to be mere geographical ‘sites’ and incorporate stories, experien-
ces and emotions, thereby acquiring a temporal dimension and a special mean-
ing.⁴⁸
A mythical place is more than a memorial of times past, because it perpet-
ually reproduces the story that has given birth to it. This process presupposes
presentification, recapturing of the past as lived experience, and Apollonius
masterfully heightens this effect in the Argonautica. A fine example is provided
by the Prometheus passage at the end of Book 2 (1246 – 59). Caucasus is identi-
fied as the place where the Titan’s torturing is forever replicated. The Argonauts
get a glimpse of Zeus’ eagle flying through the air (1251– 5) and hear the torment-
ed cries of Prometheus (1256 – 9); it is as if they perceive the abyss of time divid-
ing them from pre-Olympian world order in a moment of revelation.⁴⁹ It is worth
noting that Prometheus is never actually viewed, although the setting of his tor-
ment, i. e. the cliff of Caucasus, is clearly visualized (καὶ δὴ Καυκασίων ὀρέων
ἀνέτελλον ἐρίπναι/ ἠλίβατοι, 1247– 8 “and then, rising above the horizon were

 The Garden of the Hesperides also signifies the generic crossing between the Argonautica
and a Heracleid, on which see Sistakou 2009, 391– 2.
 On space as place from the viewpoint of human geography, sociology and philosophy, see
the introduction by Hubbard/Kitchin/Valentine 2004.
 Clute/Grant (1997, s.v. Time Abyss) argue that the gap between the present of a narrative and
some point deep in the past as perceived by characters and readers is a hallmark of fantasy
literature. On the pre-Olympian background of the Prometheus scene, see Sistakou 2012, 113 – 14.
176 Evina Sistakou

the steep cliffs of the Caucasus mountains…”). This explains the illusionary,
phantom-like nature of mythical places—they are not actually seen but vaguely
sensed and thence mentally reconstructed.⁵⁰
Places create virtual realities for the Argonauts, whereas their journey resem-
bles a passage through mythical time. A striking case is the entering of the Argo
into the Eridanus, the river where Phaethon once suffered agonizing death struck
by the thunderbolt of Zeus (4.595 – 626). Conspicuously set in the past (ἔνθα ποτ᾽
αἰθαλόεντι τυπεὶς πρὸς στέρνα κεραυνῷ/ ἡμιδαὴς Φαέθων πέσεν ἅρματος Ἠελί-
οιο, 4.597– 8 “where once Phaethon was struck by a blazing lightning bolt on his
chest and fell half-burned from Helius’ chariot…”), the episode seems to be still
vividly present on site. The lament of the Heliades blends with nature so subtly
that characters become amalgamated into place.⁵¹ Phaethon’s smouldering
wounds steam up the landscape, while the Heliades, transformed into poplars,
shed tears that flow with the river’s waters:

ἡ δ᾽ ἔτι νῦν περ

τραύματος αἰθομένοιο βαρὺν ἀνακηκίει ἀτμόν
(4.599 – 600)

…which to this day spews up noxious steam from his smouldering wound…

ἀμφὶ δὲ κοῦραι
Ἡλιάδες ταναῇσιν ἐελμέναι αἰγείροισιν
μύρονται κινυρὸν μέλεαι γόον
(4.603 – 5)

…and round about, the maiden Heliades, confined in tall poplars, sadly wail a pitiful la-
ment…

τὰ δὲ δάκρυα μυρομένῃσιν
οἷον ἐλαιηραὶ στάγες ὕδασιν ἐμφορέοντο
(4.625 – 6)

…as they wept, their tears were borne along the waters like drops of oil…

The landscape thus functions as a screen upon which images of illusionary fig-
ures are projected to produce an uncanny effect—this virtual tour through myth
becomes a show of phantasmagoria for the Argonauts, the immediate viewers,
and the readers of the epic alike.

 Both the Prometheus and the Phaethon episode, narrated in a fragmented and static
manner, highlight the distance between Argonautic present and mythical past (Byre 1996).
 Williams (1991, 245 – 8) argues that Apollonius breathes emotion into nature by making the
landscape itself weep for Phaethon.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 177

A Territory of Mirages
Mirage, and the correlated concepts of illusion, hallucination, dream and vision,
are essential for understanding spatiality in Book 4 of the Argonautica. The real-
istic geography of the return itinerary serves as a foil to the counterfactual top-
ographies that test the endurance of the Argonauts on their way home. Odyssean
spaces are one category of the illusionary, as they form literary phantoms that
haunt Apollonius’ epic. To follow, or bypass, Odyssean sites proves to be the ul-
timate challenge for the Argonauts whose nostos is moulded to that of Odysseus.
Faced with the dilemma of imitating the Odyssey or offering a neoteric variation
of it, Apollonius decides either to suppress specific episodes (the island of Calyp-
so or the Laestrygonians are hardly mentioned in the Argonautica) or to create
mirages of Odyssean spaces. Immediately after their fantastic ride through the
Wandering Rocks, an unrealistic episode par excellence, the Argonauts catch a
fleeting glimpse of Thrinacia (4.964– 81). Time is extremely brief,⁵² plot is absent
and the entire scene is an audiovisual recreation of Thrinacia as a bucolic, and
hence idyllic, setting. Although the narrator informs us that the daughters of He-
lios, Phaethusa and Lampetia, shepherd the legendary cattle of their father, the
Argonauts perceive only illusions of the scene: they listen to the cattle’s bleating,
they are blinded by the silver and orichalcum staffs carried by the girls, and mar-
vel at the snow-white cows with their golden horns. This is a dazzling mirage of
an Odyssean landscape rather than a fully-fledged Argonautic experience.⁵³
Yet, it is the second category of illusionary spaces that is fascinating—not
from an intertextual point of view but from a purely dramatic one: it comprises
the spaces travelled by the Argonauts once they enter the fantastic otherworld of
Libya (4.1225 – 619).⁵⁴ Despite the realistic underpinning of Libyan geography
(the main sources being Herodotus and Timaeus), the reader is kept in suspense
as to whether what is visualized in the last phase of the Argonautic voyage is real
or imaginary.⁵⁵ Illusion replaces action, and indeed this section of the Argonau-
tica has an affinity with fantasy literature and fairytale narratives. Space and
time indicate the shift in the generic quality of the epic by clearly evoking the

 Time, and hence action, is suppressed already in the preceding episode, as indicated by
ὅσση δ᾽ εἰαρινοῦ μηκύνεται ἤματος αἶσα,/ τοσσάτιον μογέεσκον ἐπὶ χρόνον in 961– 2, and further
suggested by ὦκα δ᾽ ἄμειβον in 964 and καὶ μὲν τὰς παράμειβον ἐπ᾽ ἤματι in 979.
 Knight 1995, 216 – 20.
 For the Libyan adventure as a fantasy episode in the Argonautica, see Sistakou 2012, 125 – 9;
cf. Livrea (1987) who stresses the dramatic aspects of the Libyan episode.
 On Libya between reality and fantasy, with a thorough discussion of the site’s geography, see
Vian 1981, 53 – 64.
178 Evina Sistakou

shipwreck narratives of the Odyssey. ⁵⁶ After an unexpected northern wind, the

Argo wanders for nine nights and nine days in the Libyan sea—a magical num-
ber marking the transition into a dimension alternative to that of reality—, until
the ship becomes stranded at the gulf of Syrtis. An infinite and awe-inspiring
land, with no name or identity (τίς χθὼν εὔχεται ἥδε;, 1251 “what is this land
called?”), stretches in all directions (μεγάλης νῶτα χθονὸς ἠέρι ἶσα/ τηλοῦ ὑπερ-
τείνοντα διηνεκές, 1246 – 7 “the expanse of vast land stretching just like the sky
into the distance without a break”, cf. 1264– 6): this is not just another exotic ad-
venture for the Argonauts but an entrapment in a space of hallucination, agony
and death.⁵⁷ And it is here that for the first time the Argonauts lose sight of their
spatial orientation in real topography and are completely immersed in a counter-
factual world.⁵⁸
In all fantastic literature, beginning with the Odyssey, the sea and other limi-
nal spaces, such as the desert, the mountaintops or the ends of the earth, be-
come, under special conditions of light and shadow, the theatre of strange appa-
ritions, which are no more than spectral illusions formed by the mind’s eye.⁵⁹
Moreover, it appears that the Libyan episode is set in a dreamland, since during
their first night the Argonauts are overcome by a sleep similar to death (θυμὸν
ἀποφθίσειαν ἐνὶ ψαμάθοισι πεσόντες, 1292 “so that each could then collapse
on the sand and perish”); as they lie one next to the other, they render the Lib-
yan desert a huge cemetery (βὰν δ᾽ ἴμεν ἄλλυδις ἄλλος, ἑκαστέρω αὖλιν ἑλέσθαι,
1293 “they went off here and there, one further than the next, to choose a resting
place”).⁶⁰ At this critical point between dream and death, three divine appari-
tions take place: that of the Libyan heroines and the chariot of Poseidon, that
of the Hesperides and the far-off phantom of Heracles, and finally that of Eury-
pylus/Triton. This sequence of marvels is set against the background of three
equally marvellous landscapes, namely the desert, the garden and the lake re-
spectively. The sand dunes of Libya struck by the rays of the midday sun create

 Clare 2002, 150 – 9.

 For the modes of description adopted by Apollonius in the Syrtis episode, see Williams 1991,
163 – 73.
 Cf. Clare (2002, 151– 2) who convincingly argues that “until now the route of Argo has
depended upon orientation by visible signs and pre-ordained paths, but the Syrtis landscape is
something entirely alien and extraneous to this process…it is not so much a question of not
knowing where to go, as there being, quite literally, nowhere to go to: there are no paths at all in
this desolate scene”.
 Visual illusions as cultural phenomena are brilliantly explored by Warner (2006); especially
for natural fata morganas, see pp. 105 – 17.
 One cannot but agree with Stephens (2008, 108 – 11) who argues that the Libyan adventure
may be read as a katabasis within an Egyptian symbolic framework.
 Mapping Counterfactuality in Apollonius’ Argonautica 179

the ideal conditions for the appearance of the meridianus demon (1312– 14),
whereas later on are connected to the horrifying story of Medusa’s head (1513 –
17); the Garden with the apples of the Hesperides, after the labour of Heracles
(1396 – 405), becomes a space of natural metamorphosis (1422– 30, 1444 – 9);
the Tritonian lake, evoked as Athena’s birthplace (1309 – 11), functions as the set-
ting for the seagod’s miraculous apparition (1601– 19). Once exiting the lake into
the Mediterranean again, the Argo resumes its course in the real world.
Despite spatial coordination suggested by the itinerary followed (Libya,
Crete, the Aegean and finally Iolcos), temporal disjunction is still looming on
the horizon of Book 4. The killing of Talos on the island of Crete and the over-
powering of darkness upon the appearance of Anaphe mark a decisive victory
of the civilizing forces of the Argonauts over primordial chaos, in effect a defeat
of the uncivilized past and a promise of a new future.⁶¹ In a shifting and desta-
bilized world, like the one reflected in moving geographies, fantasyworlds and
places of Otherness, Jason and the Argonauts seek to establish a new order. Al-
beit constantly interacting with the landscape and reshaping their universe, they
envision a future world, one that has yet to come. The world as vision comes as a
climax to the entire epic when Euphemos recounts an uncanny dream involving
the divine clod of earth from which Thera will arise in the distant future:

εἴσατο γάρ οἱ
δαιμονίη βῶλαξ ἐπιμάστιος ᾧ ἐν ἀγοστῷ
ἄρδεσθαι λευκῇσιν ὑπαὶ λιβάδεσσι γάλακτος,
ἐκ δὲ γυνὴ βώλοιο πέλειν ὀλίγης περ ἐούσης
παρθενικῇ ἰκέλη· μίχθη δέ οἱ ἐν φιλότητι
ἄσχετον ἱμερθείς· ὀλοφύρατο δ᾽ ἠύτε κούρην
ζευξάμενος, τὴν αὐτὸς ἑῷ ἀτίταλλε γάλακτι…
(4.1733 – 9)

For he had dreamed that the divine clod, which he held in his palm against his breast, was
being moistened with white drops of milk, and that from the clod, small as it was, came a
woman resembling a virgin. Overcome with insatiable desire, he made love to her, but then
lamented as if he had had intercourse with his daughter, whom he had been nourishing
with his own milk…

Regardless whether an imperial dream or a Freudian nightmare, Euphemos’ vi-

sion of Thera dramatizes future space as a woman that has to be seduced. The
ultimate vision projected by Apollonius in the extratextual future is probably
the foundation of Cyrene or even Alexandria, two cities symbolizing Ptolemaic

 Hunter 1993, 162– 9.

180 Evina Sistakou

colonialism and sovereignty.⁶² Thus, at the closure of the Argonautica politics

come into view, a space where counterfactuality and reality inevitably converge.

 For a Ptolemaic reading of the episode, see Stephens 2008. Köhnken (2005) argues that
Calliste/Thera is an allusion to the future colonization of Cyrene and hence to Callimachus.
Katerina Carvounis
Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’
Posthomerica ¹

Introduction
The Posthomerica (PH) by Quintus of Smyrna in fourteen books (c. 3rd c. AD) cov-
ers the events in the Trojan War between Hector’s death and the storm that hit
the victorious Greeks on their return journey from Troy.² The epic opens with a
reference to the death and burial of Hector (Q.S. 1.1– 4), and alludes at the
end to the troubles that Odysseus will suffer at Poseidon’s hands (14.630 – 1);
it is thus envisaged as a sequel to the Iliad and prequel to the Odyssey, with fa-
mous Iliadic moments – such as Achilles’ anger over Briseis, his grief at the
death of Patroclus, and Odysseus’ rebuke of Thersites – invoked as events that
have taken place ‘before’ the present narrative.³ Yet this is not to say that in
the few instances where events are covered both in the PH and (prospectively
or retrospectively) in the Homeric epics there is always agreement between the
two versions; in Odyssey 3, for example, Nestor claims that the sons of Atreus
quarrelled and that the Greeks sailed away from Troy in two groups, whereas
in PH 14 the Greeks, united, sail away in one group.⁴ In addition to plot, Quintus
draws on the Homeric epics for style and literary techniques to produce an epic
that is strikingly ‘Homerising’ in character, earning him the title ὁμηρικώτατος
(“most Homeric-like”)⁵ and firmly placing him within an archaising strand of
the epic tradition.⁶
Landscape markers within the PH have been central in attempts to establish
a context for this strongly ‘Homerising’ epic,⁷ and scholars have scrutinised two

 I use Vian’s critical edition (1963 – 9) to cite from the PH.

 For Quintus’ dates, see Baumbach/Bär 2007, 1– 8 and Gärtner 2005, 23 – 6.
 Cf. Q. S. 14.215 – 16, 1.720 – 1, and 1.759 – 60 respectively.
 A quarrel is also mentioned in Proclus’ summary of the archaic Nostoi (PEG 94).
 Lascaris, Matritensis gr. 4686 ap. Köchly 1850, cxi.
 See, e. g., Vian 1986, 336 – 9.
 Cf., e. g., James 2004, xviii: “If we examine Quintus’ work for indications of its period, we find
that there are hardly any, such was the success with which he reproduced the archaic character
of the Homeric epics and avoided anachronisms.” Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, by contrast, openly
refers to Rome’s glory and to Beyrut as a centre for law: see Hadjittofi 2007. On geography in the
PH, see Vian 1959, 110 – 44 and Kakridis 1962, 181– 8.
182 Katerina Carvounis

passages in particular to this effect:⁸ first, the apparently ‘autobiographical’ pas-

sage in PH 12 after the first-person invocation to the Muses, where the narrator
claims to have received inspiration while still a young man tending his sheep
in Smyrna:⁹

Τούς μοι νῦν καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἀνειρομένωι σάφα, Μοῦσαι,

ἔσπεθ᾽ ὅσοι κατέβησαν ἔσω πολυχανδέος ἵππου·
ὑμεῖς γὰρ πᾶσάν μοι ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θήκατ’ ἀοιδήν,
πρίν μοι <ἔτ’> ἀμφὶ παρειὰ κατασκίδνασθαι ἴουλον,
Σμύρνης ἐν δαπέδοισι περικλυτὰ μῆλα νέμοντι
τρὶς τόσον Ἕρμου ἄπωθεν ὅσον βοόωντος ἀκοῦσαι,
Ἀρτέμιδος περὶ νηὸν Ἐλευθερίωι ἐνὶ κήπωι,
οὔρεϊ οὔτε λίην χθαμαλῶι οὔθ’ ὑψόθι πολλῶι.
(Q. S. 12.306 – 13)

Muses, tell me now clearly, one by one, as I inquire, how many descended into the vast
horse; for you set the whole song into my mind, before my cheeks were yet covered in
down, while I tended my famous sheep in the land of Smyrna, three times as far from
the Hermus as it is to listen to someone calling, near the temple of Artemis in the garden
of Eleutherios, on a hill that is neither too low nor very high.¹⁰

It is on the basis of this passage that Quintus has received the epithet ‘Smyr-
naeus’, while the details of the river Hermus near Artemis’ temple in the Eleu-
therios garden (12.311– 13) purport to show deeper familiarity on the narrator’s
part with the locale.¹¹ It has also been argued that the fact that Quintus draws
mostly on Homer for his knowledge of mainland Greece and the islands but evin-
ces awareness of local histories for places in Asia Minor¹² can confirm his place
within that geographical milieu. ¹³

 A third passage that has been adduced to contextualise Quintus refers to a simile relating to
executions by lions and boars in an amphitheatre-like enclosure (Q. S. 6.532– 6): see, e. g.,
James/Lee 2000, 5 and Gärtner 2005, 24 with n. 14.
 For a detailed discussion of this passage, see more recently Bär 2007.
 Translations in this paper are my own unless otherwise acknowledged.
 Unlike Hermus, the temple of Artemis and the Eleutherios garden have not been identified;
for some suggestions, see Vian 1959, 131 and Vian 1963, x n. 1. West’s conjecture Ἐλευθερίου [sc.
Διός] (12.312) recorded in Vian’s apparatus is worthy of further consideration: shrines to Zeus
Eleutherios are attested in various parts of the Greek-speaking world (cf. Sim. AP 6.50; Hdt 3.142),
and a possible inclusion here alongside Artemis’ temple might suggest a sacred space for the
Muses.
 Vian 1959, 110 – 14. For the coasts of Caria and Lycia in particular, Quintus’ information is
confirmed by other sources and evidence, such as inscriptions and statements of ancient ge-
ographers, see Vian 1963, xii-xiii and cf. Robert 1978 46 – 8.
 For a recent reassessment of this view, see Bär 2007, 52– 61.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 183

The inclusion of topographical details in this ‘autobiographical’ passage

adds plausibility to Quintus’ literary affiliations with Homer, whose birthplace
was traditionally identified with Smyrna.¹⁴ Further hints in Quintus’ self-con-
scious invocation have encouraged scholars to consider its position vis-à-vis
three famous literary exchanges with the Muses: an important model here for
this invocation before the catalogue of heroes entering the Trojan Horse is the
Homeric invocation to the Muses before the catalogue of ships in Il. 2.484 – 92,
while the autobiographical element also recalls – in Callimachean terms (cf.
μῆλα νέμοντι, Aet. 1 fr. 2.1 Pfeiffer = fr. 4.1 Massimilla) – the proem to Hesiod’s
Theogony, where the poet claims to be tending sheep at the foot of Mount Helicon
when the Muses visit him (Th. 22 ff.). Moreover, Quintus’ claim that he was a
young man at that point recalls Callimachus’ own prologue to the Aetia,
where it is implied that the poet was ἀρτιγένειος, that is, “with his beard just
sprouting”, when the Muses took him to Helicon.¹⁵ By referring to these three fa-
mous instances in the literary tradition for his self-representation as a young
shepherd from Smyrna, Quintus states his literary affiliations with Homer, Hesi-
od and Callimachus.¹⁶
Quintus’ familiarity with the landscape of Asia Minor does not, in itself, suf-
fice to place him in that part of the Roman Empire; foundation literature in the
Hellenistic period, such as the ktiseis of various cities, was continued in late an-
tique Patriae,¹⁷ and such works may have been available to a poet eager to com-
plement information offered by the Homeric epics for Troy and beyond.¹⁸ On the
other hand, as we shall see below, most of the landmarks which, according to
the narrator of the PH, have survived ‘to this day’ or were erected for ‘future
men to see’ are set in the eastern part of the Roman Empire. This is not unexpect-
ed, given that the Troad forms the dramatic setting for the entire epic, but it re-
mains curious that so many such landmarks – not only within the narrative
proper but also within digressions – are centred in that geographical area. It
thus seems justified tentatively to associate Quintus with poetry flourishing in,
or looking towards, Asia Minor.¹⁹

 For an overview of ancient evidence, see Bär 2007, 53.

 Cf. Massimilla 1996, 243. Note that Quintus mentions that he was inspired by the Muses
before (πρίν, 12.309) his beard grew.
 See Hopkinson 1994, 106, for a metapoetic interpretation of Q. S. 12.313.
 Cameron 1995, 26 and 51 with n. 181.
 Vian 1959, 119. Cf. also the argument in Bär 2007, 55.
 This discussion draws on Carvounis 2005, 12– 13. See Bowie 1989 for Greek poetry in Asia
Minor from this period.
184 Katerina Carvounis

The second passage in the PH involving a landscape marker that has been
scrutinised in attempts to contextualise Quintus comes from a prophecy spoken
by Calchas during the sack of Troy in PH 13. The seer urges the Greeks to spare
Aeneas, for the gods have ordained that he leave Xanthus and go to the Tiber to
found a city, and that he may reign over countless men, with his race ruling from
east to west:

Τὸν γὰρ θέσφατόν ἐστι θεῶν ἐρικυδέι βουλῆι

Θύμβριν ἐπ᾽ εὐρυρέεθρον ἀπὸ Ξάνθοιο μολόντα
τευξέμεν ἱερὸν ἄστυ καὶ ἐσσομένοισιν ἀγητὸν
ἀνθρώποις, αὐτὸν δὲ πολυσπερέεσσι βροτοῖσι
κοιρανέειν· ἐκ τοῦ δὲ γένος μετόπισθεν ἀνάξειν
ἄχρις ἐπ᾽ Ἀντολίην τε καὶ ἀκάματον Δύσιν ἐλθεῖν.
(Q. S. 13.336 – 41)

For it is ordained by the glorious will of the gods that after he goes from Xanthus to the
wide-flowing Tiber, he shall construct a sacred city that will be admired even by men to
come, and that he himself will rule over mortals scattered far and wide; and in the future
the race descending from him shall rule until it reaches both the East and the tireless West.

The main model for Calchas’ speech is that of Poseidon in Il. 20.301– 8, where he
urges the gods to rescue Aeneas from certain death and save him for a glorious
future, as “it is fated for him to escape” (μόριμον δέ οἵ ἐστ᾽ ἀλέασθαι, Il. 20.302)
and “he [Aeneas] and his sons’ sons, who will be born in later times, will rule
over the Trojans” (Τρώεσσιν ἀνάξει/ καὶ παίδων παῖδες, τοί κεν μετόπισθε γένων-
ται, 20.307– 8).²⁰ Taken together with literary-historical evidence,²¹ Calchas’ allu-
sion to Rome that is implied through the reference to the Tiber²² plausibly sug-
gests that the PH was composed in the period of the Roman empire; but to
infer from there, however tentatively, that the inauguration of Constantinople
in 330 AD as the new seat of the empire has not yet taken place²³ relies on a haz-
ardous argumentum ex silentio. ²⁴
Landscape markers within the PH cannot, then, take us very far towards
placing Quintus within a temporal and physical setting; they can, nevertheless,
cast some light on his literary models, techniques, and poetics, as I shall argue
in the main part of this paper. In attempting to recreate the space in, around, and

 For ancient views of this prophecy, see Erskine 2001, 100 – 1.

 Cf., e. g., the argument for the composition of the PH after Oppian’s Halieutica.
 For the use of rivers as landmarks in oracles, cf., e. g., Hdt 1.55.
 Cf., e. g., James 2004, xix. Gärtner 2005, 24 and Baumbach/Bär 2007, 3 are rightly sceptical
regarding the weight of this argument to date Quintus.
 For a discussion of Quintus and the Roman Empire, see Hadjittofi 2007, 358 – 65.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 185

beyond Troy, Quintus draws heavily on the Iliad, and his poem emerges as a
credible sequel to the Homeric narrative of the Trojan War. Yet he does not hesi-
tate to refer to landmarks within Troy that pre-date, as it were, the narrative of
the PH but which did not feature in the Iliad. For instance, alongside the temple
of Athena (Il. 6.88, 269, 279, 297; cf. Q. S. 6.146, 13.435, 13.421– 8, 14.326) and the
sanctuary of Apollo (Il. 5.445 – 6, 5.512, 7.83; cf. Q. S. 12.481, 12.517, 13.434), Quintus
mentions the altar of Zeus Herkeios (Q. S. 6.147, 13.222, 13.435 – 6) and Gany-
mede’s sanctuary (Q. S. 14.325 – 6) as places of worship within Ilion.²⁵
The altar to Zeus Herkeios is not, of course, Quintus’ invention; at the end of
the Iliad, before Priam sets out to retrieve Hector’s body, he stands μέσωι ἕρκεϊ
(“mid-court”, Il. 24.306), pours a libation, and prays to Zeus (24.308 – 13).²⁶ In the
post-Homeric tradition this same altar will become the place where Neoptolemus
will kill Priam.²⁷ This is also the tradition followed in the PH (see Q. S. 13.222),
and Quintus draws attention to the altar as a landmark both before and after
Priam’s death: in PH 6, as Paris leads Eurypylus to his home through the
town, they pass by Assaracus’ tomb, Hector’s home, and Athena’s temple,
close to which are the halls and altars of Zeus Herkeios (6.143 – 7), while in PH
13 this altar is included – alongside Apollo’s sanctuary and Athena’s temple –
among the burning landmarks in Troy (13.430 – 7).²⁸
At the very end of the epic, Ganymede’s sanctuary is one of the landmarks
left standing in Troy following the sack of the city (Q. S. 14.325).²⁹ Ganymede him-
self is mentioned twice in the Iliad: first by Diomedes, who refers to the horses
that Zeus gave to Tros as compensation (Il. 5.266), and then by Aeneas, who de-
scribes him as the most beautiful mortal, whom the gods snatched and he be-

 Note, conversely, Quintus’ silence of the “permanent landmarks of the Iliad’s geography of
the Trojan plain” (Hainsworth 1993, 243), namely, Ilus’ tomb (Il. 10.415, 11.166, 11.372), the fig-tree
(ἐρινεός: Il. 6.433, 11.167, 22.145), the oak (φηγός: Il. 5.693, 6.237 [πύργον: φηγόν], 7.22, 9.354,
11.170, 21.549); and the “rise” of the plain (θρωσμός: Il. 10.160, 11.56, 20.3).
 See MacLeod 1982 on Il. 24.306 (μέσω ἕρκεϊ): “the court outside the μέγαρον; an altar of Zeus
Herkeios might stand there (Od. 22.334– 5; cf. Il. 11.772– 5).”
 Cf., e. g., Proclus’ summary of the Iliupersis; Eur. Tr. 16 – 17, 481– 3; Virg. Aen. 2.512– 58;
Triph. 634– 9.
 Note the verbal variation in this imagery: καίετο… καίοντο, 13.432a; καταίθετο, 13.433;
κατεπρήθοντ(ο), 13.436; ἀμαθύνετο, 13.437. As one of the referees points out, the double refe-
rence to the altar of Zeus in the middle and the end of the PH adumbrates Quintus’ adaptation of
his Homeric and post-Homeric models in dealing with a landscape marker, the significance of
which has evolved throughout the epic tradition.
 Vian 1969, 189 n. 6 [= N.C., p. 233]: “Ganymède a été déifié: cf. QS, VIII, 429ss; il doit posséder
un sanctuaire sur l’acropole de Troie.”
186 Katerina Carvounis

came cupbearer for Zeus (Il. 20.234– 5).³⁰ Ganymede’s life among the immortals
was pointedly brought to the fore in the second stasimon of Euripides’ Troades,
where the opulence (Tr. 820) and serenity (Tr. 835 – 7) that he enjoys in the gods’
company framed the Chorus’ description of the blazing Troy. The conclusion of
the stasimon, which depicts the destruction of Ganymede’s favourite haunts (τὰ
δὲ σὰ δροσόεντα λουτρὰ/ γυμνασίων τε δρόμοι/ βεβᾶσι, “your fresh baths and
the race courses for training are gone”, Tr. 833 – 5), underlines his detachment
from Troy, as the women call upon one who is safely away from the burning
city. In the PH, Ganymede is shown fearing for Troy (Q. S. 8.430) and asks
Zeus that he may not see his city being destroyed (8.431– 42). Zeus grants his
wish by veiling Troy with mist and creating thunder (8.446 – 50), yet this is
only a temporary relief and Ganymede is ultimately unable to avert destruction.
As in Euripides’ Troades, in the PH too his distance from his own city is conveyed
through his conspicuous absence from Troy, with his sanctuary – one of the last
landmarks left standing in Troy – as a physical and poignant manifestation of
this absence.³¹
As these two examples show, although Quintus draws heavily on the Iliad to
recreate the dramatic setting of his epic, he nevertheless allows room for subtle
departures and innovation within that framework. This paper explores further
departures from Quintus’ Homeric models with reference to landscape markers
in the PH: I first discuss two instances where Quintus’ re-working of his Iliadic
models highlights his late place within the epic tradition, while in the second
part of this paper I focus on one particular feature of the epic that constitutes
a marked departure from the Homeric models, namely, Quintus’ interest in land-
marks that can ‘still’ be seen.³² I shall thus demonstrate how he adapts hints of
memorialisation in the earlier tradition and the Homeric epics in particular, and
develops them into existing landscape markers.

 Cf. also Ilias Parva fr. 6 EGF (= Alterius Iliadic Parvae vel Aliarum Iliadum Parvarum fr. 29
Bernabé).
 Carvounis 2005, 291– 2.
 My debt to Vian’s relevant studies (Vian 1959, esp. 110 – 44 and Vian 1963 – 9) is obvious
throughout this paper.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 187

A. Quintus’ Topography and his Homeric Models

1. Quintus’ Description of Miletus

In the first battle-scene in the PH Paris kills Evenor, who had come from Dulichi-
um (Q. S. 1.270 – 5). At the latter’s death, Meges intervenes (1.276 – 7) and kills Ity-
moneus and Agelaus, who had come from Miletus under the command of Nastes
and Amphimachus (1.279 – 81), who, in turn, hold sway over Mycale and the
peaks of Latmos, the mountain glens of Branchos and Panormos, and the
streams of Maeander, which flows from Phrygia to Caria:

οἳ Μυκάλην ἐνέμοντο Λάτμοιό [τιτάνοιό codd.]³³ τε λευκὰ κάρηνα

Βράγχου τ᾽ ἄγκεα μακρὰ καὶ ἠιόεντα Πάνορμον
Μαιάνδρου τε ῥέεθρα βαθυρρόου, ὅς ῥ᾽ ἐπὶ γαῖαν
Καρῶν ἀμπελόεσσαν ἀπὸ Φρυγίης πολυμήλου
εἶσι πολυγνάμπτοισιν ἑλισσόμενος προχοῆισι.
(Q. S. 1.282– 6)

They dwelt in Mycale and the white peaks of Latmos and the long glens of Branchos and
Panormos by the shore and the streams of deep-flowing Maeander, which runs from Phry-
gia, rich in flocks, upon the Carians’ land, rich in vines, whirling in its mouths of many
twists.

For Meges’ brief aristeia Quintus combines information from different parts of
the Iliad. The catalogue of ships in Iliad 2 mentions the Dulichian contingent
led by Meges (Il. 2.625 – 8) and the Carian one led by Nastes and Amphimachus
(Il. 2.867– 75). Meges had been introduced as leader of the Dulichians and son of
Phyleus (Il. 2.625 – 8); he was referred to in several other instances as Phyleus’
son (Il. 5.72, 10.110, 10.175, 15.519, 15.528, 16.313, 19.239) and was twice grouped
with important Greek leaders (Il. 10.110, 15.302). A sequel to the Iliad, the PH al-
lusively introduces Meges as Phyleus’ son (πάις Φυλῆος ἀγαυοῦ, “the child of
noble Phyleus”, Q. S. 1.276), while his name is revealed only at the conclusion
of his achievements (Q. S. 1.287). At the same time, Quintus also draws on a
later Iliadic battle-scene featuring Meges: Quintus’ Meges is spurred to action
and kills the two Carians following Evenor’s death just as the Iliadic Meges
had been spurred to action following the death of his companion Otus of Cy-
llene: τοῦ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἀποφθιμένοιο πάις Φυλῆος ἀγαυοῦ/ ὠρίνθη, Q. S. 1.276 – 7
(“when he was killed, the child of noble Phyleus was roused”); cf. τῶι δὲ
Μέγης ἐπόρουσεν ἰδών, Il. 15.520 (“when Meges saw [this], he leapt upon him”).

 For this error in the MSS see pp. 168 – 9 below (with references in n. 36).
188 Katerina Carvounis

The Carians, on the other hand, were named as the penultimate contingent
in the Iliadic catalogue; their leader was Nastes (Il. 2.867), to whose name was
added that of Amphimachus, who had come to the war decked with gold, but
Achilles killed him and carried off the gold (2.872– 5). The Carians hold Miletus,
the mountain of Phthires, the streams of Maeander and the peaks of Mycale:

Νάστης αὖ Καρῶν ἡγήσατο βαρβαροφώνων,

οἳ Μίλητον ἔχον Φθιρῶν τ᾽ ὄρος ἀκριτόφυλλον
Μαιάνδρου τε ῥοὰς Μυκάλης τ᾽ αἰπεινὰ κάρηνα.
τῶν μὲν ἄρ᾽ Ἀμφίμαχος καὶ Νάστης ἡγησάσθην,
Νάστης Ἀμφίμαχός τε, Νομίονος ἀγλαὰ τέκνα.
(Il. 2.867– 71)

Nastes led the barbaric-speaking Carians, who held Miletus and the leafy mountain of
Phthires and the streams of Maeander and the tall peaks of Mycale. Amphimachus and
Nastes – the two of them – were their leaders, Nastes and Amphimachus, the glorious
sons of Nomion.

As Vian has noted in his excellent discussion of Q. S. 2.282– 6, Quintus adopts

and adapts the Iliadic description of the Carian region: whereas Miletus, Mycale
and the river Maeander feature as landmarks in both the Homeric and the post-
Homeric descriptions, Quintus replaces the mountain of Phthires with the peaks
of Latmos, adds Panormos and the ridges of Branchos, and elaborates on the ex-
tensive course of Maeander.³⁴ Mt Phthires was a source of controversy among an-
cient scholars; according to Strabo, Hecataeus of Miletus identified it with Mt
Latmos: ἐκαλεῖτο δὲ πρότερον Λάτμος ὁμωνύμως τῶι ὑπερκειμένωι ὄρει, ὅπερ
Ἑκαταῖος μὲν ἐμφαίνει τὸ αὐτὸ εἶναι νομίζων τῶι ὑπὸ τοῦ ποιητοῦ Φθειρῶν
ὄρει λεγομένωι (ὑπὲρ γὰρ τῆς Λάτμου φησὶ τὸ Φθειρῶν ὄρος κεῖσθαι),
Str. 14.1.8.³⁵ Quintus thus replaces the Homeric Mt Phthires with Mt Latmos as
a key landmark for the Carian landscape, and for the verse-end Λάτμοιό τε
λευκὰ κάρηνα (Q. S. 1.282) draws on the description of yet another contingent
in the Iliadic catalogue: οἳ δ᾽ ἔχον Ὀρμένιον οἵ τε κρήνην Ὑπέρειαν,/ οἵ τ᾽ ἔχον
Ἀστέριον Τιτάνοιό τε λευκὰ κάρηνα, Il. 2.734– 5 (“those who held Ormenion,

 For πολυγνάμπτοισιν ἑλισσόμενος προχοῆισι, Q. S. 1.286 (of Maeander), cf. τῆι καὶ τῆι σκο-
λιῆισιν ἑλισσόμενοι προχοῆισι, D. P. 1072; πενταπόροις προχοῆισιν ἑλισσόμενος, D. P. 301;
πολυγνάμπτου ποταμοῖο, Nonn. D. 11.399, 19.348.
 “It was formerly called Latmos by the same name as the mountain lying above, which
Hecataeus indicates that, as he thinks, it is the same as that called by the poet ‘mountain of
Phthires’ (for he says that the mountain of Phthires lies above Latmos).” See Kirk 1985, 260 – 1,
on Il. 2.867– 9.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 189

and those who held the Hypereian spring, and those who held Asterium and the
white peaks of Titanus”).³⁶
To the markers in the Carian landscape mentioned in the Iliadic catalogue of
ships Quintus adds the ridges of Branchos and the harbour of Panormos.³⁷ Bran-
chos was a herdsman desired by Apollo (cf. Luc. DDeor. 6.2; Long. DC 4.17.6), who
bestowed on his beloved the gift of prophecy (see Call. fr. 229 (= Iamb 17 (?) D’A-
lessio)).³⁸ He became the eponymous ancestor of a family of influential Milesian
seers,³⁹ and, as Strabo notes, the Milesians erected the largest temple in the
world with the scene of Branchos’ myth and Apollo’s love (Str. 14.1.5). Herodotus
refers to the temple at Branchidae as an important oracular seat dedicated to
Apollo (1.157, 2.159), and Pausanias mentions the Branchidae in proximity to
the harbour Panormos (Paus. 5.7.5). Rather than repeating the information of-
fered in the Iliadic catalogue of ships, Quintus thus adapts the relevant lines
dealing with the landmarks of Caria by taking into consideration post-Homeric
literary and philological references to this geographical area.

2. Anchises’ Bed

In a digression in PH 8 on the origin of Diomedes’ victim Eumaeus who used to

dwell in Dardania, the narrator claims that this is the location of Anchises’ bed
that he shared with Aphrodite:

ὅς ποτ᾽ ἔναιε
Δάρδανον αἰπήεσσαν, ἵν᾽ Ἀγχίσαο πέλονται
εὐναί, ὅπου Κυθέρειαν ἐν ἀγκοίνηισι δάμασσεν.
(Q. S. 8.96 – 8)

He once dwelt in steep Dardanus, where there is Anchises’ bed, which is where he seduced
Cythereia in his embrace.

The model for this digression is found in the Iliadic catalogue of ships, where
Aeneas is introduced as leader of the Dardanians:

 Vian 1959, 135; cf. also Vian 1963, 23 n. 4. For another instance of a philological debate
informing geographical landmarks, see Skempis (this volume).
 Quintus applies to Panormos the epithet ἠιόεις (Q. S. 1.283), which is a hapax in Homer; cf.
τὸν μὲν ἔπειτα καθεῖσεν ἐπ᾽ ἠϊόεντι Σκαμάνδρωι, Il. 5.36.
 See Dieg. X.15: Ἀπ[ό]λλων ἐκ Δήλου ἀφικνεῖ-/ ται εἰς τὸ Μιλήτου χωρίον ὃ καλεῖται/ ἱερὰ ὕλη,
ἵνα Βράγχος (“Apollo arrives from Delos to the place of Miletus which is called ‘sacred wood’,
where Branchos [was]”). See the excellent note in Vian 1963, 23 n. 4.
 Henderson 2009, 173 n. 65.
190 Katerina Carvounis

Δαρδανίων αὖτ᾽ ἦρχεν ἐὺς πάις Ἀγχίσαο,

Αἰνείας, τὸν ὑπ᾽ Ἀγχίσηι τέκε δῖ᾽ Ἀφροδίτη,
Ἴδης ἐν κνημοῖσι θεὰ βροτῶι εὐνηθεῖσα.
(Il. 2.819 – 21)

The noble son of Anchises led the Dardanians, Aeneas, whom divine Aphrodite bore to An-
chises, a goddess who slept with a mortal in the range of Ida.

Quintus’ re-working highlights his interest in concrete landmarks and reveals an

attempt to connect the Trojan War with the ‘present’ time: rather than referring
to the place where Anchises and Aphrodite had intercourse, he draws attention
to the bed in Dardanos⁴⁰ that Anchises shared with the goddess (cf. ἵν᾽ Ἀγχίσαο
πέλονται/ εὐναί, Q. S. 8.97– 8).⁴¹
Such connections with the past and the Trojan War in particular were com-
mon in the Imperial period, and Vian has linked Quintus’ fondness for pointing
out landmarks that can ‘still’ be seen with a contemporary culture of tourism in
Troy.⁴² Earlier leaders who visited the site include Xerxes in 480 BC (Hdt. 7.42– 3)
and Alexander the Great, both of whom are said to have sacrificed to Athena Ilias
(Plut. Alex. 15), while Alexander also sacrificed to Priam at the altar of Zeus Her-
keios and paid homage to Achilles’ tomb (Arr. Anab. 1.11.7– 8, 1.12.1).⁴³ In the Im-
perial period emperors visiting Troy stressed the connection with the foundation
of Rome; a visit by Caesar is related by Lucan (BC 9.950 – 99), who mentions the
presence of a local guide (9.976 – 9) and includes a series of landmarks from the
Trojan saga, such as Ajax’s grave (9.962– 3), Anchises’ bed (9.970 – 1),⁴⁴ the cave
where Paris sat as judge (9.971), and the peak where Oenone lamented (9.972– 3).

 On the relationship between Dardania, Dardanos and Troy in the PH, see Vian 1959, 122 and
Kakridis 1962, 184.
 Quintus here subtly adapts Iliadic diction for legendary locations: cf. ὅθι φασὶ θεάων ἔμμεναι
εὐνὰς/ νυμφάων, Il. 24.615 – 16 (“where they say that there are the beds of goddesses, the
nymphs”).
 Vian 1959, 119 – 21.
 Erskine 2001, 105. Note also that in the Hellenistic period Polemon of Ilion wrote a des-
cription of the city, while Antiochus III stopped in Ilion on his way to invade Greece and aid the
Aetolians in 192 BC: Vermeule III 1995, 469; see Liv. 35.43.3; 37.9.7; 37.37.2– 3.
 For Anchises’ bed as a surviving landmark in the ruins of Troy in the Imperial period cf.
Luc. 9.970 – 1 (of Caesar’s visit to Troy): aspicit Hesiones scopulos silvaque latentes/ Anchisae
thalamos (“he saw the rock of Hesione and the secret marriage-bed of Anchises in the wood”).
Eustathius also mentions Anchises’ tomb as a monument to which herdsmen paid homage (cf.
Pfister 1909, 138 n. 496): ἐδείκνυτο δέ, φασι, τάφος αὐτοῦ ἐν τῆι Ἴδηι καὶ ἐτίμων αὐτὸν οἱ ἐκεῖ
ποιμένες καὶ βουκόλοι κατὰ πᾶν φθινόπωρον τὸν τάφον αὐτοῦ στέφοντες, Eust. on Il. 12.98
[894.34] (“and his tomb, they say, was pointed out in Ida and the shepherds there and herdsmen
honoured him every autumn crowning his tomb”).
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 191

The historicity of this visit is doubted,⁴⁵ but Strabo, who does not specifically
mention the visit, reports on the privileges granted by Caesar to the Trojans in
recognition of the connection between the foundation of Rome and the Julian
gens (Str. 13.1.27),⁴⁶ while a series of public inscriptions from Ilion refer to the
συγγένεια (“kinship”) of the Julio-Claudians with the Trojans.⁴⁷ In 214 AD Cara-
calla stopped at Ilion while on campaign against the Parthians, and is said to
have paid special tribute to Achilles’ tomb (Hdn. 4.8.4– 5; D. C. 78.16.7).⁴⁸ In
354 AD Julian also visited Ilion and claims that he saw a shrine of Hector with
a statue of Achilles opposite, as well as the temple of Athena Ilias (Ep. 79
Bidez). Prose literature of the second and third centuries in particular reflects
the rising interest in local cults; Philostratus’ Heroicus is a notable example of
this interest, which is also registered by Aristides, Pausanias and Lucian.⁴⁹

B. Surviving Landmarks in Quintus’ PH

In the Homeric epics the heroes themselves articulate their aim or wish that fu-
nerary monuments be witnessed by later men: Agamemnon’s ghost in the Odys-
sean Underworld tells how the Achaeans put up a tall mound for the bones of
Achilles and Patroclus on the shore by the Hellespont, “so that it might be visi-
ble from the sea from afar to living men and to those who will come after” (ὥς
κεν τηλεφανὴς ἐκ ποντόφιν ἀνδράσιν εἴη/ τοῖς οἳ νῦν γεγάασι καὶ οἳ μετόπισθεν
ἔσονται, Od. 24.83 – 4). Elpenor’s posthumous request to Odysseus also relates to
a burial monument for the preservation of his memory: σῆμά τέ μοι χεῦαι πολιῆς

 As Erskine (2001, 248 – 9) puts it, the evidence is “surprisingly slight… The sole evidence for
Caesar’s visit is in a poem, De bello civili, Lucan’s epic of the civil war between Caesar on the one
hand and Pompey and the Senate on the other.” Dio Cassius (42.6.1) only mentions that Caesar
pursued Pompey as far as Asia: καὶ μέχρι μὲν τῆς Ἀσίας κατὰ πύστιν αὐτοῦ προϊὼν ἠπείχθη,
ἐνταῦθα δέ, ἐπειδὴ μηδεὶς ὅπηι πεπλευκὼς ἦν ἠπίστατο, ἐνδιέτριψεν (“and he hurried on until
Asia going by information about him; but he lingered there, since nobody knew where he had
sailed to”). See Trachsel 2007, 303 – 9, for a discussion of Lucan’s depiction of Caesar’s visit to
Troy (with bibliography), and Bexley (this volume).
 Wick 2004, 401, on Luc. 9.950 – 99, §1; see Erskine 2001, 247– 8, for a sceptical view of
Caesar’s benefactions to Ilion.
 Sage 2000, 213. According to Strabo, however, who is drawing here on Demetrios of Skepsis,
Ilion was not the Troy of Homer, with the people of Ilion disputing this claim: see Erskine 2001,
104– 6. On this debate, as Vian (1959, 119) has noted, Quintus places himself with those who see
in Ilion Novum the continuation of the Homeric Troy, as he depicts at the very end of the PH
Antenor among the survivors of the city (Q. S. 14.399 – 403).
 Sage 2000, 214.
 Sage 2000, 216.
192 Katerina Carvounis

ἐπὶ θινὶ θαλάσσης,/ ἀνδρὸς δυστήνοιο καὶ ἐσσομένοισι πυθέσθαι, Od. 11.75 – 6
(“and heap up a mound for me on the shore of the grey sea that future men
learn of a wretched man”).⁵⁰ In challenging the Achaean leaders to a duel in
Iliad 7, Hector likewise envisages that, if he is victorious, he will return his op-
ponent’s body to the Achaeans, who will heap up a mound (σῆμα, Il. 7.86) by
the Hellespont for future men to see:

καί ποτέ τις εἴπηισι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων,

νηῒ πολυκλήϊδι πλέων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον·
‘ἀνδρὸς μὲν τόδε σῆμα πάλαι κατατεθνηῶτος,
ὅν ποτ᾽ ἀριστεύοντα κατέκτανε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ.’
(Il. 7.87– 90)

And some man of those who will be born later may say one day as he sails in his ship of
many benches over the wine-dark sea: “This is the mound of a man who died a long time
ago, whom, while he excelled, glorious Hector once killed.”

As Grethlein points out, the temporal longevity to which Hector aspires “converg-
es with the spatial extension of his fame: not only does τις… ἀνθρώπων signify
mankind in general, but the seafarer stands for the spreading of his fame all over
the world”.⁵¹ This comment comes within the context of his applying the term
“timemark” to tombs in the Homeric epics, for the tombs are “markers of the
past that were made in memory of the dead” and were subsequently used as
points of orientation.⁵²
Yet in the Iliad indications that the time of the Trojan War is different from
that of the narrator resurface in the recurring phrase οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσιν (“such
as mortals are now”, Il. 5.304; 12.383, 449; 20.287) and in the memorable descrip-
tion of the prospective destruction of the Achaean wall (Il. 12.13 – 35).⁵³ This tem-
poral distance between the time of the narrative and that of the audience is made
explicit in Apollonius’ Argonautica ⁵⁴ through the narrator’s emphatic assertions
already from the outset (cf. παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν/ μνήσομαι, “I shall recall
the glory of men born of old”, A. R. 1.1– 2),⁵⁵ while aetiologies link a specific
event in the Argonautic expedition to a place that derives its name from that

 Fusillo 1985, 138.

 Grethlein 2008, 30.
 Grethlein 2008, 28. For the concept of “timemarks”, see also Skempis (this volume).
 See de Jong 1987, 44– 5.
 Fusillo 1985, 138; cf. Hunter 1993, 105 with n. 19 and Hunter in Fantuzzi/Hunter 2004, 91– 3,
on A. R. 1.1 and the adjective παλαιγενεῖς applied to the Argonauts.
 See Hunter in Fantuzzi/Hunter 2004, 92 with nn. 12– 14.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 193

event,⁵⁶ a custom that is still observed,⁵⁷ or a monument that can still be seen.⁵⁸
On one occasion, the narrator implies that he even draws knowledge from sur-
viving visual evidence to reconstruct the narrative of the past: after the account
of the posthumous honours for Idmon, the narrator wonders who else died there,
for the heroes set up another mound, since there are two grave-markers that can
still be seen (A. R. 2.851– 3).⁵⁹ As Fusillo has argued, aetiology changes the rela-
tion to the past suggested by the Homeric epics,⁶⁰ and, in Goldhill’s words,
“brings the epic towards the moment of reading”.⁶¹
Quintus openly links the time of the narrative to the present and the future,
as he draws attention in the PH to a handful of landscape markers resulting from
divine intervention, which are ‘still’ there to be seen or which were erected for
future generations of men. The narrator explains the origin of most of these
monuments and links it to heroes and events of the Trojan War that are related
in the PH and which thus become engraved in the landscape. In PH 1 Niobe’s
rock on Mt Sipylos (Q. S. 1.294– 306) is still visible as “a wonder for men passing
by” (1.299: see (1) below), while in PH 14 the gods turn Hecuba into a rock – “a
great wonder even for men to come” (14.351: see (1) below). In PH 2 the Paphla-
goneios river, which turns red on the anniversary of Memnon’s death (2.556 – 66),
was formed by the gods as “a sign even for men to come” (2.558), and in PH 4 the
Nymphs create a new river in honour of the Lycian Glaucus that men still (εἰσέτι,
4.10) call by the warrior’s name, while Memnon’s followers, who are transformed
into the ‘Memnon’ birds, even now (νῦν, 2.646) lament over their king’s tomb
(2.646 – 55: see (2) below). Philoctetes’ cave in PH 9 is covered by discharge
from his wound – “a great wonder for men and for those who will come
after” (9.389 – 91) – and Selene’s cave in PH 10 is filled with water that congeals
and which, from a distance, looks like milk (10.127– 37), and “men still wonder at
it” (10.133 – 4). Finally, reference is made in PH 11 to a rock under the Corycian
ridge that burns day and night, which the gods made “for future men to see”
(καὶ ἐσσομένοισιν ἰδέσθαι, 11.98).⁶²

 Cf., e. g., A. R. 1.591, 4.1153– 4.

 E.g., A. R. 2.524– 7, 4.534– 5, 4.1770 – 2.
 Cyzicus’ tomb (A. R. 1.1061– 2), oak-trees charmed by Orpheus’ lyre (1.28 – 30); as Hutchinson
(1988, 93 – 4) points out, this aetion appears in the first item of the opening catalogue of the
Argonautica.
 For an overview of scholarly opinions on the relationship between present and past implied
through aetiologies, see Goldhill 1991, 321.
 Fusillo 1985, 138 – 9.
 Goldhill 1991, 322, pointing to Fusillo 1985, 116 – 58.
 For comparable lists, see Vian 1959, 144 and Kakridis 1962, 187– 8. The present list is confined
to landmarks that can, according to the narrator, still be seen; I thus exclude (i) the island in the
194 Katerina Carvounis

From among these landmarks, I shall focus on two pairs that have their ori-
gin in transformation or divine intervention and function as aetiologies, namely
(1) the rocks of Niobe and Hecuba, and (2) the rivers Paphlagoneios and Glau-
cus.⁶³ The Homeric epics show transformations “worked by magicians”, as For-
bes Irving puts it (Proteus’ self-transformations, Od. 4.455 – 9; Circe’s transforma-
tion of Odysseus’ men, Od. 10.235 – 43) or petrifications (a snake, Il. 2.303 – 19;
Niobe, Il. 24.602– 17; the Phaeacians’ ship, Od. 13.160 – 4),⁶⁴ with only Niobe’s
petrification explaining a landmark that can ‘still’ be seen (see below). By con-
trast, in the Hellenistic period, metamorphoses are “virtually all both aetiologi-
cal and terminal; their function is to explain some present creature or landmark,
and they bring the story to an end”.⁶⁵ In this respect, the rocks of Niobe and He-
cuba and the rivers Paphlagoneios and Glaucus, which belong to parallel scenes,
show Quintus re-working identifiable Homeric models and adapting them within
a later context.

1. Grieving Mothers and Rock Formations: Niobe and Sipylos,

Hecuba and Cynossema
The rock of Mt Sipylos (Q. S. 1.294– 306) is the first landmark in the PH which is
explicitly described as existing in the present time, and it is the only such land-
mark to be mentioned in the Homeric epics (Il. 24.614– 17). Following his orders
that Hector’s body be prepared before it is returned to Priam, Achilles in Iliad 24
invites the Trojan king to think about food, and he introduces Niobe as an exam-
ple of a bereaved parent who eventually ate after she had mourned the loss of
her twelve children for the nine days during which they remained unburied.
And now, Achilles continues, somewhere in the rocks on Sipylos, “where they
say that there are the beds of goddesses, the nymphs” (ὅθι φασὶ θεάων ἔμμεναι

Euxine that Poseidon promises to give Achilles in the future (Q. S. 3.770 – 80) and the hole
(visible at the time) where the snakes that killed Laomedon’s sons disappeared (12.480 – 2); and
(ii) landmarks described in the present tense but without a specific temporal framework, such as
the cave of the Nymphs (6.471– 91) and Protesilaus’ tomb (7.408 – 11).
 See Buxton 2009, 202 on Niobe’s rock and similar tales which can be seen ‘until now’: “all
these places signify, through the still-visible evidence of transformational genesis, the living
persistence of the mythological past.”
 Forbes Irving 1990, 8 – 9.
 Forbes Irving 1990, 20.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 195

εὐνὰς/ νυμφάων, Il. 24.615 – 16), Niobe, “although a rock” (λίθος περ ἐοῦσα),
nurses her grief sent by the gods (Il. 24.615 – 17).⁶⁶
This is a rare instance in the Homeric epics where reference is made – albeit
by one of the characters in the epic rather than by the narrator – to a superna-
tural phenomenon that is still visible (νῦν, Il. 24.614). Yet as Taplin suggests, it
might “have still been a valid νῦν for the audience of Homer’s day,” since
they would have known of a rock-formation on Sipylos believed to preserve
the shape of Niobe in grief, which later authors also mention (cf. S. Ant. 822–
33; Paus. 1.21.5); and the fact that a story from the past has left a tangible
trace in the surviving landscape can be “a source of consolation: the sufferings,
the mortal lives, of the past have not disappeared without leaving any mark.
They are still the subject of story and of poetry. And they have left vestiges –
names, cults, landmarks, memorials – which link us to them across the gulfs
of time.”⁶⁷
Through this first description of a landmark that still exists, Quintus’ epic
evokes the end of the Iliad and establishes a sense of continuity with the Homer-
ic model. In adopting Niobe’s story, Quintus describes the μέγα θαῦμα on Mt Si-
pylos (Q. S. 1.299) within a digression on the location where the otherwise un-
known warrior Dresaeus was born to Theiodamas by the nymph Neaira;⁶⁸ it is
there, the narrator states, that the gods turned Niobe into a stone (1.294– 306):

ἧχι θεοὶ Νιόβην λᾶαν θέσαν, ἧς ἔτι δάκρυ

πουλὺ μάλα στυφελῆς καταλείβεται ὑψόθε πέτρης, 295
καί οἱ συστοναχοῦσι ῥοαὶ πολυηχέος Ἕρμου
καὶ κορυφαὶ Σιπύλου περιμήκεες ὧν καθύπερθεν
ἐχθρὴ μηλονόμοισιν ἀεὶ περιπέπτατ’ ὀμίχλη·
ἣ δὲ πέλει μέγα θαῦμα παρεσσυμένοισι βροτοῖσιν,
οὕνεκ’ ἔοικε γυναικὶ πολυστόνωι ἥ τ’ ἐπὶ λυγρῶι 300
πένθεϊ μυρομένη μάλα μυρία δάκρυα χεύει·

 Ancient scholars rejected these verses on logical, stylistic, and factual grounds: they que-
stioned how Niobe could eat and nurse her cares if she had been turned into stone, and found
inappropriate the point of Niobe’s petrification in this context of consolation (καὶ ἡ παραμυθία
γελοία, ΣΑ ad loc.). Moreover, they noted the Hesiodic character of these lines and the three-fold
repetition of ἐν in 24.615 – 16, while ΣT question Achelous’ connection with Sipylos. For some
counter-arguments to these objections, see Richardson 1993, 341– 2 on Il. 24.614– 17.
 Taplin 2002, 26.
 As Vian (1963, 24 n. 2) points out, Neaira is mentioned in [Apollod.] Bibl. 3.5.6 among Niobe’s
daughters. Different authors give different names to Niobids who escaped death (e. g., [Apollod.]
mentions Chloris, but Paus. (2.21.9, 5.16.4) says that Meliboea was Chloris’ original name before
she turned pale with fear at her siblings’ slaughter), so it is not impossible that Neaira was a
Niobid who also escaped (see Vian loc. cit.).
196 Katerina Carvounis

καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀτρεκέως φῂς ἔμμεναι, ὁππότ’ ἄρ’ αὐτὴν

τηλόθεν ἀθρήσειας· ἐπὴν δέ οἱ ἐγγὺς ἵκηαι,
φαίνεται αἰπήεσσα πέτρη Σιπύλοιό τ’ ἀπορρώξ.
Ἀλλ’ ἣ μὲν μακάρων ὀλοὸν χόλον ἐκτελέουσα 305
μύρεται ἐν πέτρηισιν ἔτ’ ἀχνυμένηι εἰκυῖα.

There the gods made Niobe a stone, whose tears still drop densely down a hard rock from
high up, and the streams of loud-sounding Hermus groan together with her, as well as the
very high peaks of Sipylos, over which there is always spread a fog hateful to shepherds;
and this is a great marvel to men who pass by, because it resembles a mournful woman,
who sheds countless tears as she weeps for a baneful grief. And you may say that it is
so in reality, whenever you see it from afar; but whenever you come closer to it, it clearly
appears as a high stone and a precipice of Sipylos. But Niobe, fulfilling the destructive
anger of the gods, weeps among rocks still appearing to grieve.

Quintus takes for his starting-point what stood as the conclusion of Achilles’ own
digression (that is, that Niobe nurses her god-sent cares even though a stone),
and then capitalises on the link that the Iliadic Achilles had drawn between
the myth of Niobe and the landscape as it can be seen ‘now’. But an important
departure from his Homeric model is that Quintus places this θαῦμα within a
human context; he gives further geographical indications for this rock by noting
that the streams of the river Hermus and the tips of Mt Sipylos groan with Niobe
(Q. S. 1.296 – 7), and, rather than defining the rocks in Sipylos as places where
the Nymphs dancing around Achelous are said to have their beds (Il. 24.614–
15), he refers to the fog that shepherds encounter (Q. S. 1.297– 8).⁶⁹ In his descrip-
tion of the Niobe-rock Quintus thus moves from the mythical to the human con-
text, setting this landmark not only in the present time (‘now’), but also within a
familiar space (‘here’). Moreover, he expands on its effect on present-day viewers
(1.294– 304) by using the present tense (καταλείβεται, 1.295; συστοναχοῦσι, 296;
περιπέπτατ(αι), 298; πέλει, 299; χεύει, 301; φαίνεται, 304; μύρεται, 306) and
other linguistic markers (ἔτι, 1.294; ἔτ(ι), 306), as well as an apostrophe to the
reader as eye-witness: καὶ τὸ μεν ἀτρεκέως φὴις ἔμμεναι, ὁππότ᾽ ἄρ᾽ αὐτὴν/ τη-
λόθεν ἀθρήσειας, 1.302– 3. Quintus frames what is a μέγα θαῦμα to future gener-
ations of men (1.299) with yet another reference to Niobe’s tears that are still fall-
ing (μύρεται… ἔτ(ι), 1.306; cf. 1.294– 5, 300 – 1) and an allusion to the gods’ anger
(1.305; cf. θεῶν ἒκ κήδεα πέσσει, Il. 24.617).
This striking effect of Niobe’s rock upon a viewer is also recorded in the sec-
ond century AD by Pausanias, who claims to be an eye-witness: ταύτην τὴν Νιό-

 Cf. Vian 1959, 131: “[A]u lieu des details legendaires (les gîtes des Nymphes, l’Achélôos), il
donne des précisions géographiques (l’Hermos) et une description détaillée du rocher à forme
humaine.”
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 197

βην καὶ αὐτὸς εἶδον ἀνελθὼν ἐς τὸν Σίπυλον τὸ ὄρος· ἡ δὲ πλησίον μὲν πέτρα καὶ
κρημνός ἐστιν οὐδὲν παρόντι σχῆμα παρεχόμενος γυναικὸς οὔτε ἄλλως οὔτε
πενθούσης· εἰ δέ γε πορρωτέρω γένοιο, δεδακρυμένην δόξεις ὁρᾶν καὶ κατηφῆ
γυναῖκα (Paus. 1.21.3).⁷⁰ Such a rock is reported to exist in the region⁷¹ and Pau-
sanias’ agreement with Quintus on the rock’s illusory effect as a tearful woman
when seen from afar may be coincidental.⁷² This effect is also noted by Eusta-
thius (on Il. 24.615 [1368.11 ff.] and on D. P. 87), who adds that “one of the ancient
poets” (τῶν τις παλαιῶν ἐποποιῶν) mentions the myth of Niobe.⁷³ Hollis has con-
vincingly argued against identifying Quintus with this “ancient epic poet”,⁷⁴
while identification with Euphorion, who is also said to have dealt with the
myth, is left open: θρηνοῦσαν οὖν τὴν Νιόβην ἀφάτως τὸ τοιοῦτο δυστύχημα
Ζεὺς ἐλεήσας εἰς λίθον μετέβαλεν, ὃς καὶ μέχρι νῦν ἐν Σιπύλωι τῆς Φρυγίας
ὁρᾶται παρὰ πάντων, πηγὰς δακρύων προϊέμενος. ἡ ἱστορία παρὰ Εὐφορίωνι

 “I myself, going up on Mt Sipylos, also saw this Niobe; from nearby it is a rock and a crag,
which does not offer to someone present the shape of a woman in grief or otherwise; but if you
were to go further away, you will think that you see a woman in tears and with downcast eyes.”
 See Furlani 1930/1 and Spanos 1983.
 Vian 1959, 132– 3, pace Furlani 1930/1, 1144, who suggests that Quintus is drawing directly on
Pausanias. Quintus mentions a similar illusory effect when describing Selene’s cave (Q.
S. 10.127– 37); for a comparison between these two marvels, cf. Vian 1959, 134. The digressions on
Niobe’s rock and Selene’s cave both open with the death of a minor warrior associated with a
region where mythical events (Niobe’s petrification and Selene’s visits to Endymion respectively)
took place and left their mark to the present day: ἧς ἔτι δάκρυ/ πουλὺ μάλα στυφελῆς κατα-
λείβεται ὑψόθε πέτρης, 1.294– 5; cf. ἧς ἔτι νῦν περ/ εὐνῆς σῆμα τέτυκται ὑπὸ δρυσίν, 10.131– 2
(“of whose bed there is still now a sign under the oak trees”). In both cases this landmark
remains a source of marvel (ἣ δὲ πέλει μέγα θαῦμα παρεσσυμένοισι βροτοῖσιν, 1.299; cf. οἱ δέ νυ
φῶτες/ θηεῦντ᾽ εἰσέτι κεῖνο, 10.133 – 4), which gives an illusory effect from a distance: καὶ τὸ μὲν
ἀτρεκέως φὴις ἔμμεναι, ὁππότ᾽ ἄρ᾽ αὐτὴν/ τηλόθεν ἀθρήσειας, 1.302– 3; cf. τὸ γὰρ μάλα τηλόθε
φαίης/ ἔμμεναι εἰσορόων πολιὸν γάλα, 10.134– 5 (“for you would say looking from very far away
that it is grey-coloured milk”). Vian (1959, 133) argues that Quintus’ use of traditional formulae in
his digression on Niobe suggests that he is not drawing on personal impressions; but neither this
argument nor the similarities with the digression on Selene’s cave can prove the point.
 Hollis 1997, 579 – 80. Cf. Vian 1959, 132: “Les deux passages d’Eustathe ont manifestement
même origine: ils remontent à un commentaire homérique de basse époque (référence à Lydos),
qui conserve en son milieu le résumé plus ancien d’un texte épique (τῶν τις παλαιῶν ἐποποιῶν;
cf. la tournure poétique ὕδωρ ἀένναον dans le Commentaire à Denys le Périégète).”
 See Hollis 1997, 578 – 80 with evidence from Michael Choniates (c. 1138 – c. 1222), who refers
to a petrified woman (likely to be Niobe) and uses the phrase κωφὰ ῥέουσαν δάκρυα: as Hollis
points out, ῥέουσαν δάκρυα looks like an (otherwise unknown) quotation of a hexameter or
elegiac poem and it may be a paraphrase of καταρρέειν δάκρυον, which is found in Eustathius’
comment on Iliad 24.616 ff.; if it is a quotation from a poem on Niobe that Eustathius has also
paraphrased, then this “ancient epic poet” cannot be Quintus.
198 Katerina Carvounis

(ΣΑD Il. 24.602), Euph. fr. 68 Lightfoot.⁷⁵ For explicit reference is made to the il-
lusory effect of Niobe’s rock and it seems surprising that what seems to be a
standard version of the myth is here specifically attributed to Euphorion;⁷⁶ more-
over, Quintus mentions divine anger (Q. S. 1.305 – 6) rather than pity (cf. Ζεὺς
ἐλεήσας, fr. 68) towards Niobe. If Quintus is drawing on Euphorion, then he is
(characteristically) combining more than one sources⁷⁷.
The last landmark in the PH that can ‘still’ be seen relates to Hecuba, who is
(like Niobe) a bereaved mother whom the gods turn into stone (Q. S. 14.347– 53):

ἔνθα τέρας θηητὸν ἐπιχθονίοισι φαάνθη,

οὕνεκα δὴ Πριάμοιο δάμαρ πολυδακρύτοιο
ἐκ βροτοῦ ἀλγινόεσσα κύων γένετ’· ἀμφὶ δὲ λαοὶ
θάμβεον ἀγρόμενοι· τῆς δ’ ἅψεα λάινα πάντα 350
θῆκε θεός, μέγα θαῦμα καὶ ἐσσομένοισι βροτοῖσι.
καὶ τὴν μὲν Κάλχαντος ὑπ’ ἐννεσίηισιν Ἀχαιοὶ
νηὸς ἐπ’ ὠκυπόροιο πέραν θέσαν Ἑλλησπόντου.

Then a wondrous sign appeared to mortals, because the wife of much lamented Priam was
turned from mortal into a grievous dog. The people gathered all around were astounded; a
god turned all her limbs to stone, a great marvel even for mortals to come. And at Calchas’
advice, the Achaeans placed her on a swift-moving ship on the other side of the Hellespont.

The earliest certain allusion to Hecuba’s transformation into a dog in the extant
literary tradition comes at the end of Euripides’ homonymous play, where the
blind Polymestor predicts that the Trojan queen will climb a ship’s mast and
that “[she] will become a dog with fiery glances” (κύων γενήσηι πύρσ᾽ ἔχουσα
δέργματα, Hec. 1265) and her tomb will be called κυνὸς ταλαίνης σῆμα (“tomb
of a wretched bitch”, Hec. 1273), “a landmark for sailors” (ναυτίλοις τέκμαρ,
1273).⁷⁸ In the subsequent tradition there is wide variation in the details pertain-
ing to Hecuba’s transformation; in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, for instance, she is

 “Zeus then took pity on Niobe who was lamenting such a misfortune beyond words and
turned her into a rock, which even until now is visible to all in Sipylos of Phrygia, as it sends
forth streams of tears. This story [is found] in Euphorion.” For another reference in Greek poetry
to Niobe still shedding tears, see Nonn. D. 48.428 – 9: καὶ εἰσέτι δάκρυα λείβει/ ὄμμασι
πετραίοισιν (“and she still sheds tears from her stony eyes”).
 Lightfoot 2009, 299 n. 95. This attribution may suggest that after Achilles’ reference to
Niobe’s petrification in Iliad 24, Euphorion was the most memorable poet to render her weeping
as an aetion for the rock formation on Sipylos, with the rock’s illusory effect possibly implied in
his phrase ὁρᾶται παρὰ πάντων.
 For other accounts of Niobe’s transformation, see Forbes Irving 1990, 294– 7.
 The allusive nature of this prophecy implies that the story would have been known to
Euripides’ audience: Forbes Irving 1990, 207 (and 207– 8 for other accounts of Hecuba’s trans-
formation).
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 199

stoned to death and then changes form (Met. 13.565 – 71), while in Nicander’s ver-
sion she leaps into the sea and is transformed into a dog (fr. 62 Gow and Schol-
field). Regarding her burial, in [Apollod.] Epit. 5.23, Helenus takes her to the
Chersonese, where she is turned into a dog and buried, whereas in Quintus’ ver-
sion Hecuba first becomes a dog and is then petrified before the Greeks take her
to the Chersonese (Q. S. 14.347– 51), while the location of her tomb became
known as the Cynossema (e. g., [Apollod.] Epit. 5.23, Str. 13.1.28).⁷⁹
As Forbes Irving points out, in the cases of both Niobe and Hecuba (to which
he also compares that of Cadmus), transformation comes as “the final and am-
biguous episode in a series of misfortunes”.⁸⁰ By explicitly stating that a god
made (θῆκε, 14.351) Hecuba into a stone after she became (γένετ(ο), 14.349) a
dog, the PH ends (in the manner of ring-composition) as it began, namely,
with the petrification of a bereaved mother as the final event that takes place
on the Troad before the victorious Achaeans sail away. Verbal echoes between
these two landmarks framing the epic invite the readers to consider them along-
side each other: θεοὶ Νιόβην λᾶαν θέσαν, 1.294 ~ τῆς δ᾽ ἅψεα λάινα πάντα/ θῆκε
θεός, 14.350 – 1; ἣ δὲ πέλει μέγα θαῦμα παρεσσυμένοισι βροτοῖσιν, 1.299 ~ μέγα
θαῦμα καὶ ἐσσομένοισι βροτοῖσι, 14.351.
An important difference, however, between the narrator’s handling of these
two transformations is that, whereas that of Niobe was assumed already to have
taken place in the background to the digression on the rock on Mt Sipylos, He-
cuba’s petrification is enacted within the narrative of the PH. Yet the latter event
is described in a strikingly cursory manner, as the narrator neither explicitly
names Cynossema as the resulting landmark nor dwells on its effect on pres-
ent-day viewers, as with the Niobe-rock (see pp. 177– 8 above). In this respect,
Hecuba’s petrification in PH 14 can be compared to that of the Phaeacians’
ship in Odyssey 13:⁸¹

ἡ δὲ μάλα σχεδὸν ἤλυθε ποντοπόρος νηῦς

ῥίμφα διωκομένη· τῆς δὲ σχεδὸν ἦλθ᾽ ἐνοσίχθων,
ὅς μιν λᾶαν ἔθηκε καὶ ἐρρίζωσεν ἔνερθε

 See Kyriakidis (this volume) for the association of landmarks, literary biography and ety-
mology.
 Forbes Irving 1990, 63. Cadmus’ fate shares striking similarities with that of Hecuba’s, as
both characters suffer domestic misfortune and are forced to leave their country, while their
respective transformations into animals are mentioned in allusive prophecies at the end of two
Euripidean plays: see Forbes Irving 1990, 209 – 10.
 Cf. James 2004, 344 on Q. S. 14.347– 53: “The turning of the dog to stone is possibly a novel
touch, influenced by such petrified portents as those at Iliad 2.318 – 20 and Odyssey 13.161– 4.”
200 Katerina Carvounis

χειρὶ καταπρηνεῖ ἐλάσας· ὁ δὲ νόσφι βεβήκει.

(Od. 13.161– 4)

Swiftly driven, the seafaring ship came very close [to Scheria]; but close to it came the
Earth-shaker, who turned it into a rock and after he struck it with the flat of his hand,
he planted it underneath and went away.

Both transformations are related with comparable brevity (Od. 13.163; cf. Q.
S. 14.350 – 1) and are motivated by the gods’ wish that men marvel; as Zeus
puts it to Poseidon, ἵνα θαυμάζωσιν ἅπαντες/ ἄνθρωποι, Od. 13.157– 8 (“so that
all men may wonder”; cf. Q. S. 14.351). Both events take place before the masses:
ὁππότε κεν δὴ πάντες ἐλαυνομένην προΐδωνται/ λαοὶ ἀπὸ πτόλιος, Od. 13.155 – 6
(“when all people should see it [the ship] from the city well under way”); cf. ἀμφὶ
δὲ λαοὶ/ θάμβεον ἀγρόμενοι, Q. S. 14.349 – 50. Most importantly, however, both
transformations come as the conclusion of a lengthy episode: Hecuba’s transfor-
mation, which inscribes upon the landscape the grief and bereavement related in
the PH, is the last event to take place in the Troad after the end of the Trojan War,
with Calchas then advising the Greeks to take the rock to the other side of the
Hellespont, where the Cynossema is traditionally located (Q. S. 14.352– 3). On
the other hand, the petrification of the Phaeacian ship is the last act to take
place within the fantasy world of the Odyssey; the Phaeacians subsequently
pray to Poseidon around an altar and, with an unusually abrupt transition in
mid-hexameter,⁸² the audience is transported to Ithaca (Od. 13.187); “Odysseus
awakens and they [= the Phaeacians] fade, almost as if in a dream, into the
past.”⁸³
By contrast to Quintus’ description of Niobe’s rock, which brought that land-
mark closer to a more familiar and tangible ‘here and now’ and ensured the sur-
vival of the mythological past into the future, while also establishing continuity
with the Iliadic narrative, his cursory narrative of Hecuba’s transformation into a
stone as the Greeks leave the Troad points towards closure, consigning that land-
mark and its context to a past that has now become the Trojan War.⁸⁴ Quintus
thus adopts two instances of petrification from the Homeric epics to illustrate
the position of the PH within the Trojan saga.

 See Purves 2010a, 89; Peradotto 1990, 81.

 Segal 1994, 29.
 Cf. Carvounis 2007, 254– 7.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 201

2. Burials, Posthumous Honours and Rivers: Memnon and

Glaucus
Following the death of the Amazon Penthesileia, Dawn’s son Memnon arrives at
Troy in PH 2 as leader of the Aethiopians and meets his death at Achilles’ hands
(Q. S. 2.542– 8). The Winds, sons of Eos (Dawn), arrive in the plain of Troy at their
mother’s behest and swiftly lift up Memnon, carrying him through a grey mist;
the gods gather the blood-drops falling from his limbs upon the earth to form
the river Paphlagoneios as “a sign for men to come”, and on the anniversary
of Memnon’s death this river turns red with blood and a terrible stench emerges
from the water, as if it were the festering discharge from the fatal wound (2.550 –
66):

Θοοὶ δ’ ἅμα πάντες Ἀῆται 550

μητρὸς ἐφημοσύνηισι μιῆι φορέοντο κελεύθωι
ἐς πεδίον Πριάμοιο καὶ ἀμφεχέαντο θανόντι·
οἳ καὶ ἀνηρείψαντο θοῶς Ἠώιον υἷα
καί ἑ φέρον πολιοῖο δι’ ἠέρος· ἄχνυτο δέ σφι
θυμὸς ἀδελφειοῖο δεδουπότος, ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ αἰθὴρ 555
ἔστενε. Τοῦ δ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ὅσαι πέσον αἱματόεσσαι
ἐκ μελέων ῥαθάμιγγες, ἐν ἀνθρώποισι τέτυκται
σῆμα καὶ ἐσσομένοις· τὰς γὰρ θεοὶ ἄλλοθεν ἄλλην
εἰς ἓν ἀγειράμενοι ποταμὸν θέσαν ἠχήεντα,
τόν ῥά τε Παφλαγόνειον ἐπιχθόνιοι καλέουσι 560
πάντες ὅσοι ναίουσι μακρῆς ὑπὸ πείρασιν Ἴδης·
ὅς τε καὶ αἱματόεις τραφερὴν ἐπινίσεται αἶαν,
ὁππότε Μέμνονος ἦμαρ ἔηι λυγρὸν ὧι ἔνι κεῖνος
κάτθανε· λευγαλέη δὲ καὶ ἄσχετος ἔσσυται ὀδμὴ
ἐξ ὕδατος· φαίης κεν ἔθ’ ἕλκεος οὐλομένοιο 565
πυθομένους ἰχῶρας ἀποπνείειν ἀλεγεινόν.

At their mother’s command, all the swift Winds together were borne along a single path at
Priam’s plain and spread themselves over the deceased. They swiftly snatched the son of
Eos and carried him through the grey mist. Their heart grieved for their fallen brother
and the air groaned all around. All drops of blood that fell from his limbs to the ground
became a sign for men to come, for the gods gathered them from different places to one
spot and turned them into a resounding river, which mortals – all those dwelling beneath
the ridges of tall Ida – call the Paphlagoneian. And when it is the baneful day on which
Memnon died, the river flows over the thick earth turned red with blood; and from the
water shoots up a terrible and unbearable odour; you would say that it still terribly
emits festering discharge from the fatal wound.

The Winds finally set down Memnon’s body by the streams of the river Aesepos,
where there is a grove for the Nymphs, which Aesepos’ daughters subsequently
put around Memnon’s tomb, covered on all sides by trees (2.585 – 92):
202 Katerina Carvounis

Νέκυν δ’ ἀκάμαντες Ἀῆται 585

Μέμνονος ἀγχεμάχοιο θέσαν βαρέα στενάχοντες
πὰρ ποταμοῖο ῥέεθρα βαθυρρόου Αἰσήποιο,
ἧχί τε Νυμφάων καλλιπλοκάμων πέλει ἄλσος
καλόν, ὃ δὴ μετόπισθε μακρὸν περὶ σῆμ’ ἐβάλοντο
Αἰσήποιο θύγατρες ἄδην πεπυκασμένον ὕληι 590
παντοίηι καὶ πολλὰ θεαὶ περικωκύσαντο
υἱέα κυδαίνουσαι ἐυθρόνου Ἠριγενείης.

The tireless Winds, heavily groaning, placed the corpse of Memnon, who fought in close
quarters, by the streams of the deep-flowing river Aesepos, where there is a fine grove of
the well-tressed Nymphs, which the daughters of Aesepos planted afterwards around his
tall mound, thickly covered by various trees; and the goddesses greatly lamented, honour-
ing the son of Dawn of the noble throne.

Meanwhile, a god guides the Aethiopians and gives them speed to become air-
borne (2.570 – 3); they follow the Winds lamenting their king like dogs following
the body of their master, who has been killed by a lion or boar (2.574– 82), and
the Greek and Trojan beholders are struck with amazement as they see the Ae-
thiopians disappear after their king (2.582– 5). Dawn is reluctant to rise, but Zeus
sends a thunderbolt and the Aethiopians swiftly bury Memnon, while Dawn
turns them into birds (2.634– 45). These birds are now called ‘Memnons’; they
still swoop over their king’s tomb pouring dust over the mound as they lament,
and they fight with each other in honour of their dead king until one or both
sides are killed (2.646 – 55).⁸⁵

Τοὺς δὴ νῦν καλέουσι βροτῶν ἀπερείσια φῦλα

μέμνονας, οἵ ῥ’ ἔτι τύμβον ἔπι σφετέρου βασιλῆος
ἐσσύμενοι γοόωσι κόνιν καθύπερθε χέοντες
σήματος, ἀλλήλοις δὲ περικλονέουσι κυδοιμὸν
Μέμνονι ἦρα φέροντες· ὃ δ’ εἰν Ἀίδαο δόμοισιν 650
ἠέ που ἐν μακάρεσσι κατ’ Ἠλύσιον πέδον αἴης
καγχαλάαι, καὶ θυμὸν ἰαίνεται ἄμβροτος Ἠὼς
δερκομένη· τοῖσι<ν> δὲ πέλει πόνος, ἄχρι καμόντες
εἷς ἕνα δηιώσωνται ἀνὰ κλόνον ἠὲ καὶ ἄμφω
πότμον ἀναπλήσωσι πονεύμενοι ἀμφὶς ἄνακτι.

Countless tribes of mortals now call them ‘Memnons’, and they still rush upon the tomb of
their king and lament pouring dust above the mound, and stir up a din of battle with each
other, bringing honour to Memnon; and he – in the halls of Hades or somewhere among the
immortals in the Elysian plain – rejoices, and the heart of immortal Eos warms as she

 For Quintus’ sources for this episode, see the excellent discussion in Vian 1959, 27– 9. For
other myths involving the transformation of a dead hero’s companions into birds, see Forbes
Irving 1990, 116 – 17.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 203

watches him. As for them, they labour until, wearied, they slay each other in battle or both
sides fill up [the measure of] their fate, labouring for their king.

Three distinct aspects in Quintus’ narrative of Memnon’s burial and posthumous

honours account for three aetia for landmarks and customs surviving to the nar-
rator’s day: the river Paphlagoneios formed from Memnon’s blood-drops; the
grove around Aesepos river built by the Nymphs around Memnon’s mound;
and ‘Memnon’s birds’, which are the Aethiopians honouring their king.
The outline of this account partially corresponds with Quintus’ account in
PH 4 of the burial of Glaucus, leader of the Lycians and ally to the Trojans. Apol-
lo hastily lifted Glaucus from the burning pyre and gave him to the swift Winds
to carry “close to the land of Lycia” (Λυκίης σχεδὸν αἴης, 4.6).⁸⁶ The Winds quick-
ly transferred him to the glens of Telandrus⁸⁷ and set an “unbreakable stone”
(πέτρην…/ ἄρρηκτον, 4.8 – 9) over his body. Then “the Nymphs caused sacred
water to gush from an ever-flowing river” (Νύμφαι δὲ περίβλυσαν ἱερὸν ὕδωρ/
ἀενάου ποταμοῖο, 4.9 – 10), “which the tribes of men still call the good-flowing
‘Glaucus’” (τὸν εἰσέτι φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων/ Γλαῦκον ἐπικλείουσιν ἐύρροον, 4.10 –
11).⁸⁸ Therefore, both Memnon and Glaucus are carried by the Winds and Apollo
respectively to their places of burial; rivers are formed to commemorate the dead
heroes (τόν ῥά τε Παφλαγόνειον ἐπιχθόνιοι καλέουσι, 2.560; cf. 4.10 – 11, cited
above) and the Nymphs intervene to honour them (2.589 – 91; cf. 4.9 – 10),
while their actual burials are concluded with attribution of these events to the
gods’ will (ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν βουλῆισι θεῶν γένε(το), 2.567; cf. ἀλλὰ τὰ μέν που/
ἀθάνατοι τεύξαντο γέρας Λυκίων βασιλῆι, “but these things, I suppose, the im-
mortals accomplished in honour of the king at the Lycians,” 4.11– 12).
Both accounts are modelled on Sarpedon’s burial in Iliad 16, who is the other
Lycian leader and Glaucus’ close companion,⁸⁹ and a literary precedent for a
mortal offspring whose bereaved immortal parent makes arrangements for extra-
ordinary posthumous honours.⁹⁰ Before Sarpedon’s death at the hands of Patro-

 For this phrase, see Vian 1959, 137.

 This place-name is corrupt in the MSS tradition: Τηλάνδροιο Pauw: τ᾽ ἠδ᾽ [τῆδ᾽ DQ] ἄντροιο
codd. For Telandros as a city of Caria, see St. Byz. Ethnica p. 620 Meineke and Hdn. De prosodia
catholica 3,1 p. 205.
 Cf. Ovid’s account of the formation of the river Marsyas out of tears of country people, deities
of the woods, fauns, satyrs, Olympus and Nymphs (Met. 6.392– 400).
 Cf. Il. 2.876 – 7; 12.101– 4, 307– 30, 392; 16.491– 501, 508 – 26.
 The similarities between Memnon and Sarpedon have featured in discussions of direct
influence of the Epic Cycle (and the Aethiopis in particular) upon the Iliad; for an earlier
overview of the debate (and the priority of Memnon’s story), see Clark/Coulson 1978, 65 – 73. I
discuss Quintus and the Epic Cycle in my (forthcoming) commentary on PH 14; this question is
204 Katerina Carvounis

clus, Zeus sheds drops of blood on the ground (Il. 16.459); after the event, he or-
ders Apollo to transfer Sarpedon’s body away from the missiles, bathe him,
anoint him with ambrosia and dress him with immortal clothing before consign-
ing him to Sleep and Death, who will swiftly take him to Lycia, where his broth-
ers and kinsmen will give him an appropriate burial (Il. 16.667– 84). As we have
seen, Memnon’s body in Quintus’ version is likewise removed from its immediate
context at his parent’s behest by the Winds, while Glaucus’ body is removed from
the pyre by Apollo himself, who then hands it over to the Winds to take to his
native land, just as that god handed Sarpedon’s body to Sleep and Death to
take to his native Lycia.⁹¹ In both the Iliadic account and in Quintus’ double
re-working of that model there is emphasis on the swiftness of this supernatural
transfer (θοοὶ… Ἀῆται, Q. S. 2.550; ἀνηρείψαντο θοῶς, 2.553; μάλ᾽ ἐσσυμένως, 4.5;
θοοῖς Ἀνέμοισι, 4.6; cf. αὐτίκα… ἀείρας, Il. 16.678; πομποῖσιν… κραιπνοῖσι, 16.681;
οἵ ῥά μιν ὦκα/ κάτθεσαν, 16.682– 3).
Quintus departs, however, from the Homeric model in offering existing land-
marks for the miraculous interventions and the supernatural effects mentioned
in the Iliad. So whereas Zeus shed drops of blood (αἱματόεσσας… ψιάδας,
Il. 16.459) as an expression of grief for his son’s imminent death, the drops of
blood from Memnon’s wounds in PH 2 are gathered by the gods to form the Pa-
phlagoneios river as sign for future men (τοῦ δ᾽ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ὅσαι πέσον αἱματόεσ-
σαι/ ἐκ μελέων ῥαθάμιγγες, ἐν ἀνθρώποισι τέτυκται/ σῆμα καὶ ἐσσομένοις, Q.
S. 2.556 – 8).⁹² Moreover, Zeus’ final point to Apollo, namely that Sarpedon’s rel-
atives will bury him in Lycia with signs to commemorate his death (ἔνθα ἑ ταρ-
χύσουσι κασίγνητοί τε ἔται τε/ τύμβωι τε στήληι τε, “there his brothers and kins-
men will bury him with both a tomb and a mound”, Il. 16.674– 5 = 16.456 – 7),
which is omitted from the actual account of Sarpedon’s burial, is recalled and
materialised, as it were, in Quintus’ narrative of Glaucus’ burial, when the
Winds put “an unbreakable stone” over the body: πέτρην…/ ἄρρηκτον, Q.
S. 4.8 – 9. Furthermore, whereas Andromache had mentioned that the Nymphs
planted elm trees around Eetion’s mound (Il. 6.419 – 20), in Quintus’ accounts
of the burials of Memnon and Glaucus the Nymphs are responsible for creating

not relevant here, as Quintus is drawing on the Iliad and his familiarity with the Aethiopis
cannot be assumed.
 Cf. Vian 1963, 136 – 7 n. 1.
 For αἱματόεσσαι/ … ῥαθάμιγγες, cf. (in the context of Uranos’ castration) ὅσσαι γὰρ
ῥαθάμιγγες ἀπέσσυθεν αἱματόεσσαι,/ πάσας δέξατο Γαῖα, Hes. Th. 183 – 4 (“for as many drops of
blood fell, all of those Gaia received”); δή ῥα τότ᾽ ἀμβροσίοιο κατειβόμεναι φορέοντο/ αἵματος
ὠτειλῆθεν ἐπὶ τραφερὴν ῥαθάμιγγες, Orph. L. 652– 3 (“then the drops of divine blood flowing
downwards were carried from the wound upon the earth”).
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 205

natural landmarks – a grove around Memnon’s mound and the ever-flowing river
Glaucus respectively – described in the present tense: Νυμφάων καλλιπλοκάμων
πέλει ἄλσος/ καλόν, ὃ δὴ μετόπισθε μακρὸν περὶ σῆμ’ ἐβάλοντο/ Αἰσήποιο θύγα-
τρες, Q. S. 2.588 – 90; τὸν εἰσέτι φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων/ Γλαῦκον ἐπικλείουσιν, 4.10 – 11.
Quintus’ descriptions of the Paphlagoneios river and of Memnon’s burial
place by the river Aesepos correspond to topographical landmarks that might
have been familiar to contemporary readers from the eastern part of the Empire.
Vian draws attention to the river Adonis in Byblos, which, according to Lucian’s
account in De Dea Syria, grows bloody every year at the anniversary of Adonis’
death.⁹³ As Lightfoot notes, this river (but not its annual change of colour) is also
attested by other ancient authors such as Strabo (16.2.19), Ptolemaeus
(Geog. 5.14.3 Müller), Lydus (Mens. 4.64, p. 119 Wünsch), and Nonnus (D.
3.107– 9, 4.81– 2, 20.144; 31.127).⁹⁴ The river Glaucus is also mentioned by Pliny,
who places it and its tributary, the Telmedius, in Caria (HN 5.29.103).⁹⁵ Moreover,
Strabo states that at some distance from the mouth of Aesepos, there is a hill
(κολωνός) “where the tomb of Memnon, son of Tithonus, is shown” and that
“the town ‘Memnon’ is also nearby” (ἐφ᾽ ὧι τάφος δείκνυται Μέμνονος τοῦ Τι-
θωνοῦ· πλησίον δ᾽ ἐστὶ καὶ ἡ Μέμνονος κώμη, Str. 13.1.11).⁹⁶ The ‘Memnon’
birds, on the other hand, are mentioned by various authors in the Roman period,
including Pausanias (10.31.6 – 7), Pliny (HN 10.37), Dionysius (Ixeut. 1.8 Garzya)
and Ovid (Met. 13.600 – 22). The authors differ in the details of their accounts:
Pausanias, for instance, reports that, according to the people of the Hellespont,
these birds go to Memnon’s grave, sweep part of the tomb and sprinkle it with
water from Aesepos from their wet wings, while the birds in Ovid’s version ap-
pear from the ashes of Memnon’s funeral pyre and, divided into two bands,
fight against each other until they fall, which they still do on the anniversary
of Memnon’s death (Met. 13.618 – 19). In Dionysius’ version, after fighting over
Memnon’s tomb, the birds wash in the stream of Aesepos, roll on the sand to

 See Vian 1963, 77 n. 2. Luc. Syr.D. 8: ὁ δὲ ποταμὸς ἑκάστου ἔτεος αἱμάσσεται καὶ τὴν χροιὰν
ὀλέσας ἐσπίπτει ἐς τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ φοινίσσει τὸ πολλὸν τοῦ πελάγεος καὶ σημαίνει τοῖς
Βυβλίοις τὰ πένθεα (“the river turns bloody each year and having lost its colour, falls into the
sea; it reddens the greater part of the sea and signals grief to the people of Byblos”).
 Lightfoot 2003, 327, where she notes further parallels for waters turning red with what is
thought to be a hero’s blood: the Nile, for example, turns red during its inundation, and this has
been attributed to the blood of Osiris (Firm. Matern. Err. 2.5), while the seashore in Cilicia was
thought to be red with Typhaon’s blood (Opp. Hal. 3.24– 5).
 See Arkwright 1895, 93 – 9.
 Vian 1963, 78 n. 1. Contrast the version in Philostr. Jun. Im. 1.7.3: τάφος οὐδαμοῦ Μέμνονος, ὁ
δὲ Μέμνων ἐν Αἰθιοπίαι μεταβεβληκὼς εἰς λίθον μέλανα (“Nowhere is the tomb of Memnon, but
Memnon [himself] is in Aethiopia, having turned into a black stone”).
206 Katerina Carvounis

get covered in dust, and then sit upon Memnon’s tomb to dry their wings and to
cover it with dust (Ixeut. 1.8 Garzya), with this last detail leading Vian to suggest
that Quintus is drawing directly on Dionysius.⁹⁷
As his model in the epic tradition for the Paphlagoneios river and the post-
humous honours bestowed to Memnon Quintus turns to Apollonius’ posthumous
honours bestowed to Phaethon, which are described in a digression that follows
the entrance of the Argo into the river Eridanus, where Phaethon fell after he was
struck by lightning (A. R. 4.596 – 611).⁹⁸ The narrator describes that “still now the
river spews up heavy vapours from the burning wound” (ἡ [sc. λίμνη] δ᾽ ἔτι νῦν
περ/ τραύματος αἰθομένοιο βαρὺ ἀνακηκίει ἀτμόν, 4.599 – 600; cf. φαίης κεν ἔθ᾽
ἕλκεος οὐλομένοιο/ πυθομένους ἰχῶρας ἀποπνείειν ἀλεγεινόν, Q. S. 2.565 – 6)
and that no bird can cross over the water, but leaps into the flame in mid-flight
(4.601– 3). Later on, attention is drawn to the effect of the stench on the Argo-
nauts themselves: στρεύγοντο περιβληχρὸν βαρύθοντες/ ὀδμῆι λευγαλέηι, τήν
ῥ᾽ ἄσχετον ἐξανίεσκον/ τυφομένου Φαέθοντος ἐπιρροαὶ Ἠριδανοῖο, 4.621– 3
(“they were distressed even to faintness, weighed down by the baneful stench,
which the streams of Eridanos were emitting unbearably as Phaethon was con-
sumed by smoke”; cf. λευγαλέη δὲ καὶ ἄσχετος ἔσσυται ὀδμὴ/ ἐξ ὕδατος, Q.
S. 2.564– 5). All around, Phaethon’s sisters, the Heliades, “unhappily wail a
plaintive lament” (μύρονται κινυρὸν μέλεαι γόον, 4.605). The text is here corrupt,
but it seems that they are somehow “surrounded by tall poplars” (Ἡλιάδες
ταναῆισιν †ἀείμεναι αἰγείροισιν, 4.604),⁹⁹ and shiny drops of amber flow from
their eyelids to the ground. The sun dries these drops in the sand, and whenever

 See Vian 1959, 29.

 Vian 2008, 390: “The nauseating emanations from Paphlagoneios, the river born of Mem-
non’s blood (Q. S. 2.564– 6), recall Arg. 4.600 (although there are no textual similarities).” For
the transformations within Apollonius’ digression and its narrative context, see Buxton 2009,
117– 19. For earlier sources treating this myth, see Forbes Irving 1990, 269 – 71, esp. Arist. Mir. 81
for the detail of the foul-smelling lake in which Phaethon falls: ὀσμὴ δ᾽ ἀπ᾽ αὐτῆς [sc. τῆς λίμνης]
βαρεῖα καὶ χαλεπὴ ἀποπνεῖ, καὶ οὔτε ζῶιον οὐδὲν πίνει ἐξ αὐτῆς οὔτε ὄρνεον ὑπερίπταται, ἀλλὰ
πίπτει καὶ ἀποθνήσκει. (…) μυθεύουσι δὲ οἱ ἐγχώριοι Φαέθοντα κεραυνωθέντα πεσεῖν εἰς ταύτην
τὴν λίμνην. εἶναι δ᾽ ἐν αὐτῆι αἰγείρους πολλάς, ἐξ ὧν ἐκπίπτειν τὸ καλούμενον ἤλεκτρον (“from
it [the lake] a stench breathes out that is heavy and unpleasant, and neither any animal can
drink from it nor can any bird fly over, but falls and dies… And the locals say that Phaethon was
struck by a thunderbolt and fell into this lake; and that there are many poplar trees by it, from
which falls what is called amber”).
 As Vian (1981, 170 [N.C. on A. R. 4.604]) puts it, the Heliades have not been transformed into
poplar trees, since they weep (4.606) and lament (4.624– 5); yet they could be “enveloped in”
(ἐελμέναι: Gerhard) poplar trees or indeed “beaten by the winds [in the poplar trees]” (ἀήμεναι/
ἀείμεναι), as Livrea and Giangrande (ap. Vian loc. cit.) have suggested.
 Landscape Markers and Time in Quintus’ Posthomerica 207

the waters of the lake wash onto the shores by the wind’s blast, they are rolled
into Eridanus by the swelling flow (4.605 – 6).
In both Apollonius’ and Quintus’ accounts, the rivers Eridanus and Paphla-
goneios respectively emit a bad and unbearable stench; in the case of the Erida-
nus, the stench and vapours come from Phaethon’s wound when he was struck
by Zeus’ thunder, whereas for the Paphlagoneios the narrator claims that it is as
if from an open wound. Both accounts mention female figures associated with
trees all around the grave or place of burial (Phaethon’s sisters and the Nymphs
respectively), and end with a miraculous story as aetion, namely the drops of
amber flowing from the Heliades’ eyelids and the Aethiopians’ transformation
into birds. In Quintus’ (lengthier) account, the Paphlagoneios is dissociated
from the river Aesepos, and there are two separate places where Memnon is hon-
oured, whereas in Apollonius’ account the river Eridanos is the centre of Phae-
thon’s burial and of his posthumous memorialisation.
In this case study on the burials of Memnon and Glaucus in the PH we have
thus seen Quintus drawing both on Iliad 16 and Apollonius’ Argonautica to con-
vey in concrete terms the memorialisation of the dead and to explain surviving
landmarks from the Trojan War with which Quintus’ contemporary audience
would have been familiar.

Conclusion
These two case studies dealing with landmarks that result from the petrification
of bereaved mothers (Niobe and Hecuba) and the creation of rivers in honour of
dead heroes (Memnon and Glaucus) have sought to highlight how Quintus draws
on the literary tradition to join the mythological past to the present in depicting
landmarks that can ‘still’ be observed and which correspond to familiar geo-
graphical landmarks also attested by other sources. And both pairs of land-
marks, which belong to parallel scenes that help shape and structure the PH,
thus inscribe within the landscape for contemporary and future audiences the
relevant events recounted in the epic.
In making explicit this link between the time of the narrative and the ‘pres-
ent’, Quintus departs from his Homeric models and adheres to the Hellenistic
tradition of explaining surviving landmarks through connections with the
past, which is likely to have been motivated by a contemporary renewed cultural
interest in surviving relics and monuments from the Trojan War. In addition,
then, to illustrating Quintus’ literary techniques as he innovates within tradition-
al material by adopting and adapting information from the Homeric epics to re-
create the dramatic space of the Iliad, a close study of geographical landmarks in
208 Katerina Carvounis

the PH allows readers the opportunity to catch a (rare) glimpse of this Homeris-
ing epic within its literary-historical context of the Imperial period.*

* I would like to thank Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas for their invitation to contribute to
this volume; Mary Whitby for offering detailed comments; and the anonymous referees for
helpful feedback.
Robert Shorrock
Crossing the Hydaspes
Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and the Boundaries of Epic

This is an article about epic boundaries and the boundaries of epic in the Dio-
nysiaca of Nonnus. This fifth-century AD Greek hexameter poem written in
later Roman Egypt should need little introduction to audiences familiar with
the genre of ancient epic.¹ Nonnus’ Dionysiaca narrates the colourful life-story
of the wine-god Dionysus in forty-eight Homeric-style books. It begins several
generations before the birth of the Greek divinity and charts his epic struggle
against the Indian nation and his efforts to spread knowledge of the vine
throughout the world, before he is finally able to take his place by the side of
his father Zeus in heaven. The epic is conceived on a grand scale – the forty-
eight books are obviously designed to match the combined total of books of
the Iliad and Odyssey and it is the longest surviving poem to have survived
from the whole of antiquity, weighing in at over 21,000 hexameter lines. Al-
though the basic narrative structure is very simple, the Dionysiaca is much
more than ‘simply’ the story of Dionysus: it represents a vast and intoxicating
echo-chamber of allusions and references to Greek mythology, history and liter-
ature from Homer down to Nonnus’ own contemporary world of late antiquity.²
In the words of one recent critic, “… the Dionysiaca covers enormous distan-
ces… These range from the Iliad, Hesiod, and Callimachus to the Alexander ro-
mances, from the Odyssey, Pindar and Attic tragedy to the erotic and sepulchral
elegists. And that is to say nothing of… the possibilities suggested by Neoplaton-
ist and Christian allegory”.³ The distances covered by Nonnus’ epic are not, how-
ever, just literary, but literal. The poem opens on Pharos island off the coast of
Alexandria in Egypt and concludes forty-eight books later on Olympus. The jour-
ney between these points takes us to the cities of Greece, Asia Minor, Assyria and
to India and the borders of the known world. Our understanding of Nonnus’ use
of space within his epic is closely linked to the way that Nonnus’ narrative is un-
derstood more widely (which is itself linked to perceptions of late antique poet-
ry). The traditional view of Nonnus’ poetry takes a dim view of his epic creation,

 Hopkinson (1994a) provides an excellent starting point; see also Shorrock 2005 for a general
introduction.
 On the compendious nature of Nonnus’ epic, see Shorrock 2001.
 Harries 1994, 64.
210 Robert Shorrock

with one critic suggesting that the Dionysiaca is “unreadable as narrative”.⁴ It

goes without saying that anyone who regards the poem in this way, as a con-
fused tangle of people, places and stories, is likely to view Nonnus’ use of
space and elaboration of spatial relationships in a similarly unsympathetic man-
ner.
Fortunately, times have changed. Thanks to the landmark French commen-
tary and translation by Francis Vian and his team of collaborators (and the ex-
cellent Italian commentary and translation in the BUR series), and supplemented
by a growing bibliography of literary criticism on Nonnus’ epic, a more coherent
and nuanced picture of the Dionysiaca has begun to emerge.⁵ This article begins
with a brief consideration of Nonnus’ use of boundaries within the context of the
Dionysiaca as a whole – as part of Nonnus’ project to build a global epic both in
literal and literary terms. The spotlight will then be thrown onto one specific ep-
isode – the crossing of the Hydaspes in Books 22– 24 of the Dionysiaca – in order
to explore in greater detail Nonnus’ playful and sophisticated construction (and
deconstruction) of boundaries within his epic: spatial, historical, mythical, and
literary.
In Book 13 Dionysus’ idyllic Phrygian childhood is brought to an end by a
message from his father Zeus instructing him to wage war on the Indian nation
and spread knowledge of the vine throughout the world: “he must drive out of
Asia … the proud race of Indians … and teach all nations (ἔθνεα πάντα) the sa-
cred dances of the vigil and the purple fruit of vintage” (Dion. 13.3 – 7).
Dionysus’ mission to teach all the world about wine (as well as his mission
to defeat the Indians) has both literal and metaphorical force: his geographical
journey is tracked at every step by Nonnus’ poetic journey through the world of
Greek literature, mythology and history. At the same time that we follow Diony-
sus on his way to spread knowledge of the vine throughout the world so we fol-
low Nonnus on a literary journey to incorporate different poetic genres within
the framework of a new global epic.⁶ The most obvious, and significant, incor-
poration within the epic is that of Homer: the Iliad represents a dominant

 Wiseman 1995, 47; see Shorrock 2001, 2– 3.

 The eighteen-volume Budé series was inaugurated by Vian (1976a); the Italian edition was
edited in four volumes by Gigli Piccardi (2003), Gonnelli (2003), Agosti (2004), Accorinti (2004).
On the wider critical study of the Dionysiaca see, for example, Shorrock 2001 and 2011, 79 – 115.
For an important study of Nonnus’ use of geography and local histories, see Chuvin 1991; more
recently Hadjittofi (2011) has explored Nonnian geography through the lens of late antique
Christian society.
 On the incorporation of different genres within the Dionysiaca, see especially Shorrock 2001,
113 – 205.
 Crossing the Hydaspes 211

model for the narrative of the Indian War in Books 13 – 40 (as Dionysus fights
against the Indians so Nonnus is engaged in a literary struggle against his poetic
‘father’ Homer), whilst the Odyssey provides a loose model for the ‘nostos’ of Di-
onysus in Books 40 – 48. At the same time other genres are also integrated into
the Dionysiac epic: Callimachus’ Hecale epyllion underpins the structure of
Books 17– 18. In Books 44– 6 Nonnus appropriates the genre of Greek Tragedy,
with his epic rendition of Euripides’ Bacchae. Local geographies – including
foundation poems and topographic descriptions – are also articulated and sub-
sumed within the wider epic project – for example the Beroe episode in Books
40 – 43.⁷ The Greek novel is also recontextualised within Nonnus’ poem: the de-
scription of Tyre in Book 40 clearly engages with Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe
and Clitophon. This is not to mention the mythological and literary territory in-
corporated during the narrative of Cadmus in the early books of the epic includ-
ing a Titanomachy and the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius.
The parallel journey of poet and hero through the epic and their missions to
introduce the literal and literary vine is neatly encapsulated in a description of
the growth and spread of the vine at Dion. 12.272– 84:

ἀμφὶ δὲ δένδρεα πάντα κάτω νεύοντα καρήνῳ

εἴκελα λισσομένῳ κυρτούμενον αὐχένα κάμπτει,
ὑψιτενῆ δὲ πέτηλα γέρων ἐκλίνατο φοῖνιξ·
ἀμφὶ δὲ μηλείῃ τανύεις πόδας, ἀμφὶ δὲ συκῇ 275
χεῖρας ἐφαπλώσας ἐπερείδεαι· ὑμετέρην δέ,
δμωίδες ὣς δέσποιναν, ἐλαφρίζουσιν ὀπώρην,
εὖτε τιταινομένων πετάλων ἑλικώδεϊ παλμῷ
ἀμφιπόλων ὑπὲρ ὦμον ἀνέρχεαι· ἀγχιφύτων δέ
ἁβρὰ πολυσπερέων ἑτερόχροα φύλλα κορύμβων 280
οἷα σέθεν κνώσσοντος ἐπαιθύσσουσι προσώπῳ
αὔραις φειδομένῃσι καταψύχοντες ἀῆται,
λεπταλέην ἅτε λάτρις ἐθήμονα ῥιπίδα σείει,
ψυχρὸν ἑῷ βασιλῆι φέρων ποιητὸν ἀήτην.

All the trees bow their heads around, as one in prayer bends low the neck. The ancient
palm-tree inclines his soaring leaves, you stretch your feet round the apple-tree, you
clasp your hands about the fig-tree and hold fast; they support your fruitage as slave-
women their mistress, while you climb over the shoulder of your maids with your tendrils
pushing and winding and quivering, while the winds blow in your face the delicate many-
coloured leaves of so many neighbouring trees with their widespread clusters, as if you
slept and they cooled you with gentle breath. So the serving-woman waves a light fan as
in duty bound, and makes a cool wind for her king.⁸

 See Chuvin 1991 and 1994.

 Translations from Nonnus’ Dionysiaca have been slightly adapted from Rouse 1940.
212 Robert Shorrock

This description of the vine can be understood literally in terms of its relationship to
the mission of Dionysus, but also metaphorically, as a model for Nonnus’ own po-
etry. As the vine advances through space, so Nonnus advances through different po-
etic genres. Just as the vine needs the support of other plants in order to flourish, so
too does Nonnus’ poetry rely on established poetic material. Far from seeking to
eliminate ‘rival’ generic elements, Nonnus co-opts them into a state of respectful
subservience, forcing the established world of literature to bowing down to him
in an act of worship as if before a god, or to play the role of slaves to a powerful
mistress or king. In this way the Dionysiaca is able to embrace and exploit a diversity
of genres, whilst at the same time it is able to maintain its own distinctive identity.⁹
Evidence of this dialogue between multiplicity and unity – or between bounded
and unbounded space – can be seen not just in descriptions of the progress of the
vine, but in descriptions of the product of wine itself. At Dion. 12.240 – 4 Dionysus
champions the superior nature of wine over other drinks:

ὅττι πολυτρίπτοιο νέαις λιβάδεσσιν ὀπώρης

σὸν ποτὸν ἄνθεα πάντα δεδέξεται· ἓν ποτὸν ἔσται
μιγνύμενον πάντεσσι, καὶ εἰς μίαν ἵξεται ὀδμήν
ἄνθεσι παντοίοις κεκερασμένον· εἰαρινὴν γάρ
κοσμήσει τεὸν ἄνθος ὅλην λειμωνίδα ποίην.

For with the new-found streams of your crushed fruitage your drink will contain all flowers:
that one drink will be a mixture of all, it will combine in one a scent of all the flowers that
blow, your flowers will embellish all the spring-time herbs and grass of the meadow.

Just as the wine of Dionysus contains every kind of flower so, in metaphorical
terms, the poetry of Nonnus contains every kind of poetry: an encyclopedic
range of literary genres and mythological and historical material. It is important
here to emphasise that literary boundaries are clearly delineated (in the same
way as geographical boundaries within the narrative of Dionysus) even though
they are destined to be transcended: Nonnus’ epic keeps in play a dramatic ten-
sion between the unity of the whole and the multiplicity of its parts, between syn-
thesis and resistance. In Book 47, for example, the Athenian Icarius becomes an
enthusiastic ‘disciple’ of Dionysus, but suffers death for his efforts to spread the
message of the vine at the hands of a group of intoxicated farmers.¹⁰ Nonnus’
global epic remains throughout a powerful and powerfully unpredictable product.

 See further Shorrock 2001, 134– 7; 2011, 112– 14.

 For a ‘Christian’ reading of this scene, see Spanoudakis 2007.
 Crossing the Hydaspes 213

Crossing the Hydaspes

I want now to zoom in on a single part of Nonnus’ vast epic map: the point at
which Dionysus makes his entry into the territory of India and Nonnus makes
his own entry into the specific literary territory of Homer’s Iliad.

a) The Hydaspes as Boundary

Dionysus’ mission against the Indians (inaugurated in Book 13) occupies the ma-
jority of the epic, culminating with the sack of the Indian City in Book 40. Al-
though he meets and defeats Indian forces as early as Book 17, Dionysus does
not actually reach the territory of India proper until the end of Book 21 when
he crosses the Hindu Kush and faces Indian resistance at the river Hydaspes. Sig-
nificant fighting occurs both in front of and in the river, until finally the forces of
Dionysus make a successful crossing of the river in Book 24.¹¹
It is important to observe the pivotal structural position occupied by the Hy-
daspes within the frame of the epic. The crossing of the Hydaspes and the entry
into India marks the mid-point of the epic in geographical terms as illustrated by
the figure reproduced below. As one can see, India functions as a spatial hinge
within the epic narrative: the itinerary that takes us from Egypt, home of the
poet, at the beginning of the epic to India is clearly mirrored by the route
taken from India to Olympus, home of the gods, at the end of the epic:

Egypt (home of the poet)

Near East
*Asia Minor
*Greece
*Asia Minor
*Near East
*Arabia
India
*Arabia
*Near East
*Asia Minor
*Greece
*Asia Minor
Greece

Olympus (home of the gods)

 On Nonnus’ handling of the Hydaspes scene, see Hopkinson 1994b ad loc.; Gonnelli 2003 ad
loc.; Shorrock 2001, 164– 6.
214 Robert Shorrock

The crossing of the Hydaspes does not just mark a geographical mid-point, but a
numerical one as well, being positioned twenty-four books into the epic. The im-
portance of this threshold is marked in several ways. First, there is a pronounced
pause in the action at this point: whilst the Indians make for the safety of the city
and lament impending catastrophe, the forces of Dionysus settle down to a feast
of celebration and singing. The following book then puts emphasis on the open-
ing of the second half of the Dionysiaca with a second proem: “O Muse, once
more fight the poet’s war with your thyrsus wand of the mind” (Μοῦσα, πάλιν
πτολέμιζε σοφὸν μόθον ἔμφρονι θύρσῳ, Dion. 25.1).

b) Alexander at the Hydaspes

Dionysus and his army are, of course, not alone when they cross the Hydaspes.
They are accompanied – in spirit at least – by Alexander the Great. The associ-
ation between Alexander, the all-conquering and frequently intoxicated Greek
leader (regarded as a god by many of his subjects), and Dionysus is well estab-
lished.¹² The general connection is all the more apposite when we recall that
Nonnus’ epic poem was in all likelihood written in the Egyptian city of Alexan-
dria, a city that owed its very foundation to the ambitious young man from Mac-
edonia. Alexander’s own celebrated entry into India, in particular his crossing of
the river Hydaspes in 326 BC and battle against the Indian king Porus, forms an
obvious point of intersection with Dionysus’ own fluvial exploits and the resist-
ance he meets from the Indian foe (although Nonnus’ narrative resists specific
correspondences). At Dion. 23.148 – 50, one part of Dionysus’ army “filled swel-
ling skins with artificial wind and on these leathery bags crossed Indian Hy-
daspes, while the skins teeming with wind carried them along” (ἀσκοῖς
οἰδαλέοισι χέων ποιητὸν ἀήτην,/ δέρματι φυσαλέῳ διεμέτρεεν Ἰνδὸν
Ὑδάσπην·/ ἐνδομύχων δ’ ἀνέμων ἐγκύμονες ἔπλεον ἀσκοί) – a detail that may
well have been inspired by Alexander’s crossing of the Hydaspes using impro-
vised rafts made out of skins stuffed with straw and sewn together.¹³ Elephants
likewise feature prominently in both stories: the elephants of King Porus (descri-
bed at some length by both Arrian and Plutarch) frighten Alexander; when the
Indian leader Deriades withdraws his troops from the river and heads back to
the safety of his city he does so, “seated on the back of his retreating elephants”
(ἑζόμενος λοφιῇσι παλιννόστων ἐλεφάντων, Dion. 24.175).

 See Bowersock 1994, 157.

 Arr. An. 5.9.3, 12.3 (Hydaspes); 3.29.4 (Oxus).
 Crossing the Hydaspes 215

According to Plutarch, Alexander’s crossing of the Hydaspes was accompa-

nied by rain: “here rain fell in torrents and many tornadoes and thunder-bolts
dashed down upon his men” (ἐνταῦθα δὲ ῥαγδαίου μὲν ἐκχυθέντος ὄμβρου,
πρηστήρων δὲ πολλῶν καὶ κεραυνῶν εἰς τὸ στρατόπεδον, Alex. 60.4; tr. Perrin
1919).¹⁴ This detail of the stormy crossing may well have had an influence on
Nonnus’ description of how an Indian ambush was averted by the side of the Hy-
daspes (Dion. 22.133 – 5): “And Father Zeus thwarted the crafty plan of the Indi-
ans, and prevented their night assault, by a loud peal of thunder and torrents of
rain which made a great noise all night long” (Ζεὺς δὲ πατὴρ δολόεντα
μετατρέψας νόον Ἰνδῶν/ ἑσπερίην ἀνέκοψε μάχην μυκήτορι βόμβῳ,/ ὄμβρου
παννυχίοιο χέων ἀπερείσιον ἠχώ). At Dion. 22.127– 30, Nonnus provides a de-
scription of Dionysus as a tactical commander (quite different from the way Di-
onysus is described elsewhere in the story) that seems to owe more to the genre
of history than that of epic and may well have been inspired by the narrative of
Alexander:

καὶ ταχινὸν μετὰ δόρπον ἐπέρρεον ἀσπιδιῶται

γείτονος ἐκ ποταμοῖο πιεῖν ἐπιδόρπιον ὕδωρ,
νεύμασι θεσπεσίοισι περισσονόου Διονύσου,
μὴ στρατὸν εὐνήσειε μέθη καὶ κῶμα καὶ ὄρφνη

After a hasty meal they hurried under shields to the river nearby, to drink water after the
food, by divine command of prudent Dionysus who did not wish drunkenness and darkness
and slumber to put his army to bed.

What is perhaps most significant about Alexander’s campaign in India, however,

and most relevant to the story of Dionysus, is that it did not end in triumph but
in ignominy, following the refusal of his troops to cross yet another Indian river
(the Ganges).¹⁵ This model of failure sits uncomfortably beside Nonnus’ depic-
tion of a triumphant Dionysus. But Nonnus is not concerned to exclude the shad-
ow of failure from his own epic account. Failure is in fact a central concern of the
song that closes the feast of Dionysus at the end of Book 24 – a song that tells
how Aphrodite abandons her traditional sphere of love in favour of the spindle

 See also Arr. An. 5.12.3; 13.3.

 See Plut. Alex. 62.1– 2: “As for the Macedonians, however, their struggle with Porus blunted
their courage and stayed their further advance into India. For having had all they could do to
repulse an enemy who mustered only twenty thousand infantry and two thousand horse, they
violently opposed Alexander when he insisted on crossing the river Ganges also, the width of
which, as they learned, was thirty-two furlongs, its depth a hundred fathoms, while its banks on
the further side were covered with multitudes of men-at-arms and horsemen and elephants” (tr.
Perrin).
216 Robert Shorrock

of Athena – with disastrous results.¹⁶ The ultimate failure of Alexander and Aph-
rodite to cross ‘natural’ boundaries may well give us cause to fear for the efforts
of Dionysus and Nonnus at the midway point of the epic.

c) Achilles at the Scamander

Alongside the ‘historical’ narrative of Alexander there stands a clear literary

model for the crossing of the Hydaspes: Achilles and his battle with the river Sca-
mander in Iliad 21 (Achilles was of course himself already a clear source of in-
spiration and emulation for Alexander, who went out on campaign with a
copy of the Iliad in a fennel box). The opening of Dionysiaca 22 (ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ
πόρον ἷξον ἐυκροκάλου ποταμοῖο/ Βάκχου πεζὸς ὅμιλος, ποταμοῖο “When the
foot-forces of Bacchus came to the crossing of the pebbly river”, 22.1– 2) quotes
directly from the opening of Iliad 21 (ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ πόρον ἷξον ἐϋρρεῖος/ Ξάνθου
δινήεντος, “When they came to the crossing of the fair-flowing river of eddying
Xanthus”, 21.1– 2) and signposts the start of engagement with the Homeric
scene.¹⁷ In case we have missed the intertextual allusion at the beginning of
Book 22, Nonnus makes the Homeric connection explicit in the last twenty
lines of the book (Dion. 22.384– 9):

οὐδ’ ἀθεεὶ πολέμιζε καὶ Αἰακός· ἀντιβίους γάρ,

ὡς γενέτης Πηλῆος, ἔσω ποταμοῖο δαΐζων 385
ἰκμαλέον μόθον εἶχε καὶ ὑδατόεσσαν ἐνυώ,
οἷα προθεσπίζων ποταμοῦ παρὰ χεῦμα Καμάνδρου
φύλοπιν ἡμιτέλεστον ἐπεσσομένην Ἀχιλῆι·
καὶ μόθον υἱωνοῖο μόθος μαντεύσατο πάππου.

Not without God’s help Aiacus also fought. As befitted the father of Peleus, he slew his en-
emies in the river, a watery battle, a conflict among the waves, as if to foretell the unfinish-
ed battle for Achilles in time to come at the river Camandros: the grandfather’s battle
prophesied the grandson’s conflict.

And again at Dion. 23.221– 4:

οὐχ οὕτω Σιμόεντος ἀρειμανὲς ἔβρεμεν ὕδωρ,

οὐχ οὕτω ῥόος ἔσκεν ἐγερσιμόθοιο Καμάνδρου
χεύματι κυματόεντι κατακλύζων Ἀχιλῆα,
ὡς τότε Βακχείην στρατιὴν ἐδίωξεν Ὑδάσπης

 See Hopkinson 1994a, 21– 2; Shorrock 2001, 167– 70.

 See Hopkinson 1994b ad loc.; Gonnelli 2003 ad loc.
 Crossing the Hydaspes 217

Not so furiously roared the war-mad water of Simoeis, not so defiantly rushed Camandros
to overwhelm Achilles with his roaring flood as then Hydaspes pursued the army of Bac-
chus.

The detailed intertextual relationship between the Dionysiaca and Iliad at this
point signals an important moment in the ongoing relationship between Nonnus
and Homer. Just as the crossing of the Hydaspes by Dionysus represents a move-
ment into the territory of India proper, so for Nonnus it represents a poetic move-
ment into the territory of Homer’s Iliad. In other words the Hydaspes functions as
both a physical and generic boundary. For it is immediately after this point that
Nonnus enters a new phase of engagement with Homer, quite different from
what has gone before: Book 25 opens with the final year of the Indian war
and commences a direct and sustained correspondence with the narrative of
the Iliad that continues until the death of Deriades in Book 40. Nonnus’ engage-
ment with the narrative of Achilles and Scamander in the preceding Hydaspes
episode serves to confirm his ability to take the imitation of the narrative of
the Iliad to a new level.¹⁸

d) The Muddy River of Epic

To cross over a river of epic is no simple matter, of course, as Callimachus made

abundantly clear in his Hymn to Apollo: “Great is the stream of the Assyrian river,
but for much of its course it drags along on its waters filth from the land and
much refuse” (Ἀσσυρίου ποταμοῖο μέγας ῥόος, ἀλλὰ τὰ πολλά/ λύματα γῆς καὶ
πολλὸν ἐφ’ ὕδατι συρφετὸν ἕλκει, H. 2.108 – 9; tr. Mair). Thus did Callimachus
draw a comparison between his own poetry (imagined as a pure and slender
spring of water) and the tradition of epic poetry (a vast polluted river).¹⁹ Nonnus’
Hydaspes invites obvious comparison with Callimachus’ ‘Assyrian river’. It is
both large in extent and full of mud and rubbish: at Dion. 23.215, the river is de-
scribed explicitly as “dragging the mud in its rush” (ἀφυσγετὸν οἴδματι σύρων).
It is also full of the literal detritus of epic poetry (drawn to a great extent from the
Homeric description of the Scamander in Iliad 21): a mass of dead soldiers,
shields and helmets (see esp. Dion. 23.105 – 112). Thanks to the efforts of Diony-
sus’ troops to cross the water, it is also filled with additional ‘rubbish’: cymbals,
fawnskins, a leather wineskin (still full) belonging to Maron, and several pastor-
al instruments – the double pipes and the syrinx of Pan (Dion. 23.196 – 214). The

 See Shorrock 2001, 170 – 4.

 For analysis of these lines, see Williams 1978, 91– 2.
218 Robert Shorrock

river, like Dionysiac wine itself, presents an extraordinary generic mixture – a

case of the many contained within the one.
The Hydaspes, one feels, is not a river of which Callimachus would have ap-
proved. Confirmation of this would appear to be provided by the presence of the
Telchines among the forces of Dionysus who make their way across the swollen
river. In the Aetia prologue it is, of course, the Telchines who make their notori-
ous appearance as envious detractors from Callimachus’ poetry – critics of his
work who would prefer him to write “one continuous poem in many thousands
of lines about the deeds of kings or heroes of old” (ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκὲς ἢ βασιλ[η/
……]ας ἐν πολλαῖς ἤνυσα χιλιάσιν/ ἢ προτέ]ρους ἥρωας, Aet. fr. 1.3 – 5) rather
than the slender poetic products that constitute Callimachus’ oeuvre.²⁰ It is
these same creatures, who appear at Dion. 24.113 – 6:

ἔξοχα δ’ ἄλλων
ὠκύτεροι Τελχῖνες ἁλιτρεφέων ὑπὲρ ἵππων
πατρῴης ἐλατῆρες ἁλικνήμιδος ἀπήνης, 115
εἰς δρόμον ὡμάρτησαν ἐπειγομένῳ Διονύσῳ.

but far quicker than the rest came the Telchines behind their sea-bred horses, driving their
father’s sea-borne car and they kept close to Dionysus as he sped along.

The presence of the Telchines as enthusiastic participants in Dionysus’ campaign

against the Indians might lead us to conclude that Nonnus is actively flouting
the aesthetic strictures of Callimachus. I would argue, however, that we are
not dealing here with a scene of aggressive and dogmatic anti-Callimacheanism,
but a playful trangression of a literary boundary established by an influential
Hellenistic predecessor. Indeed, even though the ‘envious’ Telchines support
the forces of Dionysus, Callimachus is by no means excluded from Nonnus’ po-
etic project. Callimachean allusions have be found throughout the Dionysiaca,
whilst in Books 17– 18 Nonnus undertakes an ambitious reworking of Callima-
chus’ Hecale into his narrative.²¹ One might even speculate that a reference to
Callimachus lies behind the reference to the story of the huntress Cyrene at
Dion. 24.82– 5:

ἀπ’ εὐρυπόροιο δὲ κόλπου

υἱὸν Ἀρισταῖον γενέτης ἐσάωσεν Ἀπόλλων,
φαιδρὸς ἀλεξικάκων πεφορημένος ἅρματι κύκνων,
μνῆστιν ἔχων θαλάμοιο λεοντοφόνοιο Κυρήνης

 See, for example, Hopkinson 1988, 85 – 101; Acosta-Hughes/Stephens 2002.

 See Shorrock 2001, esp. 146 – 52.
 Crossing the Hydaspes 219

Apollo the father saved Aristaius the son from the broad gulf, riding brilliant in his car
drawn by the bane-averting swans; for he remembered the bower of lion-slaying Cyrene.

Callimachus was, of course, one of the most famous of all the citizens of Cyrene,
a connection that he himself celebrated in his Hymn to Apollo. With a playful nod
to Callimachean aesthetics, in this scene we see Apollo (the god of poetry) en-
gaged in the rescue of his son not just from the Hydaspes but from the muddy
waters of epic poetry itself.
Nonnus, unlike Callimachus, demonstrates his readiness to plunge into the
epic flood, and is forced to survive by means of his own ingenuity. His distinctive
approach to epic poetry may be extrapolated to a certain degree from the various
modes of transport used by Dionysus and his troops to cross the river. At
Dion. 23.123 – 4, we learn that “the company of the Bacchoi was fashioning all
sorts of machines (ἑτερότροπα μάγγανα) of navigation”. In the next forty lines
we are furnished with a cataract of details concerning this heterotropic armada:
Dionysus passes over the water on his land-chariot; one soldier crosses by raft,
another by skiff – using a native boat stolen from fishermen; another improvises
a punt and uses his spear as the pole to propel him on his way; one uses his
shield like a coracle, employing his sling as a mooring rope. The cavalry swim
across the river on the backs of their horses, whilst the infantry use buoyancy
aids consisting of inflatable wine-skins. The emphasis here is on improvisation
and diversity – features that can be said to characterise Nonnus’ approach to po-
etry. The native fishing boat, for example, might suggest Nonnus’ use of local po-
etic traditions (as opposed to the universally recognisable traditions of, say,
Homer and Callimachus), whilst the construction of a raft at Dion. 23.134 “lashing
together a number of logs with skilful knots” (ἅμματι τεχνήεντι περίπλοκα
δούρατα δήσας) may well invite us to consider Nonnus’ own literary skill in
drawing together different genres.

e) The Hydaspes and the Nile

There remains a further aspect to Nonnus’ presentation of the Hydaspes that we

have yet to consider: the explicit connection made within the text between the
Hydaspes and the Nile. At the start of Dionysiaca 22, we read that “the footforces
of Bacchus came to the crossing of the pebbly river, where, like the Nile (ἅτε Νεῖ-
λος), Indian Hydaspes pours his navigable water into a deep-eddying hollow”
(1– 3), prompting a direct comparison between the Indian and Egyptian rivers.
This comparison – a rare disclosure on the part of Nonnus of his affiliation
with the country of Egypt – is followed up four books later during a description
220 Robert Shorrock

of the catalogue of the Indian troops who are drawn up against the forces of Di-
onysus (Dion. 26.222– 40):²²

καὶ στόλος ἄλλος ἵκανε τριηκοσίων ἀπὸ νήσων,

αἵ τε περιστιχόωσιν ἀμοιβάδες ἄλλυδις ἄλλαι
γείτονες ἀλλήλῃσιν, ὅπῃ περιμήκεϊ πορθμῷ
δίστομος Ἰνδὸς ἄγων μετανάστιον ἀγκύλον ὕδωρ, 225
ἑρπύζων κατὰ βαιὸν ἀπ’ Ἰνδῴου δονακῆος
λοξὸς ὑπὲρ δαπέδοιο παρ’ Ἠῴου στόμα πόντου,
ἔρχεται αὐτοκύλιστος ὑπὲρ λόφον Αἰθιοπῆα·
ἧχι θερειγενέων ὑδάτων ὑψούμενος ὁλκῷ
χεύμασιν αὐτογόνοις ἐπὶ πήχεϊ πῆχυν ἀέξει· 230
καὶ χθόνα πιαλέην ἀγκάζεται ὑγρὸς ἀκοίτης,
τέρπων ἰκμαλέοισι φιλήμασι διψάδα νύμφην,
οἶστρον ἔχων πολύπηχυν ἀμαλλοτόκων ὑμεναίων,
μέτρῳ ἀμοιβαίῳ παλιναυξέα χεύματα τίκτων
Νεῖλος ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ καὶ ἑώιος Ἰνδὸς ἀκούων. 235
κεῖθι μελαμψήφιδα διαξύων ῥόον ὁπλῇ
νήχεται ὑδατόεις ποταμήιος ἵππος ἀλήτης,
οἷος ἐμοῦ Νείλοιο θερειγενὲς οἶδμα χαράσσων
ναιετάει, βυθίοιο δι’ ὕδατος ὑγρὸς ὁδίτης
μηκεδαναῖς γενύεσσιν· 240

Another host came from the three hundred islands, scattered here or there or in groups to-
gether, which lie about that place where the Indus on an endless course pours out its wind-
ing travelling stream by two enclosing mouths, after creeping in its slow curving course
from the Indian reed-beds over the plain to its mouth by the Eastern sea, after first rolling
down the heights of the Ethiopian mountains: swollen by the mass of summer-begotten wa-
ters it increases cubit by cubit with self-rising floods and embraces the rich land like a wa-
tery husband, who rejoices a thirsty bride with his moist kisses and enfolds her in many
passionate arms for a sheaf-bearing bridal, while he begets in his turn other ever recurrent
streams: so Nile in Egypt and the eastern Hydaspes in India. There swims the travelling
river-horse through the waters, cleaving with his hoof the black-pebble stream, just like
the dweller in my own Nile, who cuts the summer-begotten flood and travels through the
watery deeps with his long jaws.

It is possible to explain this connection between the rivers of India and Egypt
quite simply, in geographical terms: in the Hellenistic world it was imagined
that the Nile and the Indus (and its tributaries such as the Hydaspes) were direct-
ly connected.²³ For Rose, writing in Rouse’s 1940 Loeb translation of the Diony-
siaca, this connection was little more than a case of bad geography: “… there is
in [Nonnus] a tendency common amongst the ignorant of every Graeco-Roman

 On Nonnus’ literary relationship with Egypt, see Gigli Piccardi 1998.

 Gonnelli 2003, 499.
 Crossing the Hydaspes 221

age – namely to believe that Indians were somehow connected with the Ethiopi-
ans of North-East Africa, and that India and North-East Africa were joined to-
gether”.²⁴ A more constructive approach would be to consider why Nonnus
chose to highlight the connection between India and Egypt (this was not after
all something that he was obliged to mention) and what the implications of
that connection are for our understanding of the crossing of the Hydaspes scene.
Most obviously, the connection between the Hydaspes/Indus and the Nile
serves to collapse any real sense of distance and difference. Imagined bounda-
ries between East and West, between civilised and barbarian are seen to be as
fluid as the water that flows through the rivers themselves. Dionysus’ epic jour-
ney may have taken him to the edge of the known world but in doing so we dis-
cover not otherness but similarity. In the world of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, India is
now no more remote than Egypt. This (re)discovery of the familiar at the ends of
the earth also has implications for our understanding of the poem’s rich literary
texture: Nonnus’ dramatisation of the crossing of the Hydaspes does not take us,
as we might imagine, into terra incognita, but back once again to the familiar
world of Alexander the Great and to Homer, the fons et origo of it all. It is tempt-
ing here to draw a connection with modern theories of globalisation: Nonnus’
comparison between Indian and Egypt highlights the interconnectedness of
things across a vast geographical distance and thereby makes the world a signif-
icantly smaller place – the epic universe now re-imagined as a global village.²⁵ At
the same time the comparison forces us to rethink fundamental ideas about core
and periphery. The Dionysiaca began in Egypt – once an epic margin, now
thanks to Nonnus, part of the epic mainstream. But if the Hydaspes is like the
Nile, does not India have as strong a claim to be the centre of the epic world
as Egypt does?
This close reading of Nonnus’ Hydaspes episode has attempted to cast light
on the way that epic boundaries and the boundaries of epic are articulated and
dissolved within the frame of the Dionysiaca. By means of a sophisticated and
playful amalgam of historical and literary models we are encouraged to see Di-
onysus (the ultimate transgressor of boundaries and collapser of difference) in
the guise of Alexander crossing into India (in the final part of his fateful advance
Eastwards); at the same time a dense web of Homeric allusions cues our recol-
lection of the battle between Achilles and the river Scamander in Iliad 21. The
Hydaspes is not just the focus for specific matrices of allusion, however, but

 Rose apud Rouse 1940, 293 (vol. 2).

 For an inroad into this vast and labyrinthine subject, see, for example, Giddens 1990;
Castells 1996; Gray 1999; Scholte 2000; Hutton/Giddens 2001.
222 Robert Shorrock

has an important symbolic function. The river divides the epic structurally –
forming an important geographical and literary boundary at the half-way
point of the Dionysiaca. After crossing the river, Nonnus’ major engagement
with the Iliad will begin, alongside Dionysus’ major encounter with the Indian
enemy. In literary terms the Hydaspes functions as a symbol for epic poetry it-
self – evoking the dangerous and muddy river of epic rejected by Callimachus
and into which Nonnus plunges undaunted, leaving his readers delighted, but
gasping for air.
Jackie Elliott
Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales
This paper explores two aspects of spatial relations in Ennius’ Annales. First I
examine the distribution among the extant fragments of activity at home and
abroad, then across different foreign theatres of war. (Appendices at the end
of the paper chart these distributions.) Second, I consider the treatment of
space in the three longest surviving fragments: Ilia’s dream (Ann. 34– 50), the
fragment describing the augurate of Romulus and Remus (Ann. 72– 91) and the
‘good companion’ fragment (Ann. 268 – 86).¹ The first exercise reveals a vast pre-
ponderance of fragments describing action at the periphery of emergent empire
over fragments describing action at its hub: internal affairs at Rome suffer virtual
eclipse in favour of theatres abroad; while among foreign theatres, the East dom-
inates. The former observation engages the question of how the poem, whose
title designated its expanding geographical ambit as annales – that is, as the
stuff of local Roman historiography – portrayed the relationship of the City to
the territories that it controlled or fought for. The latter raises the question of
the ideological force of Ennius’ geographical emphases: I will speculate in par-
ticular that a polarizing East-West dynamic broadly governed the text, while at
the same time arguing that the poem nevertheless represented non-Romans, in-
cluding Easterners, as worthy opponents of an ethically complex but fundamen-
tally sound Roman state.²
The fragments that feed the first part of the study are largely the product of
ancient scholarly traditions that transmit brief and decontextualized material,
and their language often replicates the effects of Homeric oral formulaic
verse.³ It is, then, neither surprising nor coincidental that this conventional
and interchangeable language cannot securely be associated with any specific
event or locality.⁴ Names – almost always lacking in our record – would be crit-

 All references to the Annales are to Skutsch 1985. The text given, including of the fragments’
quotation-contexts, is Skutsch’s text.
 On the politics of space in Roman epic, especially in connection with Roman imperialism,
compare Slaney and Manuwald (this volume); on the relationship of East and West under Rome,
Skempis (this volume), in the sections ‘Circe in the Land of the Tyrrhenians’ and ‘From Colchis
to Italy’, Keith and Bexley (this volume).
 The evidence for this is set out in Elliott 2013, 75 – 134.
 The standard editions tend to create an exaggerated impression of how much action we can
reliably locate in any given theatre, because editors, naturally wishing to identify as many
fragments as possible with known historical events, proceed on a highly positivist basis. I
discuss editorial procedure, with a focus on Skutsch, in the introduction to my study (n. 3
224 Jackie Elliott

ical to our ability to understand finer points in the organization of the space
these fragments describe. The observation that the language of these briefer frag-
ments is not particularized, however, affords a means of contrasting it with that
of the three longer fragments explored in the second half of this paper, which
offer far more idiosyncratic descriptive language – as well as, in the cases of
the ‘augurate’ and the ‘good companion’ fragments, more by way of surviving
named space. In the case of the Ilia- and ‘good companion’ fragments, the alter-
native, individualized treatment of space acts as means for expressing the emer-
gence of individualized and alternative perspectives. Ilia’s disorientation in an
environment controlled (and nameable) only by men suggests a gendered ten-
sion in Ennius’ landscapes, but the commonalities in the treatment of space be-
tween this and the ‘good companion’ fragment would indicate rather that ulti-
mately space is used more broadly to communicate the distribution of power
among actors in a manner that transcends gendered dichotomies.
From the outset, it will be clear to my readers that the first of my two exer-
cises poses an immediate methodological problem: even in describing very gen-
eral proportions, the statistics offered in the initial part of the paper are at best
only coarsely representative of the original poem, while in matters of any detail it
is of course quite impossible to treat what emerges from the fragments as reliably
representative. So much of the poem is gone that entire theatres of war are miss-

above). Essentially, if a fragment dealing with fighting is assigned to a specific book, either by its
source or by editorial conjecture, that more or less alone can motivate an editor to attribute the
battle-fragment to a particular battle. The editor considers the events available, themselves
placed by convention or conjecture in that book (for standard accounts of the progress of the
narrative of the Annales, see F. Skutsch 1905, 2604– 10, Leo 1913, 166 – 71, O. Skutsch 1985, 5 – 6,
and Gratwick 1982, 60 – 3). As an aid to making an identification, the editor may discern an
analogue in Livy or another prose historian, perhaps relying on a similarity of wording (often
very slight or arguably the product of literary convention rather than of reference to any unique
phenomenon); Skutsch in particular relies on this procedure (see his commentary passim). The
fragment is then associated with that event. (See Elliott 2010, 150 – 3 for discussion of the
conspicuous example of this process supplied by the lines attributed to the battle of Cannae
[Ann. 263 – 7].) This procedure is possible and indeed, if battle-descriptions are ever to be
associated with specific events, necessary, precisely because the surviving descriptions of eng-
agements with the enemy are almost uniformly stylized and conventional. Among the surviving
material, an exception to this general rule exists in the fragments associated with Pyrrhus,
which, thanks to Cicero (as quoted by Quintilian; see Fantham 2006, 549, 550, n. 5), can with
some assurance be placed in Book 6 (see, however, n. 24 below, for a caveat). Usually, even
where a source supplies a fairly long narrative passage and gives a book number for it, as
happens with Ann. 391– 8 (the heroic tribune, supplied by Macrobius; for the fragment, see
Appendix 1.II.a, below), we may still be left high and dry without any historical context or
specific referent for the event in question.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 225

ing or virtually missing from our present record; or we assume that they are, de-
pending by and large simply on the assumption that Ennius treated all the
Roman wars of conquest in turn (and, for its part, the sheer volume of fragments
dealing with the business of war supports that assumption). The suggestions of-
fered below, about the distribution of geographical references in the Annales and
about the implications of that distribution, along with the interpretation of given
fragments, for reasons signalled along the way, must remain entirely tentative
and provisional.

The Distribution of the Fragments of the Annales

across Different Geographical Theatres
Despite the rarity with which the surviving fragments of the Annales offer clues
as to specific locations, the remains of the poem allow access to certain broad
traits. The surviving record confirms the impression we receive from the flippant
redactions of the Augustan poets:⁵ the action of the poem focused on Rome’s
military conquests and territorial expansion – as one would expect, moreover,
from a poem making full use of the intersection between epic and historiogra-
phy.⁶ Almost a third of the surviving lines of the Annales describe either battle-
field fighting itself or the preliminaries to war and its aftermath.⁷ (See Appendix 1
for a list of these fragments.) Such lines are relatively sparse in the pre-Repub-
lican material of the first three books: they constitute less than 10 % of the
149 lines assigned (by the ancient sources or by modern conjecture) to those
books. By contrast, of the 292 surviving lines that Skutsch ascribes with some de-
gree of confidence to the narrative of the Republic (Books 4– 18), 129 – that is,
ca. 44 % – describe either battle-action proper (24 fragments = 34 lines) or
else preparation for or the consequences of war (60 fragments = 95 lines). Be-
sides the battle-descriptions attributed to particular books, the fragments sedis

 E.g. Prop. 3.3.7– 12: et cecinit [sc. Ennius] Curios fratres et Horatia pila/ regiaque Aemilia uecta
tropaea rate,/ uictricesque moras Fabii pugnamque sinistram/ Cannensem et uersos ad pia uota
deos,/ Hannibalemque Lares Romana sede fugantis,/ anseris et tutum uoce fuisse Iouem.
 See Ash (2002, 253 – 73) on battle-narrative as a particularly fertile area of intersection be-
tween the two genres.
 In the latter two categories are included military manœvres, speeches and other preliminaries
to battle or war, discussion of military policy or summaries of wartime activity; naval exercises,
fleets and sailing; cavalry; weaponry; the aftermath of battle or of war (triumphs, the defeat of
enemies, the effects of war on women); metaphors or similes pertaining to war; or invocations to
sing of war or of particular wars.
226 Jackie Elliott

incertae yield a further 8 fragments (10 lines) of fighting proper plus 29 frag-
ments (31 lines) describing war’s appurtenances.
The sources supplying these fragments largely belong to two related groups:
those such as Macrobius and Servius interested in elucidating the Roman history
of Vergil’s language; and those such as Festus and Priscian, working in the lex-
icographical and grammatical traditions. Because the preservation of book-num-
bers is an engrained feature of each of these scholarly traditions, a relatively
high proportion (ca. two thirds) of the fragments listed in Appendix 1 survive
with a book-number attached to them by their ancient source. This reliably
tells us that the generic descriptions of fighting and its concomitants these sour-
ces supply were represented in each book of the Annales. As a result, we are as-
sured (again, not contrary to our expectations) that the narrative of the Annales
never ceased from its preoccupation with war. At the same time, the concerns
and working practices of these late sources mean that they have neither interest
in nor access to either historical reference or literary context. They are therefore
unable to help us discern the contents of particular books and are for the most
part uninformative as to the shape and progress of the narrative as a whole.
Compared with the extant bulk of fragments describing Rome’s engage-
ments abroad, little survives on the City’s domestic workings. This again, to
the extent that we can trust the figures, confirms that the poem faced primarily
outwards from Rome. Of the 292 lines Skutsch attributes to the Republican ma-
terial of Books 4– 18,⁸ only 34 lines (16 fragments), plus one testimonium – that
is, ca. 11 % – show action at Rome and/or relate with any degree of plausibility to
domestic rather than foreign matters: see Appendix 2.II. This estimate is, if any-
thing, high: included are several fragments whose reference may be to Rome but

 The question of how attention is distributed between inward- and outward-facing material is
in the first three books arguably moot, since the events treated (that is, conventionally, Rome’s
foundation and early establishment) pre-date the era of the City’s expansion. Essentially all of
the material of Books 1– 3, after the proem-material, are local to Rome: this includes Ann. 72– 91
(the augurate of Romulus and Remus), Ann. 92, 93, 94– 5 (the material attributed to the quarrel
between Romulus and Remus), Ann. 96, 97, 98, 101, 102– 3 (the problems of the nascent Roman
community, including the quarrel with the Sabines), Ann. 105 – 9, 110 (the apotheosis of Ro-
mulus), Ann. 99, 100, 113, 114– 15, 116 – 18 (the establishment of Roman ritual and prayer-lang-
uage), Ann. 137 (the death of Ancus Marcius), Ann. 127 (a possible pun on the ‘Caelian’ hill of
Rome; see Skutsch 1985 ad loc.), Ann. 138 (the accession of Tarquin) and Ann. 147 (the death of
Tarquin). ‘Foreign’ engagements are in this era only as far-flung as Alba Longa (Ann. 31, 32,
120 – 5), Ostia (Ann. 128 – 9) or Etruria (Ann. 142) and so relate, if not exclusively to internal, then
at any rate to local affairs.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 227

is fundamentally doubtful (see the 6 fragments, totalling 17 lines, designated

with a question-mark in Appendix 2.II).⁹
As things stand, Republican Rome’s internal politics are thus all but invisible
to us in the fragments of the Annales. Although that cannot represent the full sit-
uation of the original, the imbalance between lines clearly describing foreign af-
fairs and ones clearly describing internal affairs is so pronounced that it is hard
to explain if not as a reflection of an original strong focus on Rome’s expanding
military ventures, at the expense of the domestic; for the interests and working
methods of the sources are not such as necessarily to prejudice these ratios. Yet
the overall scarcity of fragments detailing the City’s inner workings in no way in-
fringes on the poem’s strong notional centre being Rome. (That uncontroversial
idea is supported in the record by the existence of seven fragments sed. inc., listed
in Appendix 2.III, which name the Roman nation or state without being associable
with events in any particular locality: these confirm what we well know, that this
poem is the story of the actions of the Romans, at home but especially abroad.)
The title Annales alone would suffice to ensure the gravitational centrality of
Rome: in its reference to the local historiographical tradition, the title announces
clearly that what this text took in its purview was nothing other than Rome’s local
affair.¹⁰ This leads me to suggest that the narration of Rome’s military successes
abroad under the heading Annales might prompt the audience to construe the ac-
count so offered, for all its geographical breadth, as all a part of Rome’s internal
workings, just as much as the description of the local operations and internal af-
fairs, the matter of conventional annales, had traditionally been. Effectively, En-
nius’ treatment suggested, Rome and the lands she drew in increasing numbers
into her orbit were becoming synonymous. The concept of imperium, a term not
yet used in the Annales (so far as we can tell) of Rome’s wider rule,¹¹ was thus ar-
guably finding, if not yet explicit articulation, at least a kind of literary expres-
sion.¹²

 Excluded are three lines sed. inc. whose reference is so unclear that nothing prevents the
fragments’ context from having been a description of internal affairs, even if nothing especially
favours it either: Ann. 593 (oratores doctiloqui), Ann. 605 ([quem] non uirtutis egentem) and
Ann. 616 (haec abnu[eram]). These conclude the list of surviving lines of the Annales whose
reference is even potentially to domestic affairs at Rome during the Republic.
 Ch. 1 of my study of the Annales (n. 3 above) discusses the evidence for the title and makes
the case for the interpretation I here mention.
 It is found three times in the fragments: at Ann. 138, it is used of the administrative power
exercised by the king, at Ann. 412 and 613 of military orders (OLD 1 & 8, respectively); cf.
Richardson 2008, 51, with n. 129 there.
 On the development, from the third century on, of the term imperium from its use des-
ignating the power vested in an individual to its use designating Roman dominion over an
228 Jackie Elliott

At this juncture, it may be worth noting that one fragment at least, from early
in the poem, suggests that the idea of geographical spread also had a role as ci-
pher for the success of the Annales themselves, on analogy with Rome’s proto-im-
perial military successes. Ann. 12– 13, latos <per> populos res atque poemata nos-
tra… clara> cluebunt (“broadly through the peoples our affairs and poems will ach-
ieve bright fame”) is transmitted by a pseudo-Proban author who tells us that the
lines come from the first book of Ennius’ Annales.¹³ Given the decontextualized
state of the fragment, we are not in a position fully to evaluate the reference of nos-
tra, but it looks to be doing double duty: in its (transferred) reference to res, it
looks to be mean “our [Roman] state/ the affairs of Rome”, while in its reference
to poemata it seems to represent the standard poetic plural for singular and thus
refer to Ennius’ (“my”) poems.¹⁴ A powerful association is thus effected between
Rome’s growing political influence over increasingly far-flung peoples and the suc-
cess of Ennius’ song. This association, along with the source’s assurance that the
fragment belongs to Book 1, helps secure the sense that the centrifugal thrust of
the poem was dominant right from the start of the poem and constituted a central
means of communicating the significance of its subject-matter.¹⁵

international landscape, see Richardson 1991, 1– 9, where Richardson makes clear that “the
transferred, concrete meaning ‘dominion’, ‘realm’, ‘empire’, becomes especially frequent during
and after the Augustan period”. Before then, e. g. for Cicero and his contemporaries, it des-
ignated the power of a nation-state, as well as the power of an individual magistrate (ibid. 7). On
the earliest surviving uses of the term in Accius, and thereafter in Cicero and Varro, to signify
Roman power in a wider sense than that belonging to an individual magistrate, see ibid. 6. See
also Lintott 1981, 53 – 67, Lintott 1993, and Richardson 2008. See ibid. 51– 2 for analysis of
Ennius’ rare surviving uses of the term (in the Annales [see n. 11 above], the Medea, the Hectoris
Lytra, and the Euhemerus).
 GLK 4.231: neutro genere in casibus supra dictis [nom., acc., voc.] sine ambiguitate breuis est
[sc. syllaba finalis] Graecis Latinisque nominibus:… Graeci etiam nominis exempla subiciamus:
Ennius in primo annali (Ilberg; nam cod.) ‘latos <per> populos res atque poemata nostra <- – -
clara> cluebunt’ et in Vergilio ‘Arcada piscosae cui circum flumina Lernae’ (A. 12.518). For the
problems of the text, see Skutsch 1985 ad loc.
 The alternative, given that the source assures us that the fragment originates in Book 1, is
that it is associated with the dream-proem of the Annales and that nostra continues the asso-
ciation there explicitly initiated between Ennius and Homer and so represents a true plural.
Thus res atque poemata nostra would mean “our [viz. Ennius’ and Homer’s] poems and their
subject-matter”. Skutsch’s future tense cluebunt represents a problem for such an interpretation,
given Homer’s already established fame, unless the claim is for the future fame of Ennian and
Homeric epic in association. (Mariotti’s imperfect cluebant is equally problematic, if the claim is
to include the not-yet-established Annales.)
 This centrifugal thrust is, later in the epic tradition, countered by Lucan in his catalogues, as
Bexley (in the present volume) ably describes. For comparison and contrast with the situation in
the Annales, see also Ziogas (this volume) on Ovid’s moves to marginalize the celebrated centres
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 229

Among the scarce instances where the fragment itself or its source states or im-
plies the geographical location of the action or people described, there is again an
obvious disproportion in the amount of attention different theatres receive. The frag-
ments name six, predictable, discrete geographical arenas besides Rome: (A) the Ital-
ian peninsula, (B) Africa, (C) Illyria, (D) Greece and Macedon, (E) Asia (Troy; Anti-
ochus), (F) the West (Spain and Gaul). Among these, the largest total number of ref-
erences are to (A) the Italian peninsula, followed by (D) Greece and Macedon and (B)
Africa, while very few references indeed survive to (C) Illyria or (F) lands west of Italy.
(The fragments themselves are listed in Appendix III.A–F.)

Table 1: the distribution of fragments of the Annales naming geographical arenas other than Rome.

The pre-Republican era The Republic Sed. inc. TOTAL

(Books  – ) (Books  – )

A. The Italian  ()¹⁶  ()  ()  ()

peninsula
B. Africa —  ()  ()  ()
+  testimonia +  testimonia
C. Illyria —  ()  ()  ()
+  testimonium +  testimonium
D. Greece & Macedon —  ()  ()  ()
E. Asia  ()  () —  ()
(Troy; Antiochus)
F. The West —  ()  ()  ()
(Spain & France)

of the earth: not only Delphi but ultimately also Rome; and Slaney (this volume) on Valerius
Flaccus’ Argonautica. Slaney privileges two aspects of the text: (1) Valerius’ promotion of the
glamorous and beguiling possibility of geographical discovery – a reflection, in her reading, of
Roman imperialism, and a means by which to co-opt the audience’s support for such ventures
and the costs they entail; (2) the undermining of that possibility by demonstrating its hollow-
ness. It may be an accident of transmission that, in the Annales, the clearest traces of the
representation of a voyage of discovery are discernible not in the description of encounters with
non-Roman alterity but in the alienated and mythologized description of Italy as beheld through
foreign, presumably Trojan, eyes: e. g. est locus Hesperiam quam mortales perhibebant (Ann. 20,
securely attested for Book 1); quam Prisci, casci populi, tenuere Latini (Ann. 22). The absence from
the Annales of traces of irony (such as Slaney detects in Valerius Flaccus) attaching to the
dawning possibility of imperialism is presumably not an effect of the hazards of transmission
but rather reflects that Ennius is describing Roman imperialism’s naïve infancy.
 The number of fragments attached to the Italian peninsula may in a sense be artificially
swollen by the first six (Ann. 20, 21, 22, 26, 30, 31; see Appendix 3.A.I for the text). If these are
correctly assigned to Book 1 (and ancient authority for that assignation exists only in the cases
of Ann. 20 and 26), they are reasonably interpreted as concerning the establishment of Rome
rather than with the City’s subsequent relations with competing peoples.
230 Jackie Elliott

Methodological considerations apply when considering what this evidence has

to tell us. In particular, the fragments supply weak grounds for drawing conclu-
sions about the shape of the narrative, which, as the editions present it to us, is
rather more the product of modern editorial activity than of the ancient evi-
dence.¹⁷ For example, editions routinely place the material associated with Afri-
ca in Books 7, 8 and 9 (reflected in Appendix 3.B, below). Yet of the thirteen frag-
ments associable with Africa or its inhabitants, only two come with book-num-
bers attached. One of these is Ann. 297 (Poenos Didone oriundos, “the Carthagi-
nians who trace their descent from Dido”), which its source, Priscian (GLK 2.210),
attributes it to Book 8 – unobjectionable from an editorial viewpoint, since it ac-
cords with standard scholarly estimates of where the account of the Second
Punic War would fall.¹⁸ Since the fragment itself, however, consists of no more
than a noun and an attribute or predicate, it cannot supply any sense of the nar-
rative in which it stood.¹⁹ In the single other instance where a source for an Af-
rica-fragment supplies a book-number, Ann. 242, Skutsch changes it because it
does not suit his sense of the narrative.²⁰ The line reads explorant Numidae,
totam quatit ungula terram (“the Numidians reconnoiter; the hooves [of their
horses] shake the entire land”). Its source, Macrobius (Sat. 6.1.22), places it in
Book 6, to which we know that the narrative of the encounter with Pyrrhus be-
longed.²¹ Skutsch dislikes Macrobius’ testimony because it implies two possibil-
ities, both of which contradict his sense of the narrative. The first of them he
states and discounts, the second he elides. If – the possibility that Skutsch rec-
ognizes – the line refers to Numidian cavalry in Pyrrhus’ employ, it implies that
Ennius included detail that Skutsch reckons of dubious interest to the Romans.
The other possible implication, however, is that Book 6 anticipated or included
early narrative of the engagement with Africa, a possibility so out of step with
standard assumptions about the progress of the narrative that Skutsch does
not even mention it. In effect, however, neither Ann. 297 nor Ann. 242 – and
so no fragment at all – confirms the supposition that Rome’s encounter with
Carthage took place primarily in Books 7– 9.

 See n. 4 above and nn. 66 and 77 below.

 For standard accounts of the progress of the narrative of the Annales, see the references to F.
& O. Skutsch, Leo and Gratwick in n. 4 above.
 Thus, Ann. 472 (Poenos Sarra oriundos, “the Carthaginians, who originate in Tyre”), a wholly
parallel fragment, appropriately finds itself among the sed. inc., since in its case, the source,
Probus (Verg. G. 2.506), supplies no book-number.
 See Skutsch 1985, 426.
 On Book 6 of the Annales and Cicero (and others) as its source, see Fantham 2006, 549 – 68.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 231

By contrast, one strength of the material associable with Africa is that it has
no particular source predisposed in its favour. Unlike the material associable
with Greece and Macedon, for example – about half of which is generated by
the utility to Cicero, in a variety of contexts, of Ennius’ rendition of Pyrrhus²²
– the material associable with Africa survives via a diverse set of authors direct-
ed by a diverse set of interests.²³ As a result, we have better evidence for the nar-
rative’s broad preoccupation with Africa than we do in Pyrrhus’ case.²⁴
As noted at the outset, there is of course no reason to think the surviving re-
cord a reliable guide to the distribution of material in the full original. With that
caveat in open view, it is perhaps nevertheless worth noting what the fragments
as they stand have to offer. The location conspicuous by its near complete ab-
sence is the West. A tentatively ventured speculation of Skutsch’s makes a single
ambiguous, decontextualized line, the only potential remaining trace of Ennius’
account of Cato’s victories in Spain in 195 BCE: ²⁵ this is Ann. 471, Hispane non
Romane memoretis loqui me (“you ought to bear in mind that I am speaking
after the Spanish and not the Roman fashion”). Similarly, we are without any dis-
cernible remains of L. Aemilius Paullus’ Spanish campaign of 190/89.²⁶ There is
of course no reason to doubt that events of such contemporary moment would
have been described; as already noted, given how fragmentary the work is, it
is undoubtedly the case that entire theatres of war have slipped between the
cracks – or that their atoms, where they survive, are not identifiable.

 Cicero is the sole or primary source of Ann. 167, Ann. 183 – 90 and Ann. 197– 8, all of which
relate to Pyrrhus; the other fragments directly associable with Greece and Macedon (Ann. 165,
166, 322– 3, 340 – 2, 346, 257, 281) survive via sources belonging to the grammatical and ety-
mological traditions (Varro, Gellius, Festus, Nonius, Priscian).
 Four slight fragments survive via Cicero (Ann. 216, 234, 302, 309), one via Varro (Ann. 215),
three via Festus and/or Paulus (Ann. 214, 287, 292), one each via Gellius (Ann. 303), Macrobius
(Ann. 242), Servius Danielis (Ann. 299), ps.-Probus (Ann. 472) and Priscian (Ann. 297). There are
besides this two testimonia supplied by Servius (Ann. VIII.xv and xvi) and one dubious fragment
surviving only through a sixteenth-century report (Ann. 303).
 See Elliott 2013, 67– 8, for the argument also that even the location of the Pyrrhus-narrative
in Book 6 – which typically serves as one of the most widely accepted points of reference for the
organization of the Annales, rests on evidence that is not entirely secure; cf. Fantham 2006, 549 –
68, esp. 553 – 5, for a view of the arrangement of Book 6 differing in some respects from the
standard editors’.
 Skutsch 1985 ad loc. Skutsch there also cites Norden (1915, 114– 15) as the origin of an
alternative conjecture, which makes Rome’s dealings with Carthage the point at issue. (As a
preliminary to war with Carthage, Roman ambassadors went to Spain to seek Spanish allies but
were rejected – here Norden posits the role of Ann. 471 – in consequence of Rome’s recent
abandonment of Saguntum to its fate at Carthaginian hands; Liv. 21.19.)
 Cf. Skutsch 1985, 528 – 9, 535.
232 Jackie Elliott

Material surviving on Rome’s encounter with peoples to the East (Carthage,²⁷

Greece, Troy and its neighbouring descendant peoples) is, by contrast, impres-
sive in its relative abundance and in its apparent distribution. Beyond the stat-
istical preponderance in the surviving record, which may be misleading, it is no-
ticeable that the presence of the East extends visibly among the fragments be-
yond literal references to narrative events in their chronological order; and
also beyond characters and events familiar from Homer to characters and events
familiar from Herodotus. Discussion of the fragments below will lead me to sug-
gest that active in the Annales was the trope of conflict of continents familiar
from Homer and Herodotus – although this does not, in my view, necessitate
that Ennius’ epic was a chauvinist or nationalist work in any sense stronger
than is true of the Iliad.
Although there is no call for quarrelling with the editorial hypothesis that
Troy figured in its chronological narrative place, towards the start of Book 1 of
the Annales, the one fragment that both names Troy and that is assigned by
its ancient source to a particular book suggests that it was at any rate not con-
fined to its chronological place but loomed large over the narrative as a whole.
We may accept as immediate narrative in the authorial voice Ann. 14 (quom ueter
occubuit Priamus sub Marte Pelasgo, “when Priam of old fell to the Greek War-
God”), and Ann. 15 – 16²⁸ (doctus†que Anchisesque Venus quem pulcra dearum/
fari donauit, diuinum pectus habere, “?and? learned Anchises, to whom Venus,
outstandingly beautiful goddess, granted/ the gift of prophecy and to have an
inspired mind”).²⁹ To the point here, though, is that we know that Troy appears

 I include Carthage not only because of its association with Phoenicia (thus the standard
designation in the Annales of the Carthaginians as Poeni, as at Ann. 214, 287, 297, 310 and 472)
but also because of the implications of Gellius’ (admittedly post-Virgilian) reading of Ann. 303;
see p. 216, below. Cf. Levene (2010, 90, 94, 99, 107– 11) on the alignment of Carthaginians with
Easterners in a Livian context.
 I have not counted Ann. 15 – 16 among the references to the East charted in Table 1 or in
Appendix 3.
 The sources for Ann. 14 (Prisc. GLK 2.97: ueterrimus quasi a ueter positiuo, quod Capri quoque
approbat auctoritas et usus antiquorum. Ennius [Ann. 14]; and Ars Anon. Bern. 8.81: uetus ueteris
ueterrimus quasi a uetere positiuo. Ennius [Ann. 14]) and Ann. 15 – 16 (‘Probus’ Verg. Ecl. 6.31: cur
ibi [A. 6.724] Anchisen facit disputantem quod hic Silenum deum, nisi quod poeta Ennius Anchisen
augurium [Sk.; -ii codd.] ac per hoc diuini quiddam habuisse praesumit sic [Ann. 15 – 16]…, sup-
ported by the more problematic text of Schol. Veron. Verg. A. 2.687) do not supply us with a book-
number. They thus leave open the possibility of these fragments’ place in the narrative. Nothing
prevents them from representing character-speeches from any point in the epic. Yet the standard
editorial decision, to place them early in Book 1, implying that they represent authorial narrative
of Aeneas’ departure from Troy, is at any rate a reasonable one.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 233

late in the narrative too. In quoting the following fragment, Macrobius guaran-
tees Book 10 of the Annales as its original location:³⁰

[Pergama]
quae neque Dardaniis campis potuere perire
nec quom capta capi nec quom combusta cremari
(Ann. 344– 5)

[Troy]
which could not be destroyed on the Dardan plain
nor when captured remain captured nor when torched be consumed by flame.

The lines themselves refer to Troy’s apparently unstoppable renascence and this,
together with their guaranteed origin in Book 10, assures us that a retrospective
view of Troy continued to be deployed late in the poem. Macrobius quotes these
fragments to illustrate their formative influence on Aen. 7.294– 6 (part of Juno’s
irate speech on the incipient Trojan successes in Italy).³¹ The quotation-context
thus supports the idea that Troy served throughout the poem not just as a geo-
graphical location but as an ideological construct and as a rhetorical device
available to the poem’s internal speakers. Skutsch conjectures that Ann. 344– 5
originate in Ennius’ replication of a speech of the Lampsacene embassy to Mas-
silia and Rome in the 190 s BCE, in which the Lampsacenes requested that Rome
protect them from Antiochus, on the grounds of their kinship with the Romans
through Troy.³² This conjecture rests on the conventional estimate of the narra-
tive of Book 10, which is itself no more than a hypothesis; and it is too precise
to be underwritten by our surviving evidence about the text. Nevertheless,
Skutsch’s conjecture well illustrates the type of function the fragment is liable
to have had, for it is sensitive to critical characteristics in the fragment: the
lines carry an evident emotional charge – witness the insistent p and c allitera-
tion and the patent strength of sentiment associated with the reference to Troy’s
now distant re-birth (exasperation, as on the Vergilian Juno’s part? hope, as in
the case of Skutsch’s conjecture about the suppliant Lampsacenes?). It is clear
that the concept of Troy is being engaged to some charged rhetorical end, and
it is this that guarantees, if not the accuracy of Skutsch’s particular conjecture,
then at any rate the powerful emotional valence of Troy, as a cipher for Rome’s

 Macr. Sat. 6.1.60. Macrobius also supplies us with the knowledge that the antecedent of the
relative is Pergama.
 A. 7.294– 6: num Sigeis occumbere campis,/ num capti potuere capi? num incensa cremauit/
Troia uiros). The first half-line of this quotation is omitted by Macrobius.
 Skutsch 1985 ad loc.; Erskine 2001, 40, 169 – 72.
234 Jackie Elliott

ancient resilience and resourcefulness. The relationship among the Annales, the
Iliad and the Aeneid, as constructed for the modern reader by Macrobius (as, for
example, at Sat. 6.1.60, above), naturalizes this use of ‘Troy’ to Ennius’ epic for
that reader.
The East, however, figures not only in terms of Troy, and not only in ways
that the epic tradition as we know it would lead us to expect: the Herodotean
East also appears, and here there can be no doubt of its figurative as opposed
to literal value. I have argued elsewhere for the presence of Herodotus in the re-
mains of Ennian battle-narrative, as illustrated by the fragments regularly as-
signed to Cannae (Ann. 263 – 7).³³ I suggested that the battle-language of the An-
nales is standardized and non-particularizing, in imitation of the effects of Ho-
meric formula; and that, in addition to the images of fighting inspired by
Homer, at least some of its standard tropes (phrases such as fit ferreus imber
at Ann. 266 and the idea of fighting against the slanting rays of the sun at
Ann. 265)³⁴ are borrowed from the Greek historiographical tradition, and in par-
ticular from Herodotus. Another, more direct signal of Herodotus’ presence sur-
vives. At L 7.21, Varro quotes and explains a fragment of an unknown Roman
tragedy thus: ‘quasi Hellespontum et claustra’ [trag. frg. inc. inc. 107 R], quod Xers-
es quondam eum locum clausit; nam ut Ennius ait ‘isque Hellesponto pontem con-
tendit in alto’ (“‘as if the Hellespont and its barriers’, because Xerxes once barred
up that place; for, as Ennius says, “he drew a bridge out over the deep Helles-
pont,” Ann. 369). The critical piece of information Varro supplies is that the ref-
erent of Ennius’ unnamed is is Xerxes, who has no natural place in Ennius’ pri-
mary narrative of Roman history. In search of a moment where mention of Xerxes
might be relevant to that primary narrative, Skutsch posits that the line belongs
to a speaker expressing Roman apprehension at Antiochus’ movement West to-
wards Rome in 192; hence, he places it in Book 13.³⁵ Skutsch’s conjecture is again
too precise for certainty,³⁶ but it plausibly sketches a role for the fragment in pro-

 Elliott 2010, 250 – 3.

 On the latter, however, see n. 68 to Appendix 1 below.
 “The bridge built by Xerxes. The fragment clearly has to do with apprehension felt at Rome
in 192 when war against Antiochus seemed inevitable: Livy 35.23 and 41…” (Skutsch 1985, 535).
The source, Varro (L 7.21), does not, however, indicate which book of the Annales (or even which
work) the fragment comes from, and I fail to find the argument which makes the assignation of
this fragment and the following Ann. 370 to Book 13 “certain conjecture” (Skutsch 1985, 535,
introduction to Books 13 – 14). Neither can I find the argument that shows conclusively that the
narratives of Books 13 and 14 are certainly and exclusively devoted to the war against Antiochus.
 See Clarke (1999, 99 – 100) on the recurrence of the Greek Xerxes-episode in Polybius’ history
of Rome, likewise as an analogy for recent threats to Rome. She there cites Polyb. 3.6.2 (the
Carthaginian crossing of the River Iberos in contravention of the treaty of 226 BCE) and
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 235

moting an analogy between a critical moment in Herodotus’ history and an event

of Roman history as described in the Annales.
With material as fragmentary as that of the Annales today, it is impossible to
glean more than hints about the organization and labelling of material and the
ideological values promoted as a result. Yet, together with Ann. 344– 5, Ann. 369
at any rate suggests that the spectre of the East, as it was known through Greek
literature, loomed over Ennius’ interpretation of current Roman events and that
the poet thus made use of the East as it was figured in Greek epic and historiog-
raphy to spark the imagination of his audience in construing their own recent
undertakings. It is therefore perhaps worth entertaining the possibility that the
bias visible in the extant record, with its preponderance of fragments associable
with theatres of war East of Rome, to the virtual exclusion of those associable
with Rome’s encounters with Western Europe, may not entirely be the result of
the hazards of transmission. Rome’s clashes with the East in the form of Antio-
chus, Hannibal, and perhaps other opponents too, could be endowed with an
ideological force, after the manner of Greek presentations of earlier clashes be-
tween the representatives of Asia and Greece;³⁷ engagement with theatres to the
West offered no similar opportunity, at least none afforded by the emulation of
those predecessors with whom Ennius appears most closely to have associated
himself.
Two principal factors abet the idea that Ennius found himself engaging
afresh that notion of the archetypal clash between East and West that the
Iliad, especially in its re-interpretation in the Persian Wars, represented: as al-
ready considered, the modelling of the Annales on specific works of Greek epic
and Greek historiography, to which the notion of a clash between continents
was central, made Ennius’ epic a natural heir to that idea. Besides this, the An-
nales were a national epic touting national virtues, in which Rome’s confronta-
tion of her enemies appears to have been figured as the confrontation between
civilization and moral order on the one hand and barbarity and decadence on
the other. Lines figuring Rome as the representative of moral order have, from

Polyb. 3.66.6 (Hannibal’s crossing of the Po by means of a bridge of boats) as instances of the
episode’s recurrence. Though no mention of these moments is traceable among the surviving
fragments of the Annales, they fall within the scope of his narrative and could also be considered
as possible occasions for Ennius’ introduction of Ann. 369.
 See Hardie (1986, 311– 13) on ‘Europe and Asia’ as a universalizing expression in the Aeneid,
and Horsfall (2000, 175) on Europae atque Asiae at A. 7.223 regarding the idea of the Trojan War
as “the first conflict between the continents”; cf. Feeney 2007a, 82, citing Horsfall. Both Hardie
and Horsfall emphasize that the idea of the Trojan War as the first conflict between continents is
Herodotean and not Homeric.
236 Jackie Elliott

the earliest moments at which we can access readings of the epic, been among
its most popular. Ann. 156 (moribus antiquis res stat Romana uirisque, “by its
laws of old and by its men the Roman state stands firm”) is ascribed by a popular
hypothesis to Manlius Torquatus’ speech to his son for disobeying military or-
ders. This line’s fame in antiquity can be measured by the frequency with
which it was quoted or alluded to.³⁸ The same is true of Ann. 363 (unus homo
nobis cunctando restituit rem, “one man alone, by delaying, restored our
state”), which, according to Cicero (Off. 1.84) and Livy (30.26.7), regarded Fabius
Maximus ‘Cunctator’.³⁹ Against such lines can be set another series, which adver-
tise the sacrilegious nature, vices, and moral failings of Rome’s Eastern enemies:
thus Ann. 214 (Poeni soliti suos sacrificare puellos, “it is Carthaginian custom to
sacrifice their children”) and Ann. 287 (iniqua superbia Poeni, “the Carthaginian’s
perverse arrogance”).⁴⁰ In commenting on Numanus Remulus’ slur on Trojan
clothing at A. 9.616, Gellius (6.12.6 – 7) informs us: Q. quoque Ennius Carthaginien-
sium ‘tunicatam iuuentutem’ [Ann. 303] non uidetur sine probro dixisse (“Q. En-
nius too appears to have intended a slur in speaking of the ‘young men’ of Carth-
age ‘in their trailing gowns’”). Gellius’ reading implies that the anti-Eastern bias
familiar from the Aeneid was at least occasionally available, whether in implicit
or in explicit form, to the ancient reader of the Annales. Some lines also appear
to speak to the consequences of the moral failings of these exotic peoples of the
East, as at Ann. 310, perculsi pectora Poeni (“the Carthaginians, daunted in their
hearts”). Such implications do not occur in the context of Rome’s enemies to the
West or her enemies and allies on the Italian peninsula. Indeed, the line Ann. 471
(Hispane non Romane memoretis loqui me, “you ought to bear in mind that I am
speaking after the Spanish and not the Roman fashion”) might be read as imply-
ing that a Spanish speaker made a bid to co-opt the moral high ground from the
Romans – perhaps, as Norden suggested, in the aftermath of Saguntum.⁴¹
The activation of the East-West dynamic is not, however, a hypothesis that,
in my interpretation, entails that Ennius consistently represented Rome’s Eastern
enemies as morally inferior.⁴² It may be that Philip V of Macedon or Hannibal or

 See Skutsch 1985, 317.

 Ibid. 529 – 30.
 Cf. ibid. 463 on this phrase: “superbia may refer mainly to the victor’s pride… but is brought
close to ὕβρις by the addition of iniqua, and the subject matter suggests that ὑβρίζειν was in the
poet’s mind. An overtone of the moral-political notion, debellare superbos,… may well be pre-
sent as well”.
 See n. 25 above.
 Compare Slaney (this volume) on the opportunity given by Valerius Flaccus to Medea’s nurse
(Val. Fl. 5.352– 3), Sol (Val. Fl. 1.525 – 6) and Aeetes (Val. Fl. 7.35 – 47) to express alternative
perspectives on the new arrivals in Colchis and to co-opt the moral high ground.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 237

another enemy of Rome is vilified and caricatured at Ann. 319 – 20: Cyclopis uen-
ter uelut olim turserat alte/ carnibus humanis distentus (“just as once the Cyclops’
belly had swollen huge, crammed with pieces of human flesh”);⁴³ yet the assim-
ilation to an Homeric character, however grotesque, also mythologizes and thus
elevates the tenor of this simile, whoever or whatever it was. Less compromising-
ly, the portrayal of Pyrrhus in the Annales is clearly modelled on the noble and
humane Achilles of Iliad 24, even if it also takes into account the same text’s in-
articulate Ajax.⁴⁴ At Balb. 50 – 1, arguing in defense of the citizenship of a weal-
thy Spaniard (procured by Pompey in return for assistance during the Sertorian
War), Cicero is able to present even the Ennian Hannibal’s words as worthy to be
emulated by Roman commanders:

etenim cum ceteris praemiis digni sunt qui suo labore et periculo nostram rem publicam de-
fendunt, tum certe dignissimi sunt qui ciuitate ea donentur pro qua pericula ac tela subierunt.
atque utinam qui ubique sunt propugnatores huius imperi possent in hanc ciuitatem uenire, et
contra oppugnatores rei publicae de ciuitate exterminari! neque enim ille summus poeta nos-
ter Hannibalis illam magis cohortationem quam communem imperatoriam uoluit esse:

hostem qui feriet, †erit, inquit, mi† Carthaginiensis,

quisquis erit. cuiatis siet, (Ann. 234 – 5)

id habent hodie (Halm; hoc codd.) leue et semper habuerunt, itaque et ciuis undique fortis
uiros adsciuerunt et hominum ignobilium uirtutem persaepe nobilitatis inertiae praetulerunt.

For in fact, though those who by their own toil and at their own peril come to the aid of our
state are worthy of all possible other rewards also, they are in the first place worthy to have
bestowed on them the citizenship of the state for which they have faced dangers and wars.
And would that all the bulwarks of this empire, wherever they are, could be gathered into
this state and that conversely all its assailants be banished from its territory! For that most
distinguished poet of ours did not intend that Hannibal’s famous exhortation be considered
his own more than the common exhortation of all generals:

He who will strike the enemy, he said, will be a Carthaginian in my eyes,

whoever he shall be. Wherever he hail from…

Today too they consider this a small thing, as they always have, and so they adopted into
the citizenry brave men from everywhere and preferred the courage of men of no particu-
larly eminent rank to the sloth of the nobility.

Cicero thus treats the Ennian Hannibal’s dignified and graceful words as exem-
plary; and, given that his audience as well as himself were educated on the An-

 See Flores/Esposito/Jackson/Paladini/Salvatore/Tomasco 2006, 122– 4 for a full history of

editorial conjectures about the simile’s missing referent.
 See Elliott 2007, 52– 4.
238 Jackie Elliott

nales, Cicero’s interpretation here is presumably not entirely inconsonant with

the effect of ‘Hannibal’’s words in the original text. It may have been precisely
the familiarity and the established patriotism of the Annales that safely allowed
room for a sympathetic and ennobling presentation of characters across the
board, regardless of ethnicity or political allegiance. After all, the Romans are
themselves lent dignity by Ennius’ portrayal of her foes as her equals in moral
rank;⁴⁵ Rome’s eventual victory is the more meaningful the more redoubtable
her enemies and the more closely they challenge Rome’s ethical claims to su-
premacy.⁴⁶ Cicero himself comes close to pointing this out at Off. 1.38, where
he differentiates between two types of war and two types of enemy: a more bru-
tal war, waged for survival; and a nobler war, waged for sovereignty and empire,
represented by the conflicts with an in this case generic – i. e. not identifiably
Ennian—Hannibal and with a specifically Ennian Pyrrhus:

cum uero de imperio decertatur belloque quaeritur gloria, causas omnino subesse tamen
oportet easdem, quas dixi paulo ante iustas causas esse bellorum. sed ea bella, quibus im-
perii proposita gloria est, minus acerbe gerenda sunt. ut enim cum ciui aliter contendimus,
si est inimicus, aliter si competitor (cum altero certamen honoris et dignitatis est, cum altero
capitis et famae), sic cum Celtiberis, cum Cimbris bellum ut cum inimicis gerebatur, uter esset,
non uter imperaret, cum Latinis, Sabinis, Samnitibus, Poenis, Pyrrho de imperio dimicabatur.
Poeni foedifragi, crudelis Hannibal, reliqui iustiores. Pyrrhi quidem de captiuis reddendis illa
praeclara.
(Ann. 183 – 90, quoted in Appendix 1.II (b), below)

Now when the contest is for empire, and glory in war is what is at stake, then still the same
reasons I described just a little while ago as the just causes of wars should be operative. But
those wars that aim at the glory of extended rule should be waged less bitterly. Just as we
compete differently with our fellow-citizens, depending on whether they are actually our
[personal or political] foe or simply our rival in an election (for with the one the contest
is for respect and office, with the other for life and reputation), so we waged war with
the Celtiberi and the Cimbri as with total enemies, to decide who would survive, not
who would be in control; but with the Latins, the Sabines, the Samnites, the Carthaginians

 Cf. Woodman 1977, 107 on Vel. 96.3: “the more difficult the foreign terrain in which the
laudatus won his victories, the more the victories are themselves magnified”. I am grateful to
Carole Newlands for this reference.
 I therefore on principle disagree with the idea that one can use the nobility of a sentiment or
the sophistication of a speech as a means of adjudicating between possible speakers, as Skutsch
does with regard to Ann. 382– 3 (nunc est ille dies quom gloria maxima sese/ nobis ostentat, si
uiuimus siue morimur) in writing that “the sentiment is worthy of a Roman commander rather
than of Antiochus” (Skutsch 1985, 546); and similarly with regard to Ann. 414, when he dismisses
the possibility that the speaker was the Illyrian king Epulo on the grounds it is inadmissible that
“Ennius [would] have given so elaborate a speech on a purely tactical matter… to a barbarian
chief” (ibid. 579).
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 239

and with Pyrrhus we fought for rule. Amongst those, the Carthaginians were treacherous,
Hannibal cruel, but the rest acted with greater justice. And in fact, those words of Pyrrhus’
on the return of the prisoners-of-war are outstanding…

The close, emulative relationship Ennius constructs between his poem and the
Iliad in my view promotes the likelihood that the appearance of an ennobling
presentation of Pyrrhus and Hannibal, as it emerges from these Ciceronian frag-
ments of the Annales, is not deceptive. One of the most immediately striking
characteristics of the Iliad is its humane view of the participants in its narrative
across ethnic lines.⁴⁷ The recreation of this dynamic between opposing parties
would readily have followed from Ennius’ close replication of Homer, which ap-
pears both in the detail of his language and in the recreation of at least some full
episodes. In addition, specifically Roman terms appear to be used of non-Ro-
mans in the Annales: for example, if Skutsch’s editorial conjectures and standard
accounts of the progression of the narrative are right, matronae at Ann. 418, at-
tested for Book 16, ought to refer to the women of a non-Roman (possibly Istrian)
town;⁴⁸ and the legiones at Ann. 292 to Hannibal’s army. These re-designations of
foreigners in Roman terms (not unusual in texts of this period) suggest analogies
and commonalities between Romans and non-Romans, which could have served
as vehicles for introducing sympathy across national barriers.
Speculation about the distribution of the remaining geographical references
of the Annales has led me to suggest that a polarizing East-West dynamic broadly
governed the text, while nevertheless allowing for the sympathetic representa-
tion of non-Romans, including Easterners. It is perhaps worth making one
final point in conclusion. It is in any case clear from the basic parameters of
the Annales as we know them – the presentation of Rome as central in a new,
international setting and the co-option of the Greek past – that Ennius radically
re-negotiated Rome’s ideological role in the world. But if, beyond this, Ennius
fathered on to the story of Rome an inherited East-West dynamic, that would fur-
ther mean that Rome would, on the one hand, be revealed Greece’s heir, the pri-
mary power foisting off the hostile Orient – an appearance that Rome’s recent
major victories against Hannibal and Antiochus could have helped bolster.
Yet, alongside Roman acts of aggression that made Rome in her own right an
enemy of Greece, Ennius’ choice to highlight Roman descent from Troy – as sug-
gested by Ann. 14 (the death of Priam at Greek hands), Ann. 15 – 16 (Venus’ gift of
prophecy to Anchises) and especially Ann. 344– 5 (Troy’s renascence) (all quoted
above) – much as it echoed accepted legend and the self-presentation of leading

 Fornara (1983, 63 – 4) suggests that this trait is a formative influence on Greek historiography.
 Cf. Elliott 2007, 51.
240 Jackie Elliott

Roman families as descended from Trojan heroes,⁴⁹ could only have heightened
the resulting paradox. Ennius’ negotiation of geography thus has potentially
complex ramifications for our sense of his treatment of Roman identity, ethics
and the ideology.

Alternative ‘Spaces’ in the Annales:

Ilia’s Dream (Ann. 34 – 50), Romulus and Remus
(Ann. 72 – 91) and the ‘Good Companion’ Fragment
(Ann. 268 – 86)
Above we have considered what might be gleaned from the fragments of the An-
nales about the organization of the nameable spaces of the poem’s male and
martial arena. Here we will consider three extended fragments, which between
them offer an alternative view of the use and conception of space in the Annales.
Names are key to only one of the three fragments to which we now turn: tellingly,
this is Ann. 72– 91 (the augurate of Romulus and Remus), the fragment whose ac-
tors well represent the dominant male, political and military cast of the poem.
The absence of names from the fragment describing Ilia’s dream in particular
is very clearly not the result of the accidents of transmission but rather part of
a deliberate portrayal of Ilia’s psychological experience and perspective, ex-
pressed via her relationships to the space into which the dream thrusts her.⁵⁰
Ilia’s dream and the ‘good companion’ fragments have in common a novel
interplay between indoor and outdoor space. The former is ostensibly set in-
doors, in Ilia’s bedchamber, where she has just woken from her dream, but
takes us rapidly to an unnamed outdoor space unfamiliar to the dreamer; the lat-
ter is ostensibly set outdoors, at a major battle (its name lost to us), but takes us
to an interior space which turns out to be the arena in which a non-military type

 See most fully Erskine (2001, 15 – 43), who quotes the standard secondary literature in which
Republican Roman self-understanding as descended from Troy is taken for granted (ibid. 16).
Erskine himself, however, seeks to re-assess this picture, emphasizing the extent to which our
access to the earlier Republican understanding of the relationship between Troy and Rome is
filtered through the Iulii.
 See Ormand and Keith (this volume) – the latter on Valerius Flaccus’ use of Ovidian
landscapes of desire – for comparable readings of space as an expression of psychology. Ilia’s
disorientation, as I describe it below, could perhaps also be seen as a forerunner of that (in their
case, occasional) loss of perspective and of security that Valerius Flaccus’ Argonauts suffer in
the reading of Slaney (this volume).
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 241

of prowess can be appreciated. Within each of these spaces, the alternative per-
spectives of individuals who normally occupy less privileged positions come mo-
mentarily but memorably into view. Hand in hand with the individualization of
perspective in these fragments goes the individualization of language. In stark
contrast to the constantly re-circulating, stylized language in which the fighting
of the dominant, martial arena is described, the language of these episodes is
unique.⁵¹ No names are attached to the alternative spaces they describe. For
whereas the stylization and resulting interchangeability of the battle-descrip-
tions means in effect that names are necessary to the organization of that
space, the non-recurring descriptive detail itself of the Ilia-fragment and of the
‘good companion’ fragment sets off the spaces they delimit.
At the start of Ilia’s dream, we find ourselves first in Ilia’s bed-chamber at
night, in an exclusively female space,⁵² shared by Ilia, her half-sister, and the
nurse, and illuminated only by the torch the old woman brings the two girls.
The dream has pulled Ilia, however, into a world outdoors, haunted by elusive
male figures, in which she finds herself disoriented and distressed. The fragment
runs thus:

et cita cum tremulis anus attulit artubus lumen.

talia tum memorat lacrimans, exterrita somno:
‘Eurydica prognata, pater quam noster amauit,
uires uitaque corpus meum nunc deserit omne.
nam me uisus homo pulcer per amoena salicta
et ripas raptare locosque nouos. ita sola
postilla, germana soror, errare uidebar
tardaque uestigare et quaerere te neque posse
corde capessere: semita nulla pedem stabilibat.
exim compellare pater me uoce uidetur
his uerbis: “o gnata, tibi sunt ante gerendae
aerumnae, post ex fluuio fortuna resistet.”
haec ecfatus pater, germana, repente recessit
nec sese dedit in conspectum corde cupitus,
quamquam multa manus ad caeli caerula templa
tendebam lacrumans et blanda uoce uocabam.

 Not only does the language of these episodes not recur among the extant fragments (a fact
that of itself might not suffice to convince, given the extent to which our record is maimed); but,
unlike the battle-fragments, which, as we have seen, emanate mainly from the scholarly and
lexicographical traditions, the Ilia- and ‘good companion’ fragments were selected for content,
by ancient readers with full or considerable access to the Annales. (Our source for Ann. 34– 50,
Ilia, is Cic. Div. 1.40 – 1; that for Ann. 268 – 86, the ‘good companion’ is Gell. 12.4.4.) This suggests
that they stood out from the regular narrative as especially memorable.
 Keith 2000, 42– 4.
242 Jackie Elliott

uix aegro cum corde meo me somnus reliquit.’

(Ann. 34– 50)

Rapidly, with trembling limbs, the old woman brought the light. Then, in tears, terrified out
of her sleep, she [Ilia] gave this account: ‘Child of Eurydice, beloved of our father, even now
my life-strength is seeping from my entire body. For it seemed to me that a handsome man
hurried me away through lush willowy river-banks, places unknown to me. And so, there-
after, dear sister, it seemed I wandered alone and slowly cast around and sought you yet
was not able to find you, ?much as I longed for you?:⁵³ for there was no path to guide
my feet. Then it seemed our father addressed me, with these words: “My daughter, first
there are hardships for you to endure; thereafter, your fortunes, emerging from the flood-
tide, will find their foothold.” Once he had said this, sister, our father of a sudden withdrew,
and did not return to my sight, though I longed for him earnestly, and though I lifted my
hands many a time to the azure regions of the sky in my tears and called to him entreat-
ingly. And only just now has sleep left me, all sick at heart.’

The contrast between the private space in which Ilia recounts her story and the
unfamiliar external dream-world is heightened by the effects of light Ennius de-
scribes, when the darkened, interior room, lit only by the nurse’s torch, gives way
to an exterior space lit by the daylight that allows Ilia clearly to perceive details
(amoena salicta, l. 38; ripas, l. 39; locos nouos, l. 39), although she does so un-
comprehendingly.
The most recurrent geographical feature of the outdoor landscape in which
Ilia finds herself is the river, which turns out to have multiple extensions, literal
and metaphorical, present and future. The physical river implied by the ripae of
l. 39 has an echo in the metaphorical fluuium, by which Aeneas refers to the
hardships ahead for Ilia (l. 45). According to ‘Porphyry’’s account of the Annales,
these hardships will turn out to involve another close encounter with a physical
river, in which Ennius’ Amulius has Ilia drowned.⁵⁴ The eery echoes among these
multiple extensions does something to capture Ilia’s confused emotional experi-
ence of the distressing present and of the threatening future in this, for her, alien
landscape. The line by which she prefaces her narrative (uires uitaque corpus
meum nunc deserit omne, Ann. 37) sums up its devastating effect on her.
If the details of this landscape are strange to Ilia (cf. locosque nouos,
Ann. 39),⁵⁵ they constitute easily recognizable elements of the world in which
the males of the narrative regularly operate and which they (alone) can

 See Skutsch 1985, 199 on the difficulties of construing the phrase corde capessere; he glosses
the phrase as cupitam capessere, with “to reach you” the only sense possible for capessere.
 See Ann. I. xxxix, quoted in n. 56 below.
 See Keith 2000, 43, 45 – 6 on the function of the description of the landscape in the passage,
including the phrase locosque nouos, as a metaphor for sexual initiation.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 243

name.⁵⁶ To her, their specific identity is of no interest, and so, because the frag-
ment describes the landscape from her perspective, its features remain nameless.
This namelessness well communicates Ilia’s bewilderment within the new, male
territory in which she finds herself. Her inability to navigate this landscape is
marked by her failed quest for her sister (ll. 39 – 42) and by her futile search
for a path through it to take her back to familiar surroundings and familiar com-
pany (l. 42). The mystery shrouding the landscape reflects the mystery, to Ilia, of
the individual whom she can only describe as homo pulcher (l. 38), who accom-
panies her there. Her rapid and abstract description of this encounter with Mars
(ll. 38 – 9) suggests that she little knows what to make of it. Even her father,
whose presence she welcomes, speaks in riddles and appears only in a fleeting
vision (ll. 44– 9).
It is to these mysterious (Mars) or elusive (Aeneas) males that this landscape
seems properly to belong. As Alison Keith has pointed out, it takes male political
and military agents to demarcate and control what remains from Ilia’s perspec-
tive a landscape unmarked by recognizable signs of human society.⁵⁷ When we
revisit this territory (or its extension) in the Romulus and Remus fragment
(Ann. 72– 91), it is from the perspective of males who have already begun to par-
cel it up into discrete and nameable features. The fragment is transmitted by Cic-
ero (Div. 1.107– 8), supplemented by Gellius (7.6.9), thus:

curantes magna cum cura tum cupientes

regni dant operam simul auspicio augurioque.
in †monte Remus auspicio sedet atque secundam
solus auem seruat. at Romulus pulcer in alto
quaerit Auentino, seruat genus altiuolantum.
certabant urbem Romam Remoramne uocarent.
omnibus cura uiris uter esset induperator.
expectant ueluti consul quom mittere signum
uolt, omnes auidi spectant ad carceris oras
quam mox emittat pictos e faucibus currus:

 Named rivers associated with male ritual or military activity are among the recurrent phy-
sical features of the poem. Thus teque pater Tiberine tuo cum flumine sancto, Ann. 26; quod per
amoenam urbem leni fluit agmine flumen, Ann. 163; sulpureas posuit spiramina Naris ad undas,
Ann. 222; et Tiberis flumen <flauom> uomit in mare salsum, Ann. 453; atque manu magna Ro-
manos impulit amnis, Ann. 581; cf. ‘Porphyry’’s testimonium: Ilia auctore Ennio in amnem Tiberim
iussu Amulii regis Albanorum praecipitata Antemnis Anieni matrimonio est, Ann. I.xxxix, and that
of the Orig. gen. Rom. 20.3 (Ann. I.xliv). Other lines also mention fluvial bodies of water, such as
the mysterious Ann. 5, desunt riuos camposque remanant; and postquam constitit †isti fluuius, qui
est omnibus princeps/ †qui sub ouilia†, Ann. 63 – 4.
 Keith 2000, 44.
244 Jackie Elliott

sic expectabat populus atque ore timebat

rebus utri magni uictoria sit data regni.
interea sol albus recessit in infera noctis.
exin candida se radiis dedit icta foras lux
et simul ex alto longe pulcerrima praepes
laeua uolavit auis. simul aureus exoritur sol
cedunt de caelo ter quattuor corpora sancta
auium, praepetibus sese pulcrisque locis dant.
conspicit inde sibi data Romulus esse propritim
auspicio regni stabilita scamna solumque.
(Ann. 72– 91)

With great care then, in their eagerness for rule, they set about taking the auspices. Remus
takes up his seat †on the hill for his auspicate and in isolation awaits the arrival of the birds
of omen. Handsome Romulus for his part seeks reply on the lofty Aventine, awaiting the
arrival of birds on the wing. They were settling by contest whether to call the city Roma
or Remora. The entire population is anxious to know who would be leader. They wait as
when the consul is about to give the signal and all direct their gazes eagerly at the gates
of the starting-post, to see how soon it will release the painted chariots from its maw:
just so did the people wait and show their apprehension for the future on their faces, in
their anxiety to know to which of the two the victory of great rule would be given. In
the meantime, the gleaming sun retreated to the night below. And then bright light, struck
forth, revealed itself by the sun’s beams, and at that moment from afar on high a most
handsome swift flock flew by on the left. As soon as the golden sun arose, there make
their way from the sky thrice four holy birds and disport themselves in fine lofty places.
And so Romulus gathered that to him was given, as his own possession, kingship’s seat
and territory, established by the omen.

Here, the description of the nameless features of a trackless landscape that had
dominated the Ilia-fragment has been replaced entirely. At issue instead is the
naming (l. 77) of a place already established and familiar, and the taking of po-
litical control (ll. 78, 90 – 1), the former act clearly symbolic of the latter.⁵⁸ There
is no question as to what the site of the future city will be, and the participants of
the narrative are sufficiently oriented in that site that places within it already
have names: while textual corruption obscures the name of the mountain on
which Remus’ conducts his augurate, in †monte (l. 74) at any rate looks like it
conceals a place-name or at least an identifiable location;⁵⁹ and Romulus con-
ducts his augury unambiguously in alto… Auentino (ll. 75 – 6). The location is
in fact so clearly established that it helps anchor the anachronism in the simile
comparing the suspense of the crowd to that at the games held in Republican

 Cf. Skutsch 1985, 226 on Romam Remoramne.

 Skutsch (1985, 222) says that it was “the Remuria, the saxum on the south-eastern spur of the
Aventine, originally a separate hill known as Murcus.”
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 245

times (ll. 79 – 83). The western slope of the Aventine, the hill on which Ennius
locates Romulus, faces onto the Circus Maximus, a likely location for the chari-
ot-race envisaged in the text.⁶⁰ The sense is thus that, when Romulus spotted the
ominous birds, he was in a place associated with the future site of the games that
were to cause analogous suspense in their Republican audience. In this passage,
place functions, then, as a linch-pin connecting different temporal strata by
highlighting the unities among them.
Besides this, the focus on the description of religious ritual (the augurate it-
self) and of the proper routines of communal life (as in the simile) promotes a
sense of established order, reflecting the sense in these lines of actors at ease
in a location they know and are able to control. Both the ritual and the games
involve established procedure, each to take place in designated locations, in
known temporal sequence. Indeed, the simile describing the crowd’s suspense
only heightens the idea of a communal set of expectations on which the passage
as a whole is predicated. The fragment thus ideally communicates its male ac-
tors’ ability to govern space and therefore to move through it in meaningful
ways, that is, ones available for shared interpretation by the community at
large. This ability stands in sharp contrast to Ilia’s disorientation in the male en-
vironment with which her dream presented her. She for her part could find no
communally shared terms to describe that environment, to direct her expecta-
tions, or to promote the sense of her own understanding either of it or of the elu-
sive figures that confronted her there.
The difference between how location is figured in the Ilia-fragment and in
the Romulus and Remus fragment has suggested that gender is a significant ar-
bitrator in the poet’s descriptions of place. Description of place in the ‘good com-
panion’ fragment, however, shares sufficient traits with the Ilia-fragment to sug-
gest that a more dominant determinant in Ennius’ use of space lies in his man-
ner of communicating the distribution of power among actors, in which gender is
only one potentially operative factor. The passage is transmitted by Gellius (12.4),
along with the information that it originates in Book 7 of Ennius’ Annales and,
famously, that he, Gellius, had heard people say that the scholar L. Aelius
Stilo (c. 2– 1 BCE), used to say that the description of its principal figure, the
so-called ‘good companion’, was a veiled self-portrait by the poet.⁶¹ The other fig-
ure named in the passage is a ‘Servilius’, whose name Gellius amplifies as Ser-

 Skutsch (1985, 228) connects the games envisaged in the text to the ludi Romani, via the
mention of the consul at l. 79. The most ancient site of the chariot-races of the ludi Romani was
the Circus Maximus (Mommsen 1856, 79 – 87).
 See Hardie 2007a, 132– 3, who includes a note of healthy scepticism about the identification
attributed to Stilo.
246 Jackie Elliott

vilius Geminus, and whom Skutsch identifies as Cn. Servilius Geminus, consul of
217 BCE.⁶² Gellius also tells us that the passage came sub historia Gemini Seruili
(“under the story of Servilius Geminus”, 12.4.1). The fragment, which shows mul-
tiple signs of textual corruption,⁶³ runs thus:

haece locutus uocat quocum bene saepe libenter

mensam sermonesque suos rerumque suarum
consilium partit, magnam quom lassus diei
partem fuisset de summis rebus regundis
consilio indu foro lato sanctoque senatu;
quoi res audacter magnas paruasque iocumque
eloqueretur †et cuncta† malaque et bona dictu
euomeret si qui uellet tutoque locaret;
quocum multa uolup
gaudia clamque palamque;
ingenium quoi nulla malum sententia suadet
ut faceret facinus leuis aut mala: doctus, fidelis,
suauis homo, iucundus, suo contentus, beatus,
scitus, secunda loquens in tempore, commodus, uerbum
paucum, multa tenens antiqua, sepulta uentustas
quae facit, et mores ueteresque nouosque †tenentem
multorum ueterum leges diuomque hominumque
prudentem qui dicta loquiue tacereue posset:
hunc inter pugnas conpellat Servilius sic:
(Ann. 268 – 86)

Having finished this speech, he summons the man with whom right often at his pleasure he
shares meal-time conversation and whom he apprises of his intentions for his affairs, when
he has grown weary from the day, spent in large part on administering matters of state in
the forum and sacred senate. To this man he unhesitatingly tells matters of great and small
moment and jokes, and of all things bad and good to say he can unburden himself, if he
feels the desire to, and safely entrust them; with whom many things pleasurable… joys both
privately and publicly; a person no light-minded or treacherous sentiment can move to
wicked action: a learned, faithful, pleasant man, agreeable, satisfied with his condition,
happy, discerning; who speaks appropriately to the occasion; an obliging man, of few
words, who has knowledge of many ancient matters which the passing of time covers in
oblivion and †understands customs old and new, along with the ordinances of many an-
cient peoples, both divine and human; sagacious; able both to speak out and to keep silent.
This man did Servilius address thus amid the fighting.

 Skutsch 1985, 447– 8. The historical identification is of small moment to the present argu-
ment.
 See Skutsch 1985 ad loc.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 247

As Ilia’s dream does, the ‘good companion’ fragment thus introduces the poem’s
audience to an arena alternative to the epic’s dominant martial space, alternative
also to the civic and political spaces designated as Servilius’ habitual fields of
action. It does so, strikingly, by cutting directly from the battlefield (cf. inter pu-
gnas, “amid the fighting”, Ann. 286)⁶⁴ to the description of the ‘good companion’
in a domestic setting. That setting thus stands out against both the battle into
which it is set and the forum and senate to which the passage (ll. 268 – 72) explic-
itly contrasts it.⁶⁵ In Servilius’ forensic and senatorial activity, we have an ana-
logue (at a much later point in the poem’s temporal spectrum) to the spaces oc-
cupied by Romulus and Remus for their augurate and by the audience of the
chariot-race in the simile of that passage: that is, a public space internal to
the City – a type of space, then, the traceable mention of which is a comparative
rarity among the surviving fragments.
The good companion’s alternative space operates, as Ilia’s did too, in terms
of personalities: it is the relationship between Servilius and the good companion
on which this passage turns, just as the space of Ilia’s dream had thrown into
relief the relationships between herself and her sister, herself and the homo
pulcher, and herself and her father. The passage begins by making it clear that
part of the value of the ‘good companion’ to Servilius lies in his absence from
Servilius’ principal places of business (Ann. 272). The distinction in the two char-
acters’ spheres of operation correlates clearly to the difference between their so-
cial function and utility. The space proper to the ‘good companion’, Servilius’
table (inseparable from the conversation that took place around it), is critical
in allowing his virtues, subsequently enumerated, to flourish; they have no par-
ticular place in the public arena. If the final line of the fragment suggests that the
‘good companion’ has curiously managed to get himself introduced to the battle-
field, it is clearly for his habitual purpose of private conversation (cf. compellat,
l. 286), which is allowed to take place there via an extraordinary transference of
context. The passage removes the audience’s mind as far from the battlefield as
any Homeric simile does, offering relief from the fighting by displaying a peace-
time counterpart to such activity. In a sense, by doing so, the passage allows the
‘good companion’ to bring both his usual setting and the activity that accompa-
nies it with him to the battlefield; thus the link effected by hunc (l. 286) between
the preceding lines and Servilius’ subsequent address to the ‘good companion’
(which the passage signals but of which we are deprived). Because the poet

 On the interpretation of this phrase, see Skutsch 1985 ad loc. Skutsch there asserts that “we
are undoubtedly at the battle of Cannae”. For his reasons for that claim, see again Skutsch 1985,
447– 8.
 Cf. Skutsch 1985, 462.
248 Jackie Elliott

has thus allowed the ‘good companion’ to bring his setting with him, the latter
does not find himself disoriented when introduced to a sphere of action as alien
to him as Ilia’s dream-context was to her; hence the absence of the psychological
element so strong in Ilia’s dream. Instead, the alien setting for the description
renders it salient within its environment – sufficiently so to account at least in
part for its preservation at length by Gellius, as well for scholars’ ongoing puz-
zlement about its function in context.

Conclusion
I have argued above that, for all the hazards involved in engaging with fragmen-
tary works, the remains of the Annales allow us access to some aspects of the
vision of the world the poem promoted. The fragments reflect a preoccupation
with the expansion by military means of Rome’s influence over an increasingly
far-flung environment, as is to be expected from the poem’s genre and its repu-
tation in antiquity. The interests and limitations of the sources predetermine
that, for the most part, specific geographical referents are denied us. Where geo-
graphical or ethnical referents are still traceable, they suggest a description of
the world heavily laden with ideology, an ideology in which Rome stood as bas-
tion of the Occident and in that sense usurped Greece’s ancient role. The longer
fragments allow us to witness how the poet used space, both public and private,
as a means of expressing characters’ individualized perspectives and their rela-
tionships to others in their environment. The characters’ negotiation of that
space, and the terms which serve the poet (in the authorial voice or in the char-
acters’ individual voices) to describe its features, appear as integral to the con-
struction of character and the dynamic among the agents of the poem. Despite
the vast gaps in our knowledge and the kaleidoscopic qualities of these as of
all fragments, the remains of the Annales are sufficient to allow us to discern
a complex treatment of space and geography that responds to the ancient
world’s sense of the poem’s calibre and assures us of its ability, while it survived,
to match in quality its more fortunate epic relatives.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 249

Appendix 1:⁶⁶ War in the Fragments of the Annales

Total: 125 fragments = 173 lines (out of Skutsch’s 623 securely attributed extant
lines)

I. Fighting in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(8 fragments = 10 lines, out of a total of 149 surviving lines):

(a) small-scale skirmishes or individual feuds:

Ann. 69 – 70:** pars ludicre saxa Book 1
iactant inter se licitantur
Ann. 71:** occiduntur. ubi potitur ratus Romulus praedam
Ann. 130: ferro se caedi quam dictis his toleraret Book 2
Ann. 131: qui ferro minitere atque in te ningulus
Ann. 132: adnuit sese mecum decernere ferro
(b) armies (implying larger-scale engagements)
Ann. 121:** quianam legiones caedimus ferro Book 2
Ann. 122: quamde tuas omnes legiones ac popularis

(c) regular battle (?)

Ann. 143 – 4: postquam defessi sunt stare et spargere sese Book 3
hastis ansatis, concurrunt undique telis

 The system of asterisks I reproduce in Appendices 1– 3 is Skutsch’s. No asterisks mean that at

least one of the fragment’s sources supplies a book-number for the fragment, as well as a
definite assignation to Ennius and to the Annales; one asterisk signals that the fragment is
transmitted by its source without book-number and so that the assignation to a definite book is
the result of editorial conjecture; two asterisks signal that the fragment is not explicitly assigned
to the Annales by its source; three that the fragment has been transmitted without even the
poet’s name. It is important to note the extent to which the arrangement of fragments into books
is the result of modern editorial activity and is based on a variety of modern assumptions,
among them the assumptions that the narrative of the Annales presented events in reliably
chronological order, that lines reliably represent narrative in the authorial voice given in that
chronological order rather than more mobile character-speeches, and that the historical refe-
rents of fragments are readily ascertainable, despite the vacuum of information that typically
surrounds them. The book-numbers represent Skutsch’s organisation of the text.
250 Jackie Elliott

II. Fighting in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(84 fragments = 129 lines, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

(a) battle-action proper (24 fragments, 34 lines)

Ann. 151: Romani scalis: summa nituntur opum ui Book 4
Ann. 152:** Volsculus perdidit Anxur
Ann. 160:** bellum aequis [de] manibus nox intempesta diremit Book 5
Ann. 161: ansatas mittunt de turribus
Ann. 173 – 4:⁶⁷ †decimo tamen induuolans secum abstulit hasta Book 6
insigne
Ann. 236 – 7: denique ui magna quadrupes, eques atque elephanti Book 7
proiciunt sese
Ann. 264:⁶⁸ iamque fere puluis ad caeli uasta uidetur Book 8
Ann. 266: hastati spargunt hastas. fit ferreus imber
Ann. 267: densantur campis horrentia tela uirorum
Ann. 289:** summus ibi capitur meddix, occiditur alter
Ann. 291:** de muris rem gerit Opscus
Ann. 298: uiri uaria ualidis uiribus luctant Book 9
Ann. 315: puluis fulua uolat
Ann. 355: tum clipei resonunt et ferri stridit acumen Book 11
Ann. 356: missaque per pectus dum transit striderat hasta
Ann. 384: horrescit telis exercitus asper utrimque Book 14
Ann. 387: omnes occisi occensique in nocte serena
Ann. 389 – 90: occumbunt multi letum ferroque lapique Book 15
aut intra muros aut extra praecipe casu
Ann. 391– 8: undique conueniunt uelut imber tela tribuno:
configunt parmam, tinnit hastilibus umbo,
aerato sonitu galeae, sed nec pote quisquam
undique nitendo corpus discerpere ferro.
semper abundantes hastas frangitque quatitque.
totum sudor habet corpus, multumque laborat,
nec respirandi fit copia: praepete ferro
Histri tela manu iacientes sollicitabant.
Ann. 409: qui clamos oppugnantis uagore uolanti Book 16

 Ostensibly, this fragment’s source, Macrobius (Sat. 6.1.53), gives its book-number as 16 (“in
sexto decimo”). On Skutsch’s reasons for treating decimo as the first word of the quotation from
Ennius, see Skutsch 1985, 339 – 40 & 31– 4; Kaster removes decimo altogether, on the hypothesis
that it was wrongly transferred in by a scribe from Macr. Sat. 6.1.50 (Kaster 2010, 52).
 I have excluded for the sake of argument Ann. 265 (amplius exaugere obstipo lumine solis),
which is regularly assigned, along with Ann. 263 (see below under “cavalry”), 264, 266 and 267
to the narrative of Cannae. Its source (Fest. Apogr. 210) looks only to illustrate the use of
obstipum as equivalent to oblicum (obliquum) and gives no sense of the line’s context; battle is
only one of any number of possibilities.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 251

Ann. 410: ingenio forti dextra latus pertudit hasta

Ann. 411: concidit et sonitum simul insuper arma dederunt
Ann. 428: tollitur in caelum clamor exortus utrimque Book 17
(?) Ann. 440: aere fulua ⁶⁹ Book 18
(b) Military manœvres, speeches and other preliminaries to battle or war, dis-
cussion of military policy or summaries of wartime activity (29 fragments
= 50 lines)
Ann. 167:** aio te Aeacida Romanos uincere posse Book 6
Ann. 169: balantum pecudes quatit, omnes arma requirunt
Ann. 170 – 2:* proletarius publicitus scutisque feroque
ornatur ferro. muros urbemque forumque
excubiis curant.
Ann. 183 – 90:** nec mi aurum posco nec mi pretium dederitis:
non cauponantes bellum sed belligerantes
ferro, non auro uitam cernamus utrique.
uosne uelit an me regnare era quidue ferat Fors
uirtute experiamus, et hoc simul accipe dictum:
quorum uirtuti belli fortuna pepercit
eorundem me libertati parcere certum est.
dono – ducite – doque – uolentibus cum magnis dis.
Ann. 191– 4: diui hoc audite parumper:
ut pro Romano populo prognariter armis
certando prudens animam de corpore mitto,
<sic>
Ann. 195 – 6: aut animo superant atque asp rima
fera belli spernunt
Ann. 197– 8:** stolidum genus Aeacidarum:
bellipotentes sunt magis quam sapientipotentes
Ann. 199 – 200:** quo uobis mentes, rectae quae stare solebant
antehac, dementes sese flexere †uia
Ann. 201: sed ego hic animo lamentor
Ann. 202:** orator sine pace redit regique refert rem
Ann. 213:** quantis consiliis quantumque potesset in armis Book 7
Ann. 216:*** Appius indixit Carthaginiensibus bellum
Ann. 227– 8: qua Galli furtim noctu summa arcis adorti
moenia concubia uigilesque repente cruentant
Ann. 230: dum censent terrere minis hortantur ibe sos
Ann. 233: fortibus est fortuna uiris data
Ann. 234– 5:** hostem qui feriet †erit (inquit) mi† Carthaginiensis
quisquis erit. cuiatis siet
Ann. 238: alter nare cupit, alter pugnare paratust
Ann. 261: praecox est pugna Book 8
Ann. 262: certare abnueo. metuo legionibus labem

 For this line, cf. Ann. 315 (puluis fulua uolat) with the discussion at Elliott 2010, 251– 2.
252 Jackie Elliott

Ann. 292:** ob Romam noctu legiones ducere coepit

Ann. 309:** Africa terribili tremit horrida terra tumultu Book 9
Ann. 326 – 8: aspectabat uirtutem legionis suai Book 10
expectans si mussaret [dubitaret] quae denique pausa
pugnandi fieret aut duri <finis> laboris
Ann. 330 – 1: insignita fere tum milia militum octo
duxit delectos bellum tolerare potentes
Ann. 343: regni uersatum summam uenere columnam
Ann. 347: horitatur induperator
Ann. 371– 3: Hannibal audaci cum pectore de me hortatur Book 13
ne bellum faciam, quem credidit esse meum cor
suasorem summum et studiosum robore belli
Ann. 412: navorum imperium seruare est induperantum Book 16
Ann. 424: prandere iubet horiturque
Ann. 425 – 6: hic insidiantes uigilant, partim requiescunt
succincti gladiis, sub scutis, ore fauentes

(c) Naval exercises, fleets and sailing (7 fragments = 12 lines)

Ann. 218: poste recumbite uestraque pectora pellite tonsis Book 7
Ann. 219:* pone petunt, exim referunt ad pectora tonsas
Ann. 294– 6: tonsamque tenentes Book 8
parerent obseruarent portisculus signum
quom dare coepisset
Ann. 377– 8: uerrunt extemplo placidum mare: marmore flauo Book 14
caeruleum spumat sale conferta rate pulsum
Ann. 379 – 80: quom procul aspiciunt hostes accedere uentis
nauibus ueliuolis
Ann. 382– 3: nunc est ille dies quom gloria maxima sese
nobis ostentat, si uiuimus siue morimur
Ann. 388: malos defindunt, fiunt tabulata falaeque Book 15

(d) Cavalry (3 single-line fragments):

Ann. 242: explorant Numidae, totam quatit ungula terram Book 7
Ann. 263: consequitur. summo sonitu quatit ungula campum Book 8
Ann. 431: it eques et plausu caua concutit ungula terram Book 17
(e) Weaponry (2 single-line fragments)
Ann. 239: deducunt habiles gladios filo gracilento Book 7
Ann. 381:⁷⁰ rumpia Book 14

(f) Enemies or allies (5 single-line fragments)

Ann. 214:** Poeni soliti suos sacrificare puellos Book 7
Ann. 215:** Poeni stipendia pendunt
Ann. 229:*** Marsa manus, Paeligna cohors, Vestina uirum uis

 See n. 84 below.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 253

Ann. 297: Poenos Didone oriundos Book 8

Ann. 310:*** perculsi pectora Poeni Book 9
(g) The aftermath of battle or of war: triumphs; the defeat of enemies; the effects
of war on women (12 fragments = 18 lines)
Ann. 162: cogebant hostes lacrumantes ut misererent Book 5
Ann. 180 – 2:*** qui antehac Book 6
inuicti fuere uiri, pater optume Olympi,
hos ego ui pugna uici uictusque sum ab isdem
Ann. 243 – 4: legio †reditu †rumore †ruinas Book 7
mox auferre domos populi rumore secundo
Ann. 287:** his pernas succidit iniqua superbia Poeni Book 8
Ann. 288: nunc hostes uino domiti somnoque sepulti
Ann. 299:** Livius inde redit magno mactatus triumpho
Ann. 300 – 1: rastros dente †fabres capsit causa poliendi Book 9
agri
Ann. 316: praeda exercitus undat
Ann. 349: aegro corde, comis passis Book 10
Ann. 366 – 8: omnes mortales uictores, cordibus uiuis Book 12
laetantes, uino curatos somnus repente
in campo passim mollissimus perculit acris
Ann. 385 – 6: infit: “o ciues, quae me fortuna fero sic Book 14
contudit indigno bello confecit acerbo
Ann. 418: matronae moeros complent spectare fauentes Book 16
(h) Metaphors for the onset of war (1 two-line fragment)
Ann. 225 – 6:** postquam Discordia taetra Book 7
belli ferratos postes portesque refregit

(i) Similes describing a violent clash (1 three-line fragment)

Ann. 432– 4: concurrunt ueluti uenti, quom spiritus Austri Book 17
imbricitor Aquiloque suo cum flamine contra
indu mari magno fluctus extollere certant
(j) Invocations to sing of war or of particular wars (2 fragments = 3 lines)
Ann. 322– 3:** insece Musa manu Romanorum induperator Book 10
quod quisque in bello gessit cum rege Philippo
Ann. 403: quippe uetusta uirum non est satis bella moueri Book 16
254 Jackie Elliott

III. Fighting in the sedis incertae fragments

(37 fragments = 41 lines, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

(a) battle-action proper (8 fragments = 10 lines):

Ann. 483 – 4:** oscitat in campis caput a ceruice reuulsum
semianimesque micant oculi lucemque requirunt
Ann. 485 – 6:** quomque caput caderet carmen tuba sola peregit
et pereunte uiro raucum sonus aere cucurrit
Ann. 545:** clamor ad caelum uoluendus per aethera uagit
Ann. 582:** pila retunduntur uenientibus obuia pilis
Ann. 583:** decretum est stare <et fossari> corpora telis
Ann. 584:** premitur pede pes atque armis arma teruntur
Ann. 597:** runata recedit
Ann. 612:** stant puluere campi
(b) military manœvres, preparations, speeches in advance of battle or war, dis-
cussion of military policy or summaries of wartime activity (14 single-line
fragments):
(?) Ann. 450:** iam cata signa fere sonitum dare uoce parabant
Ann. 451:** at tuba terribili sonitu taratantara dixit
Ann. 468:** et detondit agros laetos atque oppida cepit
Ann. 480:** nostri cessere parumper
Ann. 526:** Illyrii restant sicis sybinisque fodentes
Ann. 527:** succincti gladiis, media regione cracentes
Ann. 528:** leuesque sequuntur in hastis
Ann. 531:** spiras legionibus nexit
Ann. 544:** inde loci lituus sonitus effudit acutos
Ann. 550:* atque atque accedit muros Romana iuuentus
Ann. 573:** hos pestis necuit, pars occidit illa duellis
Ann. 577:** cum legionibus quom proficiscitur induperator
Ann. 620:*** machina multa minax minitatur maxima muris
Ann. 623:** crebrisuro

(c) Shipyards, war-ships or marine activity (3 fragments = 4 lines)

Ann. 504:** idem campus habet textrinum nauibus longis
Ann. 512:** multa foro ponet et agea. longa repletur
Ann. 515 – 16:** ratibusque fremebat
imber Neptuni
Ann. 517:** tonsillas apiunt, configunt litus, aduncas
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 255

(d) Elephants or cavalry (3 single-line fragments)

Ann. 502:⁷¹** it atrum campis agmen
Ann. 599:** equitatus iit celerissimus
Ann. 611:** tetros elephantos
(e) Weaponry (5 single-line fragments)
Ann. 519:** succincti corda machaeris
Ann. 548:** aut permarceret paries percussus trifaci
Ann. 557:** quae ualide ueniunt falarica missa
Ann. 603:** heia machaeras
Ann. 607:** teloque trabali

(f) Enemies or allies (1 two-line fragment)

Ann. 474– 5:** at non sic dubius fuit hostis
Aeacida Burrus

(g) The aftermath of battle or of war: triumphs; the defeat of enemies; the effects
of war on women (2 single-line fragments)
Ann. 498:** flentes plorantes lacrumantes obtestantes
Ann. 618:*** despoliantur eos et corpora nuda relinquont

 With the source, Serv. A. 4.404 (it nigrum campis agmen): hemistichium Ennii de elephantis
dictum, quo ante Accius usus est de Indis.
256 Jackie Elliott

Appendix 2: Events at Rome

I. Domestic affairs in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(149 surviving securely attributed lines): See n. 8 to the text above.

II. Domestic affairs in the narrative of the Republic,

Books 4 – 18
(16 fragments = 34 lines + 1 testimonium, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):
Ann. 150:** et qui se sperat Romae regnare Quadratae Book 4
Ann. 154– 5:** septingenti sunt, paulo plus aut minus, anni
augusto augurio postquam incluta condita Roma est
Ann. 158:⁷²** quom nihil horridius umquam lex ulla iuberet Book 5
? Ann. 170 – 2:* proletarius publicitus scutisque feroque Book 6
ornatur ferro. muros urbemque forumque
excubiis curant
Ann. 240 – 1:** Iuno Vesta Minerua Ceres Diana Venus Mars Book 7
Mercurius Iouis Neptunus Volcanus Apollo
? Ann. 247– 53: proelia promulgantur, Book 8
pellitur e medio sapientia, ui geritur res;
spernitur orator bonus, horridus miles amatur;
haud doctis dictis certantes, nec maledictis
miscent inter sese inimicitias agitantes;
non ex iure manu consertum, sed magis ferro –
rem repetunt regnumque petunt – uadunt solida ui
? Ann. 254– 5:⁷³ <monuit res>
aut occasus ubi tempusue audere, repressit
Ann. 256 – 7:** uel tu dictator uel equorum equitumque magister
esto uel consul
Ann. 290:** Quintus pater quartum fit consul
Ann. 299:** Liuius inde redit magno mactatus triumpho Book 9
Ann. 304– 8: additur orator Cornelius suauiloquenti
ore Cethegus Marcus Tuditano collega
Marci filius. is dictus popularibus ollis
qui tum uiuebant homines atque aeuom agitabant

 This line is transmitted as a supralinear addition by Ekkehart to his manuscript of Orosius.

The context in Orosius indicates that the line refers to the burial alive of the Vestal Minucia in
337 BCE.
 I include this fragment here because Skutsch argues, on the basis of possible analogues in
Liv. 22.14 or 25 (see, however, n. 4 above), that it belongs to a speech given in Rome criticizing
Fabius Maximus Cunctator. There is, however, no guarantee of this.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 257

flos delibatus populi Suadaique medulla

Ann. 324:** Graecia Sulpicio sorti data, Gallia Cottae Book 10
Ann. 329:⁷⁴** egregie cordatus homo, catus Aelius Sextus
? Ann. 362:⁷⁵ pendent peniculamenta unum ad quemque pedum Book 11
? Ann. 363 – 5: unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem. Book 12
noenum rumores ponebat ante salutem.
ergo postque magisque uiri nunc gloria claret
? Ann. 369:⁷⁶*** isque Hellesponto pontem contendit in alto Book 13
Book 16
Ann. XVI.viii:* an uero M. ille Lepidus, qui bis consul et pontifex maximus fuit, non solum
memoriae testimonio sed etiam annalium litteris et summi poetae uoce lau-
datus est quod cum M. Fuluio collega, quo die censor est factus, homine in-
imicissimo, in campo statim rediit in gratiam (Cicero, Prov. Cons. 20)

III. Domestic affairs in the sedis incertae fragments

(182 surviving securely attributed lines):

Editors do not place lines where reference to action at Rome is a possibility

among the fragments sed. inc. ⁷⁷ The Roman people or the Roman state are, how-

 Whether or not this line deals with Sextus Aelius’ appointment to the consulship for 198
BCE, as is regularly assumed, we know enough about this figure to be clear that his peacetime
record as a lawyer and civic administrator outshone any military undertakings on his part (see
Skutsch 1985, 504– 5). Cordatus speaks to his wisdom in these capacities. I therefore count the
line as referring to domestic affairs, even though no action of Aelius’ is named.
 I include this and the following two fragments on the grounds that conjectures typically
make speeches of them, often at Rome. The reference and therefore the context of Ann. 369 is
particularly obscure, however. For all three, see Skutsch 1985 ad loc.
 See 214– 15 above, with Skutsch 1985 ad loc., who states that “the fragment clearly has to do
with apprehension felt at Rome in 192, when war against Antiochus seemed inevitable”, citing
Vahlen’s suggestion of a speech recalling earlier invasions of Europe. Because of the implication
that this was a speech made at Rome, I here list the fragment under material pertaining to
domestic affairs. Further see n. 84 below.
 The lack of sed. inc. fragments in this appendix and their relative scarcity in the next
contrasts with their abundance in Appendix 1. This situation is the result of the fact that the
language that describes fighting and its appurtenances is largely generic in kind, the product of
Ennius’ imitation of Homeric formula (for evidence, see the reference in n. 4 above). Where book-
numbers do not survive for these largely interchangeable fragments, editors are (appropriately)
more hesitant than usual to offer conjectures regarding their original book-location. This si-
tuation stands in contrast to editorial confidence – reliant as it is on our ability to discern the
progress of the narrative and historical referents – in ascribing to particular books lines atta-
ching to particular locations or nations: that is, the fragments of Appendices 2 and 3. (This is
258 Jackie Elliott

ever, mentioned in 7 fragments sed. inc. (totalling 9 lines), if without reference to

action in any particular arena:
Ann. 494– 5: audire est operae pretium procedere recte
qui rem Romanam Latiumque augescere uoltis
Ann. 499:** cum sese exsiccat somno Romana iuuentus
Ann. 533:** dictis Romanis incutit iram
Ann. 559:** fortis Romani sunt quamquam caelus profundus
Ann. 560 – 1:** at Romanus homo, tamenetsi res bene gesta est,
corde suo trepidat
Ann. 563:** optima cum pulcris animis Romana iuuentus
Ann. 581:** atque manu magna Romanos impulit amni

visible at a glance from the asterisks attached to the lines in the Appendices, which designate
the amount of information about a fragment’s origin that a source imparts in transmitting the
fragment; see n. 66 above.)
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 259

Appendix 3: The Distribution of Identifiable

Geographical References among the Fragments
of the Annales
A. The Italian peninsula

I. The Italian peninsula in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(8 fragments = 9 lines, out of a total of 149 surviving lines):

Ann. 20: est locus Hesperiam quam mortales perhibebant Book 1
Ann. 21:** Saturnia terra
Ann. 22:** quam Prisci, casci populi, tenuere Latini
Ann. 26: teque pater Tiberine tuo cum flumine sancto
Ann. 30:* quos homines quondam Laurentis terra recepit
Ann. 31:** olli respondit rex Albai Longai
Ann. 128 – 9: Ostia munita est. idem loca nauibus Book 2
munda facit, nautisque mari quaesentibus uitam
Ann. 142: hac noctu filo pendebit Etruria tota Book 3

II. The Italian peninsula in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(6 single-line fragments, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

Ann. 152:** Volsculus perdidit Anxur Book 4
Ann. 157:*** ciues Romani tunc facti sunt Campani Book 5
Ann. 160:⁷⁸** bellum aequis [de] manibus nox intempesta diremit
Ann. 229:*** Marsa manus, Paeligna cohors, Vestina uirum uis Book 7
Ann. 289:** summus ibi capitur meddix, occiditur alter Book 8
Ann. 291:** de muris rem gerit Opscus

III. The Italian peninsula in the sedis incertae fragments

(9 single-line fragments, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

Ann. 453:** et Tiberis flumen <flauom> uomit in mare salsum
Ann. 455:* aqua est aspersa Latinis

 This line’s source, Ps.-Acro on Hor. Ep. 2.2.98, implies that the line refers to an engagement
between Romans and Samnites.
260 Jackie Elliott

Ann. 457:* Brundisium pulcro praecinctum praepete portu

Ann. 477:** Bruttace bilingui
Ann. 494– 5:** audire est operae pretium procedere recte
qui rem Romanam Latiumque augescere uoltis
Ann. 524:** Messapus
Ann. 525:** nos sumus Romani qui fuimus ante Rudini
Ann. 609:** Anionem

B. Africa

I. Africa in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(None, out of a total of 149 surviving lines.)

II. Africa in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(13 fragments = 15 lines + 2 testimonia, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

Ann. 214:** Poeni soliti suos sacrificare puellos Book 7
Ann. 215:** Poeni stipendia pendunt
Ann. 216:*** Appius indixit Carthaginiensibus bellum
Ann. 234– 5:** hostem qui feriet †erit (inquit) mi† Carthaginiensis
quisquis erit. cuiatis siet
Ann. 236 – 7: denique ui magna quadrupes, eques atque elephanti
proiciunt sese
Ann. 242:⁷⁹ explorant Numidae, totam quatit ungula campum
Ann. 287:** his pernas succidit iniqua superbia Poeni Book 8
Ann. 292:⁸⁰** ob Romam noctu legiones ducere coepit
Ann. VIII.xv:** (in Ennio inducitur) Iuppiter promittens Romanis excidium
Carthaginis (Serv. A. 1.20)
Ann. VIII.xvi:** bello Punico secundo, ut ait Ennius, placata Iuno coepit fauere
Romanis (Serv. A. 1.281)
Ann. 297: Poenos Didone oriundos

 On the place of this line in the narrative, see p. 210, above.

 I count this fragment among those attaching to Africa, because Skutsch assigns it to the
context of the war against Hannibal (Skutsch 1985, 470). His reasons for doing so, however, are
obscure; nothing in the fragment itself or its source (Fest. 188) gives any such indication.
Hannibal’s famous march towards Rome is not the only occasion on which an army was brought
against the City, and indeed the neutral sense of ob in its early usage, “towards”, which Skutsch
(1985 ad loc.) signals as relevant, does not require us to understand a hostile army (even if the
adverbial noctu, “by night” or “under cover of night”, slightly favours such a possibility).
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 261

Ann. 299:** Liuius inde redit magno mactatus triumpho Book 9

Ann. 302:⁸¹*** Europam Libyamque rapax ubi diuidit unda.
Ann. 303:** tunicata iuuentus
Ann. 309:** Africa terribili tremit horrida terra tumultu
Ann. 310:*** perculsi pectora Poeni

III. Africa in the sedis incertae fragments

(1 single-line fragment, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

Ann. 472:** Poenos Sarra oriundos

C. Illyria

I. Illyria in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(None, out of a total of 149 surviving lines.)

II. Illyria in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(2 single-line fragments + 1 testimonium, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

Book 15
Ann. XV.iv de Pandaro et Bitia aperientibus portas locus acceptus est ex libro quinto
decimo Ennii, qui induxit Histros duos in obsidione erupisse porta et stragem
de obsidente hoste fecisse. (Macr. Sat. 6.2.32)
Ann. 407: primus senex Bradylis regimen, bellique peritus Book 16
Ann. 408: quos ubi rex Epulo spexit de cotibus celsis

III. Illyria in the sedis incertae fragments

(1 single-line fragment, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

Ann. 526:** Illyrii restant sicis sybinisque fodentes

 I have listed this fragment, which refers to the Straits of Gibraltar, also under ‘(F) The West’.
262 Jackie Elliott

D. Greece & Macedon

I. Greece & Macedon in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(None, out of a total of 149 surviving lines.)

II. Greece & Macedon in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(10 fragments = 21 lines, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

Ann. 165: nauos repertus homo, Graio patre, Graius homo, rex Book 6
Ann. 166:⁸² nomine Burrus uti memorant a stirpe supremo
Ann. 167:⁸³** aio te Aeacida Romanos uincere posse
Ann. 183 – 90:** nec mi aurum posco nec mi pretium dederitis:
non cauponantes bellum sed belligerantes
ferro, non auro uitam cernamus utrique.
uosne uelit an me regnare era quidue ferat Fors
uirtute experiamur, et hoc simul accipe dictum:
quorum uirtuti belli fortuna pepercit
eorundem me libertati parcere certum est.
dono – ducite – doque uolentibus cum magnis dis.
Ann. 197– 8:** stolidum genus Aeacidarum:
bellipotentes sunt magis quam sapientipotentes
Ann. 322– 3:** insece Musa manu Romanorum induperator Book 10
quod quisque in bello gessit cum rege Philippo
Ann. 340 – 2:*** rursus uos reddite nobis,
O Epirotae (de una quaque re ut uideamus quid)
pastores a Pergamide Maledoue potis sint
Ann. 346: Leucatan campsant
Ann. 357: contendunt Graecos, Graios memorare solent sos Book 11
Ann. 381:⁸⁴ rumpia Book 14

III. Greece & Macedon in the sedis incertae fragments

(2 fragments = 4 lines, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

 Nonius assigns this fragment to Book 5. Skutsch, following in previous editors’ footsteps,
changes the book-number to 6, in reliance on standard assumptions about the progress and
organization of the narrative (see nn. 4 and 66, above).
 This fragment’s source, Cicero (Off. 1.38), tells us that this speech belongs to Ennius’ Pyrrhus.
 According to its source (Gell. 10.25.4), rumpia is the name for a Thracian weapon.
 Space and Geography in Ennius’ Annales 263

Ann. 459 – 60:** cos Grai memo

li>ngua longos per
Ann. 474– 5:** at non sic dubius fuit hostis
Aeacida Burrus

E. The East

I. The East in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(Two single-line fragments, out of a total of 149 surviving lines.)

Ann. 14:** quom ueter occubuit Priamus sub Marte Pelasgo Book 1
Ann. 28:** Assaraco natus Capys optimus isque pium ex se
Anchisen generat

II. The East in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(3 fragments = 6 lines, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

[Pergama]
Ann. 344– 5: quae neque Dardaniis campis potuere perire Book 11
nec quom capta capi nec quom combusta cremari
Ann. 369:⁸⁵*** isque Hellesponto pontem contendit in alto Book 13
Ann. 371– 3:⁸⁶ Hannibal audaci cum pectore de me hortatur
ne bellum faciam, quem credidit esse meum cor
suasorem summum et studiosum robore belli

 The fragment’s source, Varro (L 7.21), indicates that the fragment’s unnamed subject is
Xerxes, and hence I list it under material pertaining to the East. See p. 214– 15 above.
 Our highly informative source for this fragment (Gell. 6.2), tells us that the speaker is
Antiochus; see Skutsch 1985 ad loc.
264 Jackie Elliott

III. The East in the sedis incertae fragments

(None, out of a total of 182 surviving lines.)

F. The West

I. The West in the pre-Republican material of Books 1 – 3

(None, out of a total of 149 surviving lines.)

II. The West in the narrative of the Republic, Books 4 – 18

(2 fragments = 3 lines, out of a total of 292 surviving lines):

Ann. 277– 8: qua Galli furtim noctu summa arcis adorti Book 7
moenia concubia uigilesque repente cruentant.
Ann. 302:⁸⁷*** Europam Libyamque rapax ubi diuidit unda. Book 9

III. The West in the sedis incertae fragments

(2 single-line fragments, out of a total of 182 surviving lines):

Ann. 471:* Hispane non Romane memoretis loqui me.
Ann. 557:⁸⁸** quae ualide ueniunt falarica missa.

 I have listed this fragment, which refers to the Straits of Gibraltar, also under ‘(B) Africa’.
 On the grounds that the falarica is mentioned in the context of the siege of Saguntum by Livy
and, separately, by Silius, Skutsch (1985 ad loc.) argues for attributing Ann. 557 to that context in
the Annales.
Stratis Kyriakidis
From Delos to Latium
Wandering in the Unknown*

Seafaring forms a particular feature in ancient epic, especially in the Odyssey

and later in the Argonautica. These sea-voyages involve the visiting of many
and various places, the necessary stopovers, or the passing by of yet other geo-
graphic locations. A similar phenomenon (not exclusive, of course, to sea-voy-
age) is often attested in the Homeric as well as in the Callimachean Hymns
where – due to their limited length – their richness in geographic references is
particularly stressed. The reader of the Hymns wanders in a variety of locations
without distinctions among nations or peoples; through this geographic tour the
importance of the divinity addressed is highlighted, each time for a different rea-
son.
In the Aeneid, Book 3 is the book of the voyages par excellence. It is the mid-
dle book of the first half of the epic¹ and the part of the narrative where most of
the errores of the wandering Trojans are described. Aeneas and his comrades
leave sacked Troy in search of the new place, promised to him by fate, where
he will found a new city. His first stop is in Thrace where the Polydorus episode
takes place (3.14– 72). There Aeneas learns nothing of importance with regard to
his final goal; Polydorus gives only a broad statement as to the safety of the land
and his exhortation to the hero to leave: heu fuge crudelis terras, fuge litus ava-
rum (“ah, flee from this cruel land, flee from these shores of greed”, 3.44).² Delos
is the second port of call of the wandering Trojans (3.78 f.), but the first where
Aeneas directly receives a divine response. They have sailed to it in order to con-
sult the oracle of Apollo. The episode (3.73 – 124) begins with references to the
island’s prominence and the related myths (3.73 – 7). In this episode, however,
the historic name of Delos itself does not appear³ and the island is not named

* I am grateful to the anonymous reader of the paper who has made a number of constructive
comments. I also thank the editors of the volume for their patience and assistance.
 On the function of middles in the Aeneid, see Thomas 2004.
 Almost equally vague was Hector’s advice in Aeneas’ sleep; his advice begins in a similar
fashion: ‘heu fuge, nate dea, teque his’ ait ‘eripe flammis… hos cape fatorum comites, his moenia
quaere/ magna pererrato statues quae denique ponto’ (“ah, escape, son of the goddess, save
yourself from these flames… take them [i.e. the Penates] with you as companions to your fate,
seek for them great walls, which you will establish after you have finally completed your
wanderings through the seas”, 2.289, 294– 5).
 Barchiesi 1994, 439.
266 Stratis Kyriakidis

until the Trojans’ departure, and then only by its less known name of Ortygia
(linquimus Ortygiae portus, “we sail away from the port of Ortygia, 3.124).⁴ The
name of Delos may not appear in the episode but the reference to it at this
point can hardly be misleading since a number of elements, mythological as
well as textual, vouch for it. The way, for example, Apollo (arquitenens, A.
3.75) turned the island from errantem (A. 3.76)⁵ to immotam (A. 3.77), leaves no
space for mistaken identity to anyone knowing Hellenistic poetry at least, as
we shall see below.
In this episode Virgil employs ways to enrich the Aeneas-legend with ele-
ments of the Apollo-cult not previously connected with it,⁶ creating at the
same time a more profound relationship between the Delian episode and the
rest of the narrative. In attempting this task, the poet had to strengthen the
sense of continuity between the Trojan Apollo and the ‘Actian-Palatine Apollo’,
thus bringing together myth and historic reality,⁷ as well as the beginnings and
ends of Aeneas’ legend. It is at this continuity “between the physical Troy and
the physical Rome and between the destinies of Troy and Rome”⁸ that the invo-
cation to Apollo as Thymbraee (A. 3.85) perhaps aims. On a literary level, this is
achieved through an intensive intertextual dialogue between the Aeneid and the
Homeric Hymn to Apollo as well as the Callimachean Hymns to Apollo and to
Delos. ⁹ Especially the latter Hymn, as Barchiesi has shown very well, offers
“the key link” to the Aeneid episode, which encapsulates the “idea of dynastic
prophecy”.¹⁰ On the textual level Virgil eagerly strives to demarcate this continu-
ity in various ways and to show his indebtedness to the sources.

 In the Aeneid the name of Delos appears once at 4.144, as it does in Apollonius’ Argonautica
(1.308); in both works it appears in a simile and in close connection with Apollo’s name. See
below. See Nelis 2001, 135.
 Barchiesi (1994, 439) notes that the participle shares the same metrical position with
πλαζομένη at Call. Del. 192. This is a further instance of an intertextual connection between the
episode of the Aeneid and the Callimachean Hymn, as we shall see further down. On floating
islands, see Williams 1962 on 3.76.
 For the Apollo-cult and its connection with the Aeneid, see Paschalis 1986, 44– 68 and esp. 46,
48; see now Miller 2009.
 Paschalis 1986, 46 f.
 See Cairns 2006, esp. 77.
 Heyworth 1993 and Barchiesi 1994 are seminal on this issue.
 Barchiesi 1994, 438.
 From Delos to Latium 267

Apollo’s oracle at Delos is the first divine prophecy Aeneas asks for and re-
ceives.¹¹ Until that moment Hector’s advice on the night of Troy’s sacking was
rather vague (2.294– 5),¹² while Creusa’s words do not seem to have penetrated
to Aeneas (2.776 – 89). This can be seen from the reaction of Aeneas himself.
On the other hand, the warning of Polydorus, as we have said, was general
and not at all helpful for Aeneas as regards what he had to seek for. It is at
Delos that the hero, for the first time, consciously and knowingly, asks the
god for advice and seeks specific answers to his agonizing questions (3.85 – 7),
among which is his final destination; information that the reader already has
from the proem of the work, and which is none other than Latium (A. 1.6).¹³

quem sequimur? quoue ire iubes? ubi ponere sedes?

(A. 3.88)

Whom do we follow? Or, where do you bid us go? Where are we to settle?

Apollo’s prophecy (A. 3.94– 8), however, as to where that final destination is, was
misinterpreted by father Anchises.¹⁴ The message of the god, instead of being
clear (δῆλον), remained obscure (ἄδηλον). Equally obscure in the narrative is
the name of the island, the concealment of which, as has been noted,¹⁵ may
be connected with the misinterpretation of the oracle by the Trojans. At Delos
Aeneas is still dependent on his father for any decision he takes regarding his
communication with the supernatural and he does not even attempt to interpret
the response of the god himself. The use of the verb feror (78)¹⁶ on the part of the
hero is quite revealing.¹⁷ On account of this misinformation Aeneas sails off to
Crete.¹⁸

 Κnauer (1964) considers Iliad 24.308 – 13 as a model of A. 3.85 – 9. I feel, however, that the
evidence for such relationship is rather weak. Unlike the fame Virgil attributes to Delos, the
island was rarely known as an oracular centre in historic times: see Miller 2009, 107 and n. 36.
 See above n. 2.
 O’Hara (2007, 80) recognizes some ‘inconsistencies’ between Books 12 and 1 as to the hero’s
stance to Latium.
 See Heyworth 1993, 256: “The problem is not Anchises’ false recall of what he has heard
(107), but rather a failure of interpretation.”
 According to Horsfall (2006 on 124), the poet, by using the name of Ortygia instead of Delos,
alludes to the unclear meaning of the oracle the Trojans received: “Delos has changed name and
so her instability has perhaps not … been fully remedied”.
 Even earlier, at the beginning of Book 3, Aeneas states: feror exsul (3.11). The verb obviously
expresses his passivity. The sense of exile with which he characterizes his departure may also be
seen as an implied misinterpretation of reality.
 Mackie 1988, 64.
268 Stratis Kyriakidis

Unlike the reader of the Aeneid, Aeneas is never told that Latium was his
final destination; not in Delos, nor in Crete, nor anywhere else for that matter,
does the hero learn, either from a god or a human, that at the completion of
his errores he will reach Latium. What is confirmed at Delos is the ultimate out-
come: that the house of Aeneas and his descendants will rule over all (3.97– 8).¹⁹
The reader, therefore, is in a privileged position, since he knows as early as the
proem (1.6) what the hero of the epic will never really learn.²⁰ It is a kind of
knowledge, which remains obscure (ἄδηλος) for a long period during his errores;
knowledge, that is, which is latent (latet could be the word), ²¹ and which seems
to be acquired at a later stage, as the result of the hero’s esoteric development,
rather than as part of the narrative.²² Aeneas will continue his wanderings as a
matter of course towards self-insight and the attainment of his final goal. His er-
rores unfold parallel to this gradual attainment of self-consciousness and knowl-
edge until he finally reaches the place of his destiny. In a sense, therefore, the
errores are the geographic imprint of this gradual esoteric process. Scholarship
has long since shown that the epic narrative is structured in such a way as to
imply this development of the hero to become the true leader of the Trojans.
The first time Aeneas utters the name of Latium is at 1.205, when he address-
es his comrades after their ordeal in the storm and when they have reached the
North African shores. What Book 1 of the Aeneid includes, however, is an ad-
vanced stage of the errores of the Trojans. Taking into consideration the plotline
chronologically, the storm and the arrival in Carthage are in medias res.
What Aeneas had learned from Creusa, during the night of their flight from
Troy, was Hesperia (2.781),²³ which she had connected with Lydius… Thybris:

 Lloyd 1957b, 395.

 According to Barchiesi 1994, 439: “Delos, the Clear is both the clear promise of a stabilized
future, and the omen of a life of errores.”
 The reference in the exordium is augmented with the mention of the Latin race (genus…
Latinum, 1.6) and the name of Rome (1.7).
 As we shall see in this paper the etymology and meaning of Delos (δηλόω) and Latium
(lateo) is of special importance. For the function of the proper names in the Aeneid according to
their etymology the works of O’Hara (1996a) and Paschalis (1997) are invaluable. On the ety-
mological wordplay on geographical place-names in the Aeneid, the Metamorphoses and the
Pharsalia, see the learned papers of Skempis, Ziogas and Bexley (this volume) respectively.
 The problem of the character development and of the hero’s self-consciousness and maturity
in relation to his mission has been discussed extensively. For a sober view (with references) see
Horsfall 1995, esp. 118 – 22; see, however, Fuhrer 1989, 63 – 72.
 This piece of information will be repeated by the Penates at Crete (3.163).
 From Delos to Latium 269

et terram Hesperiam uenies, ubi Lydius arua

inter opima uirum leni fluit agmine Thybris.
(A. 2.781– 2)

You shall come to the land of Hesperia where the Lydian Tiber flows smoothly amid the rich
fields of the people.

The form Thybris, a slight but, contextually, meaningful variant of Tib[e]ris, is

first used by Virgil,²⁴ for the Roman river. Thybris could stir Aeneas’ patriotic
memory of his past homeland, since it recalls the fields of Thymbra at Troy as
well as the river Θύμβριος (Str. 13.1.15). Poetically though, it may serve – together
with the invocation to Apollo as Thymbraee (3.85) in Delos – the Virgilian strat-
egy of stressing the continuity between Trojan past and Roman historic reality.
The epithet Lydius, on the other hand, is a ‘learned’ allusion, and a piece “of
the romance of geographical history” according to Austin.²⁵ One may argue
that Creusa’s words were clear enough but for a number of reasons Aeneas
made nothing of them: the emotional tension of the moment, the prevailing con-
ditions of their forced flight in the dead of the night, and the psychological bur-
den he had felt from the loss of his dear wife, may be factors which prevented the
proper reception of the message.²⁶ This will become apparent much later, in the
farewell scene at Buthrotum: when Aeneas says goodbye to Andromache he
seems to recollect the Thybris which he had heard only from Creusa as a place
of his destination (A. 2.781 f.). His expectation, however, to reach that place
takes the form only of a conditional wish:

Si quando Thybrim uicinaque Thybridis arua

intraro gentique meae data moenia cernam…
(A. 3.500 – 1)

If I ever reach the Tiber and the fields nearby the Tiber and see that my people are given
city-walls…

The first time Aeneas hears the name of Italy (as an attribute: Italiam… gentem,
3.166) is in his sleep in Crete from the Penates (3.154 ff.), who give it as an alter-
native to the name of Hesperia (3.163). Then Anchises will remember Cassandra’s

 See Austin 1964 ad loc.; Horsfall 1990, 156 – 7. Cairns (2006, 65 – 82) is very important on the
subject.
 On Lydius, see Servius ad loc. See Austin 1964 ad loc.; Cairns 1989, 115 and n. 3; Cairns 2006,
72.
 For additional reasons see Lloyd 1957a, 134 f.; but see also Cairns 1989, 115 and n. 13.
270 Stratis Kyriakidis

prophecy and will repeat both names of Hesperia and Italy in the same line
(3.185):

nunc repeto haec generi portendere debita nostro

et saepe Hesperiam, saepe Itala regna uocare.
(A. 3.184– 5)

Now I recall how she [i.e. Cassandra] would foretell the destination of our nation and often
would talk about Hesperia and the destined kingdom of Italy.

It is the Penates in Crete who explain to Aeneas that the propriae sedes (the true
place of settlement, 3.167) is the place where Dardanus comes from:

Hae nobis propriae sedes, hinc Dardanus ortus

(A. 3.167)

This is our true home, from the place Dardanus originated.

Since in the Apollonian oracle, Aeneas and his comrades are addressed as Dar-
danidae (A. 3.94), this should be an obvious hint to their actual place of origin
which, unfortunately, Anchises and the Trojans miss.²⁷ It is the Penates who
will reveal to Aeneas that Dardanus originates from Italy (3.167– 8).²⁸ The oracu-
lar language of Apollo with his antiquam exquirite matrem (“seek your ancient
mother”, 3.96)²⁹ was not properly decoded.
The Penates in Crete repeat (3.157– 61) the positive message Aeneas received
from Apollo at Delos (3.96 – 8), they correct Anchises’s misinterpretation
(3.161– 2), but they still do not name the Trojans’ final goal, which is the arrival
in Latium. Instead, they refer generally to Italy (3.166).³⁰ So addressing the Tro-

 Macr. in Somn. Scip. 1.7; Serv. A. 3.94. Paratore 1978a ad loc.; Cairns 1989, 116; Horsfall 2006
ad loc.
 There is much speculation as to Dardanus’ place of origin, particularly because the poet
associates it with the place-name of Corythus (3.170). Horsfall (1987), reworking and elaborating
on Horsfall (1973), showed that the use of the name was due to the special interest held for
things Etruscan at the time of Virgil: “Etruscan himself, or of Etruscan sympathies, [he] should,
in a spirit of patriotism, have decided, by a clever mythological stroke, to capture the whole
glorious house of the Dardanidae for his nation… This new and ingenious speculation was, it
has been suggested, alluded to and rejected by Varro; by Virgil, though, it was admired and
followed” (pp. 103 – 4).
 According to Keith 2000, 47, “the phrase Aeneia nutrix at 7.1 resonates symbolically with
Apollo’s characterisation of the land the Trojans are to settle as ubere laeto…/ … antiquam…
matrem (3.95 – 6).”
 Some scholars consider Italy as the final goal of the Trojans: e. g. Cairns 1989, 115 ff. An
obvious argument is Aeneas’ phrase Italiam quaero patriam (1.380). See below.
 From Delos to Latium 271

jans as Dardanidae proved insufficient evidence for reassuring them as to their

destination and the same is also true for Creusa’s Lydius Thybris which remained
unintelligible.³¹ Aeneas was not yet prepared to listen to her words. The river Ti-
beris, however, was in Latium and it formed a kind of border in the area thus
identified with it.³² It was there, in Latium, that the new city was to be built,
whose name, Rome, also lies hidden until Mercury mentions to Aeneas the Ro-
mana tellus at 4.275.
Until Aeneas reaches the North African shores his goal remains Italy, or Hes-
peria, or Ausonia, according to Creusa, the Penates, and Helenus. For Dionysius
of Halicarnassus (1.35.3), Hesperia ³³ refers to the whole of Italy and it is the Greek
name for it:

Τὰ δὲ πρὸ τούτων Ἕλληνες μὲν Ἑσπερίαν καὶ Αὐσονίαν αὐτὴν [i.e. Ἰταλίαν] ἐκάλουν, οἱ δ′
ἐπιχώριοι Σατορνίαν, ὡς εἴρηταί μοι πρότερον.

Before that, the Greeks called Italy Hesperia and Ausonia but the native people Saturnia, as
I have said earlier.

When at Buthrotum Helenus sees the Trojans off, he tells them that they are still
far from their goal: Ausoniae pars illa procul quam pandit Apollo (“that part of
Ausonia which Apollo reveals to you is far”, 3.479). The vagueness of the phrase
Ausoniae pars for Aeneas turns to become a symptom in the Virgilian story as
regards his final goal. Helenus, too, is prevented from fully knowing the final
destination by Juno herself:prohibent nam cetera Parcae/ scire Helenum farique
uetat Saturnia Juno (“The fates prevent Helenus from knowing the rest and Sat-
urnian Juno forbids me to speak”, 3.379 – 80). His prophecy, however, represents
a more advanced stage in Aeneas’ acquisition of the much sought-after knowl-
edge as the information Aeneas receives this time talks about a part of Ausonia
and not generally about Ausonia as previously (3.171, by the Penates). It is only
on the shores of Africa that the hero proves to be conscious of the goal of his
errores at 1.205 as we saw above. Later, in Book 6, when Aeneas and his com-
rades are already in Italy (6.61), he asks the Sibyl to put an end to their wander-
ings and to allow the Trojans and their gods to settle in Latium:

 Cairns 1989, 115.

 Catalano 1978, 510: “il concetto territoriale di Latium, … è connesso al valore, religioso, dei
fiumi. Ciò è confermato dal fatto che per dire ‘fuori dal Lazio’, si usava l’espresssione pregnante
Trans Tiberim (Tab. III, 5).” For rivers as borders, see Bexley (this volume); cf. also Carvounis
(this volume).
 Hesperia is an Ennian reminiscence, as the Annales is the first surviving Latin work ment-
ioning the word (1.20 Sk. with Skutch 1985 ad loc.).
272 Stratis Kyriakidis

da (non indebita posco

regna meis fatis) Latio considere Teucros
errantisque deos agitataque numina Troiae
(A. 6.66 – 8)

Grant my prayer, I ask for a kingdom due to me by my fates, let the Trojans and the roving
and restless gods of Troy settle in Latium.

Aeneas’ pursuit, therefore, of a true insight into the final goal of the wanderings,
and the frustrating ignorance in which he remains, create a contrasting environ-
ment between his wish for a clear (δῆλον) message and his experience of the
fleeting and the obscure (ἄδηλον). The tension between these two conflicting no-
tions is masterfully mapped out upon two geographic loci: Delos and Latium. If
the island of Delos is the starting point of that quest for knowledge, Latium is its
completion;³⁴ this knowledge is acquired gradually and put into words only on
the shores of Carthage. Only after he has secured that knowledge (1.205) is Ae-
neas ready to recognize the whole of Italy as his patriam (1.380), thus foresha-
dowing what Jupiter has promised in his prophecy: that after his arrival Latium
will rule over Italy.³⁵

bellum ingens geret Italia populosque ferocis

contundet moresque uiris et moenia ponet,
tertia dum Latio regnantem uiderit aestas
ternaque transierint Rutulis hiberna subactis.
(A. 1.263 – 6)

He shall wage a great war in Italy and subdue the ferocious tribes and he shall raise walls
for his men and establish a civilized way of life, when the third summer will have seen him
ruling in Latium and three winters will have passed with the Rutulians conquered.

***
The most common etymology for Latium has to do with the myth of Saturn seek-
ing refuge there.³⁶ According to Virgil (A. 8.322 f.)³⁷ or his source in prose, Varro, it
was the place Saturn chose to hide after being deposed:

 According to Keith 2000, 47: “The town and promontory of Caieta are situated on the borders
of Latium and Campania, so that it is only with Aeneas’ arrival at Port Caieta in the closing lines
of book 6, and not with his arrival on the ‘Euboean’ shores of Cumae at the opening of the book
(6.2), that Aeneas reaches his destination of Latium.”
 See, however, Cairns 1989, 109 ff.
 The standard etymology of Latium is from lateo as is evident from the sources listed in
Maltby (1991) and Marangoni (2007) s.v. Latium. Only Priscian relates the place-name to the
substantive latitudo (Maltby, ibid.). See also Catalano 1978, 523 with nn. 353, 354.
 From Delos to Latium 273

is genus indocile ac dispersum montibus altis

composuit legesque dedit, Latiumque uocari
maluit, his quoniam latuisset tutus in oris.
(A. 8.321– 3)³⁸

[Saturn] brought together this uncouth people who were dispersed amid the high moun-
tains and gave them laws and wished to call the place Latium because in this land he
had been safely hidden.

Delos, on the other hand, is a significant name for the island where the obscure
is supposed to be clarified. This is the logical explanation offered by Servius. Be-
fore that, however, Servius gives us another version as to the island’s etymology.
With this Virgil’s scholiast in very few words refers to the ‘history’ of the island
as the birthplace of Apollo, reminding us of Callimachus’ Hymn to Delos. ³⁹

Delos autem, quia diu latuit et post apparuit: nam δῆλον Graeci manifestum dicunt: uel quod
uerius est, quia cum ubique Apollinis responsa obscura sint, manifesta illic dantur oracula
(Serv. A. 3.73)

Delos was so called because she was lying hidden for long and then appeared: for the
Greeks call δῆλον that which is clear; or what is more fitting, because whenever Apollo’s
given responses are obscure, the oracles given there are clear.

In other words, in the beginning Delos latuit, and then apparuit. Delos, that is,
escaped from the condition the etymology of Latium implies.
Unlike Latium, Delos was involved extensively in myths and had a distinct
presence in the literary texts of Greek antiquity. The story of the Aegean island,
its connection with Leto and how it finally turned to be the birthplace of her chil-
dren was well known in antiquity; the Hymns, Homeric and Callimachean,
formed a well-known literary cycle on the subject. Virgil had made a point of
it at the opening of the Georgics 3 (3 – 8, esp. 6) as one of the hackneyed themes
(uulgata, 3.4). The epithet of Delos there qualified the contents of the myths al-
luded to: Latonia Delos. In that phrase of the Georgics, however, there is an in-
teresting aspect as regards the episode of the Aeneid. The trite topic mentioned
there is Latonia Delos, not Δήλιος Ἀπόλλων, as Callimachus calls the god, or De-
lius Apollo in the Virgilian episode (A. 3.162).⁴⁰ The application of the epithet La-

 An interesting analysis on this passage concerning the typology of Latium in Book 8 is in

Thomas 1982, 95 f.
 See Serv. A. 1.6, 8.322.
 See below.
 ἀλλ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ἐμεῖο/ Δήλιος Ἀπόλλων κεκλήσεται (“but from me will be called Delius Apollo”, Call.
Del. 268 – 9). See also Verg. A. 6.12, where the etymological pun is obvious: Delius inspirat uates
274 Stratis Kyriakidis

tonia to the proper name of Delos creates an etymological wordplay in which

each of the two words reverses the other, as we shall presently see. As a result
the phrase is poised between Delos and Leto thus treating the two poles of
the myth on an equal basis.
Leto (or Latona) is a significant name usually connected with the verb λαν-
θάνω, to hide.⁴¹ This etymology is implied – among other texts – in Strabo, al-
though he associates the Leto-myth with Ortygia in the area of Ephesus:

εἶθ᾽ ἡ πόλις. ἐν δὲ τῇ αὐτῇ παραλίᾳ μικρὸν ὑπὲρ τῆς θαλάττης ἐστὶ καὶ ἡ Ὀρτυγία, … ἐν-
ταῦθα γὰρ μυθεύουσι τὴν λοχείαν καὶ τὴν τροφὸν τὴν Ὀρτυγίαν καὶ τὸ ἄδυτον ἐν ᾧ ἡ
λοχεία, … φασὶ τοὺς Κουρῆτας τῷ ψόφῳ τῶν ὅπλων ἐκπλῆξαι τὴν ῞Ηραν ζηλοτύπως ἐφε-
δρεύουσαν, καὶ λαθεῖν συμπράξαντας τὴν λοχείαν τῇ Λητοῖ.
(Str. 14.1.20)

After that comes the city [i.e. of Ephesus]. On the same coastline, barely above the sea, there
comes Ortygia… for here they relate the child-birth, and the nurse Ortygia, and the actual
holy place (ἄδυτον) where the birth took place… it is said that the Curetes frightened Hera,
who was spying out of jealousy, with the noise of their weapons and that they helped Leto
to hide the child-birth.⁴²

According to Strabo, therefore, Leto gives birth in secrecy (λαθεῖν). In the Homer-
ic Hymn to Apollo Leto is roaming to find a land to give birth to Apollo (45 – 6). In
this early work, the notion of λανθάνειν is also brought forth as an implied word-
play on the name of the island between its unimportance before becoming the
birthplace of Apollo and the renown it would acquire afterwards (50 – 82).⁴³
In the Callimachean Hymn to Delos the island of Delos was ἄδηλος⁴⁴ before
it became the birthplace of Apollo:

ἡνίκα δ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνι γενέθλιον οὖδας ὑπέσχες,

τοῦτό τοι ἀντημοιβὸν ἁλίπλοοι οὔνομ᾽ ἔθεντο,
οὕνεκεν οὐκέτ᾽ ἄδηλος ἐπέπλεες, ἀλλ᾽ ἐνὶ πόντου

aperitque futura (“The Delius inspires the prophetess and discloses the future”): Paschalis 1997,
210; O’Hara 2001, 373.
 For the Latin sources, see Maltby 1991 s.v. Latona > lateo, latito etc.
 Cf. also EM 564.17– 25, where the etymology from λανθάνω is repeated together with some
others (cf. Pl. Crat. 406a-b).
 Miller 1986, 34.
 Mineur (1984 on 53) suggests that “The reference is not to Delos’ invisibility… the island
being sufficiently conspicuous to seafarers according to l. 43 (ναῦται ἐπεσκέψαντο, sc. σέ), but to
the irregularity of her appearance in the Mediterranean: ‘You did not float upon the waves
anymore in an uncertain way, getting properly fixed in the sea’.”
 From Delos to Latium 275

κύμασιν Αἰγαίοιο ποδῶν ἐνεθήκαο ῥίζας.

(Call. Del. 51– 4)⁴⁵

But when you gave your land to be the birthplace of Apollo, sailors gave you in exchange
this name, because you no longer drifted obscure but in the waters of the Aegean sea plant-
ed the roots of your feet.

In the Hellenistic Hymn, however, there are further aspects of the relation be-
tween λανθάνειν and Leto: Leto wanders all over to find where she could give
birth (70 – 197); such a place was lying hidden (ἐλάνθανε) from her. Another as-
pect, however, of this etymologizing is Hera’s wrath over Zeus’ secret amours
(240 – 4):

οὕτω νῦν, ὦ Ζηνὸς ὀνείδεα, καὶ γαμέοισθε

λάθρια καὶ τίκτοιτε κεκρυμμένα, μηδ᾽ ὅθι δειλαί
δυστοκέες μογέουσιν ἀλετρίδες, ἀλλ᾽ ὅθι φῶκαι
εἰνάλιαι τίκτουσιν, ἐνὶ σπιλάδεσσιν ἐρήμοις.

So now, you disgraceful creatures of Zeus, you may get married in secrecy and give birth in
hiding not where the wretched grinding women give birth in painful labor but rather where
the sea-seals bring forth on solitary rocks.

The element of hiding, secrecy or unimportance (all these are meanings covered
by the verb λανθάνω and its cognates or the overlapping notion of ἄδηλος) at
times concerns either the story of the island of Delos itself, or Leto’s ignorance
as to the place she will give birth; at others it means the actual birth of Apollo
in hiding; at others still the secret love affair of Zeus. In any case what lies latent
may each time be different. This notion of λανθάνειν has become a characteristic
feature and a vehicle which can be transposed from one end of the myth to the
other; it can also be transferred from one poetic text to another. This given resil-
ience of the unsettled etymology is of some help to the poet who can use a myth
by choosing any kind of reshuffling for the story and rearranging it at will.
It is generally acknowledged today that an etymology may be used in a text be-
yond specific narrative frames in the tradition.⁴⁶ Furthermore, the poet may employ
it for his own poetic needs, not merely in a specific limited part of the narrative but
rather as an underlying component in a larger section of the work.⁴⁷ In Virgil, the
meaning of the word Latium – as of Delos for that matter – may constitute an essen-

 Cf. 35 ff.
 For a parallel instance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, see Ziogas (this volume).
 For the contextualisation of myth and its application in the Aeneid, see Skempis (this vo-
lume).
276 Stratis Kyriakidis

tial component in the arrangement of the poetic matter,⁴⁸ as the epic hero is out in
search of his final destination. In the Aeneid, the Delian oracle remains obscure, as
its meaning is not clear to the hero. Delos’ name, therefore, is connected with the
notion of ἄδηλον, or λανθάνον, as both of them were basic components of the
Greek myths. At the same time, however, many parts of the Delos-myth remain un-
exploited in Virgil: Leto, for instance, is not mentioned at all in the episode of Delos.
The reader, however, can recall the mythological frame in this case and see that the
poet has reallocated the bipolarity of the myth from Delos and Leto to Delos and Lat-
ium. The final goal in Aeneas’ wanderings is hidden; the place where Leto could give
birth is also hidden. In both stories Juno’s wrath is a common denominator.⁴⁹
From the moment the oracle at Delos remained obscure (ἄδηλος) and Latium,
although not disclosed as Aeneas’ final goal, became δῆλον later on through the
hero’s internal progress to self-consciousness, we can rightly claim that there is
a reversal of the function and significance of the names of these two places. Lat-
ium will lie latent as long as Aeneas is not conscious of his final destination and
does not name it (until Carthage, 1.205). After that point the etymology no longer
corresponds to its name.
This reversal in the function of the two place-names and their meaning causes
an infusion of the value and significance of the one to the other. It is the kind of
infusion which is evident when the past is projected onto the future. The epic cul-
mination of this process is the prophecy of Anchises in Book 6, where past and
future mingle in the epic present.⁵⁰ Delos is a focal point of Aeneas’ apologoi,
where the one time is projected onto the other; this infusion is materialized in
the patronymic Dardanidae with which Apollo addresses the Trojans; with an epi-
thet looking back to the Trojan past the god refers to a situation or event of the
future. Furthermore, the phrase antiquam exquirite matrem (“seek your ancient
mother”, 3.96) in Apollo’s words seems to be uttered in the same vein. Creusa’s Ly-
dius Thybris at 2.781– 2 was another obvious instance of temporal infusion be-
tween past and future, as we have already seen.
A legitimate question at this stage is the reason for Virgil’s preference for the
name Ortygia instead of Delos, since in the ancient world the name of Delos was
much more widespread than that of Ortygia: how, that is, does this choice serve
the Roman poet’s poetic aims? In the Homeric Hymn to Apollo the island of
Delos is the birthplace of Apollo, whereas Ortygia is that of Artemis:

 As Ziogas (this volume) argues, in his concluding remarks, the plot of a tale may revolve
around the etymology of a geographic name.
 Barchiesi 1994, 439. On Hera’s wrath towards Asterie in Pindar, see Depew 1998, 171– 2; Bing
2008, 114 f., 120.
 Kyriakidis 1984.
 From Delos to Latium 277

χαῖρε μάκαιρ᾽ ὦ Λητοῖ, ἐπεὶ τέκες ἀγλαὰ τέκνα

Ἀπόλλωνά τ᾽ ἄνακτα καὶ Ἄρτεμιν ἰοχέαιραν,
τὴν μὲν ἐν Ὀρτυγίῃ, τὸν δὲ κραναῇ ἐνὶ Δήλῳ.
(h.Ap. 14– 16)⁵¹

Hail blessed Leto, for bearing splendid children, the lord Apollo and Artemis, the shooter of
arrows; her in Ortygia and him in rugged Delos.

Virgil, however, understands Ortygia and Delos as one and the same island,⁵²
and so does Callimachus.⁵³ Ortygia as the island’s name is not only Callima-
chean; it comes also from the Hellenistic epic tradition. In Apollonius, the island
of Delos is mentioned four times: once by that name and three by the name of
Ortygia. Delos is mentioned only the first time (1.308) in a simile when Jason ap-
pears like the god Apollo visiting his temple at Delos, whereas Ortygia is used in
an invocation (1.419) by Jason to the god Apollo, and in a prayer (4.1705) and
once in a simile (1.537). At first glance, the evidence shows that Delos is used
when Apollo is directly involved in an action and Ortygia when the human factor
is involved. If the above suggestion for Apollonius holds true as to the way the
poet substitutes the name of Ortygia for that of Delos, it may be that Virgil, too,
uses the same name in the Delos episode in order to restrict Aeneas’ reaction to
the oracle to the human level and to highlight thus the human dimension of the
interpretation of his father. But how does the name of Ortygia serve the narrative
with regard to the bipolarity Delos – Latium? Does the choice of the name of Or-
tygia – instead of Delos – render the tension between ἄδηλον/latens and δῆλον/
apparens inactive? Let us look at two mythological versions presented by Hygi-
nus:

Iouis cum Asterien Titanis filiam amaret, illa eum contempsit; a quo in auem ὄρτυγα commu-
tata est, quam nos coturnicem dicimus, eamque in mare abiecit, et ex ea insula est enata
quae Ortygia est appellata [sc. < ὄρνυμαι, orior].
(Hyg. Fab. 53)⁵⁴

 See Allen/Halliday/Sikes 21963. Already at Od. 5.123, Artemis is connected with Ortygia-Delos
(see Hainsworth in Heubeck/West/Hainsworth 1988 ad loc.); also in Call. Ep. lxii Pf.; there are
also a number of testimonies connecting the goddess with the Syracusan Ortygia (e. g. P. Ν.
1.2 f.).
 In Callimachus, Delos and Ortygia refer to the same place and the names are used alter-
natively. From the beginning of the Hymn to Apollo, Apollo is addressed as Δήλιος (4) whereas at
59 it is obvious that Ortygia substitutes for Delos. Allen/Halliday/Sikes 21963 on h.Ap. 16; Ukleja
2005, esp. 131 f. with n. 510.
 Rutherford 1988, 72.
 Cf. Serv. A. 3.73.
278 Stratis Kyriakidis

When Jupiter fell in love with Asterie, the daughter of Titan, she defied him; hence she was
changed to the bird ὄρτυξ which we call ‘quail’, and was thrown into the sea and from her
an island issued forth which is called Ortygia.

And in another fable:

Python Terrae filius draco ingens. hic ante Apollinem ex oraculo in monte Parnasso responsa
dare solitus erat. huic ex Latonae partu interitus erat fato futurus. eo tempore Iouis cum La-
tona… concubuit; hoc cum Iuno resciit, facit ut Latona ibi pareret quo sol non accederet
[Lato < lateo]. Python ubi sensit Latonam ex Ioue grauidam esse, persequi coepit ut eam in-
terficeret. at Latonam Iouis iussu uentus Aquilo sublatam ad Neptunum pertulit; ille… in in-
sulam eam Ortygiam detulit, quam insulam fluctibus cooperuit. quod cum Python eam non
inuenisset, Parnassum redit. at Neptunus insulam Ortygiam in superiorem partem rettu-
lit [Ortygia < ὄρνυμαι, orior], quae postea insula Delos est appellata [sc. Delos < δῆλος].
ibi Latona oleam tenens parit Apollinem et Dianam.
(Hyg. Fab. 140.1– 4)

Python, the son of the Earth, was an enormous snake which, before the time of Apollo, used
to give oracular answers from the oracle on Mount Parnassus. According to a prophecy he
would be slain by Latona’s offspring. At that time, Jupiter slept with Latona… When Juno
found out, she made sure that Latona give birth in a place where the sun does not ap-
proach. When Python realized that Latona was left pregnant by Jupiter, he began to pursue
her in order to kill her. But, by Jupiter’s order, the North wind lifted Latona and brought her
to Neptune. He… carried her to the island Ortygia which Neptune covered with the sea.
When Python did not find the island he returned to Parnassus. But Neptune brought up
to the surface the island Ortygia and after that the island was called Delos. There Latona,
holding an olive tree, gave birth to Apollo and Diana.⁵⁵

On several occasions the name Ortygia has been related etymologically to the
bird ὄρτυξ,⁵⁶ the quail, into which Zeus transformed Leto in order to shield
her from Hera’s wrath. Virgil, however, is probably playing with an etymology
of the word from ὄρνυμαι, to rise, related to the Latin verb orior, bypassing the
participation of ὄρτυξ in the myth. Ortygia, therefore, seems to carry the mean-
ing of ‘someone or something that emerges’, ‘someone or something which ap-
pears.’

 The parts of the texts which perhaps imply the author’s intention to etymologising are in
bold-type letters.
 Maltby 1991 s.v. Ortygia. Cf. Schol. in Call. Ap. 59: Ὀρτυγία δὲ ἡ Δῆλος ἀπὸ τοῦ τὴν Λητὼ εἰς
ὄρτυγα μεταβληθεῖσαν εἰς τὴν Δῆλον ἐλθεῖν φεύγουσαν τὴν ῞Ηραν (“Ortygia is [the island of]
Delos from the transformation of Leto to a quail coming to Delos in order to flee from Hera”); cf.
Schol. in Od. 5.123.1– 5.
 From Delos to Latium 279

In the excerpt from Hyginus’ work the name of Ortygia is connected with the
stage of the island’s emergence from the water.⁵⁷ Under such circumstances Or-
tygia and Delos are etymologically parallel.⁵⁸ It is the island which surfaced
(enata est)⁵⁹ and afterwards was given the name of Delos (at Neptunus insulam
Ortygiam in superiorem partem rettulit, quae postea insula Delos est appellata).
With this underlying etymology in mind, Virgil by identifying Delos with Or-
tygia distances himself from the Homeric Hymn without deviating from his major
aim, that is to organize his narrative on the bipolar contrast of ἄδηλον to δῆλον.

***
The Delian episode consists of details which characterize an early stage of devel-
opment of the hero from a Trojan to the ancestor of the Romans. At Delos, Ae-
neas is still within the Greek world. The augurium he seeks from the god is on
a Greek island. However, by employing mythological details from the tradition,
the poet forms a friendly surrounding, I would say, for Aeneas and his Trojans:
The poet’s reference that the Apollinis urbs (A. 3.79) is ruled by Anius, not only
king of the island and high priest of Apollo (A. 3.80), but also a friend of Anchis-
es (A. 3.82), is a piece of information which follows the ‘anti-Greek’ version of the
myth. As a matter of fact, in his handling of the mythological data, Virgil does
not mention anything about the Greeks who were welcomed by Anius on their
way to Troy. Anius had then even suggested a longer sojourn on the island
until the time came for Troy to fall.⁶⁰ The poetic aim here is to hint at that version
of the myth in which Anius was Anchises’ friend (and, incidentally, father of Lav-
inia, from whom, for a number of reasons, the Latin Lavinium was later called).⁶¹
Virgil’s choice gives a pro-Trojan hint while Aeneas was still in Greek waters and
sailing westwards in search of his roots. Delos is the cross-roads of conflicting

 Servius (on A. 3.73) does not relate the bird’s name, ὄρτυξ with the verb ὄρνυμαι as seems to
be the case in Hyginus’ first passage.
 On the etymology of the different names of Delos, see Ukleja 2005 passim.
 Cf. P. Pae. 7b.46 – 9 S-M: δέ μιν ἐν πέλ̣[α]γ̣[ο]ς̣ /ῥιφθεῖσαν εὐαγέα πέτραν φανῆναι[·/ καλέ̣οντί
μιν Ὀρτυγίαν ναῦται πάλαι. / πεφόρητο δ᾽ ἐπ᾽ Αἰγαῖον θαμά (“But they say that she was flung into
the sea and appeared as a conspicuous rock. Sailors have long called it Ortygia. It often traveled
over the Aegean…”, transl. Rutherford). As Rutherford (1988, 68) notes, the phrase for Asteria
‘appeared as a conspicuous rock’ (line 47) is “almost certainly an etymological allusion to the
fact that the name ‘Delos’ means ‘clear’.” See now Rutherford 2001, 244, 246. See also Bing
2008, 96 – 110 (on Pindar and Callimachus).
 Casali 2007, 196 – 202 with references; see also Baudy 2002 with references.
 The ancient source on this is D. H. 1.59.3 and Ps.-Aur. Vic. Or. Gent. Rom. 9.5. See also Serv. A.
3.287. In the Virgilian text, however, there is no reference to Anius’ daughter: Erskine (1997,
134– 6) has all the information.
280 Stratis Kyriakidis

versions of myth. The poetic preferences in a way contribute to the strengthening

of the Trojan identity, which has become the starting point in Aeneas’ course to
becoming the ancestor of the Romans.
Crete, Aeneas’ next stopover, played a special role in the Homeric Hymn to
Apollo. In it Apollo decides that the Cretans, who sail from Crete to Pylos, should
be his priests in his oracle at Delphi. The Cretans, at first accept the appointment
out of sheer fear of the god, but later wish to return home:

ἄλλῃ γὰρ φρονέοντες ἐπεπλέομεν μέγα λαῖτμα

εἰς Πύλον ἐκ Κρήτης, ἔνθεν γένος εὐχόμεθ᾽ εἶναι· 470
νῦν δ᾽ ὧδε ξὺν νηῒ κατήλθομεν οὔ τι ἑκόντες
νόστου ἱέμενοι ἄλλην ὁδὸν ἄλλα κέλευθα·
ἀλλά τις ἀθανάτων δεῦρ᾽ ἤγαγεν οὐκ ἐθέλοντας.
(h.Ap. 469 – 73)

Thinking differently, we were sailing on the great sea to Pylos from Crete, from where we
boast to originate, but now we come by ship to this place unwillingly – another course
and different paths even though we would wish for our return; but one of the immortal
gods brought us here without us wanting it.

The Cretans were sailing (ἐπεπλέομεν, 469) when they suffered the intervention
of the god. The verb ἐπιπλέω (to sail, to float) is also used by Callimachus for
Delos before becoming the birthplace of Apollo (see also above). Delos was float-
ing and wandering until it became the place of Apollo’s birth. Her name was
given to her by sailors (ἁλίπλοοι, 52). The Cretans of the Homeric Hymn were
also sailing. In the same work the sailing and wandering Cretans did not consent
to stay as priests of Apollo and the god accused them of ὕβρις (541). In contra-
distinction to their behavior, the isle of Delos gladly consented to become the
birthplace of the god. The incident with the Cretans does not exist in Callima-
chus’ Hymn. This part of the Apollo-myth as presented in the Homeric Hymn,
has not left any visible trace in the Virgilian Delos episode. In his Hymn to
Zeus, however, Callimachus reminds his readers that the Cretans were liars:
Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται (“the Cretans are always liars”, Jov. 8).⁶² Having in mind
this Callimachean warning (and its tradition) the Roman poet assigns to no Cre-
tan an attempt to reinterpret the oracle, thus protecting his hero’s reputations
from notorious liars.

***

 Heyworth 1993, 256 f.

 From Delos to Latium 281

The application of specific metrical features is a further proof of the influence

Callimachus had in this episode. Indeed, the second hexameter (A. 3.74, see
below p. 266) of the passage with its challenging metrical structure calls for
the reader’s attention: the wholly spondaic structure of the line, but for the
first foot, is a rarity in Virgilian hexameter-poetry. The spondaic fifth foot (spon-
deiazon) suits the Hellenistic theme of Delos, as Callimachus has presented it,
and fits well with the Roman poet’s Hellenistic preferences: the same verse con-
tains hiatus at two places.⁶³ Furthermore, at A. 3.91 the varying scansion of que
recalls a favorite Callimachean technique which, according to Hopkinson, ap-
pears six times in Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus. ⁶⁴ Just before the god’s prophecy
(94– 8), therefore, there is a number of technical allusions to Callimachean po-
etics⁶⁵ and Virgil spares no effort to remind his reader, through these literary
reminiscences, of his own poetic goal, to show, that is, his literary preferences
vis-à-vis his precursors.
There are, however, some further points where the Virgilian narrative con-
verges with that of Callimachus and deviates from the Homeric Hymn. Aeneas
asks the god for an augurium (A. 3.89). The god in response will give his own
signs:

tremere omnia uisa repente,

liminaque laurusque dei, totusque moueri
mons circum et mugire adytis cotrina reclusis.
(A. 3.90 – 2)

Suddenly everything seemed to tremble, the gates and laurel of the god, the whole moun-
tain around was shaken and the tripod bellowed as the shrine opened.

All objects participating in the imagery prepare the hero and the reader for the
prophecy of the god which follows. The reader can also find parts of this scene at
the beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo:

Μνήσομαι οὐδὲ λάθωμαι Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκάτοιο,

ὅν τε θεοὶ κατὰ δῶμα Διὸς τρομέουσιν ἰόντα.
(h.Ap. 1– 2)

I will be mindful of and will not forget the far-shooting Apollo whom even the gods tremble
as he passes through the house of Zeus.

 Horsfall 2006 ad loc.

 Hopkinson 1982, 164: “[w]e have an extraordinary case, even by Hellenistic standards, with
six examples in 96 lines”. See Heyworth 1993, 255. See also below, n. 68.
 Heyworth 1993, 255; see also Horsfall 2006 ad loc.
282 Stratis Kyriakidis

The Latin tremere ⁶⁶ seems to be a direct allusion to the τρομέουσιν of the Homer-
ic Hymn where the verb in lines 1– 2 shows the reaction of the other gods when
Apollo walks through Olympus (κατὰ δῶμα). Callimachus, however, who, accord-
ing to Hunter, reworked the Homeric Hymn to Apollo “no less than three times in
his Hymns to Apollo, Artemis, and Delos”⁶⁷ read this scene in his own way: In
the beginning of his own Hymn to Apollo he replaced the τρομέουσιν of the Ho-
meric Hymn with the σείεσθαι; at the same time movement now and trembling do
not come from the gods but from the shrine (μέλαθρον) and the laurel, (δάφνη):
the elements of the external world participate in empathy.

Οἷον ὁ τὠπόλλωνος ἐσείσατο δάφνινος ὅρπηξ,

οἷα δ᾽ ὅλον τὸ μέλαθρον·
(Call. Ap. 1– 2)

How Apollo’s young shoot of laurel trembled, how the whole shrine quaked!

Virgil, therefore, in the Delos episode by alluding to the beginning of the two
Hymns discloses his preferences. The influence of the Hellenistic poet is evident:
In the Virgilian imagery the reaction once again comes from the surrounding ob-
jects; it is the limina, the laurus (A. 3.91) and the whole mountain (A. 3.91– 2)
which move and tremble with the god’s presence.
To have a model, however, does not mean blind acceptance. Virgil augments
the effect of the divine presence by increasing the verbs from one to three (trem-
ere, moueri, mugire) and by involving nature itself (mons) in addition to the in-
creased number of the divine symbols (limina, laurus, adytis, cortina).⁶⁸ Further
to this, in the Virgilian narrative there is neither any clear (δῆλον) message, nor
does the god appear (δῆλος). In Callimachus the epiphany of the god was made
only to the privileged good and great (ἐσθλός, μέγας) whereas the feeble one
(λιτός) cannot see him (9 – 10):⁶⁹

 Hardie (1986, 225) reads in this Virgilian scene “a divinely originated earthquake”. Contra
Ηorsfall 2006 on 91. See also Hardie 2007b.
 Hunter 2006, 25. Serv. A. 7.73 init.
 Barchiesi 1994, 440: “Virgil has combined, in a generalising frame inspired by Callimachus,
a number of cult features of Apollo, Delian as well as Delphic: Delian laurel and Delphic tripos
vibrate in unison. The effect has a power which transcends the reverberation of the Hymn to
Apollo”, and n. 10: “This vibration is so magical that it produces an effect of prosody that is
unique in the whole poem, -que being treated as a long before a simple liquid consonant.”
 In Callimachus only those who could ‘see’ god were privileged (οὐχ ὁράᾳς, Ap. 4). In the
Aeneid only the uox (93) of Apollo can be heard.
 From Delos to Latium 283

ὡπόλλων οὐ παντὶ φαείνεται, ἀλλ᾽ ὅτις ἐσθλός·

ὅς μιν ἴδῃ, μέγας οὗτος, ὃς οὐκ ἴδε, λιτὸς ἐκεῖνος.
(Call. Ap. 9 – 10)

Apollo does not appear to all but to the good ones; whoever sees him he is great, whoever
does not, is feeble.

One cannot help but notice an ‘inconsistency’ in the Callimachean work: One of
the reasons to which Callimacheanism owed its tremendous influence on gener-
ations of poets was its programmatic discourse and the metaliterary weight the
Cyrenaic poet added to a number of words turning them to symbols. Two such
words were the adjectives μέγας and λιτός. In the context of the above Hymn,
and contrary to the current Callimachean precepts, the adjective μέγας is privi-
leged to λιτός who cannot see the god.⁷⁰ It is perhaps with this ‘inconsistency’
in mind that the Roman poet responded to the Hellenistic text and at the
same time served his own poetic strategies. Aeneas did not see the god, so, ac-
cording to the Hymn, he could not be considered as yet good or great (μέγας).
Does Virgil suggest here that his hero is not ready yet to be numbered among
the good or great? Indeed, nowhere in the apologoi is Aeneas called magnus
or magnanimus. ⁷¹ According to the chronological development of the Aeneas
story, the hero is characterized as such at 1.260, in Jupiter’s prophecy, after he
had addressed his comrades with soothing words, as we have seen, telling
them about their final destination (tendimus in Latium, 1.205). In Book 3 of the
Aeneid Aeneas is not yet fully initiated into the fata and the epic reality. It is per-
haps the search of knowledge for the final goal –knowledge about Latium –
which is the determining factor of the hero’s stage of maturity, and hence that
of molding the type of hero Virgil aspires to.

***
After Delos the errores of the Trojans continue. Anchises’ error, which he will
later admit (seque nouo ueterum deceptum errore locorum, “and that he was de-

 Williams 1978 on 10. We have the epiphany of the same god in the Homeric Hymn, when
Apollo appears to the Cretans (440 – 50); his presence caused great fear to each one of them
(μέγα… δέος ἔμβαλ’ ἑκάστῳ, 447). As Feeney (1998, 106) points out, “Humans are commonly so
terrified by epiphany”. On the phenomenon of the epiphany, however, Feeney’s conclusions are
based on texts not discussed in this work (104– 7).
 The failure in interpreting the oracle on the part of Anchises and the ‘improper’ behavior of
Aeneas to the god upon his arrival at Delos, are two possible reasons, which perhaps indicate
that at this stage the hero is not yet magnus or magnanimus. According to the ancient practice,
Aeneas should have offered a sacrifice to the god before asking for an oracle: Casali 2007, 191 f.
Anchises, too, is not described as magnus until after his death (5.99, 8.156).
284 Stratis Kyriakidis

ceived by the recent mistake about the ancient places”, 3.181) takes the wander-
ing Trojans to Crete,⁷² where the plague will be the harbinger of the new errores
the hero will undergo until he solidifies the world within him.⁷³ Before acquiring,
however, this mens immota (A. 4.449) – which occurs after the epiphany of Mer-
cury at Carthage – he has to endure a number of hardships. He has to outgrow
the influence of his father (who in the meantime dies), to deal with various pre-
dicaments and to face his own self in his relationship with Dido.
The narrative development seems to reflect, or rather to have elements in
common with, the story of the Callimachean Delos. Delos, in addition to
ἄδηλος (Del. 53), was πλαζομένη (192), πλαγκτή (273), and it floated (ἐπέπλεες,
36) before being connected with Apollo:⁷⁴

σὲ δ᾽ οὐκ ἔθλιψεν ἀνάγκη,

ἀλλ᾽ ἄφετος πελάγεσσιν ἐπέπλεες
(Call. Del. 35 – 6)

You were not oppressed by necessity but were floating free on the waters.

But once it is associated with the god, it becomes ἄτροπος (“firm”, 11). According
to the scholiast⁷⁵ the adjective means ἀκίνητος and ἄσειστος (“unmoved” and
“unshaken”). When the island became the birthplace of Apollo (269), its position
in the Aegean was fixed⁷⁶ and it emerged taking the name of Delos. The floating
and drifting of the island is a basic component of the Hellenistic Hymn but much
less so of the Homeric Hymn. ⁷⁷ In the Aeneid Delos, rather than errans (3.76) be-

 Miller (2009, 116) pointedly observes: “By following Anchises’ direction to Crete, the Trojans
become errantes in another sense – sharing in his error.”
 Perhaps in this way we may give an answer to Servius auctus’ query (on A. 3.154) as to the
delayed help of the Penates at Crete: sane quibusdam uisum est serum auxilium deorum pen-
atium; cur enim ante pestilentiam non monuerunt mutandas sedes? (“Indeed it has appeared to
some that the divine help of the Penates was late; for why did they not advise that they should
change their abode before the plague?”).
 This movement may be characterized as ‘chaotic’: Νishimura-Jensen 2000, 290 – 3. See above
n. 44.
 Schol. in Call. Ap. 11a: Barchiesi 1994, n. 15.
 See above, p. 5. See lines 191– 2 and 273.
 The Callimachean Hymn gives greater emphasis to the wandering than the Homeric Hymn:
see Montiglio 2005, 232; Bing 2008, 99 f.; also Barchiesi 1994, 441. See also Ukleja 2005, 138 – 141.
Depew 1998, 162: “Similarly, the nineteen lines that in the Homeric Hymn were devoted to Leto’s
wanderings (30 – 48) Callimachus develops into 140 lines. Leto’s travels, moreover, are paral-
leled to Asteria’s, which, along with what motivates their end, are the poem’s most dominant
theme.” Nishimura-Jensen 2000, 289 and n. 5.
 From Delos to Latium 285

comes immota (3.77, cf. revinxit, 3.76). Even the phrase contemnere uentos (“defy
the winds”, 3.77) recalls the Callimachean adjective ἠνεμόεσσα: ⁷⁸

κείνη δ᾽ ἠνεμόεσσα καὶ ἄτροπος †οἷά θ᾽† ἁλιπλήξ

(Call. Del. 11)

Windy she is and unchangeable and wave-stricken.

Delos was a drifting island in the Aegean before it was fixed by the god and ac-
quired its present name; Leto also had to wander around in search of a birth-
place for her twins, before Delos accepted her request.⁷⁹ Aeneas and the Trojans
sail the seas for many years in search of their new country and set their course by
divine guidance. Evidently, the wandering proves to be a basic constituent in the
Delos myth involving all parties in one way or another. One might, therefore, see
the story of Delos as the frame within which the poet contains much of the es-
sential part of the Aeneas’ story. Wandering which ends in immobility and firm-
ness are two basic foundation features upon which the Delos and Aeneas stories
are based. The incessant search on the part of the hero for a clear message as to
his final destination and the fleeting nature of that knowledge is a major compo-
nent reflected in the frame of the Delos episode, which anticipates early enough
the development of Aeneas’ character from ‘mens errans’ to mens immota
(4.449). In his quest for that hidden goal, it is only after Mercury’s epiphany
at Carthage that Aeneas will maintain a steady course to the land ordained by
fate. Thus the epiphany of the god becomes the turning point in the development
of the hero.

***
Parallel to the mythological elements hidden, added to or adapted in the Virgi-
lian narrative, there is a number of learned techniques of poetic labor which en-
hance the significance of the episode. The content of the introductory line (73)
stresses the island’s importance as a cult center, strengthened by the structure
of the line: the adjective medio placed in the middle of the hexameter not
only visualizes the meaning of the word⁸⁰ in an extratextual mirroring⁸¹ but it

 Barchiesi 1994, 439.

 At h.Ap. 214 ff. the god himself begins his search for a place to establish his oracle χρη-
στήριον. His wandering is not described in terms different from the wandering of Leto in search
of a birthplace. See Montiglio (2005, 15) on ἐβίβασκεν (132). As a matter of fact the wandering of
Apollo in search of an oracle (214) in h.Ap. is a topic beyond the interests of the Roman poet.
 On this important is Thomas 2004, 124– 31.
 See previous note and below n. 88.
286 Stratis Kyriakidis

also suggests, as Horsfall perceptibly notices,⁸² the island’s geographic location

‘right in the middle of the sea’ which really means – strengthened by the attrib-
ute of Neptunus (Neptuno Aegeo, 74) – ‘in the middle of the Aegean.’⁸³ I would
further add that by this structure Virgil alludes to the name of Cyclades and the
etymology of that name⁸⁴ and hence to the relevant tradition⁸⁵ according to
which Delos is placed in the middle and is encircled in a ring-formation by
the rest of the islands.⁸⁶

sacra mari colitur medio gratissima tellus

Nereidum matri et Neptuno Aegaeo
(A. 3.73 – 4)

A sacred land is cherished in the middle of the sea dear to the mother of the Nereids and
Neptune of the Aegean.

In the Delos episode, the idea of wandering is established through the participle
errantem (“wandering”, 76) for the yet unnamed island of Delos which shares the
same characterization as the Trojans themselves (errantis, 3.101).⁸⁷ At the same
time, however, the Trojans are burdened in their wandering by an error. Erratio
and error go hand in hand, as we shall see, with their voyage to Crete. At line 124
the Trojans leave the island of Delos (Ortygiae portus) for Crete on a course sup-
posedly due south. In the following two lines we have the short list of four is-
lands named out of all the Cyclades the Trojans sail through:

linquimus Ortygiae portus pelagoque uolamus

bacchatamque iugis Naxon uiridemque Donusam, 125
Olearon niueamque Paron sparsasque per aequor
Cycladas, et crebris legimus freta concita terris.
(A. 3.124– 7)

 Horsfall 2006 ad loc.

 Serv. A. 3.73 init. A similar phrase with the same structural phenomenon is applied for Crete
further down at 3.104 (Creta Jovis magni medio iacet insula ponto, “Crete, the island of great
Jupiter, lies in the middle of the sea”). There may be some thoughts for this repetition; it may
suggest implied similarities between the two islands; strictly speaking Delos and Crete form the
same narrative unit. With regard to the geographic reality, Crete is indeed in the ‘middle’ of a
great sea-expanse without being surrounded by closely placed islands. Cf. Horsfall 2006 on 3.73.
 Cf. Paschalis 1997, 116 f. For the Latin sources see Maltby 1991 s.v.; Bing 2008, 126. See below.
 See Call. Del. 198, 300 f.
 Cf. D.P. 525 – 6 with Eustathius, Commentarii, p. 204 (Bernhardy); cf. also the paraphrasis,
p. 383 (Bernhardy). In the Callimachean Hymn to Delos Bing (2008, 125) recognizes a persistent
“‘circling motif’ which appears at the start of the poem… (v. 11– 29)”.
 See Horsfall 2006 ad loc.
 From Delos to Latium 287

We are leaving the port of Ortygia and fly over the sea past Naxos with its bacchic ridges,
green Donusa, Olearos, gleaming white Paros, the Cyclades scattered across the sea we pass
and over the waves stirred up by the frequent shores of the islands.

Apparently the meandering course the Virgilian text suggests can hardly match
the due south course the Trojans should have taken on their way to Crete.⁸⁸ Line
124, that is, shows Ortygia, the northernmost of the islands mentioned, and line
125, presents Naxos and Donusa, the pair of islands situated SE of Ortygia, to oc-
cupy the right part of the hexameter, whereas line 126 presents Olearos and
Paros, the pair of islands situated SW of Ortygia, to occupy the left part of the
line. It is to be noted that Olearos and Donusa are respectively and geographical-
ly the westernmost and easternmost of the islands stated and hence they hold
the extreme left and the extreme right position of their respective lines.
It is obvious that with the order in which the names are placed in lines
124– 6, the poet exploits the visual quality of the text, since it ‘depicts’ within
the space of three hexameters the actual position of Ortygia/Delos in relation
to the other islands. It is a case of extratextual mirroring which is also attested
in other poetic texts of different periods.⁸⁹ The text here is treated by the poet as
a material surface, which, like a map, imitates the extratextual reality. The cata-
logue has the potentials, therefore, to stress in yet another way the sense of error
– with both meanings of the word here present – the wandering about, that is,
and the mistake, however unintentional it may be. The erratic element underly-
ing the course of the Trojans which is well inscribed on the writing surface
through the structural possibilities of the catalogue together with the myth of
Delos employed in the narrative frame mutually function in order to suggest
the sense of disarray and uncertainty in which Aeneas finds himself.
The Virgilian catalogue closes with the collective name of the Cyclades
whose attribute (sparsas, 126) suggests a bilingual etymological play with spargo

 Horsfall 2006 on 3.125 – 7.

 Kyriakidis 2007, mainly 52– 66. On occasion, geographic catalogues lend themselves to a
similar treatment; at any rate there is always a poetic intent involved. It is no surprise, therefore,
that Ovid in his emulation of the Master exploited and furthered the same technique by applying
it to his short catalogue at Ep. 21.81– 2 (Kyriakidis 2010, 8 – 11) involving the islands north of
Delos (Andros – Tenos – Myconos) instead of the Virgilian catalogue which exploits the islands
south of Delos/Ortygia. See the map at the end of the paper.
Et iam transieram Myconon, iam Tenon et Andron,
inque meis oculis candida Delos erat
(Ep. 21.81– 2)
And now I had passed Myconos, now Tenos and Andros, and shining Delos was before
my eyes.
288 Stratis Kyriakidis

and σπείρω (“I sow”) from which we get Sporades, ⁹⁰ the name of another group
of islands in the Aegean. Given that in antiquity there was a confusion as to the
number of islands belonging to the Cyclades and the Sporades⁹¹ and that some
of the islands mentioned in the list (Donusam, Olearon) were rather listed under
the Sporades,⁹² it is not unlikely that with the phrase sparsasque…/ Cycladas Vir-
gil wished to point to this inconsistency and thus enhance in the reader the no-
tion of erratic and erroneous.
If the chart of Aeneas’ sea-voyage is the surface on which the poet can mark
the main stops on the errores, thus representing stages of the hero’s internal de-
velopment from ignorance to knowledge – from his lack of self-awareness to his
maturity – it is also the surface on which the poet’s journeying in the literary
world of the tradition is impressed. Both the hero and the poet wander, each
leaving his mark, and the text becomes the meeting place for both as well as
for the reader. In writing the Aeneid, Virgil made use of various sources. Through
the geographic itinerary of his readers and the stopovers of that grand tour, Virgil
discloses his own wandering in the literary texts of the past. Each stopover in the
narrative corresponds to a literary visit to the sources. The apologoi of the Aeneid
always have as an unwavering model the Odyssey,⁹³ whose influence on the
Roman epic is obvious, but the reminiscences of the Homeric and Callimachean
Hymns are frequent and tangible, especially in the Delos episode as has been
widely recognized.⁹⁴ It is true that the episode of Delos – but not only this –
is redolent of Hellenistic poetic techniques; the Callimachean echoes abound to-
gether with the challenging information for the learned reader. Virgil’s prefer-
ence for the Callimachean model rather than the archaic one is evident.⁹⁵
Later on, in the narrative, at the beginning of the second half of the Aeneid, Cal-
limachus’ presence will be again noticeable in a passage pertaining to the last
leg of Aeneas’ voyage. But there, after three more books of narrative, Virgil,
with numerous allusions to the Callimachean program, as I have tried to show
elsewhere,⁹⁶ will keep his distance from the Hellenistic model. Things are no lon-
ger the same and Aeneas has been successfully transformed into a full grown

 On this issue, see O’Hara 1996b, 137 and 2001, 372; Horsfall 2006 on 125 to 127.
 See e. g. Str. 10.5.3.
 Str. ibid.; Eust. Comm. in D. P. 530 (p. 207.15 f. Bernhardy); see also Schol. in D. P. 132 (p. 333
Bernhardy).
 Cairns 1989, 177– 214.
 See above, n. 9.
 Rutherford 1998.
 Kyriakidis 1998; see also Thomas 1985.
 From Delos to Latium 289

and genuine leader of his people. Each stop during the voyage was a spiritual
and mental trial for the hero. This precept was equally valid for the poet himself.
Marios Skempis
Phenomenology of Space, Place Names
and Colonization in the ‘Caieta-Circe’
Sequence of Aeneid 7*

Introduction
The invocation to Erato at the midpoint of the Aeneid has long been a major issue
in Virgilian scholarship and has led to various approaches, the overwhelming
majority of which hinge on implicit or explicit eroticizing interpretations. What
strikes the reader most in this invocation is that it does not coincide with the
arithmetic beginning of Book 7 of the Aeneid (7.37– 45), but follows a concise nar-
rative section that contains references to Caieta (7.1– 7) and Circe (7.8 – 24) as well
as a description of the Trojans’ arrival at the Tiber (7.25 – 36). It is this narrative
sequence ‘Caieta-Circe’ with which I am concerned here. Thus far scholars have
either treated the topic in passing or have tried to make sense of the individual
references to these female figures, thus suppressing the question of whether and
to what extent the successive placement of Caieta and Circe forges a link between
them, let alone their alignment with Erato.¹ In this paper, I argue that there is
indeed an interconnection between the Caieta-section and the Circe-section
that adds to the tightly knit structural design of the epic as a whole and contrib-
utes to its progression from the “Odyssean” first half (Books 1– 6) to the “Iliadic”
second one (Books 7– 12). The spine of my argument is that this progression is
mapped out in spatial terms insofar as it sketches out a subtle geographical

* I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Katharina Waldner and Ioannis Ziogas, who
were willing to read various drafts of this paper and provide insightful comments. I am also
indebted to the organizers and participants of the Research Group “Kultureller und religiöser
Transfer in der Antike” at Erfurt University for giving me the opportunity to discuss a number of
ideas presented above and benefit immensely from their valuable feedback. Thanks are also due
to Henry Heitman Gordon for correcting my English.
 The one scholar to have undertaken a full study of the narrative framing of the sections
preceding the invocation to the Muse in Aeneid 7 is Stratis Kyriakidis (1998), who proposes a
reflected poetological reading based on the intertextual dynamics of the Aeneid, mostly with
regard to Callimachus and Apollonius Rhodius. The insights of Kyriakidis into the narrative self-
reflexivity of the Aeneid’s midpoint are particularly enlightening, especially the ones concerning
Caieta, and it will become clear in the course of my analysis how much the argument owes to his
reading. For further pungent readings of the narrative sections at issue, see Jenkyns 1998,
462– 6; Thomas 1999; 2004.
292 Marios Skempis

framework that follows the Trojans’ course toward Latium. In fact, the ‘Caieta-
Circe’ sequence marks a significant junction in this course inasmuch as it signals
the impending arrival of the Trojans at their final destination. On these grounds,
it is the aim of this paper to provide a new perspective by means of which the
seemingly disparate references to Caieta and Circe can be viewed as a coherent
unit. This narrative blend, I submit, is the result of associations based on the Vir-
gilian appropriation of Hellenistic epic against the backdrop of archaic epic. Fur-
thermore, I shall demonstrate that these intertextual ties are largely determined
by the impact they have on the semanticization of the spaces Virgil inquires into.
It is the critical stance of the Hellenistic poets toward lexical and geographical
issues, in particular, that Virgil adopts while shaping the ‘Caieta-Circe’ se-
quence.² In essence, I intend to show how literary relations merge into spatial
configurations.
Before turning to the examination and interpretation of the individual sec-
tions of the ‘Caieta-Circe’ sequence, I wish to introduce and briefly discuss cer-
tain notions fundamental to the development of my argument and attempt to pin
down the theoretical framework within which my analysis moves. The concepts
of “space” and “place” have been much debated in the discourses of contempo-
rary geography, philosophy and cultural studies. Determining the exact relation
of the one to the other has proved quite a difficult task, especially with regard to
the complex mechanisms underlying this ambivalent relation. In a broad sense,
“space” has been conceptualized as an abstract notion open to various interpre-
tations and, accordingly, subject to diverse contextualizations, whereas the no-
tion of “place” is understood to exhibit more settled traits contingent on how
it correlates with human agency and experience.³ While geography tends to rep-
resent space as an absolute quality, literature mostly deals with places, since the
interaction with persons becomes all the more intrinsic in its contexts.⁴ After all,
perception and agency are the triggers that transform space into place. Yet, what
do we mean by perception and agency when it comes to space? In his landmark
study Phenomenology of Landscape, Christopher Tilley examines how spaces are
socialized and culturally constituted through the unmediated involvement of

 This part of my argument is in line with scholarship dealing with semasiological aspects in
Hellenistic poetry and its relation to Homeric terminology where the seminal studies of Ren-
gakos (1992, 1993 and 1994) are preeminent. As far as the interest of Hellenistic poets in matters
of contested literary geography is concerned the contributions of Sistakou (2002 and 2005) are
essential.
 For a brief and valid assessment of scholarly views on the relation between space and place,
see Hubbard 2005. On the embeddedness of experience in place, see Malpas 1999.
 Further on this, see Tuan 1978; Bachelard 1969 [1994].
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 293

persons with particular sites: “Socially produced space combines the cognitive,
the physical and the emotional into something that may be reproduced but is al-
ways open to transformation and change.”⁵ Moreover, Tilley views the coales-
cence of mobility and narrative as a pivotal complex that conditions the relation
of persons to places. To put it once more in his words, “movement through space
constructs ‘spatial stories’, forms of narrative understanding”.⁶ Within the same
phenomenological framework, the Chinese geographer Yi-Fu Tuan in his influen-
tial Space and Place draws attention to the factors that compromise the sense of
absolute space and create places measured against the sort of experience attach-
ed to them.⁷ This dimension proves most exciting for interpreting the spaces
linked with Caieta and Circe according to the resonance they have on the Tro-
jans, who in both cases display geopiety ⁸ and thus mark their relation with indi-
vidual places. Moving through space allows for a certain degree of contingent
perception in the way relational spatialities and subsequent localities are config-
ured, and paves the way for the intrusion of further determinants that claim their
own role in the semanticization of space.⁹ I focus on two of these determinants
that are tied to space: mythology and colonization.
Regarding mythology, Rob Shields has provided a useful framework within
which we can think about how space is laden with associations and, on a further
level, how it is subject to hermeneutics. For this purpose, he coins the crucial,
albeit somewhat fuzzy, term “place- or space-myths,” in order to comment
upon the infusion of layers of mythology (in a broad sense) into the semantics
of space/place: “There is both a constancy and a shifting quality to this model
of place- or space-myths as the core images change slowly over time, are dis-
placed by radical changes in the nature of a place, and as various images simply
lose their connotative power, becoming ‘dead metaphors’, while others are in-
vented, disseminated, and become accepted in common parlance.”¹⁰ Shields
conceptualizes space as potentially shifting in connotative power according to
the meaning ascribed to it and the purposes the latter is set to serve. Mythology
creates local geographies and, in doing so, constitutes a fundamental device by
means of which space can be negotiated, appropriated or even remain unaltered.

 Tilley 1994, 10.

 Tilley 1994, 31.
 Tuan 1977; see also Tuan 1971.
 The term is borrowed from Tuan 1976.
 I am most grateful to Richard Gordon for a series of enlightening discussions about “se-
manticized geography” (his term) that helped me clarify my views on the subject.
 Shields 1991, 61.
294 Marios Skempis

In view of the fact that “Roman myths were in essence myths of place”,¹¹ the dif-
ferent spaces associated with Caieta and Circe show how mythology can be re-
shaped to meet specific needs or can be treated as a firm indicator of cultural
identity. Onomastics acts as a subservient feature, given that both female figures
morph into toponyms, which attest either to the alternating potential of name-
giving (Caieta) or to the allusive force of a name (Circe).¹²
Place-myths become operative in colonial contexts as they reflect the human
impulse to ascribe cultural meaning to geographical space.¹³ Discourses of be-
longing and cultural inclusion are consistently taken up in colonial activities
in order to mark the movement of persons into unfamiliar space and render it
familiar, that is, to turn it into place.¹⁴ The connection between colonizer and col-
ony is put into terms of cultural identity, and mythology enters at this point in
order to generate close ties and to cement identification between person and
space.¹⁵ Religion is a special part of this interesting blend of myth and culture,
which has in itself a decisive impact upon the way space is shaped and per-
ceived,¹⁶ and thereby grows into a basic instrument for the institutionalization
of the ensuing cultural bond within the context of colonization.¹⁷ On these
grounds, colonizers occasionally develop a personalized, almost somatized rela-
tion to the newly acquired space and thus become substantially enmeshed with
the topography of the colony. More often than not, territorial claims within col-
onial discourse come to the fore by tracing the colonizer back to mythical times
in order to create a temporally unspecified, quasi primordial tie with a particular
place. The way mythology is used in colonial discourse may vary according to the
purposes pursued, though the spatial grounding of colonial figures always re-
tains its immanence. It is precisely this aspect I am most interested in while in-
quiring into the ‘Caieta-Circe’ sequence, for I shall argue that both Caieta and
Circe are registered as mythical figures of considerable significance in the con-
text of colonization in Italy.

 Beard/North/Price 1998, 173.

 Kyriakidis and Ziogas (this volume) provide splendid examples of how onomastics inter-
twines with intertextuality to nuance the epic topographies of Virgil and Ovid respectively.
 For a different approach to the production of cultural space that takes into account epic’s
concern with ethnography, see Haubold (this volume).
 Cf. Cole 2004, 7– 29; Slaney (this volume).
 On the conjunction of myth and colonial discourse, see Malkin 1998; Calame 2003.
 For various aspects of religion’s grounding in space, Rüpke (2007) is fundamental.
 Malkin (1987) illustrates the integral role of religion in practices of colonization. Particularly
illuminating from a literary point of view is Dougherty (1993, 15 – 30).
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 295

Keeping these preliminary remarks in mind, let me turn to the individual

sections of the ‘Caieta-Circe’ sequence and assess their significance in creating
localities within the spatial continuum of the Aeneid.

Caieta: the Woman and the Harbour

Recent scholarship on Virgil’s Aeneid has stressed this epic’s concern with mark-
ing Roman ethnicity within the political context of the Augustan period as well
as the way it demarcates cultural identity through the expression of religiosity
and by recourse to ritual practices.¹⁸ In the poem, Aeneas embodies the self-
awareness of the hero with respect to the maintenance of his cultural identity
by performing ritual acts in a paradigmatic manner. Funeral rites reflect his sa-
cral authority and responsibility toward the community he is in charge of as well
as his unmatched morality as a religious leader.¹⁹ The Caieta-section that bridges
Books 6 and 7 of the Aeneid is a case in point as it provides a suitable narrative
platform for Virgil to highlight Aeneas’ religious profile and its spatial repercus-
sions within a funerary context.
Virgil opens the second half of his epic with a four-line epigram devoted to
an unheroic character, Caieta. These lines commemorate the loss and burial of
Aeneas’ nurse that take place as the Trojans reach the harbour eventually
named after her. In fact, Virgil does not narrate her death, which presumably oc-
curs between Books 6 and 7, but only her funeral, and that in an extremely con-
densed manner, which recalls the mechanics of funerary epigram.²⁰ The transi-
tion from the katabasis in Book 6 to Caieta is made at the very end, where the
state of her existence is rather unclear (tum se ad Caietae recto fert limite por-
tum./ ancora de prora iacitur; stant litore puppes, 6.900 – 1).²¹ Then we turn to
Book 7, and Caieta is suddenly a dead person addressed by the narrator. The
text reads as follows:

Tu quoque litoribus nostris, Aeneia nutrix,

aeternam moriens famam, Caieta, dedisti;
et nunc seruat honos sedem tuus, ossaque nomen

 See, most importantly, Dyson 2001; Barchiesi 2006; Panoussi 2009; 2010.
 To put it in Panoussi’s (2010, 65) words, it is public death rituals in particular that “showcase
his [scil. Aeneas’] sacral development, since they provide the context within which Aeneas is
able to discharge his ritual duties to his immediate family […].”
 For epigrams embedded in the Aeneid, see Barchiesi 1979; Dinter 2005; Ramsby 2007, 19 – 20.
On Caieta’s epigram in particular, see also Skempis 2010, 115 – 17.
 Cf. Putnam 1995, 103. On the closural function of these verses, see Wills 1997, 196 – 8.
296 Marios Skempis

Hesperia in magna, si qua est ea gloria, signat.

At pius exsequiis Aeneas rite solutis,
aggere composito tumuli, postquam alta quierunt
aequora, tendit iter uelis portumque relinquit.
(Verg. A. 7.1– 7)

You too, Caieta, once nurse to Aeneas, bestowed

by your death eternal fame upon our shores;
still now the honours shown you stand watch over the spot,
and your name marks where your bones are laid in great Hesperia,
if that is any glory. So the pious Aeneas, after due performance
of the funeral and the construction of Caieta’s burial mound,
once the deep waters grew still, set his sails on course and
left the harbour behind.²²

Having left the Underworld in Book 6 Aeneas reaches the shores of the harbour
Caieta, which is located on the Tyrrhenian coast and thereby signposts a prelimi-
nary encounter of the Trojans with the Italian soil. The use of the word limes
(6.901) is indicative of the transitional character of the arrival in Italy, since it
presents the harbour of Caieta as the final borderline of the Trojan journey to
Italy in strictly geographical terms.²³ The emphasized use of the so-called Du-
Stil in the very first line of the Caieta-section in Book 7 points to the intended
overlap between the narrator’s point of view and that of the Trojan immigrants,
who long for settlement. The strong sense of directness ensuing from the second
person address to Caieta fits well with the incorporation of the harbour’s shores
into the ideology of ‘we’ and, at the same time, calls for explication of its pro-
leptic function.²⁴ The narrator boldly declares Caieta’s litora as nostra, a designa-
tion that accounts for the eventual appropriation of geographical space with
which the Trojans are previously unacquainted. The strong connection between
Aeneas and the person Caieta is neatly transferred to the place where the old
nurse has been properly buried. Virgil pushes the rhetoric of appropriation to
the point where the boundaries between human identity and space begin to

 Here I follow the OCT of Mynors (1969). For the translation of Virgil I have used Horsfall
(2000), of Hesiod Most (2006), of Homer Lattimore (1967), of Apollonius Hunter (1993a).
 Nickbakht (2006, 97– 8) fittingly discusses the suggestive role of liminality in the last verses
of Book 6 and points to the potential contextualization of portus within “a semantic-phonetic
wordplay in portus – λιμήν – limen, indicating that the portus to which Aeneas proceeds is also a
limen, a “threshold”.” Nickbakht also cites Wills (1997, 199 with n. 33) for the shorelines (litora)
as “boundary markers”.
 On Caieta and the device of prolepsis, see Wills 1996, 199; Reed 2007, 130 with n. 4.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 297

blur.²⁵ Yet, it is the factor “space” he is interested in as is shown by the uncon-

ventional structure-transgressive ring composition he employs (Caietae portum,
6.900 ~ portumque, 7.7).
What turns Caieta the woman into a harbour? Death and a proper burial –
both incidents of transition, the one biological, the other social. Virgil seems to
project a conception of death as fluctuating between corporeality and incorpo-
reality, since he uses an ambivalent sign, the bones (ossa), as a metonymy for
the grave²⁶ or perhaps as an implicit reference to cremation.²⁷ Provided that
ossa is etymologically linked with uro (cf. ossa… ab usto dicta, propter quod cre-
marentur ab antiquis, Isid. Orig. 11.1.86),²⁸ the use of the term in this context
might suggest the etymology of Caieta’s name from “burn”, an etymology put for-
ward by Servius, albeit in a different context (lectum tamen est in philologis in
hoc loco classem Troianorum casu concrematum, unde Caieta dicta est, ἀπὸ
τοῦ καίειν, Serv. A. 7.1).²⁹ This etymology of Caieta seems to have prevailed at
least in another major literary text of the Augustan period as Ovid also alludes
to this semantic cluster and thereby comments on Virgil when he refers to Caie-
ta’s funeral pyre in his own epic poem (hic me Caietam notae pietatis alumnus/
ereptam Argolico quo debuit igne cremauit, Met. 14.443 – 4).³⁰
Social memorialization is a prominent feature in the funerary customs per-
taining to Caieta. Name (nomen) and body (ossa) turn into means of social action
(honos) that cast space (sedem) with special significance. In particular, the funer-
ary practices that Aeneas undertakes by burying her and heaping up a mound
are means by which he manages to alter the identity of the deceased and creates
a novel one. Caieta is a nurse, a person of low status, probably a slave, whose
identity has been changed through the institution of communal remembrance.

 It has often been noted that Caieta’s burial is interwoven with the deaths of Palinurus and
Misenus; see Paratore 1978b; Barchiesi 1979; Jenkyns 1998, 465 – 6; Dinter 2005, 157– 60. Inter-
estingly, both Misenus and Palinurus have a similar fate to Caieta, since, according to Virgil
(6.234– 5; 6.379 – 81) and D. H. 1.53.2– 3, after their respective deaths they have been monu-
mentalized as eponyms of harbours located on the Tyrrhenian Sea. All three become Italian
toponyms of Trojan origin. Cf. Brenk 1984, 778.
 Bowie (1998) draws attention to the central position of the body, even of the incorporeal,
dead body, and its use as a metaphor for decoding the text of the Aeneid.
 Feeney (2007b, 133 – 4) comments that Virgil’s recourse to Roman ritual in the Aeneid is
rather a non straightforward one in comparison to the early Roman epic poets. Cf. Feeney 1998,
141– 2.
 I am indebted to Ioannis Ziogas for this reference.
 Cf. McKay 1970, 161. See also Sol. 2.13; Anon. De orig. gent. Rom. 10.
 See the discussions of this passage in O’Hara 1996a, 183; 1996b, 268; Paschalis 1997, 244;
Hinds 1998, 108 – 9; Kyriakidis 1998, 86 – 7; Erasmo 2008, 99; Panoussi 2010, 58.
298 Marios Skempis

In other words, the transition from the status of a person to the status of a spatial
marker that confirms the introduction of a certain cultural identity is effected
through ritual practices linked with the memorialization of the dead.³¹ In this
context, burials have often been interpreted as rites of passage that enable var-
ious forms of transformation.³² In the case of Caieta, burial and the subsequent
raising of a funeral mound mark the literal grounding of a person in space as
well as her conceptual transformation into a harbour. Thus, the harbour of Caieta
ultimately functions as “topography of remembrance”, a place where the de-
ceased is monumentalized in collective memory.³³
The “distillation of the woman’s body into pure signification”,³⁴ an intensely
phenomenological process, intertwines with the fact that the woman at issue is
bound up with social memory, which ensues from a proper burial. Caieta’s tomb
operates as a “timemark”, as a site associated with a certain point in time and/or
instance from the past, and thus acquires a practical usefulness as a point of
topographical navigation, since Caieta ends up marking an Italian harbour
under the aegis of Aeneas. This is a typical case of setting up a “spontaneous
shrine” prompted by a life-cycle incident, a funerary monument in particular,
where the deceased can be publicly memorialized and imbue space with a per-
sonalized tinge.³⁵ The reasons why Caieta is endowed with such a spontaneous
shrine are never made explicit. However, the monument linked with her is des-
tined to attain spatial distinctiveness, a definite sign that the consecration Ae-

 McKay (1970, 161) points out that cape Caieta was marked out in Virgil’s time as a predo-
minantly funeral site since statesmen such as Lucius Munatius Plancus and Lucius Sempronius
Atratinus were buried there, whereas Cicero was also executed at that particular place. I am
grateful to Wolfgang Spickermann for drawing McKay’s study to my attention.
 On the dynamics of funerary rites in Rome, see Lindsay 2000; Mustakallio 2005; Graham
2009. For the parallel existence of inhumation and cremation burials in Rome, see Morris 1992,
31– 69; Rüpke 2001a, 53; Schrumpf 2006, 63 – 6; Scheid 2007. For funerary rites in general, see
now the contributions in Rüpke/Scheid 2010.
 For the term “topography of remembrance” in general, see Assmann 1999, 298 – 339; for
practices of memory preservation of the lowly in Rome, see Graham 2006.
 Nugent 1999, 268. In a non-Virgilian context, Bakker (2008) elaborates on the crucial role of
the body in generating epic memory.
 Grider 2006, 248: “One function of spontaneous shrines is to draw attention to the previously
ordinary place where some violent event occurred. The most distinguishing characteristics of
spontaneous shrines are their proximity to the precipitating event and the extraordinary range of
idiosyncratic mementos from which the shrines are created. The shrines are spontaneous be-
cause they are erected in response to sudden, unpredictable tragic events. These artifact as-
semblages are sacred by virtue of the actions and intentions of the people who create and tend
to them.”
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 299

neas presides over has cultural repercussions.³⁶ In essence, Aeneas inscribes

new space into a hitherto unfamiliar geographical system, magna Hesperia.
It is worth noting that in the case of Caieta the prerequisite that ensures com-
memoration lies in the social interaction with an individual from a high social
class. Aeneas exhibits an exemplary sense of ritual responsibility (pius, 7.5)
when he performs the funeral rites by raising a tomb for his deceased nurse (ag-
gere composito tumuli, 7.6). Caieta’s posthumous honours are not intended to
praise a certain role of hers in the narrative since she is a figure we know nothing
about – Virgil has provided no further information other than the fact that she
was Aeneas’ aged nurse, who just passed away. On the contrary, it is plausible
that the story of Caieta’s burial and her subsequent memorialization is designed
to put special emphasis on Aeneas’ pietas and to stress the gravity of the reli-
gious component in shaping proto-Roman identity. For it is precisely the con-
scious performance of ritual activities, the sense of ritual duty that advances Ae-
neas to a paradigmatic figure and constitutes Roman pietas. ³⁷
The motif of pietas not only embeds the Caieta-section in the religious ethics
of the Virgilian epic, but also validates the desire of the Trojans for settlement
that lies behind the expression litora nostra. ³⁸ The naming of an Italian harbour
after the Trojan Caieta serves the poetics of colonization in the Aeneid, where a
continuum between Trojan past and Roman present needs to be established. It is
clear that Aeneas emerges here as a settler, even though he does not make him-
self the eponym of Caieta’s harbour.³⁹ In a perceptive paper on Aeneas’ colonial
profile, Nicholas Horsfall remarks that “the founder’s central role is symbolized
by his ability to confer a name, sometimes but not always his own, upon the new
settlement”.⁴⁰ In addition, he points out that “it was common practice for no-
menclature to evoke memories of the homeland”. In this light, to commemorate
Caieta on Italian soil through the foundation of a harbour is to introduce social

 Cf. Brereton 1987, 534: “To call a place sacred asserts that a place, its structure, and its
symbols express fundamental cultural values and principles.”
 On the conceptualization and pivotal importance of pietas in Roman religious practices in
general, see Scheid 1985.
 The mobility inherent in Aeneas’ mission to transport the ancestral gods from Troy to Italy
goes hand in hand with his religious commitment to the safe-guarding of the sacra and the
penates. Indicative in this respect is Aeneas’ self-introduction in Aen. 1.378 – 9: sum pius Aeneas
raptos qui ex hoste penates/ classe ueho mecum with Cancik 2006, 35: “Die Definition, die pius
durch diese Selbstvorstellung erhält, klingt durch das ganze Epos, das Aeneas mit dem ste-
henden Epitheton pius markiert.”
 On the diverse practices of founding a colony and the notion of eponym, see Malkin 1985; on
Aeneas as founder of colonies, see Horsfall 1989; cf. Malkin 1998, 194– 8.
 Horsfall 1989, 18.
300 Marios Skempis

and spatial dynamics of the past in the venues of the present. Thus, an ordinary
woman triggers off ways of expressing cultural identity through foundation prac-
tices.⁴¹

Re-naming Harbours: the Semantics

of a Place Name
Thus far I have discussed Caieta’s burial and establishment as a spatial marker
on the Tyrrhenian coast along with certain interrelated aspects in strictly Virgi-
lian terms. In the following section I wish to extend the discussion about Caieta’s
spatial configurations by considering further textual evidence, both poetic and
non-poetic. Callimachus provides an instance of textual criticism on the Homeric
text that proves significant for assessing the multi-layered semanticization of
Caieta in (and beyond) Virgil. Against this literary backdrop, Caieta emerges as
a subject of controversy in diverse colonization discourses. In order to analyse
and fully assess the geographical implications of the harbour Caieta in the Ae-
neid, it is essential to take a look at related passages by Strabo and Diodorus Si-
culus that account for mythical and historical contextualizations of the site.
Archaeologizing the semantics of Caieta’s name can actually lead us back to
Homer through Callimachus. The adjective κητώεσσα occurs twice in Homer as a
part of the formula κοίλην Λακεδαίμονα κητώεσσαν (Hom. Il. 2.581– 2; Od. 4.1– 2)
and is taken to mean either “full of marine monsters” (<κῆτος) or as “full of fis-
sures” (<καιέτας).⁴² It is important to note that the adjective at issue occurs in
conjunction with the adjective κοίλη, which means “hollow, concave”. According
to the Homeric scholia, the Alexandrian grammarian Zenodotus suggested
και(ε)τάεσσαν instead of κητώεσσαν in his edition of the Homeric text (Schol.
in Od. 4.1) and took the word to mean “minty, full of catmint” (καλαμινθώδης;
cf. Hsch. κ 219; Apollon. 99.16). Callimachus seems to agree with Zenodotus’ di-
orthosis ⁴³ as he uses the Homeric uaria lectio to designate the Laconian river Eu-
rotas:

 Keith (2000, 47– 8) underscores the political symbolism of Caieta as a maternal figure within
the context of colonization. The role of Romulus’ lupa nutrix (A. 1.275 – 7) in the development of
Roman identity is equally important; on this, see Raaflaub 2006.
 See Morris 1984; Kirk 1985, 213 ad 2.581; Latacz et al. 2003, 188 ad 2.581; Heubeck/West/
Hainsworth 1988, 193 ad 4.1.
 See Rengakos 1993, 85 – 6; Hollis 2009, 191– 2.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 301

κο]ίλης ἐπὶ νηὸς ο ̣ [

ἵππους καιτάεντος ἀπ’ Εὐρώταο κομίσσαι
(Call. Hec. fr. 47.5 – 6 H.)

… aboard ship …
to bring horses from concave Eurotas

It is striking that Callimachus does not use the epithet to designate Lacedaimon,
but rather as an attribute of the Laconian river Eurotas. The occurence of the ad-
jective κοίλη in the preceding line enhances the Homeric colouring of the pas-
sage. The consistent Laconian topography accompanying the term καιτάεις is
in line with the use of Laconian vocabulary. Stratis Kyriakidis argues that “Caieta
seems to be etymologically connected with the Laconian word καιέτας – καιετός
[…] meaning a hollow cleft in a rock, a fissure or a precipice, a cavern”.⁴⁴ Thus,
on the one hand, Callimachus might have taken the epithet to mean “hollow,
concave” in reference to Eurotas’ deep riverbed, as opposed to Zenodotus and
the lexicographers;⁴⁵ on the other, Virgil might have been influenced by Callima-
chus in shaping his Caieta by having the name of his character attributed to the
natural concavity of a harbour. In this case, he emerges as a Homererklärer in
Hellenistic manner inasmuch as he interprets Homer by consciously relying on
a source, Callimachus fr. 47.6 H., which already had the same intention.⁴⁶
Hence, Caieta, the name of Aeneas’ nurse, seems to allude to a Homeric zetema
that involves the semasiological interpretation of an attribute pertaining to Laco-
nian topography.
We could now ask ourselves what the Laconians have to do with Aeneas’
nurse. It is not the person, but the space she has cast her name on, the harbour
Caieta, that seems to be associated with the Laconians. A passage by the Greek
geographer Strabo, a contemporary of Virgil, is very informative in this respect
inasmuch as it ventures an archaeology of the site Caiatas, the Doric form of
Caietes (and apparently the Laconian moniker of Caieta),⁴⁷ which is located on
the Tyrrhenian coast, on the grounds of semasiological rationalization. In this
context, it should be stressed that naming and re-naming harbours during
naval enterprises constitutes one of the standard colonial practices that aim at
the introduction of new space into an already familiar geographical system

 Kyriakidis 1998, 87– 8. On founding and naming practices, see Dougherty 1993.
 I owe this point to Magdalene Stoevesandt.
 For Virgil as an “interpreter of Homer,” see Schmit-Neuerburg 1999. Still useful on the subject
is the monumental study of Knauer 1964. For Virgil’s appropriation of Homeric motives, see the
valuable study of Barchiesi (1984).
 On the prevalent Doric vocalism in the word Caiatas, see Radt 2007, 75 ad loc.
302 Marios Skempis

and the cultural integration and interpretation of territorial otherness. On the

one hand, changing a site-name, metonomasia, does reflect historical change,
but does not necessarily question geographical continuity.⁴⁸ On the other, accul-
turation of geographical alterity entails the process of attributing novel meaning
to a hitherto otherwise defined space.
I have already mentioned that Strabo provides invaluable information on the
topography of Caieta that matches the Virgilian data. He refers to the foundation
of Formiae and to the gulf Caiatas, both of which he considers to be Laconian in
origin. In his view, the Laconians named the gulf this way because they call “all
concave things” καιέτας (ἑξῆς δὲ Φορμίαι Λακωνικὸν κτίσμα ἐστίν, Ὁρμίαι
λεγόμενον πρότερον διὰ τὸ εὔορμον. καὶ τὸν μεταξὺ δὲ κόλπον ἐκεῖνοι
Καιάταν ὠνόμασαν· τὰ γὰρ κοῖλα πάντα καιέτας οἱ Λάκωνες προσαγορεύουσιν.
ἔνιοι δ’ ἐπώνυμον τῆς Αἰνείου τροφοῦ τὸν κόλπον φασίν, Str. 5.3.6). In Strabo’s
explanation of why the gulf bears this name, there is a fairly explicit semantic
identification between κοῖλα and καιέτας under the common matrix “concavity”,
two terms that we have seen to go hand in hand in the Homeric juncture κοίλην
Λακεδαίμονα κητώεσσαν – provided that one accepts the Zenodotean correc-
tion.⁴⁹ What Strabo means here is that Laconian colonization has imposed its
own idiomatic register upon the territory as is apparent in the name of the
sites.⁵⁰ Apart from the explanation about the semantics of Caietas, Strabo
adds a further tradition according to which the gulf took its name from Aeneas’
nurse. One wonders what the exact connection between the Laconian naming
“Caiatas” and Virgil’s foundation story of Caieta might be. I contend that Stra-
bo’s examples may be indicative of the developmental stages site-names of La-

 Horsfall (1989, 22 with n. 100) comments upon the extensive use of metonomasia as an
“indicator of historical change” within the Aeneid.
 In a different passage Strabo differentiates between κητώεσσαν and καιετάεσσαν, taking the
latter either to mean “minty” or to signify “clefts, caverns”: γραφόντων δὲ τῶν μὲν
“Λακεδαίμονα κητώεσσαν” τῶν δὲ “καιετάεσσαν”, ζητοῦσι τὴν κητώεσσαν τίνα δέχεσθαι χρή,
εἴτε ἀπὸ τῶν κητῶν εἴτε μεγάλην, ὅπερ δοκεῖ πιθανώτερον εἶναι· τὴν δὲ καιετάεσσαν οἱ μὲν
καλαμινθώδη δέχονται, οἱ δὲ ὅτι οἱ ἀπὸ τῶν σεισμῶν ῥωχμοὶ καιετοὶ λέγονται· καὶ ὁ καιέτας τὸ
δεσμωτήριον ἐντεῦθεν τὸ παρὰ Λακεδαιμονίοις, σπήλαιόν τι· ἔνιοι δὲ κώους μᾶλλον τὰ τοιαῦτα
κοιλώματα λέγεσθαί φασιν, ἀφ’ οὗ καὶ τὸ “φηρσὶν ὀρεσκῴοισιν”, Str. 8.5.7. Now if the name
Caieta does signify a certain morphology of the corresponding Tyrrhenian coast that is marked
by caverns, then the ritual connotations this site is laden with in Virgil might square well with
the overall conceptualization of caves as transcendental cult-sites. For caves as cult-sites, see
Egelhaaf-Gaiser/Rüpke 2000.
 Servius is in tune with Strabo as regards the Laconian background of Caietas: Caietam et
Terracinam oppidum constitutum est a Laconibus, qui comites Castoris et Pollucis fuerunt… et ab
Amyclis, prouinciae Laconicae ciuitate, ei inditum nomen est, Serv. in Aen. 10.564. Cf. the apposite
remarks in Kyriakidis 1998, 88.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 303

conian origin in Italy have undergone as reflected in their semantic history. His
first example demonstrates how the settlement previously called Ὁρμίαι by the
Laconians because of its beautiful bay (εὔορμον) has been Italianized to For-
miae, while the second example concerning Caietas might also exhibit the
same progression from a Laconian past to an Italianized present, namely from
Caietas to Caieta. Strabo, then, seems to be aware of Virgil’s story about the nam-
ing of this gulf (or the tradition that lies behind it) when he relates it to the La-
conian colony Caiatas, and apparently relies on it in order to explain the current
state of the site-name.⁵¹
At this point it is revealing to examine the semantic relations of the name
Caieta once again, this time vis-à-vis its geographical implications, as this will
help us set up a connection between historical geography and its pre-Virgilian
mythical past. Relying on the 4th c. BC Sicilian historian Timaeus, Diodorus Sicu-
lus comments on the association of site-naming and colonial activity linked with
the Argonautic expedition. Diodorus (4.56.5) states that the Mediterranean con-
tains visible tokens of the return of the Argonauts and he thus links their move-
ment with foundation practices. He uses three examples to underpin his argu-
ment: (1) the Argonauts made a stop on an island of the Tyrrhenian sea called
Αἰθάλεια, whose harbour they named Ἀργῷον after their ship; (2) they named
an Etruscan harbour after Telamon; (3) they introduced the name Αἰήτης for
the harbour known at his time as Καιήτης (περὶ μὲν γὰρ τὴν Τυρρηνίαν
καταπλεύσαντας αὐτοὺς εἰς νῆσον τὴν ὀνομαζομένην Αἰθάλειαν τὸν ἐν αὐτῇ
λιμένα, κάλλιστον ὄντα τῶν ἐν ἐκείνοις τοῖς τόποις, Ἀργῷον ἀπὸ τῆς νεὼς
προσαγορεῦσαι, καὶ μέχρι τῶνδε τῶν χρόνων διαμένειν αὐτοῦ τὴν
προσηγορίαν. παραπλησίως δὲ τοῖς εἰρημένοις κατὰ μὲν τὴν Τυρρηνίαν ἀπὸ
σταδίων ὀκτακοσίων τῆς Ρώμης ὀνομάσαι λιμένα Τελαμῶνα, κατὰ δὲ Φορμίας
τῆς Ἰταλίας Αἰήτην τὸν νῦν Καιήτην προσαγορευόμενον, D. S. 4.56.6).⁵² Diodo-
rus’ account is important because it provides additional information for sketch-
ing the history of the site Caiatas that Strabo referred to: Caiatas, the harbour lo-
cated near Formiae on the Tyrrhenian coast, was originally named Aietes, obvi-
ously after the Colchian king. Aietes’ central position in the Argonautic myth
provides a plausible reason why he has the same role as Telamon – both are
eponymous heroes of a harbour.⁵³ Considering the use of the Argonautic myth

 On geographic intersections between Strabo and Virgil, see Braund 2005, 222– 3; Trotta 2005,
126. On Strabo and the geographical concerns of Augustan Rome, see Clarke 1999, 294– 336;
Dueck 2000, 107– 29.
 For Strabo’s overall vision of the Italian peninsula, see Janni 1988.
 According to another tradition, Αἰήτης was the name of a harbour in Italy, where Circe once
purified Jason and Medea from Apsyrtus’ murder (Αἰήτης λιμὴν ἐν Ἰταλίᾳ, ἔνθα φασὶ τὴν Ἀργὼ
304 Marios Skempis

as a metaphor for cultural contact and negotiation of space, it seems reasonable

that the imprint of the Colchian Aietes on sites of the Mediterranean draws, from
an additional point of view, the intercultural framework within which the geo-
graphical impact of the Argonautic nostos has been inscribed. Nevertheless, Di-
odorus shows by the choice of his examples that the place names used in foun-
dation practices are not confined to signs impregnated with cultural significance
such as the Argo, but they usually refer to mythical figures that exemplify the
process of inducing cultural identity into space. Both Telamon and Aietes, as fig-
ures of the Argonautic myth, confer their names on sites of the western Mediter-
ranean, a process indicative of the way colonization comes to grips with the me-
morialization of mythical nomenclature: heroes are eternalized by turning into
identifiable landmarks.⁵⁴
The narratives of Strabo and Diodorus provide evidence that the place name
Caieta is laden with various layers of semanticization: the Argonautic (mythical),
the Laconian (historical) and the Trojan (mythical). The Argonautic layer associ-
ates the site with the Colchian king Aietes and renders him the eponymous hero
of the harbour. A further layer of semanticization is connected with Laconian col-
onization and, through that, with literary criticism and contested meanings at-
tributed to poetic sources. A final layer instrumentalizes the myth of Aeneas,
in order to mark the settlement of the Trojans in Italy. Hence, the Aeneid, the
prime bearer of this unique last layer, demarcates itself from the geographical
traditions attached to Argonautic (mythical) and Laconian (historical) coloniza-
tion and, at the same time, fertilizes them so as to enrich its own version of a
powerful juncture of Trojan culture and Italian space. Given these disparate tra-
ditions, the harbour of Caieta emerges as a colonial palimpsest that eventually
receives a suitable aetiological narrative.
Virgil’s story about the foundation of Caieta’s harbour is suggestive of his in-
tention to re-semanticize Italian space through an incident drawn from the myth
of Aeneas’ journey to Hesperia. The fact that he refers to this place first as Caie-
ta’s harbour should be regarded as an elaborate way not only to incorporate an

ὁρμῆσαι καὶ καθαρθῆναι ὑπὸ Κίρκης ἐκ τοῦ φόνου τοῦ Ἀψύρτου Ἰάσονα καὶ Μήδειαν, Schol. ad
Lyc. 1274). This harbour seems to be identified with the one described in Diodorus and Strabo,
since both writers place it near Formiae. I am enticed to treat the presence of Circe in the
harbour Aietes/Caietes as an indication of the sweeping belief, as I shall argue later, that Circe
was vaguely located on the Tyrrhenian coast. As a result, I would argue that the somewhat
surprising role of Circe not only substantiates the semanticized geography of the harbours
located on the Tyrrhenian coast, but also gives a tentative glimpse at the connection underlying
the sections dedicated to Caieta and Circe in Aeneid 7.
 By using Quintus as a case in point, Carvounis (this volume) shows that geographical
landmarks are conglomerates of memorialization practices and aetiological structures.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 305

aition, but also to connote this place with certain cultural meaning. The proleptic
structuring of this foundation story aligns itself with the rhetoric of legitimiza-
tion. In essence, Virgil effects the re-semanticization of the Tyrrhenian harbour
by providing a version that twists the foundation story of the Argonauts (as at-
tested in Strabo) and turns the prevalent tokens of Laconian colonization (as at-
tested in Diodorus) into landmarks adjusted to the singular combination of
mythical Trojan past and historical Italian present. Strabo himself seems to be
aware of this cultural change when he explicitly demarcates the Caieta version
from the Caietes one. Moreover, the fact that the Caieta-section in Virgil is direct-
ly followed by the Circe-section hints at the connection between the Trojan (Caie-
ta) and the Argonautic layer (Aietes), since Aietes is the brother of Circe. His orig-
inal localization at Colchis and subsequent transposition to Italy where he be-
stows his name upon a harbour creates a counterpart to the displacement of
Caieta, who comes from Troy and arrives in Italy where she becomes the eponym
of a harbour. The parallel progression of both figures to Italy and their memoria-
lization as markers of the same place is what binds them together, on the one
hand, and points to the historical continuity of the place name, on the other.
Bearing this in mind let us turn to the Circe-section.

Circe in the Land of the Tyrrhenians: Hesiod,

Apollonius and Virgil
In this section, I argue that Circe, as a mythical figure, has a special bearing on
the structural cohesion of the beginning of Aeneid 7 inasmuch as she and the
space she is associated with are circumscribed within the mini-version of Tyrrhe-
nian topography Virgil is mapping when he lets his Trojans finally approach Lat-
ium. To that end, her descent from the Sun and, especially, her familial relation
with Aietes are crucial for envisioning how certain spatial interconnections are
set up and how Virgil pursues these geographical threads.
After leaving the harbour of Caieta, the Trojans approach the land of Circe by
night, a progression that results in their being but one step away from the Tiber
and Latium, their final destination.⁵⁵ The very first lines of the Circe-section
apply, though on a considerably different scale, the same technique that was
used in the introduction of the Caieta-section: at first, the spatial formation oc-
curs intensely personified (Circaeae… litora terrae), the shores of Circe’s plain,
followed by references to the person involved in this spatial configuration,

 For succint accounts of Virgil’s Circe-section, see Segal 1968, 428 – 36; Hunter 1993b, 175 – 82.
306 Marios Skempis

Circe herself, here through an elaborate example of antonomasia (diues… Solis

filia):

proxima Circaeae raduntur litora terrae,

diues inaccessos ubi Solis filia lucos
adsiduo resonat cantu, tectisque superbis
urit odoratam nocturna in lumina cedrum
arguto tenuis percurrens pectine telas.
(Verg. A. 7.10 – 14)

The coast of Circe’s land they skirted close inshore,

where the Sun’s opulent daughter makes her inaccessible woods
resound with unending song and in her luxurious palace
burns scented cedar for illumination by night
as she works over the slender warp with a shrill comb.

But why does Circe have to be recognized as Solis filia (7.11), daughter of the Sun?
This designation, underpinned by the fact that the action unfolds at night (ad-
spirant aurae in noctem nec candida cursus/ luna negat, splendet tremulo sub lu-
mine pontus, 7.8 – 9), is well attuned to the strong sense of bewilderment and dis-
orientation expressed by Odysseus when he refers to the uncertain localization
of Circe’s island Aiaia (ὦ φίλοι, οὐ γὰρ ἴδμεν ὅπῃ ζόφος οὐδ’ ὅπῃ ἠώς/ οὐδ’
ὅπῃ ἠέλιος φαεσίμβροτος εἶσ’ ὑπὸ γαῖαν/ οὐδ’ ὅπῃ ἀννεῖται, Hom.
Od. 10.190 – 2).⁵⁶ On the one hand, the night-sailing picks up the western spatial
perspective, which has already been introduced in the previous narrative section
through Caieta’s explicit grounding in Hesperia magna (7.4). On the other, it
copes well with the following physical presence of the sun as a star whose radi-
ant light starts to shine and his rays turn the sea pink as the Trojans are heading
towards the Tiber (iamque rubescebat radiis mare et aethere ab alto/ Aurora in
roseis fulgebat lutea bigis, 7.25 – 6). In other words, the reader is invited to per-
ceive Circe’s genealogy as a spatial marker and to frame it into the nocturnal tra-
jectory of the Sun from the West to the East.
The geographical shift from the port of Caieta to Circe’s domain reflects the
vicinity of the respective historical promontories of Caieta and Circeii, both
based on the coast of the Tyrrhenian land on the southern edge of Latium.
The shores of Circe’s land (litora) are viewed in terms of topographical proximity
(proxima) and therefore create a link with the strong sense of familiarity ren-
dered through the characterization of Caieta’s shores as nostra (7.1). Yet, the ap-

 Cf. Malkin 1998, 188: “Since the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, distinguishing
between the two becomes almost meaningless, since the sun exists in both and Dawn may set
out from its opposite, the site of Night (“west”).”
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 307

propriation of unknown land through consecration and subsequent name-mark-

ing that took place in the Caieta episode is not replicated this time: the land of
Circe is immediately assessed as inaccessible environment (inaccessos lucos, 7.11)
that makes the Trojan crew refrain from any attempt to approach it. The fact that
the Trojans do not disembark on Circe’s plain after all, I argue, bears a manifold
significance, which can be demonstrated by recourse to the way Virgil handles
certain poetic sources where Circe exceeds the cliché of the “mythical sorceress”
and becomes an emblem of a shifting cultural identity grounded in geography.
In what follows I intend to show that Virgil heavily relies on Hesiod in order
to shape his Circe-section. It is Circe’s displacement from Colchis to Italy as well
as her offspring that seem to have prompted Virgil to rework certain segments of
the Hesiodic tradition.⁵⁷ As far as Circe’s localization is concerned, I shall also
point out that Virgil reads Hesiod through the lens of Apollonius Rhodius. I
begin my discussion about Virgil’s appropriation of the Hesiodic tradition by ex-
amining a passage from Hesiod’s Theogony that concerns the descendants of
Circe and Odysseus – the passage stems from the final section of the poem
that treats the erotic unions of goddesses with mortal heroes:

Κίρκη δ’ Ἠελίου θυγάτηρ Ὑπεριονίδαο

γείνατ’ Ὀδυσσῆος ταλασίφρονος ἐν φιλότητι
Ἄγριον ἠδὲ Λατῖνον ἀμύμονά τε κρατερόν τε·
[Τηλέγονον δὲ ἔτικτε διὰ χρυσῆν Ἀφροδίτην·]
οἳ δή τοι μάλα τῆλε μυχῷ νήσων ἱεράων
πᾶσιν Τυρσηνοῖσιν ἀγακλειτοῖσιν ἄνασσον.
(Hes. Th. 1011– 15)

Circe, the daughter of Hyperion’s son Helius,

in love with patient-minded Odysseus, gave birth
to Agrius and Latinus, excellent and strong;
[and she bore Telegonus because of golden Aphrodite.]
These ruled over all the much-renowned Tyrrhenians,
far away, in the innermost part of the holy islands.

In his excellent discussion about the points of intersection between colonization

myth and interpretations of the foundation of Rome, Irad Malkin inscribes this
passage within the discourse of “peripheral ethnicity”, as he terms it, which
seeks to present Odysseus “as the progenitor of other Italic peoples, notably
the Latins”.⁵⁸ He views the passage as a reflection of the so-called “protocoloni-

 Ziogas (this volume) demonstrates how Ovid takes up the Virgilian localization of Circe in
Italy in an account profoundly engaged in the resonance of Hesiodic geographies (Met. 14).
 Malkin 1998, 178.
308 Marios Skempis

al” activity of Odysseus around the Mediterranean and relates it to the sporadic
genealogies arising from nostos narratives, an effective grounding in the nuclear
myth of Troy, on the one hand, and to Hellenizing conceptualizations of cultural
and geographical space, on the other. It occurs to me, though, that Malkin overs-
tresses the rather obviously suppressed and, to be sure, extratextually inferred
implications of Odysseus’ dynamics as a colonist, and, at the same time, under-
estimates the explicitly gendered context of the final section of Hesiod’s Theog-
ony wherein the Circe-entry is integrated. In other words, we should not overlook
the fact that Hesiod is not actually focusing on Odysseus at this point,⁵⁹ but is
rather clearly concerned with Circe, in the sense that he aims to commemorate
her as a foremother of illustrious men.⁶⁰ Besides, the final section of the Theog-
ony (965 – 1018) enumerates goddesses, who mingled in love with mortal men,
thus laying emphasis on the female progenitors of glorious children and gener-
ating a smooth transition to the thematically related poetry of the Catalogue of
Women. ⁶¹ Given this particular generic and gender-specific context, I contend
that, although the connection of the two children of Odysseus with Italic peoples
squares well with his colonial profile, Circe is, from a genealogical point of view,
the prime figure to be credited with this profoundly cultural development that
situates her offspring in the western half of the Mediterranean.
Hesiod tags Circe’s offspring, that is, Agrius and Latinus, as rulers over the
entire nation of the highly regarded Tyrrhenians and thus provides the earliest
attestation of Circe’s connection with the West. Hesiod attempts to map the Tyr-
rhenian territory in a rather vague fashion by placing its inhabitants “far away”
(from where? from the known Greek world?). He tries to specify the spatial range
within which Circe’s descendants exert their ruling power, that is, “deep in the
holy islands”, but he is cautious enough not to link Circe explicitly with a certain
place. Even so, the fact that Circe’s sons are associated with the Tyrrhenian peo-
ple seems to imply that the maternal habitat should be also located on these is-
lands designated as “holy”, especially if we take into account that “the promon-
tory of “Circe’s mountain” (Mt. Circeo) may have seemed or, in fact, been an is-

 Cf. the equally misleading statement in Gruen 1992, 10: “And most significant, Odysseus
takes the role of ultimate ancestor to the rulers of those regions.” See also Zetzel 1997, 194.
 For the female-praising character of ehoie-poetry, see Doherty 2006, 322.
 On the thematic continuum between the end of the Theogony and the Catalogue of Women
see West 1985, 126; Ford 1997, 407– 8. Dräger (1997, 1– 26) persuasively argues for Hesiod as the
author of both the end of the Theogony and the Catalogue of Women, whereas Clay (2005)
meticulously examines the interconnections of the two works. Clay (2003, 164) also notes the
prominence of female figures in the Theogony as a whole.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 309

land”.⁶² The geography of the Hesiodic passage does not exactly add to a consen-
sual spatial configuration, the more so if one tries to make sense of what these
“inner parts of the Tyrrhenian islands” are supposed to mean. On sheer literary
grounds, I consider this spatial indication as an attempt on Hesiod’s part to
bring the Homeric visualization of Circe’s insular residence (Αἰαία) to terms
with a more historicized view of the Tyrrhenian topography.⁶³ It also seems pos-
sible that the archaic poet might be implying here a progression from the Tyrrhe-
nian coast rendered as νῆσοι to the inner parts of the Tyrrhenian mainland
(μυχῷ), meaning that the sons of Circe occupied the inner recesses of the Tyrrhe-
nian coast far away from the “islands”.
Let me now consider the issue of Circe’s exact localization closer. The liter-
ary evidence concerning Circe’s geographical localization that we have at out
disposal is quite ambiguous. Starting from Homer, there are two passages in
the Odyssey that account for an association of Circe’s lodgings with an eastern
island:

Αἰαίην δ’ ἐς νῆσον ἀφικόμεθ’· ἔνθα δ’ ἔναιε

Κίρκη ἐϋπλόκαμος, δεινὴ θεὸς αὐδήεσσα,
αὐτοκασιγνήτη ὀλοόφρονος Αἰήταο·
ἄμφω δ’ ἐκγεγάτην φαεσιμβρότου Ἠελίοιο
μητρός τ’ ἐκ Πέρσης, τὴν Ὠκεανὸς τέκε παῖδα.
(Hom. Od. 10.135– 9)

We came to Aiaia, which is an island. There lived Circe

of the lovely hair, the dread goddess who talks with mortals,
who is own sister to the malignant-minded Aietes;
for they both are children of Helios, who shines on mortals,
and their mother is Perse who in turn is daughter of Ocean.

In his apologoi Odysseus describes his arrival at the island called Aiaia and elab-
orates on the prime inhabitant of this place. Circe is an alluring goddess with so-

 Malkin 1998, 184 with n. 22, who cites the following sources: Thphr. HP 5.8.3; Plin.
Nat. 15.119; Cic. N. D. 3.48; cf. CIL 10.6422; Ps-Scyl. 8; Arist. Vent. 973b; Ps-Arist. Mir. Ausc. 78 835b
33; Ps-Scymn. 224– 5; Str. 5.232; Var. apud Serv. A. 3.386.
 Diodorus Siculus (4.45.5) also comments on the difference between mythographical and
historicizing accounts of Circe’s displacement in the West. Whereas the mythographers recount
that Circe had to flee to the ocean and seize a desert island after her unsuccessful marriage with
a Scythian, the historicizing version is that she settled on a promontory of the Italian coast that
was eventually named after her: διόπερ ἐκπεσοῦσαν τῆς βασιλείας κατὰ μέν τινας τῶν μυθο-
γράφων φυγεῖν ἐπὶ τὸν ὠκεανόν, καὶ νῆσον ἔρημον καταλαβομένην ἐνταῦθα μετὰ τῶν συμ-
φυγουσῶν γυναικῶν καθιδρυθῆναι, κατὰ δέ τινας τῶν ἱστορικῶν ἐκλιποῦσαν τὸν Πόντον
κατοικῆσαι τῆς Ἰταλίας ἀκρωτήριον τὸ μέχρι τοῦ νῦν ἀπ’ ἐκείνης Κίρκαιον ὀνομαζόμενον.
310 Marios Skempis

ciomorphic attributes rooted in her special capacity to pursue contact with mor-
tals. Genealogy is what follows: Circe is the sister of Aietes, who, judging from
the connection Αἰαίη-Αἰήτης, seems to count also as an inhabitant of the island,
whereas they both descend from Helius and the Oceanid Perse.⁶⁴ We need to
view this passage in relation to the beginning of Odyssey 12 in order to deduce
further information about the localization of this island:

αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ ποταμοῖο λίπεν ῥόον Ὠκεανοῖο

νηῦς, ἀπὸ δ’ ἵκετο κῦμα θαλάσσης εὐρυπόροιο
νῆσόν τ’ Αἰαίην, ὅθι τ’ Ἠοῦς ἠριγενείης
οἰκία καὶ χοροί εἰσι καὶ ἀντολαὶ Ἠελίοιο
(Hom. Od. 12.1– 4)

Now when our ship had left the stream of the Ocean river,
and come back to the wide crossing of the sea’s waves, and to the island of
Aiaia, where lies the house of the early Dawn, her dancing
spaces, and where Helios, the sun, makes his uprising

Having completed his journey to the Underworld, Odysseus returns to Aiaia,

which is this time specified in topographical terms: the island is situated in
the East, since it lies close to the Dawn where Helius, Circe’s father, rises day
after day. One may reasonably infer that the mythical topography of Homer
does not draw on the distinction between East and West, which was later ascri-
bed to the children of Helius, since both Circe and Aietes live on the eastern is-
land Aiaia. Yet, the Hesiodic passage from the Theogony seems to depart from
this Homeric version by explicitly locating Circe in the western part of the Med-
iterranean. How are we then to explain this topographical incongruity between
the two archaic poets?
Apollonius Rhodius offers a plausible explanation for this fervent issue.
Upon the arrival of the Argonauts at Colchis, king Aietes welcomes back the
sons of his daughter Chalciope along with further Argonauts and asks them
about the long route they had to take in order to get back to Aiaia from the West:

οὐ μὲν ἐμεῖο
πείθεσθε προφέροντος ἀπείρονα μέτρα κελεύθου.
ᾔδειν γάρ ποτε πατρὸς ἐν ἅρμασιν Ἠελίοιο

 The stylization of the traditional reference to Helius in this passage (φαεσιμβρότου Ἠελίοιο)
exhibits a striking similarity to the Perse-entry in Hesiod’s Theogony, thus giving a glimpse at the
common linguistic register of archaic poetry: Ἠελίῳ δ’ ἀκάμαντι τέκε κλυτὸς Ὠκεανίνη/ Περσηὶς
Κίρκην τε καὶ Αἰήτην βασιλῆα./ Αἰήτης δ’ υἱὸς φαεσιμβρότου Ἠελίοιο/ κούρην Ὠκεανοῖο
τελήεντος ποταμοῖο/ γῆμε θεῶν βουλῇσιν, Ἰδυῖαν καλλιπάρηον (956 – 60). Cf. West 1966, 419 ad
loc. For this reference, see also Orph. A. 55.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 311

δινεύσας, ὅτ’ ἐμεῖο κασιγνήτην ἐκόμιζεν

Κίρκην ἑσπερίης εἴσω χθονός, ἐκ δ’ ἱκόμεσθα
ἀκτὴν ἠπείρου Τυρσηνίδος, ἔνθ’ ἔτι νῦν περ
ναιετάει, μάλα πολλὸν ἀπόπροθι Κολχίδος αἴης.
(A. R. 3.307– 13)

You did not believe me

when I told you of the vast distance of your voyage.
I knew because I once whirled across in the chariot
of my father Helios, when he conveyed my sister Kirke
to the western land; we reached the Tyrrhenian coast
where she lives to this day, very far indeed from Colchian Aia.

Aietes claims to have been an eye-witness to this long route as he once accom-
panied his father Helius when the latter drove Circe with his chariot into the re-
cesses of the western land.⁶⁵ Thus, Circe has been relocated in the West, that is,
on the shore of the Tyrrhenian mainland (ἀκτὴν ἠπείρου Τυρσηνίδος, 3.312),⁶⁶ by
following the course of the Sun on an east-west axis.⁶⁷ This mythical account ex-
plains the fact that the Argonauts do not meet Circe at Colchis; they get to see her
only later on their way back to Iolcus through the western Mediterranean as they
need to be purified from Apsyrtus’ murder by her counsels (4.659 – 752; cf. 4.557–
61). When Jason and Medea approach Circe’s territory, they are said to be gazing
at the Tyrrhenian shores of Ausonia and to be entering the famous harbour of
Aiaia.⁶⁸ If we read these passages together, we come to the conclusion that Apol-
lonius takes Aiaia to be a harbour on the Tyrrhenian coast, definitely not an is-
land. Hesiod’s version, on the other hand, seems to presuppose the story of Cir-
ce’s displacement to the Italian peninsula, even though he makes no explicit ref-
erence to it, at least in the Theogony as we have it.⁶⁹

 Cf. Clare 2002, 119. On this narrative occasion, Thalmann (2011, 6) notes that Aietes is the
“only one mortal in the poem [who] experiences space as the gods do”.
 For this localization, see Campbell 1994, 281 ad loc. with further bibliography; Vian/Delage
1995, 122; Knight 1995, 185 – 6; Nelis 2001, 197. Cf. the moment Hera urges the Argonauts to leave
Circe’s coast later in 4.856: μηκέτι νῦν ἀκταῖς Τυρσηνίσιν ἧσθε μένοντες.
 Meyer (2008, 281) speaks of a “cartographic thought experiment”. Cf. Meyer 1998, 71.
 A. R. 4.659 – 61: καρπαλίμως δ’ ἐνθένδε διὲξ ἁλὸς οἶδμα νέοντο/ Αὐσονίης, ἀκτὰς Τυρσηνίδας
εἰσορόωντες,/ ἷξον δ’ Αἰαίης λιμένα κλυτόν. It is noteworthy that in Apollonius the name of
Circe’s place retains its Homeric colouring (Αἰαία) and therefore alludes to her connection with
the land of Aietes.
 Since my argument is mostly concerned with the literary impact of the passage from the
Theogony on the Circe-section of Virgil, it is not crucial to develop a thesis concerning the dating
of the Hesiodic poem or the question of whether the last section, which includes the Circe-entry,
312 Marios Skempis

The ancient scholia on Apollonius Rhodius provide more detailed insights

into the relation of the Hellenistic poet to Hesiod and especially to his Catalogue
of Women wherein further references to Circe seem to have been integrated:
Apollonius is said to follow those who assumed Odysseus to have wandered
in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and especially Hesiod, who is the most prominent author-
ity among them, since he attested that Circe had been located somewhere in this
area (Schol. in A. R. 3.309 – 13 = Hes. fr. 390a M-W: ἠκολούθησεν Ἀπολλώνιος
τοῖς κατὰ τὸ Τυρσηνικὸν πέλαγος ὑποτιθεμένοις τὴν Ὀδυσσέως πλάνην, ὧν
ἀρχηγὸς Ἡσίοδος κατῳκηκέναι λέγων Κίρκην ἐν τῷ προειρημένῳ πελάγει).
The passage at issue sets Circe’s association with the Tyrrhenian Sea on a firm
basis and clarifies the implicit attestation of the Theogony, even though it still
fails to specify the exact nature of her location. The scholia also inform us
that the Apollonian designation “western land/land of the sunset” (ἑσπερίη
χθών) corresponds to the Italian region where Circe dwells, and which was called
Mt. Circeo after her. We also learn that Apollonius relies on Hesiod as a source
when he recounts that Circe moved to an island of the Tyrrhenian Sea driven
by Helius (Schol. in A. R. 3.309 – 13 = Hes. fr. 390b M-W: περὶ τὴν Ἰταλίαν
ᾤκησεν ἡ Κίρκη, ὅθεν ὄρος Κίρκαιον, ἀπ’ αὐτῆς πολυφάρμακον. φησὶ δὲ
Ἀπολλώνιος, Ἡσιόδῳ ἑπόμενος, ἐπὶ τοῦ ἅρματος τοῦ Ἡλίου εἰς τὴν κατὰ
Τυρρηνίαν κειμένην νῆσον τὴν Κίρκην ἐλθεῖν). Compared to the previous scho-
lion, this is certainly a much more tangible testimony of Circe’s lodgings inas-
much as she is qualified as the mythical founder of Mt. Circeo. It is clear that
both sources project Hesiod as the first poetic authority concerning the histori-
cally informed association of Circe with Italy.⁷⁰ It should be noted, however,
that the placement of Mt. Circeo on a Tyrrhenian island, as is suggested by
the scholiast in the second source, is not free of mythical conflation since it
does not agree with the Apollonian original. Apparently, the scholiast is heavily
influenced by the Homeric, not the Hesiodic, version of Circe’s alleged insular
residence when he ascribes it to Apollonius as well.⁷¹
In fact, Apollonius seeks to revise Hesiod at this point, since he explicitly
places Circe on the mainland of the Tyrrhenian coast, not on an island as Hesiod

is a later insertion or not. For these issues, see West 1966, 435 – 6; Gruen 1992, 9 – 10; Malkin
1998, 180 – 3.
 See Dräger 1997, 22– 3; Debiasi 2008, 58 with n. 127; Rutherford 2012, 153 with n. 5.
 Cf. Malkin (1998, 188 – 9), who refrains from criticizing the scholiast’s false view: “That
“Circe came to the island over against Tyrrhenia on the chariot of the sun” is certainly regarded
by the scholiast as Hesiodic, and most would agree that this is perhaps the earliest explicit
reference to Mt. Circeo.”
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 313

seems to have done⁷² – regardless of the fact that he retains its proverbial re-
moteness (τῆλε, 1014 ~ ἀπόπροθι, 3.313). On these grounds, the expression
ἑσπερίης εἴσω χθονός should be viewed as an attempt on Apollonius’ part to re-
vise the Hesiodic rendering μυχῷ νήσων ἱεράων. Apollonius’ stance towards the
Homeric and Hesiodic tradition has a decisive impact on the formation of the Vir-
gilian text, which seems to have absorbed both archaic interpretations. In an ob-
viously contradictory manner, Virgil refers twice to Circe’s residence, first, in
terms of mythical geography, to Aiaia as an island in Book 3 (Aeaeaequae insula
Circae, 3.386)⁷³ and then, in terms of historical geography, to the promontory of
Circeii in the Tyrrhenian mainland in Book 7 (Circaeae… litora terrae, 7.10).⁷⁴ It
seems plausible that this sort of traditional discrepancy has prompted Virgil to
perceive the issue as a post-Homeric zetema, to use Richard Thomas’ words,
while the second (and narratologically better framed) reference to Circe’s loca-
tion in the Tyrrhenian mainland reveals that the Augustan poet ultimately
sides with Apollonius’ refined thesis.
The above analysis yields the conclusion that Virgil’s presentation of Circe
and her localization draws heavily on the Hesiodic tradition and its reception
in the poetry of Apollonius. In what follows, I argue that, in addition to the Hes-
iodic topography of Circe, Virgil also makes use of her Hesiodic genealogy.⁷⁵ In
the account of Hesiod, the emphasis is no doubt laid on Latinus among the de-
scendants of Circe and Odysseus, judging from the rather unusual accumulation
of generic epithets (ἀμύμων, κρατερός) designed to praise Latinus and the total
lack of qualifying attributes in reference to Agrius.⁷⁶ It goes without saying that
Hesiod not only puts him in a positive light, but also gives him prominence. In

 Cf. Nelis 2001, 259. For Apollonius’ heightened interest in geography and the perception of
geographic space, see Meyer 2008. On the extent of the Aeneid’s intertextual dependence on
Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica, see the landmark studies of Nelis (2001 and 2008).
 See Buchheit 1963, 176; Mariotti 1981, 460; Kyriakidis 1998, 95 n. 59. Interestingly, Thomas
(1999, 106) suggests that “if we look to the reference in Aeneid 3, we find that it is in the mouth of
the Homeric prophet Helenus: a Homeric character promotes a Homeric detail.”
 Horsfall (2000, 54) sees no inconsistency and presumes that the reference in Book 3 must
have referred to a previous insular state of Circe’s residence (Mt. Circeo), whereas the reference
in Book 7 to the current state at Virgil’s time (promontory Circeii). Cf. also the supporting
designation Circaeumque iugum in A. 7.799 with Hardie 1992, 77 n. 15 and Keith 2000, 49.
 On the relation of Virgil to the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, a work that molds geographical
concerns into genealogical structures and vice versa, see Malkin 1998, 188 – 9; Hannah 2004;
Reed 2007, 1. On the impact of the Catalogue of Women on Virgil’s other works, see Hardie 2005,
288 – 92.
 West 1966, 434 ad loc.: “It is abnormal for the second half of a line to be made up of epithets
referring to one of two names in the first half.”
314 Marios Skempis

Virgil’s Circe-section, Latinus does not feature at all, yet later on he is given far
greater prominence than in Hesiod when Virgil presents him as an individualized
figure destined to tie up the epic’s plot as king and leader of the Latins.⁷⁷ Latinus
appears for the first time immediately following the invocation to Erato (7.37–
45), where references have been made to the Tyrrhenian contingent and Hesperia
as a whole (7.43 – 4), thus matching the Hesiodic passages. In fact, Latinus is the
first figure referred to as soon as the Trojans arrive at Latium, and receives spe-
cial poetic treatment inasmuch as both his genealogy and his offspring are men-
tioned (7.45 – 57). His relation with Circe, though, is not a straightforward one in
Virgil as he is said to be the son of Faunus and the nymph Marica, who is iden-
tified with Circe only in non-poetic sources.⁷⁸ Picus, the father of Faunus (7.48)
and grandfather of Latinus, had been transformed into a bird by Circe (7.189 –
91). This fact draws a further indirect line of contact between Circe and Latinus,
and that within a context of metamorphic powers with which Circe is credited
(7.15 – 18).⁷⁹ In fact, Virgil seems to be toying with the Hesiodic tradition when
he states that Faunus had been transformed into a bird out of Circe’s spite be-
cause she wanted to be his wife. By relating an all but kinship story to the grand-
father of Latinus, Virgil slyly winks at his erudite readers and points to an inten-
tional modification of the Hesiodic version of Circe’s genealogical connection
with Latinus. Be that as it may, it is beyond doubt that Virgil does follow Hesiod,
to the extent that he introduces Latinus as the eponymous ancestor of the Latins
and has him represent indigenous cultural identity.⁸⁰ If Hesiod does indeed use

 The contextual framing of the Circe-entry in Hesiod’s Theogony further supports the argu-
ment about its centrality as an intertext of the Circe-section in Virgil’s Aeneid. It is no doubt
telling that the entry preceding the erotic union of Circe and Odysseus is concerned with
Aphrodite and Anchises, given that the offspring of this love affair is Aeneas. This detail con-
stitutes the crucial point that enables the connection with the Circe-entry. The alignment and
immediate proximity of these two love affairs along with the ensuing link between their sons,
Aeneas and Latinus, in Hesiod seems to have shaped the midpoint of the Aeneid, especially if we
take into consideration three complementary aspects: the prominence of Latinus in the entire
“Odyssean” part of the Aeneid, his entrance in the plot right after the invocation to Erato as well
as his encounter with Aeneas that brings about a powerful military alliance and defines the
outcome of the whole epic.
 Serv. A. 12.164; Lact. Div. inst. 1.21.23; cf. Malkin 1998, 187; Horsfall 2000, 78 ad loc.
 hinc exaudiri gemitus iraeque leonum/ uincla recusantum et sera sub nocte rudentum,/ sae-
tigerique sues atque in praesepibus ursi/ saeuire ac formae magnorum ululare luporum,/ quos
hominum ex facie dea saeua potentibus herbis/ induerat Circe in uultus ac terga ferarum. Cf.
Putnam 1970; Hardie 1992, 62– 9; Keith 2000, 49; Beagon 2009, 300.
 See Radke 1991; Gruen 1992, 10; Cornell 1995, 71; Malkin 1998, 183 – 5. On Latinus as bearer of
indigenous cultural identity, cf. also Ioan. Lyd. 1.13 = Hes. fr. 5 M-W: τοσούτων οὖν ἐπιξενω-
θέντων τῆς Ἰταλίας, ὥσπερ ἐδείχθη, Λατίνους μὲν τοὺς ἐπιχωριάζοντας, Γραικοὺς δὲ τοὺς
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 315

the designation Tyrrhenians as an umbrella-term for “all Italic peoples”, as Irad

Malkin believes he does,⁸¹ then Virgil sets things straight in his own version by
associating Latinus exclusively with the Latins, and thus revises the Hesiodic tra-
dition. To underpin the view that Virgil is under the influence of Hesiod when he
stylizes his Circe-section, I wish to stress a final point of contact that hints at the
genealogical connection of Circe and Latinus in the Theogony, namely the use of
cedar. Circe is said to burn cedar in her place (urit odoratam… cedrum, 7.13), and
the images of the ancestors in Latinus’ citadel are also made of cedar (veterum
effigies… antiqua e cedro, 7.178). This peculiar correspondence makes it rather
hard to deny that Circe might be hiding behind these veterum effigies as a
means of allusion to the “ancient” Hesiodic tradition.

From Colchis to Italy: an Archetypal Immigrant

Having witnessed the extensive intersections between the Virgilian Circe-section
and the Hesiodic Circe-entry in terms of geography (and genealogy), let us now
pursue the interconnections between the Circe-section and the Caieta one, with
the aim of examining the geographical implications that arise from them. In
doing so, it will become clear that the figure who holds the two sections together
is Aietes, the king of the Colchians. And, of course, Apollonius Rhodius provides
valuable insights into the Circe-Aietes complex that I wish to explore in order to
sketch the Colchian prehistory of Circe’s residence and thus substantiate her spa-
tial relation to her brother Aietes as well as the literary debts of Circe’s Italian
landscape to the Colchian topography.
The first set of interconnections emerges on the lexical level and takes on the
form of cross-references that aim at binding the two sections together. We have
already seen that both sites associated with these two female figures are classi-
fied as harbours in geographical terms. The itinerary of the Trojans from the one
port to the other (portus, 7.7 ~ portus, 7.22) marks their arrival at the shores of the
Tyrrhenian land (litoribus nostris, 7.1 ~ litora proxima, 7.10 / litora dira, 7.22) and
their gradual progression to its inner part. The notion of “burning” signals a fur-
ther point of intersection between the two narrative sections as it accentuates
two basic, albeit fairly different, properties of the two women that ultimately
segue into their respective environments: while Caieta’s bones (ossa, 7.3: a cog-

ἑλληνίζοντας ἐκάλουν, ἀπὸ Λατίνου τοῦ ἄρτι ἡμῖν ῥηθέντος καὶ Γραικοῦ, τῶν ἀδελφῶν, ὥς
φησιν Ἡσίοδος ἐν Καταλόγοις.
 Malkin 1988, 184. Cf. also Gruen 1992, 9 citing D. H. 1.29.1– 2.
316 Marios Skempis

nate with uro), that is, her death and subsequent burial mound, will serve as an
eternal foundation landmark set up by the Roman progenitor Aeneas on the Tyr-
rhenian coast, Circe, the female progenitor of the indigenous Tyrrhenians, burns
in her residence fragrant cedar for nocturnal light (urit, 7.13), thus recalling her
Homeric doublet Calypso, who is said to burn cedar-wood in her cave, whose
pungent smell spreads all over her island (πῦρ μὲν ἐπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν μέγα καίετο,
τηλόσε δ’ ὀδμὴ/ κέδρου τ’ εὐκεάτοιο θύου τ’ ἀνὰ νῆσον ὀδώδει/ δαιομένων,
Hom. Od. 5.59 – 61).⁸² Finally, both women in these two sections and the environ-
ments with which they are associated are being measured against their interac-
tion with or resonance to the virtuous Trojans: in the first case Aeneas takes care
of all the ritual requirements for a proper commemoration of his dead nurse
(pius Aeneas, 7.5), while in the second the Trojans keep away from Circe’s terri-
tory and, on this basis, prove once more their unmatched virtue (pii Troes,
7.21) by “looking forward” to the encounter with her (Hesiodic) descendant.
The way Aeneas and the Trojans perceive and act upon Caieta’s harbour and Cir-
ce’s plain may considerably differ, yet in both cases geopiety is what brings about
different responses to space: on the one hand, we have a direct appropriation of
space, while, on the other, we have a display of reserved distance, an expression
of respect for indigenous tradition that will eventually lead to a further instance
of appropriation through the encounter with Latinus. To sum up, the extent of
lexical correspondence and/or affinity between the two narrative sections sug-
gests a rather well-thought-out structural design, which aims to highlight simi-
larities and differences that mark Aeneas’ encounters with the Italian mainland.
The second set of interconnections between the Circe-section and the Caieta-
section builds upon the entanglement of Aietes. Primary evidence that Aietes is
entwined in both episodes is drawn from his generic epithet Κυταῖος, which oc-
curs mostly in Hellenistic poetry. Most compelling for establishing an intertextu-
al relation with Virgil’s Aeneid is a passage from Book 2 of Apollonius’ Argonau-
tica where the residence of the Colchian king Aietes is situated close to the banks
of the river Phasis:

ἀλλ’ ἐνὶ νηί

πείρεθ’, ἕως μυχάτῃ κεν ἐνιχρίμψητε θαλάσσῃ.
ἔνθα δ’ ἐπ’ ἠπείροιο Κυταιίδος, ἠδ’ Ἀμαραντῶν
τηλόθεν ἐξ ὀρέων πεδίοιό τε Κιρκαίοιο
Φᾶσις δινήεις εὐρὺν ῥόον εἰς ἅλα βάλλει·
κείνου νῆ’ ἐλάοντες ἐπὶ προχοὰς ποταμοῖο,

 See Knauer 1964, 138; Kyriakidis 1998, 92– 3; Thomas 1999, 107; 2004, 143. Cf. also the
atonement cakes Circe is said to burn (καῖεν) in Apollonius while she performs the purification
ritual (4.712– 3).
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 317

πύργους εἰσόψεσθε Κυταιέος Αἰήταο

(A. R. 2.397– 403)

Continue in your ship

until you reach the furthest recess of the Pontos
where the swirling Phasis empties its broad stream
into the sea through the Kytaian land as it arrives from
the Amarantian mountains far away and the plain of Kirke.
On entering the mouth of that river, you will see
the towers belonging to Kytaian Aietes.

It is surely significant that the Cytaean mainland lies far away from the Circean
plain, a juxtaposition made all the more prominent by the parallel stylistic fash-
ioning of the collocations ἠπείροιο Κυταιίδος ~ Κιρκαίοιο πεδίοιο. It has been
noted that the Virgilian construction Circaeae terrae matches the Apollonian
counterpart Κιρκαίοιο πεδίοιο to the point of direct imitation,⁸³ yet I wish to
stress that the reference to Circe’s plain has been integrated into a context
that builds on a contrast stressing the spaces associated with the siblings Aietes
and Circe respectively. The collocation Κιρκαῖον πεδίον recurs in a passage from
Book 3 of the Argonautica where Jason along with Augeias, Telamon and the sons
of Phrixus leave their ship and go ashore in order to visit king Aietes. The first
place they set foot in Colchis is the so-called Circean plain:

ἄφαρ δ’ ἄρα νηὸς ὑπὲρ δόνακάς τε καὶ ὕδωρ

χέρσονδ’ ἐξαπέβησαν ἐπὶ θρωσμοῦ πεδίοιο.
Κιρκαῖον τόγε δὴ κικλήσκεται, ἔνθα δὲ πολλαί
ἑξείης πρόμαλοί τε καὶ ἰτέαι ἐμπεφύασιν,
τῶν καὶ ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτων νέκυες σειρῇσι κρέμανται
δέσμιοι. εἰσέτι νῦν γὰρ ἄγος Κόλχοισιν ὄρωρεν
ἀνέρας οἰχομένους πυρὶ καιέμεν, οὐδ’ ἐνὶ γαίῃ
ἔστι θέμις στείλαντας ὕπερθ’ ἐπὶ σῆμα χέεσθαι,
ἀλλ’ ἐν ἀδεψήτοισι κατειλύσαντε βοείαις
δενδρέων ἐξάπτειν ἑκὰς ἄστεος· ἠέρι δ’ ἴσην
καὶ χθὼν ἔμμορεν αἶσαν, ἐπεὶ χθονὶ ταρχύουσιν
θηλυτέρας· ἡ γάρ σφι δίκη θεσμοῖο τέτυκται.
(A. R. 3.199 – 209)

They wasted no time in disembarking above the reeds

in the river on the dry land where the plain sloped
upwards. This area is called the Plain of Kirke.
Here rows of elms and willows grow in profusion,
and from their topmost branches corpses are hung
by ropes. To this day it is an abomination to the Colchians

 See Horsfall 2000, 66 with bibliography.

318 Marios Skempis

to cremate men who have died; nor is it proper for them

to bury the dead in the earth and to raise a mound over them.
Instead they wrap corpses in untreated ox-hides and
suspend them from trees far away from the city. The earth
too receives an equal share with the air, since women are
buried in the earth. This is the normal pattern of their custom.

So the Argonauts eventually disembark on the land of the Colchians and the nar-
rator lets us know that the plain they find themselves in is named after Circe.
Interestingly enough, the Circean plain is a cemetery for the Colchians, which
bears evidence to the particularities of their funerary practices. The place is
crammed with male corpses wrapped up in animal skins and suspended from
willow trees. It is presumed that the corpses were deposited there for the vultures
to pick clean.⁸⁴ The narrator provides additional information on the way this Col-
chian funerary practice differs from what may have seemed familiar to the
Greeks:⁸⁵ the Colchians abstain from traditional funerary practices for dead
men such as inhumation and cremation.⁸⁶ Their women, on the other hand,
they solemnly bury in the earth. This ritual peculiarity inscribed in the Circean
plain ties in well with the Hellenistic trend of archaeologizing obscure rites inas-
much as they explain Colchian cultural alterity and, by extension, Circe’s arche-
typal otherness in a clearly aetiological manner (marked by the formula εἰσέτι
νῦν). The aetiological varnish of this “topography of burial,” underpinned by re-
course to funeral rites, brings this passage in line with the Virgilian aetiology of
Caieta, which is likewise ritual-laden. If we take the gender aspect into consid-
eration, the Colchian funeral practice for dead women resembles the one per-

 For possible associations of this practice with Orphism, see Ferri 1981, 64. Within a syn-
cretistic context, Yarnall (1994, 33) maintains that “this grisly detail recalls the shrines to the
Vulture Goddess of Catal Hüyük, that nominous Anatolian presence who was once thought to
control the gates of death and rebirth”. For further parallels, see Fusillo 1985, 166 – 7. Binford
(1971, 13) argues that the suspension of corpses from trees as a funerary practice points to an
early stage of civilization.
 With regard to the underground burial of Apsyrtus in 4.480 – 1, which refrains from cu-
stomary Colchian burial practice, Ceulemans (2007, 111 n. 54) remarks: “One cannot suggest that
Jason was unaware of this form of burial. For it is him who walked across the Plain of Circe,
where the bodies of the Colchian men were hanging from the trees (III, 198b-200)! Jason kno-
wingly does not comply to these Colchian practices and buries Apsyrtus in a shameful manner.”
Yet, Ceulemans seems to underestimate the fact that Jason buries Apsyrtus not in the Circean
plain in Colchis, but in the place of the same name on Italian soil where the burial practices of
the Colchians apparently have no bearing at all.
 See Campbell 1994, 178; Thalmann 2011, 132– 3. Cf. Hunter 1989, 119: “A. writes in the
Herodotean tradition of ethnography which examines foreign practices in terms of their diffe-
rence from Greek customs.”
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 319

formed by Aeneas for Caieta. Against this backdrop, I am tempted to believe that
the Apollonian intertext of Virgil’s Circaea terra nuances the interconnection of
the Circe-section to the Caieta-section in terms of sketching interrelated topogra-
phies of burial.
In addition to the ritual singularity of the Circean plain, it is useful to exam-
ine its geographical relation to Cyta along with its broader implications for the
semanticization of Virgil’s text. The passage from Book 2 of Apollonius’ Argonau-
tica delimits the topography of this plain within Colchian space by spelling out
its distance from the city of Cytaean Aietes.⁸⁷ This sort of delimitation recurs in
the passage from Book 3 cited above, but here Apollonius defines its precise lo-
calization by stating that it is situated outside the city of Cyta (ἑκὰς ἄστεος).
Such a setting implies a more or less schematized polarity of the Colchian spaces
occupied by Circe and Aietes. Now if we move over to Virgil, that is, to Italy, we
are faced with the same polarity, provided that the harbour of Caieta used to be
called Aietes. So what strikes the reader is the geographical binarity of Circe’s
plain, given that Apollonius locates it both in Colchis and in Italy.⁸⁸ Apollonius
has provided a mythical account for Circe’s displacement from Colchis to Italy,
an account taken up by Virgil, who seeks in turn to blend myth with historical
geography. Thus, Virgil’s Circaea terra has an unequivocal mythical footing as
well as an undeniable counterpart in current geography by virtue of its identifi-
cation with the promontory of Circeii. In my view, this is a splendid example of
how Virgil overcomes the mythical, theoretical geography of the Greek tradition
and turns it into the real, practical geography of Augustan Rome vested in an ap-
propriate, mythicized garment.⁸⁹
Coming back to the Apollonian passage from Book 2, the Circean plain is
said to be one of the places from where the river Phasis rolls his stream to the
sea (2.401). The Phasis is the river that runs through Colchis and is thereby close-
ly associated with the land of the Colchians to the point of characterizing them
as Φασιανοί.⁹⁰ Furthermore, the Phasis is no stream, but a major river, which was

 Schol. in A. R. 2.401: Κίρκαιον δὲ τόπος ἐστὶ τῆς Κολχίδος, ἀπὸ Κίρκης τῆς Αἰήτου ἀδελφῆς,
ἢ πεδίον; Tim. FGrHist 566 F 84: καὶ Τίμαιος δέ φησι πεδίον ἐν Κόλχοις εἶναι Κίρκαιον. Cf. Hunter
1989, 119 ad 3.200 – 9; Matteo 2007, 297 ad 2.400.
 Cf. Eust. ad Od. 1.136: δῆλον δὲ ὅτι τῆς τοιαύτης Κίρκης παρώνυμον τὸ ἐν τῇ Ἰταλίᾳ Κιρκαῖον
πεδίον, ὃ τινὲς καὶ τόπῳ τινὶ ἀνατολικῷ ἐπιλέγουσιν.
 A similar thesis has been voiced by Braund (2005, 222) with regard to Strabo’s stance toward
geography. On the pragmatic way geographic space is perceived and represented in the Roman
world, see the essential studies of Brodersen (1996 and 2000) and the contributions in Talbert/
Brodersen (2004).
 Anon. Περὶ ἀνέμων 15; Hdn. Περὶ παρωνύμων 3.2.884; cf. Poll. 5.26.6. For the way in which
Phasis marks the land of the Colchians in the Argonautica, see Thalmann 2011, 153 – 4.
320 Marios Skempis

known to and praised by the Greek world, attested already in Hesiod who lists
the Colchian river among the offspring of Ocean and Tethys (Th. 337– 40).⁹¹ In
fr. 241 M-W from the Catalogue of Women, Hesiod even relates the Phasis to
the Argonautic myth by identifying it as the river up which the Argonauts sailed
to Colchis. As astonishing as these early references may seem, they may have
provided Apollonius with the primary stimulus to develop his own geographical
image of the Colchian territory and to treat the river Phasis as a natural border-
line that signifies Jason’s first encounter with the land of the Colchians.⁹² Nich-
olas Horsfall has called attention to the similarity between this line of the Argo-
nautica and the Virgilian reference to the Italian river Tiber whose stream breaks
out into the Tyrrhenian sea (hunc inter fluuio Tiberinus amoeno/ uerticibus rap-
idis et multa flauus harena/ in mare prorumpit, 7.30 – 2).⁹³ These lines provide an-
other angle on the intertextual connection between the Apollonian passage and
the beginning of Aeneid 7. Just as the reference to the river Phasis in Apollonius
marks the arrival of the Argonauts at Colchis, Virgil reworks the Apollonian vers-
es in order to recount the voyage of the Trojans past the harbour of Circe and
from there to the Tiber, a narrative segment that directly follows the Circe-section
(7.29 – 32).
As far as the identification of the Cytaean mainland is concerned, it derives
its name from the city Κύτα, where Aietes ruled as king and which apparently
defined the whole territory (ἤπειρος) surrounding it. Stephanus of Byzantium
is the one to have named this Colchian city Κύτα (Ethn. s.v.), which is also regis-
tered as Medea’s hometown, while the ancient scholia are also acquainted with
the form Κύταια (Schol. in A. R. 2.399). Aietes’ generic epithet Κυταῖος is there-
fore toponymic and expresses both his city of residence, the so-called Κυταιίς,⁹⁴
and his singular relation to the geographical space with which he is linked.⁹⁵ The

 One wonders whether Strabo’s view that the Black Sea was considered to be a second Ocean
(1.2.10) may rest, at least in part, on the Hesiodic passage. There is a plethora of references to
Phasis in the Greek poetic tradition: Hdt. 1.2, 1.104, 4.37; Pi. P. 4.210; A. R. 2.401, 2.506, 2.1261,
2.1278, 3.57, 3.1220, 4.134. For a detailed survey of the significance of this river in Strabo, see
Lordkipanidze 1996, 97– 107; in general, see Tsetskhladse 1998, 7– 12.
 Cf. Sens 2009, 44. For rivers as boundary markers in the Argonautica, see Thalmann 2011,
147– 67.
 Horsfall 1979, 223; 2000, 66 ad loc.; Thomas 1999, 109; 2004, 145; Kyriakidis 1998, 125; cf.
Nelis 2001, 262– 3.
 On the adjective Κυταιίς, see A. R. 2.399, 2.1267, 4.511; Lyc. Alex. 1312; EM 77.46; cf. Lesky 1931,
30; Matteo 2007, 296 ad 2.399.
 Stephens 2011, 202: “Cytaea is identified as the name of the town where Medea was born,
and it is usually taken as a generic alternative for Colchian (especially in Latin poets). However,
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 321

striking alliterative proximity of Aietes’ generic attribute Κυταῖος to Homer’s κη-

τώεσσα, to Callimachus’ καιετάεις as well as to Virgil’s Caieta is too self-evident
to need further documentation. It is also no coincidence that the characterization
of Aietes as Κυταῖος and the geographical indexing of Cyta belong to a passage
from Apollonius that Virgil used to stylize his Circe-section. Thus, it seems quite
probable that Virgil saw the juncture Κυταῖος Αἰήτης as a double allusion to
Caieta and Circe in terms of a Klangspiel, with the first being linked by means
of spatial parallelism based on quasi consonance and the second by dint of topo-
graphical demarcation (Cyta from the Circean plain). What is more, the fact that
Virgil explicitly locates the harbour Caieta in Italy (7.4) is indicative of the con-
nection of the Caieta-section to the Circe-section, given that later on Circe is re-
ferred to as a daughter of the Sun (7.11) and, on these grounds, evokes her estab-
lishment in Italy along the lines of Hesiod and Apollonius.
Furthermore, the morphological stylization of the genitive Circaeae (7.10) in
the sequence Circaea terra catches the eye. The ending –aea suggests a deriva-
tion from Circa (not Circe), but the use of the epicizing genitive is not prompted
by mere metrical reasons. I suggest that the morphology of the word is not only
meant to recall Aiaia, the eastern land associated with both Circe and Aietes,⁹⁶ in
terms of a sound-effect, but, what is more, to pick up anew the name Caieta. I
provide the following schematization to make my point clear:

Circ-aeae Aeae-a Αἰή-της

Cir-caeae Caie-ta Καιή-της

In my view, the Aietes-Caieta complex, in all its transformative potentiality, sig-

nifies the influence that colonization practices inherent in the Argonautic and
the Trojan myth exert on the semanticization of a site-name. On the other
hand, the Circe-Aietes complex, which builds on the innate relation of Aietes
to Caieta, seems to be itself pregnant with implications of colonization, since
it signposts Circe’s dissociation from the Cytaean domain, already established
in the Colchian spatial constellation, and her consequent settlement in Italy. Ac-
cordingly, Circe acts as an archetypal immigrant in the eyes of the Trojans and,
therefore, serves the purposes of Italianization a priori.

Cytaea is not near the Phasis, but at the southern entrance to the Bosporus, so the name is more
likely to particularize the Colchian landscape.”
 See Hinds apud Keith 2000, 49 n. 42. On Αἰαία as land of Aietes, cf. Mimn. frr. 11– 11a W with
Allen 1993, 89 – 90; Pher. FGrHist 3 F 105; for its placement in the East, see Lesky 1948; Braund
1994, 14– 15; Tsetskhladze 2004, 114; Lordkipanidse 1996, 41– 3; Vanschoonwinkel 2006, 90.
322 Marios Skempis

In her capacity as an archetypal immigrant to the western Mediterranean,

Circe signposts her radical separation from the Colchian land of Aietes and set-
tlement in Italy, which in turn serves as an inferred micro-narrative that nuances
Aeneas’ own wandering from Troy towards Latium. The topographical itineraries
that lie behind the divergent localization of Circe and Aietes mark the symbolic
interaction of Aeneas’ settlement in Italy with (and semanticization through) the
story of Jason. One should caution, however, that Jason’s story is one of return,
while Aeneas’ wandering aims at new settlement away from the Trojan home-
land. Given this important difference, Circe emerges as a mythical figure that
keeps the Argonautic story and its repercussions on Mediterranean colonization
in the background. Yet, in both the Apollonian and the Virgilian contexts she
represents cultural qualities that – precisely due to the migration story – ad-
vance her to a powerful emblem of Italian uniqueness through appropriation
of the past, a symbol of Colchian identity, which manages to retain its diacritics
and to find its way to the land of the Tyrrhenians. In this sense, she acquires the
status of an iconic figure, who does not need to be subjected to processes of al-
ternation or modification as she already fullfils a paradigmatic function. This
status is reflected by the way in which she has been absorbed into Roman myth-
ology as well as into rituals and cults of Latin origin.⁹⁷

Conclusion
In the previous sections, I have examined the literary background of Virgil’s
Caieta and Circe sections as well as the geographical implications they bring
along. In what follows I add some final remarks in order to demonstrate that
these sections create a coherent unit significantly placed at the outset of Aeneid
7, and to accommodate them in the discourse on phenomenology of space in a
more cogent manner.
I have pointed out that both sections are steeped in literary debates about
geographical place names. On the one hand, the toponym Caieta seems to fall
back on the Laconian settlement situated at a harbour of the Tyrrhenian
coast, which has since been re-named after Aeneas’ nurse. At the same time,
it also reflects the Argonautic setting that was itself repressed by the Laconian
naming of the colony. On the other hand, the plain of Circe, which is identified
with Circeii located on the Tyrrhenian coast, turns out to be innately ambivalent
as regards its exact geographical localization since it is said to have had a name-

 On this, see Mastrocinque 1993, 174– 81; Malkin 1988, 187; Erskine 2005, 121.
 Phenomenology of Space, Place Names and Colonization 323

sake in the land of the Colchians. The fact that both Caieta and Circe are asso-
ciated with post-Homeric geographical zetemata raises the question of bounda-
ries that the spatial grounding of mythology has, and how these boundaries can
be subjected to re-definition. In the ‘Caieta-Circe’ sequence of the Aeneid, con-
tested literary issues are ways to express space negotiation in cultural terms
and to showcase the compatibility of their cultural identity with the one project-
ed by the poem as a whole. Even though the literary semanticization of place
names can be manifold and rich, the pragmatics of historical geography pro-
motes clear-cut solutions, which downplay previous colonization and/or locali-
zation contexts. To be more specific, although the semantic histories of Caieta’s
harbour and Circe’s plain presuppose a virtual movement from eastern regions
to Italy by using Aietes and the contexts of the Argonautic nostos as a foil for
Aeneas’ progression to Latium, the mythical versions of geographical toponyms
that Virgil takes up resist essential questioning precisely due to their historical
footing.
Apart from the multiple meanings ascribed to literary geography, it is impor-
tant to look at the way the sites of both Caieta and Circe are peppered with con-
ceptions of space, which can be viewed through the lens of phenomenology. It is
clear that in both cases we are dealing with sites where persons are inscribed
into space by means of burial rituals and metamorphic discourses. As far as
Caieta is concerned, her death and subsequent memorialization via funeral
rites advance her status change from an individual to a name of a harbour.
With regard to Circe, funeral rites are innately linked with her Colchian localiza-
tion, whereas its Italian counterpart is replete with signs of metamorphosis that
comply with her presentation as an enchantress. Her identification with the
promontory of Circeii, which equally rests on a status change of the kind dis-
cussed above, is not explicitly stated as in the case of Caieta, but rather implied.
Finally, the crucial role of onomastics and the distribution of place names point
to a further feature of being-in-space, whereas the use of genealogical structures,
be it implicit or explicit, has a major impact on the extent to which space is se-
manticized in terms of human involvement.
In addition, my analysis has demonstrated that Caieta and Circe exhibit a
basic similarity in their conceptualization as female figures of colonial status:
the former a surrogate mother to Aeneas, hailing from lower social classes,
the latter Latinus’ progenitor of royal origin. These women represent the two eth-
nic groups, Trojans and indigenous Latins, who are about to coalesce on Italian
soil and thus lay the groundwork for the future foundation of Rome.⁹⁸ It is re-

 For the historical implications of this, see Zetzel 1997.

324 Marios Skempis

markable that both Trojans and Latins are peoples who either themselves or
whose progenitors have moved from eastern regions to the Italian peninsula,
that is, the Trojans from Troy to Italy, whereas Circe, the progenitor of the Latins,
from Colchis to Italy. Thus, the two women act as bearers of both cultural and
spatial memory, which is cross-fertilized within Italian space, and thus symbol-
ize the dynamics of cultural transference.⁹⁹ Moreover, Caieta and Circe emerge as
“sacred spaces” of different ethnic communities, the former as a colonial land-
mark of the migrating Trojans and the latter as a colonial landmark associated
with the indigenous Latins. Their semantic relations might be played out across
different sites, but they both integrate eastern semantics into western space,¹⁰⁰
and the places they are tied to are parts of the same geographical line, the Tyr-
rhenian coastline. As a result, I would argue that Virgil, at the outset of Aeneid 7,
displays a remarkable competence in manipulating the semanticization of myth-
ical geography and attuning it to the historical sites of the Augustan period. In so
doing, he re-evaluates the spatial dynamics of both Caieta and Circe according to
the political purposes his poetry is set to serve.¹⁰¹

 Barchiesi (2006, 13 – 14) points out the religious and geographical implications of the dis-
course over “cultural transference” in the Aeneid and thus follows Rüpke (2001b), who argues
that this discourse is already constitutive in the literary and social contexts of early Roman epic.
 On the pervasive interplay of East and West in the literary geographies of Roman epic, see
also the contributions of Elliott, Keith, and Manuwald (this volume).
 On Virgil’s politically driven preoccupation with Italian unity in the Aeneid, see Toll 1991; in
general, see Ando 2002, 36 – 42. On the entwining of geography and politics in the early Roman
Empire, see the illuminating study of Nicolet (1991).
Ioannis Ziogas
The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
When a geographical name enters the world of poetry, it is assimilated into the
narrative milieu of a specific context. It ceases to be merely a signifier and inter-
acts with the plot of the narrative. This chapter focuses on the literary topogra-
phy¹ of geographical names in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and is divided into two
parts. The first part examines the narrative dynamics of ancient etymologies
and the way in which the meaning of geographical names is enmeshed with
the characters and plot of a tale. The second part deals with the interplay be-
tween epic narrative and geographical setting, focusing on a number of geo-
graphical displacements in the Metamorphoses. Far from approaching literary
space and geography as a decorative backdrop against which the main action
takes place, I look at space as an important player in Ovid’s narrative.²

Geography and Etymological Wordplay

Lycaon

In the 1st Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Jupiter recounts his visit to Arcadia and
his sojourn in Lycaon’s inhospitable palace. The god travels from North to South
and wanders through the main three mountains of Arcadia. The order of the
mountains in Jupiter’s catalogue follows his itinerary:

Maenala transieram latebris horrenda ferarum

et cum Cyllene gelidi pineta Lycaei;
(Met. 1.216 – 17)

I had crossed Maenalus, dreadful for its lairs of beasts, and then Cyllene and the pine-
groves of frozen Lycaeus.

Ovid’s catalogue reflects two lines from the proem to Vergil’s Georgics:

 For a theoretical approach to literary space, see Baak 1983. For the ‘narrativization of space’,
see Introduction (this volume).
 For an analysis of the interaction between landscape and narrative in Augustan poetry, see
Leach 1988, 309 – 466.
326 Ioannis Ziogas

ipse nemus linquens patrium saltusque Lycaei

Pan, ouium custos, tua si tibi Maenala curae,
adsis
(Verg. G. 1.16 – 18)

You yourself, Pan, guardian of sheep, leaving the woods of your father and glens of Ly-
caeus, stand by, if you care for your Maenalus

The learning of Vergil’s readers is put to the test as they are invited to identify
Pan’s patrium nemus. The question is both mythological and geographical. Ac-
cording to a certain tradition, Pan was the son of Mercury (Hermes) and Pene-
lope.³ Thus, the patrium nemus is on Cyllene, Mercury’s mountain on which
his mother, the Pleiad Maia, gave birth to him. Ovid responds to Vergil’s riddle
and lists Cyllene in his catalogue of Arcadian mountains.
The order of the mountains is worth noticing since Ovid’s catalogue is an in-
tertextual mirroring of Vergil’s passage.⁴ Three names in two lines create a trian-
gle in the Georgics (Cyllene-Lycaeus/-Maenalus), which Ovid turns upside down
(Maenalus/-Cyllene-Lycaeus).⁵ Ovid’s inversion of the Vergilian catalogue may be
symbolic. The pastoral Arcadia of Vergil’s poetry has been transformed into an
inhospitable region inhabited by wild beasts. While in Vergil Pan tends his
sheep on Maenalus, Ovid’s Maenalus is horrenda as Jupiter visits the lairs of
wild animals. Far from being an idyllic utopia, Ovid’s Arcadia is not inhabited
by leisured shepherds, but is rife with predators.
Commenting on Georgics 1.17, Servius points out an ancient etymology for
Maenalus:

Maenala mons Arcadiae, dictus ἀπὸ τῶν μήλων, id est ab ouibus, quibus plenus est
(Serv. G. 1.17)

Maenala: mountain of Arcadia, called ἀπὸ τῶν μήλων, that is ‘from sheep’, with which it is
full.

Vergil hints at this etymology since he introduces Pan as an ouium custos who
cares about Maenala. By contrast, Ovid focuses on the lairs of wild beasts that
live on Maenalus, suppressing Vergil’s etymology. At the same time, the mention
of feral life in Arcadia foreshadows the etymological connection of Lycaeus with

 Servius Danielis (ad loc.) cites Pindar for this tradition.

 The ‘mirroring technique’ in catalogues of proper names in Homer, Vergil, and Ovid is deftly
analyzed in Kyriakidis 2007, 52– 66. Kyriakidis (2007, 63) notes that “Ovid exploits the mirroring
technique above and beyond what Homer and Virgil did.” See also Kyriakidis (this volume).
 Both catalogues describe a god’s travel; while Jupiter crosses (transieram) Maenalus and
Cyllene, and ends up in Lycaeus, Vergil urges Pan to leave (linquens) Cyllene and Lycaeus.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 327

wolves (λύκοι).⁶ Jupiter moves from Lycaeus to Lycaon’s palace as the descrip-
tion of the Arcadian landscape provides a suitable background for the tale of Ly-
caon, the king who, quite appropriately, inhabits a land of wolves.⁷
The Arcadian mountains mentioned in Metamorphoses 1.216 – 17 do not
merely provide Jupiter’s itinerary, but anticipate central aspects of the following
tale. Maenalus’ etymological relation to μῆλα and Lycaeus’s etymology from
λύκος blend the setting of the story with the name and the metamorphosis of
its protagonist. The impious king plots to kill Jupiter and finally morphs into a
wolf. Lycaon flees into the countryside and attacks the flocks (solitaeque cupi-
dine caedis/ uertitur in pecudes, Met. 1.234– 5). Eventually, Jupiter deprives the
metamorphosed Lycaon even of his bloodthirsty lust for sheep. The father of
the gods has Lycaon’s outrage in his mind when he causes the deluge, which
confounds the boundaries between land and sea, animals and fish. In the
chaos of the flood, we catch a glimpse of a wolf swimming with sheep (nat
lupus inter oues, Met. 1.304). Thus, the narrative thread, which begins with the
implicit etymologies of Maenalus and Lycaeus and continues with Lycaon attack-
ing the flocks, is picked up in the deluge.
Geographical references are appropriated for narrative purposes in the tale
of Lycaon. The wicked king slaughters, cooks, and serves a Molossian hostage
(Met. 1.226 – 30). The Molossians lived in Epirus, far from Arcadia. How the Mo-
lossian stranger ended up in Lycaeus and what his name was we are never told,⁸
but this information seems to be of little importance. What really matters in the
tale are the connotations of the hostage’s geographical epithet. Frederick Ahl
points out that the Molossians were famous in antiquity for their dogs.⁹ More
often than not, the substantive Molossus means a Molossian dog rather than a
Molossian man.¹⁰ In particular, the Molossian is a large shepherd-dog, as Aristo-
tle points out (Τὸ δ’ ἐν τῇ Μολοττίᾳ γένος τῶν κυνῶν τὸ μὲν θηρευτικὸν οὐδὲν
διαφέρει πρὸς τὸ παρὰ τοῖς ἄλλοις, τὸ δ’ ἀκόλουθον τοῖς προβάτοις τῷ μεγέθει
καὶ τῇ ἀνδρείᾳ τῇ πρὸς τὰ θηρία, Arist. HA 608a30). Closer to Ovid’s Metamor-
phoses, Vergil advises shepherds to take care of fierce Molossian dogs, which

 Ferarum and Lycaei are vertically juxtaposed at the end of two consecutive lines. This position
may suggest the etymology of Lycaeus from λύκος (cf. Maltby 1993, 271; Cairns 1996, 22; O’Hara
1996a, 60).
 The number of the lines in the Met. may also point to the Georgics. Vergil’s catalogue at G.
1.16 – 17 is alluded to at Met. 1.216 – 17.
 The sacrifice of the Molossian is probably Ovid’s invention. In Apollodorus (Bibl. 3.98 – 9), the
sons of Lycaon slaughter a native boy (ἕνα τῶν ἐπιχωρίων παῖδα) and then Zeus kills Lycaon and
his sons with his thunderbolt (cf. Met. 1.230 – 1).
 Ahl 1985, 70 – 1.
 Dog’s head appears on the coins of the Molossians. See Ahl 1985, 70.
328 Ioannis Ziogas

will defend the sheep from attacks by wolves (G. 3.404– 8). The Molossians are
natural enemies of the wolves and Lycaon kills the Molossian before he directs
his rage at the flocks.
In the tale that describes the first human metamorphosis in Ovid’s epic, geo-
graphical and ethnographical names create a fascinating interplay between the
landscape and the characters of the story. Before Lycaon’s formal metamorpho-
sis, we read the story of a wolf-man (Lycaon) who rules on the wolf-mountain
(Lycaeus) and kills a shepherd-dog (Molossian). The etymologies and the conno-
tations of geographical names suggest another narrative dimension to Jupiter’s
story of human outrage. The two mortal characters of the tale are animal-like
and the setting is appropriately the mountain of wolves.
At the same time, Ovid subverts the bucolic depiction of Arcadia.¹¹ Theocri-
tus’ Idylls and Vergil’s Eclogues take place on Maenalus and Lycaeus. Those
mountains are inhabited by pasturing sheep and singing shepherds (cf.
Ecl. 10.15 – 16). The Maenalian verses, in particular, refer to the genre of pastoral
poetry (cf. incipe Maenalios mecum, mea tibia, uersus./ Maenalus argutumque
nemus pinusque loquentis/ semper habet, semper pastorum ille audit amores/
Panaque, qui primus calamos non passus inertis, Ecl. 8.21– 4). Ovid’s Arcadia is
far from peaceful and idyllic. As the focus shifts from the shepherds and the
sheep to the wolf, Ovid’s narrative transforms a landscape with a specific generic
identity. This shift is signaled by the inversion of Vergil’s catalogue of Arcadian
mountains in the proem to the Georgics. Vergil invokes Pan, the patron deity of
bucolic poetry, to help him sing of fields and flocks, while Ovid’s Arcadia is a
wilderness inhabited by bloodthirsty beasts.

Not out of Cythera

As we have seen with Molossus, a geographical epithet can be chosen not be-
cause the poet wants to bring up a certain place, but because the meaning of
the name is significant for the narrative. Venus’ epithet Cytherea, for instance,
refers to Cythera, the island on which Venus was born (cf. Cytherea Venus ab in-
sula quae numero tantum plurali dicitur, Serv. A. 1.657). However, an alternative
etymological explanation of Venus’ epithet has little to do with the Ionian is-
land. In the Etymologicum Magnum, we read that Aphrodite is called Κυθέρεια

 Segal (1969, 74– 85) argues that Ovid systematically undermines pastoral motifs in the Me-
tamorphoses. See also Segal 1999. Hinds (2002, 130 – 4) argues that Ovid perverts the combi-
nation of idyllic setting and idyllic action, which is more or less what pastoral offers, thus
making his landscapes anti-pastoral.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 329

because she conceals love affairs (παρὰ τὸ κεύθειν τὸν ἔρωτα, EM 543.40).¹² Ovid
alludes to this etymology in the narrative of Leuconoe, which deals with the
loves of the Sun. Venus avenged the Sun because he revealed her adulterous af-
fair with Mars, and Ovid uses the epithet Cythereia for the first time in the Meta-
morphoses:

Exigit indicii memorem Cythereia poenam

inque uices illum, tectos qui laesit amores,
laedit amore pari.
(Met. 4.190 – 2)

Cytherea did not forget and punished the informer and in turn she harmed him, who had
harmed secret loves, with an equal love.

The Sun’s offense consists in revealing Venus’ secret love-affair and tectos…a-
mores is an etymological analysis of Cythereia (<Κυθέρεια>… ἢ κευθόμενον
ἔχουσα ἐν ἑαυτῇ τὸν ἔρωτα, ἡ κεύθουσα τοὺς ἔρωτας, EM 543.40).¹³ By betraying
her adultery to her husband, the Sun deprives Venus of the meaning of her epi-
thet. The tryst of the goddess who conceals love-affairs has been disclosed first
by the Sun and second by Vulcan, who traps the adulterers in flagrante and ex-
poses them to the gods (Met. 4.176 – 89). Far from remaining secret, Venus’ affair
becomes the most notorious story in the entire heaven (haec fuit in toto notissima
fabula caelo, Met. 4.189). The widespread fame of Venus’ adultery and the god-
desses’ embarrassing exposure before all the gods challenge Cytherea’s divine
power to guarantee the secrecy of lovers. The etymology of Cytherea from
κεύθω and ἔρως has been annulled.
Ovid’s allusion to the etymology of Cytherea is not a fleeting display of Alex-
andrian learning, but plays a crucial role in Leuconoe’s narrative. Venus inflicts a
similar love upon the Sun (laedit amore pari, Met. 4.192); her revenge is not mere-
ly that she makes the Sun fall for Leucothoe, but that his love for the girl will not
remain secret. In the course of the tale, the Sun morphs into Eurynome, Leuco-
thoe’s mother, and urges the maids to leave him alone with the girl. His concern
about the secrecy of his rape is apparent in his words (“res” ait “arcana est;…
thalamoque deus sine teste¹⁴ relicto, Met. 4.223 – 5). Despite his dissimulation, Cly-

 For this etymology in Homer, see Tsitsibakou-Vasalos 2003.

 For Cytherea’s etymology from κεύθω, see Barchiesi 2005b, 274; for this etymology in the
Aeneid, see Paschalis 1997, 50 – 3.
 I am tempted to see in deus sine teste a lascivious pun on testis (“witness” or “testicle”). On
the tendency of Latin poets to pun on testis, see Adams 1982, 67. In Ovid, the Sun is a god sine
teste since he transformed himself into a woman (Eurynome). But once all witnesses are gone,
he resumes his virile form and assaults Leucothoe sexually.
330 Ioannis Ziogas

tie, the Sun’s jilted lover, divulges the Sun’s adultery and informs Leucothoe’s
cruel father (uulgat adulterium diffamatamque parenti/ indicat,¹⁵ Met. 4.236 – 7).
As a punishment, the father buries his daughter alive.¹⁶ Cytherea’s revenge has
been completed. Since he failed to cover up his adultery, his beloved girl is lit-
erally covered under the earth. They say, Leuconoe reports, that the Sun has
not seen anything more painful after Phaethon’s death (Met. 4.245 – 6). Thus,
the etymology of Cytherea from κεύθουσα τοὺς ἔρωτας is central to Leucothoe’s
narrative. The Sun negates the meaning of Venus’ epithet and the goddess aveng-
es his offense. She kindles love in the Sun, but does not help him keep it secret.
As a result, Leucothoe, the Sun’s love, is buried alive and Venus’ revenge sug-
gests a grim meaning of her epithet Cytherea. By contrast, the goddess’ geo-
graphical association with the island Cythera plays no role in Leuconoe’s tale.
Ovid also alludes to the etymological relation of Cytherea to κεύθω in the
deification of Caesar. Reacting to the assassination of her descendant, Venus
plans to hide Caesar in a cloud:

tum uero Cytherea manu percussit utraque

pectus et Aeneaden molitur condere nube
(Met. 15.803 – 4)

Then in truth Cytherea struck her breast with both hands and strove to hide the scion of
Aeneas in a cloud.

Venus’ attempt to cover Caesar (Cytherea-condere) points to the etymology of Cy-

therea from κεύθω. Ovid uses uero, a standard etymological marker in Latin lit-
erature,¹⁷ in order to draw our attention to this implicit etymology. Since uero can
be read as a comment on Venus’ epithet, uero Cytherea… molitur condere can
mean “Cytherea, true to her name, plans to hide Caesar”.

 Clytie’s malicious revelation (indicat, Met. 4.237) echoes the Sun’s disclosure of Venus’
adultery (indicii, Met. 4.190).
 Interestingly, this punishment recalls the punishment for Vestal virgins who lost their vir-
ginity.
 Maltby (1993) deals with etymologies signaled by uerus. He points out (Maltby 1993, 268) that
‘etymology’ is derived from Greek ἔτυμος (“true”), and that the Latin equivalent for ἐτυμολογία
is ueriloquium (proposed by Cicero). See also O’Hara 1996a, 75 – 7. In Am. 3.9, Ovid uses ex uero
as an etymological marker (flebilis indignos, Elegia, solue capillos:/ a, nimis ex uero nunc tibi
nomen erit, Am. 3.9.3 – 4); Ovid alludes to the etymology of elegy from ἔ ἔ λέγειν.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 331

Glaucus’ Trip to Circe

Infatuated with Scylla who rejected him, Glaucus travels to the land of Circe in
quest of a love potion. Ovid follows Vergil, who located Circe in Italy,¹⁸ and
sketches out Glaucus’ voyage from Greece to Italy. Glaucus swims past Aetna
and the uncultivated land of the Cyclopes, who know nothing about agriculture:

Iamque Giganteis iniectam faucibus Aetnen

aruaque Cyclopum, quid rastra, quid usus aratri,
nescia nec quidquam iunctis debentia bubus
liquerat Euboicus tumidarum cultor aquarum;
liquerat et Zanclen aduersaque moenia Regi
nauifragumque fretum, gemino quod litore pressum
Ausoniae Siculaeque tenet confinia terrae.
(Met. 14.1– 7)

And now the Euboean dweller of swollen waters had left behind Aetna, heaped upon the
Giant’s throat, and the Cyclopes’ fields, that know nothing of the plow’s use or the harrow,
and owe no debt to yoked oxen; and he had left behind Zancle and the walls of Rhegium
opposite, and the ship-wrecking strait, hemmed in twin coastlines, which marks the boun-
dary of Sicily and Italy.

Glaucus’ Greek origins contrast with the Sicilian landscape, which is inhabited
by primordial monsters. The geographical epithet Euboicus stresses Glaucus’
Greek national identity as he passes by alien and hostile lands. Strictly speaking,
Glaucus is from Anthedon, which is not in Euboea, but lies on the east coast of
Boeotia;¹⁹ Ovid’s geography might be inaccurate at this point (cf. Euboica… An-
thedone, Met. 7.232; 13.905). The etymology of Euboea, however, is more impor-
tant than geographical precision in this context. Glaucus comes from the land
of oxen (Εὔβοια),²⁰ a geographical name sharply contrasting with the fields of
the Cyclopes, which are unaware of yoked oxen.²¹ Ovid’s etymological nexus be-
tween bubus-Euboicus juxtaposes a country that owes nothing to oxen with Glau-

 See Skempis (this volume).

 Cf. Bömer 1986 ad loc.
 See EM 389.2.
 The framing of Met. 14.2 (aruaque… aratri) suggests an etymological connection between
arua and aratrum [cf. aruus et arationes ab arando, Var. L 5.39; aratrum quod aruit, Var. L 5.135;
see Maltby 1991, s.v. aratrum, aruus; Myers 2009, 53. See Cairns (1996, 34, 49) for this etymology
in Tibullus] and thus stresses the paradox of the Cyclopes’ unplowed plowlands. For the framing
of a line as an etymological marker, see O’Hara 1996a, 82– 6.
332 Ioannis Ziogas

cus’ fatherland. The characterization of Glaucus as Euboicus… cultor ²² further

contrasts him with the Cyclopes. Thus, Glaucus moves from a civilized country
to a primitive world. The geographical epithet Euboicus stresses the polarity be-
tween Glaucus’ Greek origin and the uncultured landscapes he swims past.
Ovid’s hero travels through alien and uncivilized territories.
As Glaucus keeps passing over Sicilian regions, Ovid chooses to mention
Zancle and Rhegium. Both names are significant in this context. According to
Callimachus, Ζάγκλη derives from ζάγκλον (“reaping hook”, “sickle”) because
the sickle with which Cronus hacked off Ouranos’ genitals was found there
(cf. Aet. fr. 43.69 – 71 Pf.).²³ On the one hand, the name of the Sicilian city con-
trasts with the land of the Cyclopes, who do not use agricultural tools, on the
other, Zancle’s association with Cronus’ sickle alludes to the golden age, the
reign of Cronus/Saturn. In this age, the Earth produced fruit on her own accord
and men did not know of agriculture (cf. Met. 1.89 – 112). Framed by a world that
brings back the cosmic strife that led to the reign of Cronus, Glaucus’ voyage is
spatial as well as temporal. The metamorphosed god from Euboea encounters a
Theogonic topography in Sicily.²⁴
Glaucus passes from Zancle to Rhegium, a city on the shores of the Italian
peninsula, opposite to Zancle. Both Zancle and Rhegium allude to primordial
ruptures of cosmogonic dimensions since the etymology of Rhegium evokes a
primeval era of geographical formation. According to Aeschylus, Rhegium took
its name from the earthquakes that broke Sicily from Italy (ὠνομάσθη δὲ
῾Ρήγιον…, ὥς φησιν Αἰσχύλος… ἀπορραγῆναι... ἀπὸ τῆς ἠπείρου τὴν Σικελίαν

 Ovid’s cultor aquarum interestingly recalls the Homeric formulas ἀτρύγετον πόντον and
ἁλὸς ἀτρυγέτοιο. Myers (2009, 53 – 4) argues that the phrase tumidarum cultor aquarum may
activate a programmatic reference to the lofty style of epic poetry, which contrasts with Glaucus’
upcoming passage through the narrow straits; for tumidus as a literary term of inflated or grand
style, cf. Cat. 95.10; Hor. Ars 94. In elegiac imagery, the poetic ship stays close to the shore (e. g.
Ov. Tr. 2.329 – 30; Prop. 3.3.23 – 4; 3.9.3 – 4). Thus, the contrast between the high seas of epic
poetry and the narrow straits of an elegiac voyage neatly transposes a literary interplay between
genres into a geographical setting.
 See O’Hara 1996a, 31, 35, 56; Sistakou 2005, 244, 333; Myers 2009, 54. Nic. fr. 21 (καί τις καὶ
Ζάγκλης ἐδάη δρεπανηίδος ἄστυ); A. R. 4.982– 92. See Thomas (1988 ad G. 2.405 – 7), who notes
that Varro of Atax revived the debate on Zancle’s etymology.
 The Theogonic background of Sicily is further underpinned by the mention of Typhoeus,
who is buried under Aetna (Met. 14.1). Myers (2009, 53) ingeniously suggests that faucibus
(Met. 14.1) “is used of the crater of a volcano (OLD 3e), but here, through a sort of syllepsis, the
literal and figurative senses of fauces merge to form a picture of an anthropomorphic volcano
and a ‘volcanic’ monster: ‘Aetna heaped upon the Giant’s throat’ [.]” On Typhoeus, see
Met. 5.439 – 53.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 333

ὑπὸ σεισμῶν, Aesch. fr. 402 Radt)²⁵. Our source for Aeschylus’ etymology is Stra-
bo (6.1.6) and that makes it all the more likely that this aetiological and etymo-
logical interpretation was well known in the Roman world. The etymology of
Rhegium is also attested in Sallust and other Roman authors.²⁶ Sallust calls
the channel (fretum) Rhegium, not the city, and his etymological aition is similar
to Aeschylus’ version. In Augustan epic, Vergil refers to Sicily’s separation from
Italy in the Aeneid (3.414– 19) and Ovid’s Pythagoras is also aware of this version
(Met. 15.290 – 2). Thus, in Met. 14.5 – 7, Ovid’s reference to the strait that separates
Sicily from Italy implies a topographical aetiology; the ancient geographical di-
vision of Sicily from Rhegium lies behind the current geographical formation.
Ovid’s Glaucus swims past Zancle and Rhegium, two names that refer to primev-
al geographical strife.
Rhegium is a name fraught with danger and Ovid not only alludes to the ety-
mology of ῾Ρήγιον from ῥήγνυμι, but also accommodates this etymological con-
nection to his own narrative. With moenia Regi/ nauifragumque fretum
(Met. 14.5 – 6) Ovid forges an etymological link between Regium and frangere
and thus between the city Rhegium (moenia Regi) and the sea Rhegium (nauifra-
gum fretum). Interestingly, this is a semantic relation between two words divided
(or broken) by meter as they appear at the end and the beginning of two consec-
utive lines. Although the association of ῾Ρήγιον with ῥήγνυμι was well known,
Ovid’s implicit aetiology of this etymology is probably his own invention. Rhe-
gium seems to have taken its name not because of Sicily’s breakage from Italy,
but because it is an ominous channel that wrecks ships (nauifragum fretum).
This new interpretation of an old etymology stresses the dangers of Glaucus’ voy-
age as he crosses a channel linguistically bound up with causing shipwrecks.
Thus, the etymology of Rhegium functions on two levels: on a diachronic level
we are reminded that Glaucus enters an area of geographical instability and pri-
mordial earthquakes, while on a synchronic level Glaucus is in danger as he
crosses a sea with a particularly ominous name.²⁷

 Cf. Bömer 1986 ad 15.291– 2.

 Rhegium dicitur, Sallustius tali ex causa uocari scribit dicens Italiae olim Siciliam coniunctam
fuisse, et dum esset una tellus, medium spatium aut per humilitatem obrutum est aquis, aut per
angustiam scissum. et inde ῾Ρήγιον nominatum, quia Graece abruptum hoc nomine nuncupatur.
Sallustius, fr. 4.26, apud Isid. Orig. 13.18.3. For more examples, see Maltby 1991; Marangoni
2007 s.v. Regium. See also Myers 2009, 54.
 This is far from an exhaustive analysis of etymology and geography in Ovid’s Metamor-
phoses. For more examples, see Michalopoulos 2001. O’Hara (1990) argues that Venus’ ge-
ographical epithet Erycina (Met. 5.563) refers not only to the Sicilian setting of the narrative, in
which Venus asks Cupid to shoot Dis with an arrow, but also to ericius, a word that can refer to
an instrument of war and is thus linked to Cupid’s arrows. For the etymological association of
334 Ioannis Ziogas

Geographical Displacements
From Delphi to Rome

Glaucus’ voyage from Greece to Italy signals the Metamorphoses’ geographical

shift from Greece to Rome. Books 14– 15 include travelogues of heroes who
begin their trips in Greece and end up in Italy: the Greek departure and the Ital-
ian destination of Glaucus (Met. 14.1– 10), Myscelos (Met. 15.12– 57), and Aescu-
lapius (Met. 15.622– 745) follow Ovid’s little ‘Aeneid’ which begins in Troy, stops
in Greece and concludes in Italy (Met. 13.623 – 14.608).²⁸ This geographical tran-
sition has been anticipated since the first books of the epic. Apollo’s entry in the
Metamorphoses, often referred to as programmatic, is the first instance of Roma-
nization of a Greek myth. I shall now focus on the geographical polarity between
Delphi and Rome in this much-discussed episode.
After the miraculous re-creation of the human race by Pyrrha and Deuca-
lion, the Earth produces various species of animals but also new monsters
(noua monstra, Met. 1.437). One of them is the Python, a chthonic snake which
is killed by Apollo at the omphalos of the Earth. In commemoration of his first
epic deed, the god founds the Pythian Games. Then the narrator informs us
that the victors of the Games were crowned with oak because the laurel did
not exist. Thus, the aetiology of the Pythian Games triggers a narrative that
ends with the aetiology of the laurel-tree as Ovid shifts from Apollo’s first epic
deed to the god’s first love. Apollo’s unfulfilled passion ends with the metamor-
phosis of Daphne and his prophecy that the laurel will accompany the Roman
Triumph and adorn the doorposts of Augustus. The end of the story does not
bring laurels back to Delphi, as we might have expected, but displaces Apollo’s
sacred tree, which was closely associated with the Pythian Games²⁹ and the Del-

the Mount Haemus with αἷμα (“blood”) in Vergil, Propertius, and Ovid, see Hendry 1997. Pa-
paioannou (2007, 54) points out that in Met. 12.80 – 1 (solamen habeto/ mortis, ab Haemonio quod
sis iugulatus Achille), Haemonio, followed by iugulatus, echoes the sound of αἷμα. Achilles is
eager to slaughter Cycnus, but he will not be able to spill the blood of the invulnerable hero.
Further on etymology and geography in Latin epic, see Skempis, Kyriakidis, and Bexley (this
volume).
 Cf. Wheeler 1999, 196 – 7; Myers 2009, 52.
 The winners of the Pythian Games were crowned with laurels; cf. ἐν μὲν δὴ Ὀλυμπίᾳ κοτίνου
τῷ νικῶντι δίδοσθαι στέφανον καὶ ἐν Δελφοῖς δάφνης, Paus. 8.48.2. Pausanias associates the
Pythian laurels with Apollo’s love for Daphne, who is referred to as the daughter of the river
Ladon (δάφνης δὲ στέφανος ἐπὶ τῶν Πυθίων τῇ νίκῃ κατ’ ἄλλο μὲν ἐμοὶ δοκεῖν ἐστιν οὐδέν, ὅτι
δὲ τῆς Λάδωνος θυγατρὸς Ἀπόλλωνα ἐρασθῆναι κατέσχηκεν ἡ φήμη, Paus. 10.7.8). Ovid im-
plicitly refutes this version.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 335

phic oracle. As Peter Knox points out, Callimachus in his Aetia (fr. 86 – 9 Pf.) tells
of the origins of the procession known as Daphnephoria, which brought to Delphi
a sprig of laurel from the valley of Peneus.³⁰ Ovid specifically rejects this aetiol-
ogy in the Metamorphoses right before the story of Daphne (Met. 1.448 – 51),
which concludes by associating the laurels with Rome. The story can be read
as a systematic attempt to undercut the importance of Delphi. To be sure, the tri-
umphs and victories of the Roman Empire will overshadow the Pythian Games
and the Daphnephoria.
As is often the case in the Metamorphoses, a temporal shift goes hand in
hand with a geographical transition; Apollo’s mythical slaying of a primordial
monster in Greece is followed by the historical triumphs of Rome. The Roman
agenda of Apollo comes as no surprise in the age of Augustus,³¹ but we should
bear in mind that the Pythian Apollo is a particularly Greek god. The Pythian
Games were strictly restricted to the Greek world and in Herodotus Croesus
calls the Delphic Apollo τὸν θεὸν τῶν Ἑλλήνων (Hdt. 1.90).³² In fact, the Roma-
nization of the Pythian Apollo is set against a geographical tension inherent in
the juxtaposition of Delphi with Rome. The status of Delphi as the earth’s umbil-
icus is well established in Greek literature (see Agathem. 1.1.2) and was well
known at Rome. Interestingly, the Romans knew of this geographical view but
did not acknowledge Delphi’s centrality. Varro dismisses such a belief as doubly
false since neither is the oracle in the middle of the world nor is the umbilicus in
the middle of the human body.³³ Strabo, whose Geography has a Romanocentric
worldview,³⁴ refers to the myth of the Delphi’s centrality, but does not seem to
subscribe to it; for Strabo, such a claim is a fiction of the past (cf. ἐνομίσθη,
ἐκάλεσαν, προσπλάσαντες).³⁵ The Roman disbelief in Delphi’s centrality is cer-

 Knox 1990, 195 – 6. Callimachus’ aetiology of the Daphnephoria is replaced by Ovid’s ae-
tiology of the Roman Triumph.
 For Augustus’ Apollo and Apollo in Augustan poetry, see Miller 2009.
 For the Delphic Apollo as a particularly Greek god, see Romm 1992, 63; Romm points out that
the two parts of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo proudly relate how the Greeks were chosen as the
favored servants of Apollo and the founders of his shrines. See also Chappell 2006. For a tension
between the Greek identity of the Delphic Apollo and the universal sway of the Roman Apollo in
Vergil’s Aeneid, see Paschalis 1986.
 ‘o sancte Apollo, qui umbilicum certum terrarum optines’. umbilicum dictum aiunt ab umbilico
nostro, quod is medius locus sit terrarum, ut umbilicus in nobis; quod utrumque est falsum: neque
hic locus est terrarum medius neque noster umbilicus est hominis medius, Var. L. 7.17. By contrast,
Cn. Manlius Vulso calls the Delphic oracle umbilicum orbis terrarum in Liv. 38.48.2.
 See Clarke 1999, 307– 36.
 τῆς γὰρ Ἑλλάδος ἐν μέσῳ πώς ἐστι τῆς συμπάσης, τῆς τε ἐντὸς Ἰσθμοῦ καὶ τῆς ἐκτός,
ἐνομίσθη δὲ καὶ τῆς οἰκουμένης, καὶ ἐκάλεσαν τῆς γῆς ὀμφαλόν, προσπλάσαντες καὶ μῦθον ὅν
336 Ioannis Ziogas

tainly related to the remapping of the known world by the Roman Empire. The
map of Greek mythology is dismissed and Roman geopolitical propaganda
takes its place. The city occupies the center of the inhabited world³⁶ and Vitru-
vius describes Rome as the middle of the earth (inter spatium totius orbis terra-
rum regionesque medio mundi populus Romanus possidet fines, De arch. 6.1.10 –
11), adding that the temperate region allocated to the Roman people enabled
the rise of their empire (ita diuina mens ciuitatem populi Romani egregia temper-
ataque regione conlocauit, uti orbis terrarum imperii potiretur, De arch. 6.1.11). Ob-
viously, the geographical centrality of Rome invalidates the status of the Delphic
oracle as the earth’s umbilicus.³⁷
By relocating the Delphic laurels to Rome,³⁸ Ovid acknowledges the shift in
the geographical equilibrium. The laurels on the Capitoline hill, the very center
of a city often called caput mundi, signal that Rome has replaced Delphi as the
new center of the world. The association of the laurels with the Triumph is also
significant since this essentially Roman ceremony “amounted to a physical real-
ization of empire and imperialism.”³⁹ As conquered peoples from all over the
world were parading on the streets of Rome, the citizens could grasp the univer-
sal centrality of the city. The power of Rome was both centrifugal and centripetal;
the enslaved enemies attested to the wide ranging sway of the city, while peoples
from the very edges of the earth were entering Rome. The Triumph spectacularly
showed that the Romans extended themselves over the whole globe, while the
inhabitants of the globe poured themselves upon the Romans.⁴⁰ Ovid’s mention

φησι Πίνδαρος, ὅτι συμπέσοιεν ἐνταῦθα οἱ ἀετοὶ οἱ ἀφεθέντες ὑπὸ τοῦ Διός, ὁ μὲν ἀπὸ τῆς
δύσεως ὁ δ’ ἀπὸ τῆς ἀνατολῆς· οἱ δὲ κόρακάς φασι. δείκνυται δὲ καὶ ὀμφαλός τις ἐν τῷ ναῷ
τεταινιωμένος καὶ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ αἱ δύο εἰκόνες τοῦ μύθου, Str. 9.3.6.
 For Rome as the geographical and conceptual focal point of the inhabited world, see Clarke
(1999, 216 – 17, 228 – 9), who focuses on Strabo. Traiana (1990, 53) argues that Cato and Polybius
defined the city as the center of the inhabited world.
 The illusion of global centrality, the so called ‘omphalos syndrome’, is employed by almost
every imperial power. In Rome the effect was achieved by the network of roads. The names of
places they united illustrated the relations between center and periphery (see Whittaker 2004,
78).
 Paschalis (1986) argues convincingly that the Delphic oracle is conspicuously absent from
Vergil’s works. In the Aeneid, the laurel is associated only with Asia Minor, Delos, and Italy, and
the mantic tripod mainly with Delos. Thus, Vergil robs Delphi of its symbols by transferring them
to Delos and Italy. Vergil replaces and decentralizes the Panhellenic authority of the Delphic
oracle in an attempt to Romanize Apollo.
 Beard 2007, 123.
 I am paraphrasing the American Founding Father James Wilson, in an essay originally
published in 1790: “it might be said, not that the Romans extended themselves over the whole
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 337

of the triumphal laurels brings up a ceremony that underpins Rome’s position as

the center of the world and thus deprives the Delphic oracle not only of its tree
but also of its geographical significance. The Greek procession of the Daphnepho-
ria gives way to the Roman Triumph.
Ovid’s aetiology polemically replaces Callimachus’ association of Thessalian
laurels with Delphi, decentralizing Apollo’s famous oracle and replacing it with
the new center of the world, Rome. But there is more to it. Ovid presents the lau-
rel as the symbol of poetic creation before the transformed nymph adorns Augus-
tus’ doorposts. The blurring of poetry and empire is a recurring motif in Augu-
stan poetry. Vergil, for instance, imagines himself leading the Greek Muses as
captives for his triumph:

primus ego in patriam mecum, modo uita supersit,

Aonio rediens deducam uertice Musas;
(Verg. G. 3.10 – 11)

I will be the first to return to my native land, provided that I live, bringing the Muses from
the Aonian summit.

Scholars are always eager to remark that the verb deduco refers to Alexandrian
poetics, but, as Miller points out, the same verb is also a technical term for lead-
ing captives in triumphal parade.⁴¹ Likewise, Horace presents himself as a victo-
rious general, a triumphator, and has the Muse Melpomene crown him with a
laurel wreath. He even calls himself princeps, a daring term to use in Augustan
Rome (princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos/ deduxisse modos, Carm. 3.30.13 – 14).
Ovid’s epic enterprise takes part in this imperial discourse. The Metamorphoses
is the triumphant transposition of Greek myth to Ovid’s poetic empire. To put it
in Feldherr’s words “the poet not only mobilizes reflection on the imperial re-
gime but creates a new space for the experience of power. Ovid is not just writing
about the emperor; he is, in this sense, writing as emperor.”⁴² Interestingly, the
narrative space created by Ovid pushes Delphi and Rome to the outer edges of
the narrative topography and gives a fabulous tale of love and metamorphosis
center stage.
Let me clarify my point. In the Apollo episode, the Roman conclusion signals
an abrupt temporal and spatial transposition to Rome, a city which appropriates

globe, but that the inhabitants of the globe poured themselves upon the Romans.” Wilson cites
Francis Bacon as a source of this phrase (see Wilson 2007, 211).
 See Miller 2009, 310 – 12. A point also made in Mynors 1990, ad G. 3.10 – 11.
 Feldherr 2010, 7 (my emphasis).
338 Ioannis Ziogas

the geopolitical significance of Apollo’s oracle.⁴³ However, in the tale of Apollo,

as is often the case in the Metamorphoses, there is a tension between surface
form and true structure. On the surface, Ovid replaces a Greek aition with a
Roman one, but the bulk of his narrative deals with Apollo’s love and the meta-
morphosis of Daphne. The Pythian Games are mentioned briefly at the beginning
and the foundation of the Delphic oracle is not mentioned at all. The Roman
coda of this tale is equally brief. The Roman conclusion is usually interpreted
as the culmination in Ovid’s epic trip from East to West. But the narrative
frame⁴⁴ with its Roman closure is not only the climax, but also the margin of
Ovid’s tale. The geographical polarity between Delphi and Rome is reflected in
Ovid’s account as the two cities are located on the fringes of the story; the center
is occupied by a tale of divine passion and human metamorphosis. It is a nice
touch of irony that two places which claimed to be the center of the world are
relegated to the periphery of Ovid’s poetic empire.

Fama at Rome

Ovid’s readers will look in vain for evidence of Rome’s centrality since the Meta-
morphoses tends to destabilize rather than reinforce centers. The only location
whose central position is pointedly stressed is not Rome, but the House of
Fama (Met. 12.39 – 63). The ekphrasis begins by locating the House of Fama in
the midpoint of the universe (Orbe locus medio est inter terrasque fretumque/ cae-
lestesque plagas, triplicis confinia mundi, Met. 12.39 – 40). This uniquely pivotal
space occupied by the House of Fama recalls the description of Rome as the cen-
ter of the world in Vitruvius’ work, which deals with architecture and is thus not
irrelevant to Ovid’s interest in the architecture of Fama’s abode (cf. inter spatium
totius orbis terrarum regionesque medio mundi populus Romanus possidet fines,
De arch. 6.1.10 – 11). Once we acknowledge that the centrality of Fama’s domain
recalls Rome’s geographical position,⁴⁵ it comes as no surprise that the house

 Interestingly, Bexley (2009, 461– 3, 469 – 73) argues that in Lucan’s Pharsalia Delphi’s pre-
sence in the narrative specifically contradicts Rome’s assumed centrality. For Bexley, Lucan’s
description of Delphi as Hesperio tantum quantum summotus Eoo (5.71) implies a greater degree
of geographic and poetic equilibrium than Nero’s Rome.
 On framed aetiological narratives in the Metamorphoses, see Myers 1994, 61– 94.
 In Lucan, the deified Nero becomes the pivot of the universe and “Rome is only central by
grace of Nero’s position” (Bexley 2009, 460). Interestingly, the description of Nero’s universal
centrality recalls Ovid’s House of Fama: orbe tene medio (Pharsalia 1.58) is reminiscent of Orbe
locus medio (Met. 12.39; note that orbe… medio falls into the same metrical position in Ovid and
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 339

has a distinctly Roman architecture. Nancy Zumwalt is certainly right to point

out that atria implies a comparison of Fama’s domus with the house of a prom-
inent Roman. Atria turba tenet (Met. 12.53) suggests a turba clientum (cf. Hor.
Ep. 1.5.31; Juv. 7.91), who serve Fama as their patrona. This crowd is a leue uulgus
(Met. 12.53) and thus similar to the characterization of the Roman mob as fickle
and irresponsible in political life.⁴⁶ Some of the denizens of Fama’s House, such
as Seditio recens and Susurri (Met. 12.61) ring a bell familiar to Roman politics. In
the world of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the unidentified murmurs (paruae murmura
uocis, Met. 12.49; dubioque auctore Susurri, Met. 12.61) recall the reaction of the
gods in the concilium deorum (cf. confremuere omnes, Met. 1.199; murmura
Met. 1.206), in which Jupiter is compared with Augustus (Met. 1.205 – 6) and
the gods, implicitly, with the Senate. Thus, the House of Fama is located at the
heart of Roman politics⁴⁷ and Rome is supposedly the center of the world.
Fama’s ability to oversee the entire world and expand her sway to the edges
of the earth (cf. et tellure uidet totumque inquirit in orbem, Met. 12.63) is reminis-
cent of the global power of the Roman Empire.
The ekphrasis of the House of Fama conveys the image of a circle as it starts
with orbe (Met. 12.39) and closes with in orbem (Met. 12.63); the beginning focus-
es on the central position of her House and the end stresses Fama’s universal ex-
pansion. A geographical center with universal dominion cannot but recall Rome
and the allusions to Roman politics buttress this parallel. The interplay between
Fama’s domain and Rome is brought up at the end of Ovid’s epic, where the
Roman identity of the Ovidian Fama guarantees the expansion of his work
throughout the globe. In the sphragis, the Roman Empire (quaque patet domitis
Romana potentia terris, Met. 15.877) becomes the vessel through which fama ef-
fects a temporal and spatial metamorphosis of Ovid’s life (perque omnia saecula
fama/ … uiuam, Met. 15.878 – 9). The global sway of the Roman Empire affords
space for the innumerable and tendentious voices of Ovid’s fama.
The Roman origins of Ovid’s Fama can be further traced in the exile poetry.
In Ex Ponto 2.1, Ovid is able to witness the Triumph of Tiberius thanks to Fama,
who brings the news from Rome to the fringes of the empire, where Ovid is exiled

Lucan) and Fama tenet (Met. 12.43: Lucan’s tene falls into the same metrical position as Ovid’s
tenet).
 Zumwalt 1977, 211. See also Hardie 2002, 76 – 7; 2012, 161– 2, 174– 7.
 For the politics of the domus of Fama, see also Gladhill (forthcoming). Gladhill argues that
Ovid constructs the inner-dynamics of the domus with the imagery of Republican political
action, an imagery that invites us to interpret the domus of Fama as a cosmological forum,
modeled on the forum Romanum. Fama’s house and the forum overlap the same topographical
space – the one is constructed as locus in medio orbe, the other as locus in media urbe.
340 Ioannis Ziogas

(Pont. 2.1.19 – 20). The countless peoples (innumeras gentes, Pont. 2.1.22) who
gather at Rome to behold their leader’s face stress Rome’s universal dominion,
while Fama’s trip from Rome to Tomis brings up her Romanocentric vantage
point as well as her universal sway. Likewise, in Pont. 4.4, the personified
Fama visits the exiled poet to announce the consular inauguration of Sextus
Pompeius. She follows again the same itinerary, moving from Rome to the fron-
tiers of the Roman Empire. In the exile poetry, Fama is centrally located at Rome,
while her news reaches the edges of the known world.
The interplay between Fama’s sway, which expands from her centrally locat-
ed house to the periphery, and Rome’s imperial power brings up a tension be-
tween the chaotic voices of rumors and the orderly cosmos vouchsafed by the
Roman Empire. Philip Hardie argues that in the Metamorphoses there is a con-
trast between the anarchical voices of fama and the Jovian-Augustan order.⁴⁸ Ex-
amining the political and cosmological dimensions of the domus of Fama, Bill
Gladhill claims that the ekphrasis of Fama’s house deliberately refers to
Chaos.⁴⁹ For Gladhill, Chaos and Fama share a unique cosmological relationship
in the Metamorphoses since they are the only entities in the entire poem that can
possibly exist outside the threefold division of the cosmos.⁵⁰ What is more, Glad-
hill argues that the Fama episode shares a number of important correspondences
with Jupiter’s Palatia caeli (Met. 1.176). In fact, the house of Fama is a foil for Ju-
piter’s palace: Fama’s domus is marked by accessibility, fluidity, and perforation,
while Jupiter’s palace by obstruction and separation. And the atria of Fama’s
domus, which are filled with the turba, the leue uulgus, contrast with the atria
of Jupiter’s palace, which are crowded with nobiles. ⁵¹ The chaotic hubbub of
countless rumors has superseded the authorial voice of a Jovian-Augustan cos-
mos. Fama rules over a world subjected to Rome and thus any imperial attempt
to restrain discordant and subversive voices in favor of a single narrative is un-
dermined. Rome’s dominion over the world is replaced by Fama’s universal
power over the word.⁵²

 Cf. Hardie 2002, 77; 2012, 166 – 7.

 Gladhill (forthcoming). Gladhill convincingly compares the description of Chaos (ante mare
et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum/ unus erat toto naturae uultus in orbe,/ quem dixere Chaos,
Met. 1.5 – 7) with that of the domus of Fama (Orbe locus medio est inter terrasque fretumque/
caelestesque plagas, triplicis confinia mundi, Met. 12.39 – 40).
 Gladhill (forthcoming).
 See Gladhill (forthcoming).
 Cf. Hardie 2002; 2012, 165 – 8.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 341

It has been said that the imagination of the Romans thrived in human space,
not in cosmic abstractions.⁵³ The mindset of Ovid’s Roman readers was ready to
convert the personified abstraction of Fama into physical space and associate
the hollow house with the image of Rome and her far-reaching dominion. At
the same time, Rome was not only a city occupying physical space, but also
an imperial idea, a city without limits and a concept without definition. If
Ovid’s Fama is an abstraction which occupies natural space, Rome is a city
which was transformed into a cosmic abstraction.
But let us take a closer look at the narrative moment at which Ovid chooses
to introduce the ekphrasis of the domus of Fama. Philip Hardie points out that
the ekphrasis appears at a point of spatial transition from Aulis to Troy: all
Fama actually does is to inform the Trojans that the Greek ships are coming to
Troy.⁵⁴ Spatial transitions often signal a shift in the narrative of the Metamorpho-
ses ⁵⁵ and involve temporal transitions as well. The arrival of the Greek fleet in
Troy marks a transition from myth to history since the beginning of the Trojan
War was considered as the beginning of the historical era.⁵⁶ Nancy Zumwalt ar-
gues that the function of the Fama ekphrasis at this point is to alert the reader to
the exaggerations and the fictionality of tradition at the moment when the Met-
amorphoses are about to move to the historical era.⁵⁷ Interestingly, the unreliabil-
ity of Fama’s fictions is associated with the Romanocentric perspective of her re-
ports.
The ekphrasis of the House of Fama involves a marked anachronism since
Ovid has the resident of a distinctly Roman House inform the Trojans of the

 See Whittaker 2004, 70, 84.

 Hardie 2002, 70; 2012, 153.
 Barchiesi (1997b, 182– 3) argues that the transition from the section of the Gods to the Heroes
and from the section of the Heroes to History is mediated by two brief geographical descriptions.
First, the Isthmus of Corinth (Met. 6.419 – 21) joins two lands and divides two seas, a space that
closes and opens a view of separate realities. Second, the Hellespont (Met. 11.194– 6), a thin line
of sea where two continents almost fuse.
 The Trojan War is the beginning of history, according to Herodotus (1.3 – 4) and Thucydides
(1.9 – 12). The Hellenistic scholar Eratosthenes (3rd. cent. BC) dated the Trojan War 408 years
before the first year of the first Olympiad (i. e. 1184/3 BC), a date that became canonical. Cato the
Elder, in his Origines, relates the foundation of Rome to the Trojan War, dating the foundation of
the city 432 years after the Trojan War (D. H. Ant. Rom. 1.74; fr. 17 Peter). The fall of Troy was the
starting point of Ennius’ Annales. For the historical significance of Troy in Greece and Rome, see
Feeney 1999, 14– 18; Feeney 2007a, 81– 4, 142– 5.
 Zumwalt 1977. Tissol (2002) works on a similar direction and argues that Fama casts doubt on
Roman history and Augustan politics.
342 Ioannis Ziogas

Greeks’ imminent advent. Of course, it is not a coincidence that the Roman Fama
is concerned about the Trojans:

Fecerat haec notum Graias cum milite forti

aduentare rates, neque inexspectatus in armis
hostis adest.
(Met. 12.64– 6)

She had made it known that the Greek ships with their strong soldiers were coming, lest the
presence of the armed enemy be unexpected.

Fama reports that the enemy is coming, so that the Trojans may not be caught
unaware, and Ovid employs the technique of embedded focalization:⁵⁸ for the
Roman Fama, the Greeks are the enemy (hostis). This is hardly surprising,
given the connections between Troy and Rome that feature prominently in the
Aeneid. The beginning of the Trojan War is not only the beginning of history,
but also the beginning of Roman history since the ancestors of the Romans ap-
pear as the enemies of the Greeks in the Homeric epics and the Epic Cycle. Ovid’s
Fama sees the war through a Roman lens as she appropriates the Greek tradition
of the Epic Cycle.⁵⁹ Fama seems to travel from contemporary Rome to past Troy,
turning the route of history upside down. The stark anachronism that has a
Roman rumor inform the Trojans, the ancestors of the Romans, might cast
doubt on the Roman appropriation of Greek myth.⁶⁰ The narrative of Ovid’s
Fama is overtly tendentious and includes many lies mixed with truth as the dis-
semination of untrustworthy tales is enabled by the far-reaching sway of the
Roman Empire. Thanks to Rome, the whole world is filled with tales that have
little to do with reality and this is how Ovid’s readers are introduced into the sec-
tion of Roman history in the Metamorphoses.

 Embedded focalization occurs when the primary narrator-focalizer adopts the focalization of
a character and the character’s opinions, feelings or thoughts about an event are expressed by
the primary narrator-focalizer. On the focalization of Fama in this passage and the way this
focalization creates an interaction between past (focalization through the characters) and pre-
sent (focalization through the readers), see Hardie 2012, 154.
 For Hardie, fama, κλέος, refers to the chief subject and product of epic. Orbe-orbem, the first
and the last word of the ekphrasis, pun on κύκλος and so refer specifically to the Epic Cycle. See
Hardie 2002, 71– 2; 2012, 153, 155 – 6.
 Surprisingly, Fama’s report to the Trojans is precise and concise instead of unreliable and
exaggerated as we may have expected after the ekphrasis.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 343

From Troy to Thessaly

We can hear Fama’s Roman voice already at the beginning of the Trojan War;
when Achilles is trying to wound the invulnerable Cycnus, the narrator compares
his futile attempts with a bull charging at a cloth (Met. 12.102– 4). This unmistak-
ably Roman simile turns the readers of the Metamorphoses into spectators at the
Roman circus.⁶¹ The speeches of Ajax and Ulysses in the armorum iudicium
(Met. 13.1– 398) draw on the rhetorical declamations and recall the Roman
stage.⁶² Still, the Romanization of the Trojan War and the Trojan War itself are
undermined by Nestor’s long narrative (Met. 12.169 – 535), which focuses on the
transsexual Caeneus and the Centauromachy. The beginnings of history give
way to a narrative about fabulous beasts and supernatural human beings.
We have moved into the part of the Metamorphoses in which the primary
narrator gradually recedes into the background and the narrative is taken over
by the various characters of the work;⁶³ Nestor’s longwinded speech signals
the shift from the primary narrator to internal narrators. The prevalence of inter-
nal narrators, who can be compared with the numerous voices in the house of
Fama,⁶⁴ shatters the temporal and spatial focus of the narrative. As we move
from myth to history, multiple chronological and topographical displacements
complicate the historical trip from Troy to Rome as fabulous narrators of varying
authority and credibility decentralize the geography of Roman history.
Nestor’s narrative takes up almost one third of Ovid’s Trojan War. The old
king of Pylos replaces the epic of the Trojan War with the feats of Caeneus
and thus substitutes Thessaly for Troy.⁶⁵ This geographical shift is all the more
intriguing if we take into account that Achilles is Nestor’s target audience. Nestor
relates an epic battle that takes place in Achilles’ fatherland, which the best of
the Achaeans left in quest for eternal fame.
But let us first have a look at the setting of Nestor’s speech. The king of Pylos
recounts his tale at Achilles’ dinner party, in which the Achaean chieftains cel-
ebrate the recent victory of Achilles over Cycnus. Nestor compares the invulner-

 For the epic simile as a window to Roman reality, cf. Met. 3.10 – 14; 7.106 – 10, with Albrecht
1981, 2331– 5; von Glinski 2012, 106 – 7.
 See Papaioannou 2007, 164– 6. For the Romanization of Greek Mythology in the Metamor-
phoses, see Albrecht 1981; Solodow 1988, 75 – 89; Wheeler 1999, 194– 205.
 See Wheeler (1999, 162– 3) and the statistics which he provides (Books 1– 5: Primary Narrator
2280 lines; Characters 1588 lines. Books 6 – 10: Primary Narrator 1807 lines; Characters 2199
lines. Books 11– 15: Primary Narrator 1641 lines; Characters 2480 lines).
 Cf. Musgrove 1997.
 For the myth of Caeneus and Thessaly, see Decourt 1998. For the geography of Troy in Ovid,
see Trachsel 2007, 310 – 24.
344 Ioannis Ziogas

able Cycnus to Caeneus, another invulnerable hero from the past, who was born
a woman (Met. 12.169 – 75). Achilles is particularly eager to listen to the story of
Caeneus and urges Nestor to speak (Met. 12.177– 81). As Gianpiero Rosati notes,
Achilles’ curiosity is related to his youthful sojourn on Scyros, and his conceal-
ment in women’s clothes there.⁶⁶ Nestor reinforces this suspicion when he draws
a parallel between Achilles and Caenis, by calling the girl Achilles’ popularis (tibi
enim popularis, Achille, Met. 12.191). Caenis/Caeneus is Achilles’ compatriot, an
epic hero (originally born a woman), who acquired epic glory on the battlefield.
Yet, unlike Achilles he did not have to leave Thessaly and his feats are closely
associated with his fatherland.
The issue of Achilles’ unfulfilled return to Thessaly looms large in the Iliad.
The hero has famously to choose between a long and inglorious life home and
imperishable glory at Troy; it is either kleos without nostos or nostos without
kleos:

εἰ μέν κ᾽ αὖθι μένων Τρώων πόλιν ἀμφιμάχωμαι,

ὤλετο μέν μοι νόστος, ἀτὰρ κλέος ἄφθιτον ἔσται:
εἰ δέ κεν οἴκαδ᾽ ἵκωμι φίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν,
ὤλετό μοι κλέος ἐσθλόν, ἐπὶ δηρὸν δέ μοι αἰὼν
ἔσσεται, οὐδέ κέ μ᾽ ὦκα τέλος θανάτοιο κιχείη.
(Il. 9.412– 16)

If I stay here and besiege the city of the Trojans then my homecoming is lost, but my re-
nown will be imperishable: but if I return to my beloved fatherland, my noble renown is
lost, but my life will be long and the end of death will not come to me quickly.

Of course, Achilles will die at Troy and never see his longed-for fatherland again.
Interestingly, Gregory Nagy notes that the overt Iliadic contrast of κλέος ἄφθιτον
with the negation of κλέος in the context of Φθίη is remarkable in view of the
element φθι- contained by the place name (cf. Φθίη, Il. 9.395, 439; ἄφθιτον.
Il. 9.413).⁶⁷ Achilles will trade Φθίη for κλέος ἄφθιτον since his eternal glory
will deprive him of his nostos. By telling Achilles the story of the invulnerable
hero Caeneus, Nestor effects a narrative shift from Troy to Thessaly, a return
trip that Achilles will never make since he is destined to die at Troy. By contrast,
Caeneus excelled in battle and gained epic renown while staying in Thessaly.
The geographical focal point guarantees Achilles’ interest in Nestor’s story.
The narrative dynamics between narrator (Nestor) and narratee (Achilles) is fur-

 See Rosati 2002, 288 – 9. Rosati (2002, 289 n. 53) notes that Thetis in Stat. Achil. 1.264
mentions Caeneus as one of the precedents to convince Achilles to don feminine garb.
 Nagy 1999a, 184– 5.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 345

ther nuanced by Nestor’s traditional fulfillment of nostos. Unlike Achilles, the old
king of Pylos will return home after the war and manage to live a long, but not
inglorious life. Note that Nestor’s name is possibly etymologized from νέομαι (‘to
return’) –⁶⁸ nostos is for Nestor, not for Achilles.
But let us have a closer look at Nestor’s tale. The longest part of his narrative
deals with the fierce battle between the Centaurs and the Lapiths. At the wed-
ding of Pirithous and Hippodame, the intoxicated Centaur Eurytus abducts the
bride and, as a result, an epic battle between the Centaurs and the Lapiths
breaks out, which concludes with Caeneus’ aristeia. Alison Keith notes that
the battle between the Centaurs and the Lapiths functions as a narrative doublet
of the Trojan War, which it displaces from the center to the margins of Book 12
and overshadows in length.⁶⁹ Thematically, both the Trojan War and the Centaur-
omachy feature the violation of hospitality and the abduction of a bride. I think
that the wedding of Pirithous and Hippodame further alludes to the wedding of
Peleus and Thetis, mentioned earlier by Nestor (Met. 12.193 – 5). Peleus’ wedding
marks the beginning of the Trojan Epic Cycle since the quarrel among Athena,
Hera, and Aphrodite arose there. Thus, Nestor’s speech is of particular interest
to Achilles since it includes a wedding reminiscent of the wedding of Achilles’
parents and a hero reminiscent of Achilles. As Nestor revisits Thessaly, the heroic
epic of the Trojan War is transposed into Achilles’ fatherland.
Nestor begins with presenting Caenis, the most beautiful girl in Thessaly
(Thessalidum uirgo pulcherrima, Met. 12.190), whom many suitors wanted to
marry in vain. The haughty princess avoids marriage and retreats to the seashore
for a solitary walk (Met. 12.196) – the landscape already suggests the setting of a
rape and Caenis’ straying from her father’s house to the seashore gives Neptune
the opportunity to rape her. The narrative is reminiscent of Tyro’s solitary visits
to the river Enipeus, which enabled Poseidon to ravish her (Hes. CW fr. 30.35 M-
W; Od. 11.240 – 1). Within the Metamorphoses, Neptune attempts to rape Coro-
neus’ daughter, while she takes a leisurely stroll on the beach (Met. 2.572– 6).
The lonesome walks of desirable maidens by the sea sexualize the landscape
as the girls attract the god of the sea.⁷⁰
This sexualization of the landscape is at odds with the main themes of epic
warfare and manliness. The seduction of a beautiful maiden by a god is rather
linked to the motifs of the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, in which Poseidon is
second only to Zeus in his affairs with mortal women. Thus, in the supposedly

 See Tsitsibakou-Vasalos 1997/8, 121– 4.

 Keith 1999, 234– 5.
 Keith (2000, 36 – 64) argues that Ovid and other epic poets repeatedly feminize and sexualize
the landscapes in which they set male action. See also Keith 2009, 361– 4; Lindheim 2010.
346 Ioannis Ziogas

most Homeric section of the Metamorphoses, Ovid casts Nestor as a narrator of

female-oriented epic poetry during a feast that celebrates manliness (cf.
Met. 12.159 – 60). The old king returns to the Thessaly of the old days, when
gods mingled with mortals, and revisits the fatherland of Achilles, his target au-
dience, from a Hesiodic vantage point.⁷¹
The geographical move from Troy to Thessaly in the tale of Caenis results in
a gendered and generic shift from the glorious deeds of men to the affairs of mor-
tal women with gods. Interestingly, Robert Fowler argues that the focus of Greek
genealogical poetry in its early stage was Thessaly and the Delphic Amphiktyo-
ny.⁷² The centrality of Thessaly is preserved in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women,
which lends weight to the Thessalian stemma Deukalion-Hellen-Doros/Aiolos.
Therefore, Nestor’s reference to Caenis’ Thessalian origin locates his tale in
the heart of the Catalogue of Women. The king of Pylos transforms Thessaly
from the homeland of the best of the Achaeans to the geographical matrix of ge-
nealogical poetry; he moves from Troy to Thessaly and from Homer to Hesiod.
But there is more to it. The tale of Caenis not only suggests the topos of a
divine escapade, but also curiously recalls Achilles’ solitary walk on the sea-
shore and his encounter with his mother, the sea-goddess Thetis (Il. 1.348 ff.).
From that perspective, the story of Caenis functions as a foil for the beginning
of the Iliad. The structural and thematic parallels between the retreat of angry
Achilles and the withdrawal of the proud princess are as follows: Achilles is de-
prived of his mistress, retreats to the seashore, encounters a sea-goddess and
asks her a favor, while Caenis turns down her suitors, retreats to the seashore,
is raped by the god of the sea, and asks him a favor. The feminized setting of
Caenis’ rape recalls and subverts the epic topography of Iliad 1.
The sexualization of the landscape in the story of the transsexual Caenis is
brought up once more right after her metamorphosis into an invulnerable man.
Satisfied with his transformation, Caeneus occupies himself with manly deeds in
the Thessalian landscape:

munere laetus abit studiisque uirilibus aeuum

exigit Atracides Peneiaque arua pererrat.
(Met. 12.208 – 9)

Pleased with this gift, Caeneus from Atrax left and spent his life in manly pursuits, roaming
the Peneian plowlands.

 For the importance of the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women in Nestor’s narrative, see Ziogas
2013, 180 – 205.
 See Fowler 1998, 11– 13; cf. Larson 2000; Rutherford 2005, 99 – 101, 115.
 The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 347

Caeneus accomplishes manly deeds on the Peneia arua; while arua is a term
used as a metaphor for female genitalia,⁷³ the geographic epithet Peneia in
this context sets up a lascivious pun on penis. ⁷⁴ Caeneus is a satisfied man wan-
dering through the Peneian plowlands and the pleasure he feels from his new
sexual identity is projected upon the landscape of his fatherland.⁷⁵ Conversely,
the adjective laetus, which describes the newly transformed Caeneus, could be
naturally attributed to fertile soil or flourishing plants.⁷⁶ The vocabulary of Cae-
neus’ transformation blends the identity of the invulnerable hero with the soil of
his fatherland. Caeneus has his roots in Thessaly.

Concluding Remarks
Onomastic wordplay has received little attention from linguists. Since a proper
name’s primary function is to refer without signifying, etymological wordplay
is considered a marginal phenomenon in modern linguistics.⁷⁷ Be that as it
may, the lexical significance of a proper name plays a crucial role in literary
studies. In this chapter, I have argued that the etymology of geographical
names is closely associated with the narrative dynamics of the Metamorphoses.
In some cases, the plot of a tale revolves around the etymology of a geographical
epithet (e. g. Cytherea), while in others etymologies interact with the main char-
acters of a story and transform its landscape (e. g. Lycaeus-Lycaon). The power of
etymologies to metamorphose literary milieux turns the pastoral and idyllic Ar-
cadia into a wolfish dystopia of treachery and violence.
Literary loci are intertwined with geographical loca in the construction and
reconstruction of Ovid’s narrative map. Ovidian geography invites the readers to
an endless trip of displacement, replacement, and topographical as well as liter-
ary transformations. The much vaunted centers of the world (Delphi and Rome)
are evoked only to be placed on the fringes of Ovid’s narrative, while the central-

 See Adams 1982, 24, 28, 84.

 Ahl (1985, 134– 7) suggests a pun on penis at Met. 1.452 (Daphne PENEia). The adjective
Peneius is very rare: Bömer (1969 ad 1.452) notes that it occurs only one more time in Augustan
poetry, in Verg. G. 4.317. The infrequency of the adjective makes the obscene pun surface more
readily.
 Note the sexual overtones of munere laetus. While laetus can describe erotic pleasure, munus
can refer to sexual services (cf. Adams 1982, 164).
 See OLD, s.v. laetus 1a (of plants, crops, fields etc.) flourishing, luxuriant, lush. b (of ground,
soil) rich, fertile.
 See Vallat (2006), who argues that proper names have a basis in precise linguistic facts and
constitute a coherent group within Martial’s onomastic system.
348 Ioannis Ziogas

ity of the House of Fama replaces the equilibrium guaranteed by the omnipotent
Roman empire; the chaotically diffused and randomly scattered power of rumors
rules over the Roman world. Troy, a pivotal city in Roman history, is also margi-
nalized by Nestor’s long narrative, which takes place in Thessaly. The old king,
an incarnation of the tendentious voices of Fama’s house, engages in a fascinat-
ing spatial and literary interplay between Troy, the city where Achilles is des-
tined to die, and Thessaly, the land where Achilles was born.
Alison Keith
Ovidian Geographies in Flavian
Mythological Epic¹
After Vergil’s Aeneid, no text so thoroughly informed the early imperial Roman
literary imagination as Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The most ambitious of Ovid’s
poems, the Metamorphoses retells and, in the retelling, transforms some 250
classical myths of divine and human change from the creation and the flood
down to the poet’s own day under the first Roman emperor Augustus. While
many scholars have discussed the political, thematic, structural and stylistic
debts to the Aeneid in early imperial Roman literary culture,² the pervasive atten-
tion in this period to the larger literary and imperial programs of the Metamor-
phoses has gone largely unexplored.³ Yet whereas Ovid retells the central myth of
Vergil’s Aeneid, none of the Flavian epic poets take it up; instead, they obsessive-
ly retell myths from Ovid’s repertoire in the Metamorphoses. Thus Statius and Va-
lerius Flaccus, who constitute the focus of this study, wrote mythological epics
about Thebes and the Argonauts, respectively, drawing extensively on Ovid’s
Theban history of Books 3 – 4 and on his treatment of Medea and the Argonauts
in Book 7. The landscape descriptions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in these episodes
(and others) are among the most lauded and best analyzed passages in the
poem,⁴ and they are well known to have made a lasting impact on the western
artistic and literary traditions. This paper explores an early site of their reception,
in the mythological epics of Ovid’s Flavian successors.

 I am grateful to Marios Skempis and Ioannis Ziogas for the invitation to contribute to this
volume. My thanks also to audiences at the Universities of Illinois and Toronto, and the annual
meeting of the Classical Association of Canada in Québec for their comments on earlier versions
of this chapter. I am grateful to Antony Augoustakis, Arianna Traill, Michael Dewar, Jonathan
Edmondson and especially Elaine Fantham, to whom this piece is dedicated. I would also like to
acknowledge with gratitude the support of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council
of Canada towards the research of this project.
 Gossage 1959; Mozley 1963/4; Henderson 1988; Hardie 1993; Quint 1993; Hershkowitz 1998;
Lovatt 2005; Ganiban 2007.
 See now, however, Tissol/Wheeler 2002, including Keith 2002; Dewar 2002; Newlands 2004;
Hinds 2011.
 Parry 1964; Segal 1969; Hinds 1987 and 2002.
350 Alison Keith

Argonautic Itineraries
Valerius Flaccus announces the subject of his poem (Val. Fl. 1.1– 3) as “the first
straits traversed by the gods’ great sons” and the “prophetic ship”, the Argo,
“which dared to pursue the shores of Scythian Phasis” (Prima deum magnis can-
imus freta peruia natis/ fatidicamque ratem, Scythici quae Phasidis oras/ ausa
sequi). Valerius’ debt to Ovid’s mythological landscapes emerges clearly here
at the outset of his epic, in his formulation of the Argo’s goal as Scythyci… Pha-
sidis oras, “the shores of Scythian Phasis” (Val. Fl. 1.2; cf. Phasidis amnem,
4.616), which recalls Ovid’s own introductory scene-setting to his Argonautic nar-
rative at the outset of Metamorphoses 7 (Phasidos undas, Met. 7.6). In addition,
Valerius’ rehearsal of the mythological translatio imperii from east to west real-
ized under the rule of his deified dedicatee, the emperor Vespasian (Val. Fl. 1.5 –
21), evokes the narrative trajectory of Ovid’s Metamorphoses from Greece to
Rome, culminating in the projected deification of Augustus (Met. 15.855 – 70).⁵
Martha Davis has shown that Valerius’ exordium, which emphasizes “the
ship rather than her crew” enables the poet “to create a coincidence of all as-
pects of [his] poem… Argo is the major theme. As a ship, she is also the symbol
of the poet’s process of composition and its result, the poem itself…”⁶ Valerius
thereby literalizes the metaphor of the ship of poetry, and although he passes
quickly over the building of the Argo (Val. Fl. 1.120 – 9), he lingers programmati-
cally over its decoration (Val. Fl. 1.130 – 48):

Hic sperata deo Tyrrheni tergore piscis 130

Peleos in thalamos uehitur Thetis; aequora delphin
corripit, <ipsa> sedet deiecta in lumina palla
nec Ioue maiorem nasci suspirat Achillen.
hanc Panope Dotoque soror laetataque fluctu
prosequitur nudis pariter Galatea lacertis, 135
antra petens; Siculo reuocat de litore Cyclops.
contra ignis uiridique torus de fronde dapesque
uinaque et aequoreos inter cum coniuge diuos
Aeacides pulsatque chelyn post pocula Chiron.
parte alia Pholoe multoque insanus Iaccho 140

 For the juxtaposition between East and West, which defines the geographical dynamics of the
Iliad and is repeatedly and variously reworked in Roman epic, cf. Elliott, Skempis, and Manu-
wald (this volume). For the global worldview of classical epic poetry, which focuses on the
encounter between the familiar and the unknown, cf. Haubold, Skempis, Shorrock, and Slaney
(this volume). For historical topographies in an updated socio-political context, cf. Lateiner,
Parkes, and Manuwald (this volume).
 Davis 1990, 48.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 351

Rhoecus et Atracia subitae de uirgine pugnae.

crateres mensaeque uolant araeque deorum
poculaque, insignis ueterum labor. optimus hasta
hic Peleus, hic ense furens agnoscitur Aeson.
fert grauis inuito uictorem Nestora tergo 145
Monychus, ardenti peragit Clanis Actora quercu.
nigro Nessus equo fugit adclinisque tapetis
in mediis uacuo condit caput Hippasus auro.

On this side Thetis is borne on the back of a Tyrrhenian fish to the unwanted marriage-
chamber of Peleus; the dolphin drives through the water. She herself sits upon it, a veil
cast over her eyes, and sighs that Achilles will not be born greater than Jupiter. Accompa-
nying her are Panope, her sister Doto, and bare-armed Galatea, joyful in the waves, making
for the cave; from the Sicilian shore Cyclops calls back his beloved. Opposite is a fire, a bed
of green leaves, a banquet, wine, and the son of Aeacus with his bride among the water
deities; after the distribution of wine-cups, Chiron strums the lyre. On the other side, Pho-
loe and Rhoecus, mad with much wine, and the sudden fight over the Atracian maid. Cra-
ters and tables fly about, as do altars of the gods, and goblets – the distinguished work of
ancient craftsmen. Here Peleus, pre-eminent with the spear, and here Aeson is discerned,
raging with a sword. Monychus is weighed down by his vanquisher Nestor, whom he carries
on his unwilling back; and Clanis harries Actor with a blazing oak. Nessus, a black centaur,
flees, and in the midst of it all Hippasus, resting on the coverlets, buries his head in an
empty golden goblet.

Recent critics have read this passage as “surcharged” with programmatic inter-
textuality.⁷ Thus Andrew Zissos interprets the ecphrasis as “stand[ing] for the po-
etic undertaking itself”, “enjoy[ing] a reflexive status that is almost overdeter-
mined by the content of the ecphrasis, its strikingly allusive nature, and its pres-
ence on [the] ship (itself a standard metaphor for the process of poetic crea-
tion)”.⁸ Alessandro Barchiesi has observed that “the selection and treatment of
scenes invokes a specific mytho-poetic tradition: that of Catullus 64 and,
above all, Ovid’s Metamorphoses”,⁹ and Andrew Zissos, in his recent commenta-
ry on Argonautica 1, has detailed Valerius’ specific lexical and thematic debts
here to Ovid’s Metamorphoses. ¹⁰

 The adjective is from Zissos 2008, xxxix; cf. Feeney 1991, 315 – 37; Malamud/McGuire 1993;
Barchiesi 2001, 317– 20; Hershkowitz 1998 passim.
 Zissos 2002, 93.
 Barchiesi 1995, 62.
 Zissos 2008, 153: “The initial treatment of the wedding of Peleus and Thetis is systematically
indebted to Met. 11.221– 65, in which Peleus rapes Thetis in a sea cavern. Without adopting the
rape narrative itself… VF incorporates many details from the Ovidian account: Thetis’ aversion to
marriage to Peleus, her conveyance to her future husband on a dolphin, and her knowledge of
the oracle that she would beget a son greater than his father. The intertextual debt is carefully
352 Alison Keith

It is thus no surprise that Valerius’ Argo continually revisits the mythological

landscapes of Ovid’s epic on the voyage to Colchis.¹¹ There Aeetes charges Jason
to plough the plain of Mars and by his labors to win the Golden Fleece (Val.
Fl. 7.62– 77):

Martius ante urbem longis iacet horridus annis

campus et ardentes ac me quoque uomere presso,
me quoque cunctantes interdum agnoscere tauri.
his magis atque magis rabiem nunc nostra senectus 65
luxuriemque dedit solitoque superbior ignis
ore fremit. succede meae, fortissime, laudi
et nostros recole, hospes, agros! nec semina derunt,
quae prius ipse dabam, et messes, quas solus obibam.
consiliis nox una satis tecumque retracta 70
cumque tuis haec iussa deis, ac siquid in isto est
robore, praedicti uenies in rura laboris.
ipse incertus adhuc tenebris te protinus illis
inuolui flammisque uelim, durare parumper
an magis, euerso iacias dum semina campo, 75
ac tibi Cadmei dum dentibus exeat hydri
miles et armata florescant pube nouales.

Before the city lies the plain of Mars, rough with neglect through many years, and fiery
bulls, slow sometimes to recognize even me when the ploughshare bites the ground. My
old age has granted these now more and more wildness and unruliness, and a prouder
flame than usual rages from their mouths. Come up to my renown, brave stranger, and cul-
tivate again our fields! Nor will the seed, which I myself sowed earlier, fail, nor the harvest,
which I met alone. One night will be sufficient for your decision, alone with your gods to
consider my bidding. And if there be anything in that strength of yours, you will undertake
the rustic task I foretell. I myself am uncertain still whether I would wish you enwrapped in
flame and darkness, or rather see you endure a while to cast seeds into the upturned plan
and the soldiers come forth from the teeth of Cadmus’ snake and the fallows flower with
armed youths.

In this description of Aeetes’ injunction, Valerius elaborates Ovid’s brief refer-

ence to the Argonauts’ first approach to the Colchian king (Dumque adeunt
regem Phrixeaque uellera poscunt/ lexque datur Minyis magnorum horrenda la-
borum, Met. 7.7– 8) in conjunction with the appointed site of the trial on the

marked [cf. Met. 11.224]. The final panel, featuring the Battle of Lapiths and Centaurs, draws
heavily upon the detailed, parodic account at Met. 12.210 – 535. Like Ovid, VF makes the use of
incongruous weapons – bowls, goblets, tables, and altars – a central element of the account,
and exploits the hybrid nature of the centaurs to enhance the bizarreness of the scene.”
 Hershkowitz 1998, 68 – 78.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 353

day itself: conueniunt populi sacrum Mauortis in aruum (“the people assemble in
the field sacred to Mars,” Met. 7.101). Ovid foregoes any reference to Cadmus’
snake in his account of Jason’s labors, because he has already narrated Cadmus’
killing of the snake of Mars (Martius anguis erat, Met. 3.32), his sowing of the
snake’s teeth, and the ranks of warriors that subsequently flower and fall in in-
ternecine warfare four books earlier, at the outset of Book Three (Met. 3.26 – 130).
But Valerius conflates his predecessor’s two accounts of Sown Men in this pas-
sage,¹² and in his lexical choices he is particularly indebted to Ovid, varying
Ovid’s Cadmeis (of Semele, Met. 3.287; of Ino, Met. 4.545) in the phrase Cadmei…
hydri (Val. Fl. 7.76); following Ovidian usage in admitting colloquial solito to epic,
notably at an earlier point in his treatment of the Argonautic material (et casu
solito formosior Aesone natus/ illa luce fuit, Met. 7.84– 5); likewise in admitting
prosaic retracto, in the sense of “review”, to epic (of Cadmus, Met. 4.569); and
applying to Aeetes Ovid’s description of Jason’s approach to the bulls in Meta-
morphoses 7 (tamen illis Aesone natus/ obuius it, Met. 7.110 – 11). Valerius may
even offer metapoetic comment on the neglect of the Argonautic theme after
Ovid’s version in Metamorphoses 7, in Aeetes’ opening remarks about the long
neglect suffered by the Colchian Campus Martius (Martius ante urbem longis
iacet horridus annis/ campus, Val. Fl. 7.62– 3).
When Valerius comes to narrate Jason’s labors later in the book, he marks
his debt to Ovidian scene-setting again. Upon awakening at dawn (Val.
Fl. 7.539 – 45), the Valerian Aeetes assumes that the Argonauts will have fled rath-
er than allow Jason to face the bulls alone, but as he prepares to scan the sea for
their ship, the Argonaut Echion arrives to inform him that Jason has already
taken his place in the Circean field of Mars and he demands that the Colchian
king send his bronze-footed bulls to battle (dicta ferens iam Circaeis Mauortis
in agris/ stare uirum, daret aeripedes in proelia tauros, Val. Fl. 7.544– 5). Here Va-
lerius closely reprises both the narrative impetus and the appointed setting of
Jason’s labors in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Met. 7.100 – 6):

Postera depulerat stellas Aurora micantes: 100

conueniunt populi sacrum Mauortis in aruum
consistuntque iugis; medio rex ipse resedit
agmine purpureus sceptroque insignis eburno.
ecce adamanteis Vulcanum naribus efflant
aeripedes tauri tactaeque uaporibus herbae 105
ardent…

 The conflation of the two is standard: see Perutelli 1998 ad loc.

354 Alison Keith

The next dawn had put to flight the flickering stars: the peoples gathered into the sacred
field of Mars and took their stand on the heights; the king himself sat in the midst of
the company, clad in purple and conspicuous with his ivory scepter. Look! The bronze-foot-
ed bulls come breathing fire from their adamantine nostrils and the grass blazed at the
touch of their hot breath…

The intensity of Valerius’ engagement with Ovid continues as Aeetes accepts the
challenge: ‘uos mihi nunc primum in flammas inuertite, tauri,/ aequora, nunc
totas aperite et uoluite flammas./ exeat Haemonio messis memoranda colono’
(“Now bulls for the first time plough furrows into flame and let a memorable har-
vest come forth to meet the Haemonian farmer,” Val. Fl. 7.547– 9). For Ovid, in his
description of the contest, had appropriated the Vergilian phrase uoluere flam-
mas from a description of the eruption of Etna in G. 1.473 and applied it to the
bulls of Aeetes, transmuting the Sicilian geography of Etna’s implied furnaces
into the Colchian bulls’ fire-power (Met. 7.106 – 10):

… utque solent pleni resonare camini

aut ubi terrena silices fornace soluti
concipiunt ignem liquidarum aspergine aquarum,
pectora sic intus clausas uoluentia flammas
gutturaque usta sonant…

and just as full furnaces are wont to ring or as stones burned in the earthen kiln crack and
grow hot at a splash of liquid water, so did the bulls’ chests and parched throats roar as
they rolled the flames pent up within…

A similar dynamic animates Val. Fl. 7.553 – 5, where Aeetes bids the Colchians set
up the ground of the contest: fatur et effusis pandi iubet aequora tauris./ pars et
Echionii subeunt immania dentis/ semina, pars diri portant graue robur aratri (“He
spoke and bade the plain be opened to the charging bulls. Some shoulder the
huge seeds of the Theban serpent’s teeth, others bear the heavy wood of the
dread plough”). Here Valerius echoes Ovid’s pointed application of another Ver-
gilian phrase (describing any plough, G. 1.162) specifically to Aeetes’ plough as
Jason takes it up: suppositosque iugo pondus graue cogit aratri/ ducere et insue-
tum ferro proscindere campum (“and he put them under the yoke and made them
draw the heavy plough and cut through the field unaccustomed to iron,”
Met. 7.118 – 19).
The geographical epithet Pagasaea in Valerius’ scene also derives directly
from Ovid’s version of the contest in Metamorphoses 7. Valerius refers to Jason’s
comrades, who accompany him to the site and salute him there, as “the youth of
Pagasae” (at sua magnanimum contra Pagasaea iuuentus/ prosequitur stipatque
ducem; tum maxima quisque/ dicta dedit, “but the youthful band from Pagasae
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 355

escorts their great-hearted leader and crowds round him; then each spoke heart-
ening words,” Val. Fl. 7.556 – 8), an adjective that appears in extant Latin first in
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, where it is applied to the Argo at the opening of Meta-
morphoses 7: Iamqve fretum Minyae Pagasaea puppe secabant (“And now the
Minyans were plowing the deep in their Thessalian ship,” Met. 7.1). In his com-
mentary on the Valerian lines, moreover, Alessandro Perutelli observes that the
Flavian poet likely also follows Ovid’s model at Met. 7.120 – 1, where the Argo-
nauts fortify their hero’s spirits in the contest: mirantur Colchi, Minyae clamoribus
augent/ adiciuntque animos (“the Colchians are amazed; but the Minyans in-
crease and fortify his courage with their shouts”).
The simile that follows Valerius’ introduction of Jason’s comrades has
seemed to commentators to draw attention to its Ovidian model by its very inco-
herence (Val. Fl. 7.559 – 63):

fixerat ille gradus totoque ex agmine solus

stabat, ut extremis desertus ab orbibus ales, 560
quem iam lassa dies Austrique ardentis harenae,
aut quem Riphaeas extantem rursus ad arces
nix et caerulei Boreae ferus abstulit horror

The hero planted his feet and stood out alone of all his company, like a bird deserted by its
last wheeling squadrons, which now the tired day and the sands of the burning South Wind
cut off or snow and the wild shuddering of the dark North Wind as it flies out towards the
Riphaean heights…

Here Valerius conflates Vergil’s learned geographical phrase Riphaeas… arces (G.
1.240), describing the Scythian Mount Riphae, with Ovid’s description of The-
seus’ killing of a (mountainous) Centaur named Ripheus at the Battle of Lapiths
and Centaurs in Thessaly: sternit…/ … summis exstantem Riphea siluis (“he killed
Ripheus, who stood over the treetops,” Met. 12.351– 2).¹³ I am inclined to view Va-
lerius’ odd phrasing here as correcting Vergil’s geography, since the Flavian
poet’s heroes are Thessalian in origin (like the Lapiths) while their destination,
Colchis on the river Phasis, he frequently describes as Scythian (hunc [sc. Phrix-
um] ferus Aeetes, Scythiam Phasinque rigentem/ qui colit…/ … mactat, “Savage
Aeetes, who dwells in Scythia and the frozen Phasis… slaughtered him,” Val.
Fl. 1.43).¹⁴ Valerius thus implies the Thessalian Jason’s triumph over the Scythian
Aeetes through the erudite application of geographical epithets to his characters.

 For Valerius’ interest in this Ovidian battle narrative, see Zissos 2008, 153, quoted above n.
10.
 Cf. Val. Fl. 1.2, 1.59, 1.87 et passim.
356 Alison Keith

The climactic scene of Valerius’ epic well illustrates the subtlety and sophis-
tication of the Flavian poet’s appropriation of Ovidian topoi in their application
to Jason’s arrival and appointed labors in Colchis. Elsewhere on the voyage too,
however, Valerius draws on Ovidian landscapes, though primarily in relation to
Ovid’s development of the locus amoenus tradition, in passages that seem to
renew the sexual symbolism with which Ovid had invested the ‘pleasance’ as
a landscape of desire.¹⁵ For example, the Valerian Hercules rescues the Trojan
princess Hesione from a rocky crag in the Troad (Val. Fl. 2.451– 549), an episode
briefly related by Ovid in Metamorphoses 11 (Met. 11.205 – 13) but only rarely
found elsewhere in extant Latin literature.¹⁶ In his treatment of this episode,
however, Valerius closely reworks Ovid’s account of how the hero Perseus res-
cues the Ethiopian princess Andromeda from a rocky crag in Libya
(Met. 4.668 – 739). Particularly striking is the (non-Ovidian) phrasing of Valerius’
opening description of the seductive charms of the shore (Alcides Telamonque
comes dum litora blando/ anfractu sinuosa legunt, Val. Fl. 2.451– 2). The phrasing
nonetheless invites us to expect an Ovidian narrative of amatory desire such as
we find in the Perseus episode of Metamorphoses 4, if not an out-and-out rape
narrative such as Ovid offers in any number of other episodes in the first five
books of the Metamorphoses. ¹⁷ Valerius plays against our Ovidian expectations,
however, by giving us an Ovidian narrative setting that evokes the ‘amours’ of
the gods, while characterizing Hercules as a thoroughly ‘epic’ figure, motivated
by glory rather than by love (as Perseus was) to save the beautiful maiden (cf.
Val. Fl. 2.493 – 6).
Elsewhere Valerius recuperates the erotic undertones of Ovid’s locus amoe-
nus landscapes to support the amatory underpinning of his main narrative, in
his association of the young Medea with the verdant landscape of Hecate’s
grove outside Colchis (Val. Fl. 5.333 – 51, 6.495 – 502 ~ Met. 7.74– 95). Valerius
flags the setting as an Ovidian topos when he introduces it, by comparing the
banks of the Phasis to the site of Proserpina’s rape in Sicily (Val. Fl. 5.343 – 9),
the subject of a famous ecphrasis in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Val. Fl. 5.329 – 35,
341– 9):¹⁸

 Hinds 2002. On Valerius’ “overripened” Ovidian landscapes, including that in which Hesione
is exposed, cf. Slaney (this volume). On the etymological geography of amatory concealment in
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, cf. Ziogas (this volume).
 Bömer 1980 ad loc.
 Cf. Hinds 2002, 130 – 6.
 On Ovid’s treatment of the rape of Proserpina, see Hinds 1987 and 2002.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 357

Forte deum uariis per noctem territa monstris,

senserat ut pulsas tandem Medea tenebras, 330
rapta toris primi iubar ad placabile Phoebi
ibat et horrendas lustrantia flumina noctes.
namque soporatos tacitis in sedibus artus
dum premit alta quies nullaeque in uirgine curae,
uisa pauens castis Hecates excedere lucis; 335
…
his turbata minis fluuios ripamque petebat
Phasidis aequali Scythidum comitante caterua.
florea per uerni qualis iuga duxit Hymetti
aut Sicula sub rupe choros hinc gressibus haerens
Pallados hinc carae Proserpina iuncta Dianae, 345
altior ac nulla comitum certante, priusquam
palluit et uiso pulsus decor omnis Auerno:
talis et in uittis geminae cum lumine taedae
Colchis erat…

By chance Medea, alarmed in the night by various portents of the gods, sprang from her
couch when she finally saw the shadows fled and made her way towards the sun’s first
heartening gleam and the river-streams that purge night’s horrors. For while deep quiet
held her slumbering limbs in the silent bedchamber and no trouble was in her maidenly
breast, she seemed to her terror to step forth from Hecate’s holy grove… Disturbed by
these threatening signs she sought the banks of Phasis’ stream amid a band of Scythian
girls, her peers in age. As Proserpina in spring-time led the dance over Hymettus’ flowering
ridges or beneath the cliffs of Sicily, on this side stepping close by Pallas, on that side hand
in hand with her beloved Diana, taller than they and surpassing all her fellows, before she
grew pale at the sight of Avernus and all her beauty fled: so fair also was the Colchian in
her sacred fillets by the light of her twin torches…

The basic plot of the nubile maiden, disturbed by dreams, going down to the riv-
erbank where she is compared to Artemis is Homeric, applied to Nausikaa in
Odyssey 6, and subsequently rehearsed by Apollonius in application to Medea
in Argonautica 3. The comparison to Sicily and the reference to Proserpina’s
rape there, however, are Ovidian intrusions into this Homero-Apollonian matrix
(Met. 5.385 – 95):

Haud procul Hennaeis lacus est a moenibus altae, 385

nomine Pergus, aquae; non illo plura Caystros
carmina cycnorum labentibus audit in undis.
silua coronat aquas cingens latus omne suisque
frondibus ut uelo Phoebeos summouet ictus.
frigora dant rami, uarios humus umida flores; 390
perpetuum uer est. quo dum Proserpina luco
ludit et aut uiolas aut candida lilia carpit,
dumque puellari studio calathosque sinumque
358 Alison Keith

implet et aequales certat superare legendo,

paene simul uisa est dilectaque raptaque Diti 395

Not far from the walls of Enna is a pool of deep water, Pergus by name; Cayster does not
hear more swans’ songs in its gliding waters than that pool. A surrounding forest crowns
the waters on every side, and keeps away the sun’s rays with its foliage as with an awning;
the branches supply cool shade, the moist earth purple flowers: there is everlasting spring.
While Proserpina plays in this grove and plucks either violets or white lilies, and while she
fills her baskets and lap in girlish enthusiasm and contests to surpass her companions in
gathering, almost as soon as she was seen, she was loved and ravished by Dis…

Valerius employs Ovidian topography to put pressure on the Homero-Apollonian

template of his narrative, in which a foreign hero’s arrival leads an unmarried
princess to think of marriage, and he thereby motivates more fully the Apolloni-
an outcome, in which the intruder in the landscape ravishes the maiden whose
beauty the landscape represents.¹⁹ Valerius recuperates specific details of Ovid’s
famous ecphrasis to mark the debt. As Medea sets out from Hecate’s grove she
seems to enter that Ovidian glade (Met. 5.391) not far from Enna’s walls
(Met. 5.385) under the Sicilian cliffs (Arg. 5.344), where Proserpina (Met. 5.390,
Val. Fl. 5.345) frolicked with her fellows (Met. 5.394, Arg. 5.342), plucking the
flowers (Met. 5.392, Val. Fl. 5.348) of spring (Met. 5.391, Val Fl. 5.343) before
being ravished (rapta, Met. 5.394; cf. Val. Fl. 5.342) by the Lord of the Underworld
(Met. 5.395, Val. Fl. 5.347). Even Valerius’ image of flowering Hymettus (Val.
Fl. 5.343) may be owed to Ovid, for it is in Metamorphoses 7 that the Ovidian
Cephalus encounters Aurora on Mt Hymettus and is no sooner seen than, like
Proserpina, ravished: uertice de summo semper florentis Hymetti/ lutea mane
uidet pulsis Aurora tenebris/ inuitumque rapit (“golden Aurora, driving off the
shadows in the morning, saw me on the very top of ever-flowering Hymettus,
and ravished me against my will,” Met. 7.702– 4).
Valerius focalizes Hecate’s grove through Ovid’s Enna – and Medea through
Persephone – again in the following book, when Juno (in the guise of Medea’s
sister Chalciope) leads her protégée to the walls of Colchis, in order to give
her an unimpeded view of Jason’s prowess on the battlefield (Val. Fl. 6.490 –
502):

ducitur infelix ad moenia summa futuri 490

nescia uirgo mali et falsae commissa sorori;
lilia per uernos lucent uelut alba colores
praecipue, quis uita breuis totusque parumper
floret honor fuscis et iam notus imminet alis.

 On this trope in Latin epic, see Keith 2000, 36 – 64.

 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 359

hanc residens altis Hecate Perseia lucis 495

flebat et has imo referebat pectore uoces:
“deseris heu nostrum nemus aequalesque cateruas,
a misera, ut Graias haut sponte uageris ad urbes!
non inuisa tamen; neque te, mea cura, relinquam.
magna fugae monumenta dabis, spernere nec usquam 500
mendaci captiua uiro, meque ille magistram
sentiet et raptu famulae doluisse pudendo.”

The unlucky maiden is led to the summit of the walls: even as white lilies gleam conspic-
uous through the hues of springtime, lilies whose life is short and their glory reigns but for
a while and already the dark pinions of the South wind hover near. Persean Hecate dwell-
ing in her lofty groves beheld her, and from the depth of her heart uttered these words:
“Alas! You leave our grove and your companions’ bands, unhappy girl, to wander to the
cities of the Greeks against your will! Yet you do not go unseen; nor will I forsake you,
my dear. You will give a great memorial of your flight, nor though a captive will you ever
be despised by your faithless husband; he will know that I was your teacher and that I
grieved in shame when he ravished my handmaid.”

Valerius’ Medea, though infelix like Vergil’s Dido, is still more like Ovid’s Proser-
pina on Hecate’s (admittedly biased) interpretation of the action here. For sub-
orned by Juno (again like Dido), Medea is all too similar to the lilies that Proser-
pina was gathering (Met. 5.392) when Dis plucked her from Ovid’s Enna (“her self
a fairer flower” in Milton’s reminiscence of the scene, PL 4.270). The location
from which Hecate observes Medea in Valerius’ epic also seems significant
(Arg. 6.495), since it pinpoints quite precisely the site of the Ovidian Medea’s de-
viation from pudor to ardor, as she traverses the path from bedchamber to grove
(Met. 7.74– 7):

Ibat ad antiquas Hecates Perseidos aras

quas nemus umbrosum secretaque silua tegebat,
et iam fortis erat pulsusque resederat ardor,
cum uidet Aesoniden extinctaque flamma reluxit

She was going to the ancient altars of Persean Hecate, which a shady grove and hidden
wood concealed, and now she was strong of purpose and her vanquished passion had
died down, when she saw Aeson’s son and the extinguished flame lit up again.

The Ovidian Medea, intending to honor her vow to Hecate, nonetheless suc-
cumbs to her passion for Jason as she passes through a briefly sketched locus
amoenus (Met. 7.75), a setting that recalls the earlier landscapes of desire in Met-
amorphoses 1– 5, in which nymphs are repeatedly ravished by lustful gods. In Va-
lerius too, Medea succumbs once again to Jason’s charms. In both Ovid and Va-
lerius, the site of Hecate’s grove marks Medea’s rejection of Colchian commit-
360 Alison Keith

ments out of amatory desire, in favor of engagement with Greece and the Argo-
nauts, in the person of Jason.
In repeatedly setting Medea in the verdant landscapes of desire that Ovid de-
veloped in the Metamorphoses, Valerius plays upon the erotic underpinnings of
his martial narrative and pays homage at the same time to his Augustan prede-
cessor’s coimplication of desire and violence in the epic landscape. A sophisti-
cated reader of Ovid’s epic, Valerius works both with and against the landscape
descriptions of the Metamorphoses to highlight the themes of his own mytholog-
ical epic. When we turn to Statius’ Thebaid and the renovation there of Ovidian
landscapes, however, we see a still darker approach to Ovidian landscapes.

Theban Geographies
The action of Statius’ epic proper begins with Oedipus’ vengeful prayer to Tisi-
phone, asking the Fury to visit Thebes and inspire hatred and internecine war
between his two sons. The intervention of the Furies was a well-established fea-
ture of the conflict between the brothers Eteocles and Polynices, as Statius im-
plies in Oedipus’ prayer: multumque mihi consueta uocari/ adnue, Tisiphone, per-
uersaque uota secunda (“and Tisiphone, accustomed to be much invoked by me,
approve and favor my depraved wishes,” Theb. 1.58 – 9).²⁰ By specifying the inter-
vening Erinys as Tisiphone, moreover, Statius signals a specific debt to Ovid,
who first identifies the Theban Fury by this name when she undertakes Juno’s
request to punish the descendants of Cadmus for Jupiter’s adulteries with Europa
and Semele (Met. 4.420 – 511).²¹
The Ovidian Fury departs on her errand “without delay” (nec mora,
Met. 4.481), and her speed is imitated by Statius’ Tisiphone (ilicet igne Iouis laps-
isque citatior astris/ tristibus exsiluit ripis, “thereupon she leapt up from the sav-
age banks more swiftly than Jove’s fire and falling stars,” Theb. 1.92– 3), as she
sets out on the well known journey to Thebes: arripit extemplo Maleae de ualle
resurgens/ notum iter ad Thebas (“coming up again from the valley of Malea, she
immediately seized the familiar path to Thebes,” Theb. 1.100 – 1). Denis Feeney
observes that her journey is “‘[f]amiliar’ to readers in the first instance from
Ovid (Met. 4.481– 8)”,²² and Statius himself draws marked attention to the
Fury’s (literary) return to Thebes, first by commenting on her familiarity with

 Cf. Feeney 1991, 341. For the tradition, see Venini 1970, 20.
 On Ovid’s Theban narrative, see Hardie 1990 and Janan 2009; on Statius’ interest in Ovid’s
Theban narrative, see Keith 2004/5.
 Feeney 1991, 344 n. 106.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 361

the route (neque enim uelocior ullas/ itque reditque uias cognataue Tartara
mauult, “for she neither goes and returns upon any road more swiftly nor prefers
kindred Tartarus,” Theb. 1.101– 2); and then by describing her as enjoying a pan-
oramic view of the landscapes of Greek myth before swooping down on the The-
ban royal house (Theb. 1.114– 22):

Vt stetit, abrupta qua plurimus arce Cithaeron

occurrit caelo, fera sibila crine uirenti 115
congeminat, signum terris, unde omnis Achaei
ora maris late Pelopeaque regna resultant.
audiit et medius caeli Parnassos et asper
Eurotas, dubiamque iugo fragor impulit Oeten
in latus, et geminis uix fluctibus obstitit Isthmos. 120
ipsa suum genetrix curuo delphine uagantem
abripuit frenis gremioque Palaemona pressit.

She stopped where the sheer citadel of lofty Cithaeron meets the sky and redoubled the
wild hissing from her green snaky tresses, a signal to the lands, whence the whole shore
of the Achaean sea and the kingdom of Pelops re-echoed far and wide. Parnassus in heav-
en’s midst and rough Eurotas heard her, and the crash shook Oeta tottering on its height the
length of its range, and the Isthmus scarcely withstood twin surges. Palaemon’s mother
snatched him from the curved back of the dolphin he rode around the sea and clutched
him to her bosom.

The landmarks of Theban myth shudder at the Fury’s arrival – most famously, of
course, Mt. Cithaeron, the site of Pentheus’ demise in Euripides’ Bacchae and
marked by Ovid in his redaction of Theban myth in Metamorphoses 3 as a
well-trodden literary landscape through his emphasis on the echoic acoustics
that draw Pentheus there (Met. 3.701– 7):

Perstat Echionides nec iam iubet ire, sed ipse

uadit ubi electus facienda ad sacra Cithaeron
cantibus et clara bacchantum uoce sonabat.
ut fremit acer equus, cum bellicus aere canoro
signa dedit tubicen, pugnaeque adsumit amorem, 705
Penthea sic ictus longis ululatibus aether
mouit et audito clamore recanduit ira.

The son of Echion stood stock still, nor did he now bid others go, but he himself went to
where Cithaeron, chosen for the performance of the sacred rites, resounded with song and
the Bacchants’ piercing voices. As a keen horse rages, when the war-trumpet of sonorous
bronze sounds the signal, and he is fired by love of battle, so was Pentheus stirred by
the long-drawn cries ringing in the ether, and his anger kindled at the sound of the clash.
362 Alison Keith

Statius elaborates the literary self-reflexivity of Ovid’s echoic account (which it-
self echoes the Maenad simile Vergil applies to Dido at Aen. 4.301– 4)²³ in his em-
phasis on gemination and iterative sound effects,²⁴ and his epic geography also
draws, significantly, on Ovid’s Theban (and other) myths. Balancing the opening
reference to Cithaeron is a closing reference to the Corinthian Isthmus, which
Statius associates particularly closely with Leucothea and her son Palaemon.²⁵
Although Leucothea is already known to Homer as a sea-goddess
(Od. 5.333 – 5), her full tale first appears in Latin literature at the conclusion of
Ovid’s Theban narrative (Met. 4.525 – 42).²⁶ There the Augustan poet relates Pa-
laemon’s transformation from Melicertes, the mortal son of Athamas and Ino,
into a sea-god after his mother leaps off a cliff into the sea with him to escape
his father’s mad killing spree and is herself transformed into Leucothoe; indeed
it is Ovid who sets Palaemon’s death in the Ionian Sea (in Ionio immenso,
Met. 4.535).

 bacchatur, qualis commotis excita sacris/ Thyias, ubi audito stimulant trieterica Baccho/ orgia
nocturnusque uocat clamore Cithaeron (“she raves just like a Thyiad, maddened at the stirring of
the sacred symbols, when at the sound of Bacchus’ name the mystic revels in their triennial
cycle prick her on and midnight Cithaeron loudly calls”).
 Cf. Wills 1996.
 On Statius’ references to Leucothea and Palaemon, cf. Parkes (this volume).
 Callimachus seems to have treated the story of Palaemon (Call. fr. 787 Pf., ψευδόμενοί σε
Παλαῖμον), perhaps in Aetia 4 (Call. frr. 91– 2 Pf.), though he does not seem to bring Palaemon
into relation with Corinth (Call. Aet. 4 fr. 91 Pf., Α[….] Μελικέρτα, μιῆς ἐπὶ πότνια Βύνη (“{O
Aonian} Melicertes, Queen Byne on one {anchor} …},”). The Diegesis explains:
Dieg. II 41 Α[….] Μελικέρτα, μιῆς ἐπὶ πότνια Βύνη
III 1 Ἑξῆς· ἐπεὶ <σὺν> Μελικέρτῃ τῷ παιδὶ ἑαυ-
τὴν κατεπόντισεν Ἰνώ, ἐξέπε-
σεν εἰς αἰγιαλὸν τῆς Τενέδου τὸ σῶ-
μ[α] τοῦ Μελικέρτου· τοὺς δὲ ἐκεῖ πο-
τε κατοικοῦντας Λέλεγας ποιῆσαι
αυτῷ βωμόν, ἐφ᾽ οὗ ἡ πόλις ποιεῖ
θυσίαν, ὅταν περὶ μεγάλων φο-
βῆται, τοι[ά]νδ[ε]· γυνὴ τὸ ἑαυτῆς βρέ-
φος κα[ταθύσα]σα παραχρῆμα τυφλοῦ-
ται. τοῦ[το δ᾽ ὕσ]τερον κατελύθη, ὅτε
οἱ ἀπὸ Ὀ[ρέστου] Λέ[σβ]ον ᾤκησαν.

After Ino {here called Byne, a Boeotian by-form} threw herself into the sea with her child
Melicertes, the body of the child was washed up on a shore of Tenedos. The Leleges, who
once lived there, set up an altar in his honour. On it the city performs the following sacrifice
when in great danger: a woman kills her baby and at once blinds herself. This practice was
abolished later, when the descendants of Orestes inhabited Lesbos.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 363

The Statian Fury’s panoramic view of mythological Greece – from Cithaeron

to Pelops’ kingdom, Mycenae; from Parnassus to Oeta; and from the river Eurotas
to the Corinthian Isthmus – may also owe something to the erudite geographical
catalogues that recur throughout the Metamorphoses (and, indeed, in Callima-
chus’ geographical researches).²⁷ A particularly close parallel may lie in Ovid’s
panoramic survey of the Greek realms that sent emissaries to condole (the The-
ban king) Amphion on the death of his wife Niobe (Pelops’ daughter) and their
children (Met. 6.412– 21), for the catalogue opens with Argos, Sparta and Pelops’
own kingdom of Mycenae, and closes with the Isthmus; others include the
mountains (Met. 2.216 – 25: Oete, 2.217; Parnasos, 2.221) and rivers (Met. 2.237–
59: Eurotas, 2.247) that caught fire when Phaethon drove the chariot of the
Sun in Metamorphoses 2.
Ovid’s Thebes extends its rule over a beautiful but deadly landscape – track-
less wilds of woods and mountains ideally suited to the hunt, though monstrous
failure seems inevitably to attend individual Thebans’ departures from the city,
whether in exile or on the hunt (Cadmus, Actaeon, Narcissus, Pentheus, Agave).
In an important analysis of Ovid’s “Thebaid”, Philip Hardie has identified as one
of its most important themes the repeated “opposition between city and wilder-
ness”.²⁸ This opposition is repeatedly figured in the wanderings of members of
the Theban royal house, beginning with Cadmus, the founder of the line. Or-
dered by his father Agenor to find his sister Europa, Cadmus embarks on a fruit-
less search that Ovid represents from the start as exile from his ancestral lands
(Met. 3.6 – 7). Consultation of the oracle of Apollo at Delphi imposes further wan-
dering on the exiled Tyrian, when he is told to found a city on the site where an
unyoked cow lies down (Met. 3.10 – 13). The unyoked cow stands as an image of
the wilderness Cadmus is to civilize through city foundation, as does the Serpent
of Mars which guards the local spring, attacking and killing the Tyrians when
Cadmus sends them to procure water for sacrifice (Met. 3.28 – 49). Although Cad-
mus overcomes the snake and founds the city of Thebes, at the end of his life,
overwhelmed by a succession of familial disasters, he goes into exile once

 Callimachus’ prose writings on rivers and stones, and even his Pinakes, can be interpreted as
textual manifestations of the Ptolemaic drive for hegemony over the Hellenistic Mediterranean,
in the same vein as, e. g., Posidippus’ Lithika, as discussed by Barchiesi 2005a, Bing 2005, and
Kuttner 2005.
 Hardie 1990, quotation at 231; other important themes he discusses are human impiety and
the vengeance of the gods, blindness and insight, and recognition and reversal – all in the
context of the sacrificial relations that structure both classical tragedy and Vergil’s ktistic epic;
cf. Feldherr 1997 and Keith 2002. All three studies are indebted to the discussion of the role of
Thebes in Attic tragedy by Zeitlin 1990.
364 Alison Keith

again (Met. 4.567– 8). Recognizing the impiety of his killing of the serpent, he is
finally transformed, along with his wife Harmonia, into a snake (Met. 4.576 – 9).
In Ovid’s account of early Theban history, the founder’s biography supplies the
template (which I have elsewhere called the Cadmean paradigm²⁹) for his de-
scendants and fellow-Thebans, who similarly abandon the city to face the dan-
gers of untamed nature and vengeful deities: Actaeon, Narcissus, Athamas
and Ino in the hunt; Pentheus in search of the Theban women and their celebra-
tion of Dionysus’ rites; and even the Theban prophet Tiresias, who ventures into
the woods, where he twice attacks mating snakes, before he ultimately encoun-
ters a vengeful goddess.
Statius revisits the Cadmean pattern of exile in his portrait of Polynices
going into exile in Thebaid 1.³⁰ An unnamed Theban draws the link between
Cadmus’ wanderings and his descendants’ exile (Theb. 1.180 – 5):

…an inde uetus Thebis extenditur omen, 180

ex quo Sidonii nequiquam blanda iuuenci
pondera Carpathio iussus sale quaerere Cadmus
exul Hyanteos inuenit regna per agros,
fraternasque acies fetae telluris hiatu
augurium seros dimisit ad usque nepotes? 185

Or does the old omen extend to modern Thebes, from the time when Cadmus, bidden to
search vainly for the pretty burden of the Sidonian bullock in the Carpathian sea, found
in exile a kingdom in Boeotian fields, and in the aperture of the fertile earth left kindred
battle-lines as an augury to his late-born descendants?

Statius dubs both Cadmus and Polynices “the Tyrian exile” (Tyrii exsulis,
1.153 – 4; Tyrius exsul, 3.406,) on the model of the Ovidian Cadmus, himself a Tyr-
ian (Tyria… de gente profecti, Met. 3.35; Sidonius hospes, 3.129; Sidone profectus,
4.572)³¹ and an exile (orbe pererrato…/ … profugus, Met. 3.6 – 7; longisque errori-
bus actus/ contigit Illyricos profuga cum coniuge fines, 4.567– 8). The exquisite
geographical epithet Hyanteus in the anonymous critic’s speech also points spe-
cifically to Ovid, for it first appears in extant Latin in the Metamorphoses (5.312,
8.310) and varies the Augustan poet’s Hyantius, applied to Cadmus’ grandson

 Keith 2004/5.
 On wandering as both deviation and error in Statius’ Thebaid, cf. Parkes (this volume).
 Statius applies the adjective Sidonius to Europa and the bull that ravished her (Theb. 1.5, 181),
Cadmus (3.180, 300), and their country of origin (8.229, 11.212; cf. 10.648); thence he applies it to
Thebes and the Thebans (3.656, 4.648, 7.442– 3, 7.600, 8.218, 8.330, 8.686, 9.144, 9.567, 9.709,
10.126, 10.297, 10.480 – 1, 11.303). The adjective is frequent in Ovid, who also coined the feminine
adjectival form Sidonis, which Statius uses of Europa (Theb. 9.334): see OLD s.v.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 365

Actaeon as he wanders in the Theban landscape: cum iuuenis placido per deuia
lustra uagantes/ participes operum compellat Hyantius ore (“when the Boeotian
youth addressed with friendly words his comrades in the hunt as they wandered
through the trackless wilds”, Met. 3.146 – 7).³² When Polynices leaves Thebes,
therefore, he rehearses both Cadmus’ exile and Actaeon’s wanderings: interea
patriis olim uagus exul ab oris/ Oedipodionides furto deserta pererrat/ Aoniae
(“meanwhile the son of Oedipus, long a wandering exile from his ancestral
lands, furtively traversed the wilds of Boeotia,” Theb. 1.312– 14). As his characters
travel through the topography of Ovid’s Theban narrative, so Statius rehearses a
series of Ovidian mythological topoi.
Polynices’ path in the Thebaid leads initially from Thebes to Argos
(Theb. 1.324– 35):

tunc sedet Inachias urbes ³³ Danaeiaque arua

et caligantes abrupto sole Mycenas 325
ferre iter impauidum, seu praeuia ducit Erinys,
seu fors illa uiae, siue hac immota uocabat
Atropos. Ogygiis ululata furoribus antra
deserit et pingues Baccheo sanguine colles.
inde plagam, qua molle sedens in plana Cithaeron 330
porrigitur lassumque inclinat ad aequora montem,
praeterit. hinc arte scopuloso in limite pendens
infames Scirone petras Scyllaeaque rura
purpureo regnata seni mitemque Corinthon
linquit et in mediis audit duo litora campis. 335

Then he settled on bearing his journey without fear to Inachos’ cities and Danae’s fields,
and Mycenae, which grew dark at the withdrawal of the sun – whether the Fury preceded
him on his way or the chance direction of the road, or Atropos summoned him by this road.
He left the glades that resound with Theban cries and the hills rich with Bacchic blood and
then passed by the region where Cithaeron stretches, settling gently to the plain, and slopes
wearily to the sea. Then, climbing skillfully up a rocky path, he left behind Sciron’s noto-
rious cliffs and Scylla’s country where the purple-haired king ruled, and gentle Corinth,
and heard the two shores of the Isthmus resound in the middle of the plain.

Oedipus’ son here retraces Ovid’s narrative trajectory in the Theban narrative of
Metamorphoses 3 – 4, from Thebes to Argos (Met. 4.607– 11):

solus Abantiades ab origine cretus eadem

Acrisius superest, qui moenibus arceat urbis

 For the rarity of the adjective, see Bömer 1969, 49 ad loc.

 Inachias… urbes, Verg. A. 11.286.
366 Alison Keith

Argolicae contraque deum ferat arma genusque

non putet esse Iouis; neque enim Iouis esse putabat 610
Persea, quem pluuio Danae conceperat auro.

Only Abas’ grandson Acrisius, sprung from the same origin as Bacchus (sc. Jupiter), re-
mains to shut the god out of the walls of his Argive city and bear arms against the god,
and believe his lineage not to be Jove’s; for neither did he think that Perseus was Jove’s
son, whom Danae conceived in a shower of gold.

Ovid’s geographical conjunction pivots on the impious rejection of Bacchus’ god-

head by Perseus’ grandfather Acrisius, who rehearses the Theban Pentheus’ rash
decision to take up arms against the god (Met. 4.607– 11). Ovid’s narrative linkage
looks very much like one of those “frigid” transitions deprecated by Quintilian as
a “childish affectation” (Inst. 4.1.77). Whatever we may think of Ovid’s geographic
sleight of hand here, however, his example is of considerable relevance to Sta-
tius, who draws on the diction and themes of the Metamorphoses repeatedly
in his own narrative conjunction of Argos with Thebes. For in his exposition
of Polynices’ route from Thebes to Argos here, Statius adopts an Ovidian coinage
(Am. 3.6.13, Ars 1.225), the adjective Danaëia meaning “of or connected with
Danaë” (Theb. 1.324), to characterize the telos of Polynices’ exilic journey.³⁴ Leav-
ing behind Cithaeron, whose Bacchic howling we have already considered in its
Ovidian context at the end of Metamorphoses 3, Polynices heads towards the
Isthmus by way of Sciron’s cliffs and Scylla’s country, i. e., Megara. Ovid retells
both stories in the Metamorphoses, the first allusively at Met. 7.443 – 7, the second
expansively at the opening of Met. 8.6 – 151. While Ovid is the earliest extant ex-
ponent of the myth of Sciron in Latin, Scylla is one of the ‘It’ girls of Alexandriz-
ing neoteric poetry, her story related in Parthenius’ Metamorphoses (SH 637) and
the pseudo-Vergilian Ciris (cf. Verg. Ecl. 6.74– 7).³⁵
The Flavian epicist returns to a specifically Ovidian narrative trajectory at
the end of Thebaid 1 (557– 720), in his redaction of Callimachus’ aetion of the
origin of the Argive festival in honour of Apollo, which commemorates the
death of the infant Linus and the heroism of Coroebus (Call. Aet. frr. 28 – 34
M). In the midst of his Callimachean aetiology, Statius underlines the special
relevance of Ovid’s ‘Perseid’ of Metamorphoses 4, which supplies an important
Argive mythological back-story to his narrative trajectory, in his description of

 And he will later apply the adjective to the Argive seer Amphiaraus (6.462).
 Significantly, Callimachus includes both myths in his Hecale (frr. 59 – 60 and 90 Hollis).
Statius thus here offers a brief Callimachean itinerary inset within a more expansive Ovidian
narrative program.
 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 367

the goblet from which Adrastus offers the first libation to the god
(Theb. 1.543 – 7):

tenet haec operum caelata figuras:

aureus anguicomam praesecto Gorgona collo
ales habet, iam iamque uagas (ita uisus) in auras 545
exilit; illa graues oculos languentiaque ora
paene mouet uiuoque etiam pallescit in auro.

This cup, embossed, holds images: a golden, winged figure holds the snake-haired Gorgon
head, severed from her neck, and now already wandering, as it seemed, he leapt into the
breezes; she nearly moves her heavy eyes and drooping face, and even grows pale in the
living gold.

If the banquet setting, with its introduction of Adrastus’ daughters to the heroes
they will marry two books later, recalls Dido’s banquet in Aeneid 1 at which the
Carthaginian queen “drinks deep draughts of love” (A. 1.749), the image of Per-
seus bearing aloft the Gorgon’s head embossed on the cup points specifically
to Ovid’s Perseus narrative. For Statius here refashions Ovid’s introduction of
the Argive hero Perseus (Met. 4.612– 18):

mox tamen Acrisium (tanta est praesentia ueri)

tam uiolasse deum quam non agnosse nepotem
paenitet; impositus iam caelo est alter, at alter
uiperei referens spolium memorabile monstri 615
aera carpebat tenerum stridentibus alis.
cumque super Libycas uictor penderet harenas,
Gorgonei capitis guttae cecidere cruentae.

Soon, however, Acrisius will regret having assaulted the god – such is the presence of the
truth – as much as not having recognized his grandson. The former has now been placed in
the sky, while the latter snatched the slender breezes with hissing wings, bearing the re-
nowned prize of the snaky monster. And when the conquering hero hung above the Libyan
sands the bloody drops of the Gorgon’s head fell…

Statius characterizes Ovid’s Argive hero Perseus (Met. 4.621– 4) as another wan-
dering exile (Theb. 1.545), adapting him to fit the Cadmean paradigm of Ovid’s
Theban narrative – and his own.
A similar procedure of Ovidian condensation marks the opening of the aetio-
logical tale Statius’ Argive king Adrastus tells his guests (Theb. 1.562– 9):

postquam caerulei sinuosa uolumina monstri,

terrigenam Pythona deus septem orbibus atris
amplexum Delphos squamisque annosa terentem
robora, Castaliis dum fontibus ore trisulco 565
368 Alison Keith

fusus hiat nigro sitiens alimenta ueneno,

perculit, asumptis numerosa in uulnera telis,
Cirrhaeique dedit centum per iugera campi
uix tandem explicitum …

After the god struck the slithering coils of the dark blue monster, earthborn Python who
embraced Delphi with his seven black circles and wore down the aged oaks with his scales,
and even while stretched out by the Castalian spring gaped with three-fold mouth thirsting
to nourish his black poison; and after he left him lying over a hundred acres of the Cir-
rhaean field, still scarcely unrolled over a hundred acres…

The diction and geographical setting recuperate those of Statius’ Ovidian exem-
plar (Met. 1.440 – 7; 457– 60):

terror eras; tantum spatii de monte tenebas. 440

hunc deus arquitenens, numquam letalibus armis
ante nisi in dammis capreisque fugacibus usus,
mille grauem telis, exhausta paene pharetra,
perdidit effuso per uulnera nigra ueneno.
neue operis famam posset delere uetustas, 445
instituit sacros celebri certamine ludos,
Pythia perdomitae serpentis nomine dictos.
…
dixerat; ‘ista decent umeros gestamina nostros,
qui dare certa ferae, dare uulnera possumus hosti,
qui modo pestifero tot iugera uentre prementem
strauimus innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis. 460

Python, you were a cause of terror to newly created people – you held so much space on the
mountain. This snake the bow-wielding god destroyed with deadly weapons he had never
used before except on does and fleet wild goats, crushing him with a thousand darts, his
quiver nearly emptied, and the snake’s venom bled out his black wounds. And lest time
could be able to destroy the fame of his deed, he established sacred games at a thronged
contest, called “Pythian” after the name of the vanquished snake… The Delian god spoke:
“these weapons befit my shoulders, since I can give unerring wounds to wild beasts and my
foes; and recently I laid low the Python, swollen with countless arrows, which covered so
many acres with his plague-bearing belly.”

Charles McNelis has brilliantly analyzed Statius’ debts to Ovid here both in the
aetiological cast he gives to the vignette of Apollo’s killing of the Python and in
the narrative progression of his epic from divine triumph to divine rape.³⁶ If Cal-
limachus is the “code model” for Statius’ aetiology, however, Ovid is clearly the
immediate model for Apollo’s conquest of the Delphic Python.

 McNelis 2007, 29.

 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 369

For Statius’ Python is not only recognizably related to Ovid’s Delphic inter-
loper but also, even more ominously, to the Snake of Mars whom Cadmus kills to
found the city of Thebes at the outset of Ovid’s “Thebaid” (Met. 3.31– 49). Thus
Ovid’s Theban snake, unlike the Delphic Python, lives by a spring (et specus in
medio uirgis ac uimine densus/ … uberibus fecundus aquis, Met. 3.29 – 31; cf.
Theb. 1.565), which he defends with a three-fold mouth (Met. 3.33 – 4, 3.56 – 7;
cf. Theb. 1.565) and poisonous breath (Met. 3.48 – 9, 73 – 6; cf. Theb. 566).
Ovid’s Martial snake is likewise dark blue (caeruleus serpens, Met. 3.38;
Theb. 1.562) and notable for the extent of the scaly coils (uolubilibus squamosos
nexibus orbes/ torquet et immensos saltu sinuatur in arcus, Met. 3.41– 2; cf.
Theb. 1.563 – 5) in which he embraces his victims (longis complexibus,
Met. 3.48; cf. amplexum, Theb. 1.564). Ovid’s Theban serpent finally meets his
death when Cadmus pins him to an oak (Met. 3.90 – 4):

donec Agenorides coniectum in guttura ferrum

usque sequens pressit, dum retro quercus eunti
obstitit et fixa est pariter cum robore ceruix.
pondere serpentis curuata est arbor et ima
parte flagellari gemuit sua robora caudae.

… until the son of Agenor, following him closely, thrust his spear and pressed it into his
throat while an oak blocked his way as he was retreating and his neck was transfixed
along with the hardwood. The tree bent with the snake’s weight and groaned that its
trunk was lashed with the very tip of the serpent’s tail.

Caught in the pristine Boeotian glade, Ovid’s Martial snake anticipates in his
death agonies the Statian Python’s assault on the oaks of Delphi (Pythona… sep-
tem orbibus atris/ amplexum Delphos, squamisque annosa terentem/ robora,
Theb. 1.563 – 5). Each serpent is thus intimately associated with the primeval
landscape in which he dwells and whose uncivilized state he symbolizes. Here
we see the pressure Ovid’s Theban narrative exerts on the design of Statius’ in-
troductory movement in what we might call a Theban deformation of Argos or
rather, in this case, Delphi. Thus both the Theban and Argive settings of Statius’
Thebaid – if we may assign the Delphic terrain on the Argive cup to its descend-
ants’ domain – evoke the deadly landscapes of Ovid’s Thebes. As the site of a
foundation that goes awry, Ovid’s Thebes is prey to repeated incursions of the
wilds upon its citizens and provides a potent model for Statius’ exploration of
the dissolution of civic order in civil war.
Let us close, therefore, by considering two other settings in Statius’ Thebaid
that evoke Ovid’s Theban landscapes. The first is the site of the ambush of Ty-
deus, after his embassy to Thebes requesting the appointed transfer of power
from Eteocles to Polynices (Theb. 2.496 – 505, 523 – 6).
370 Alison Keith

fert uia per dumos propior, qua calle latenti

praecelerant densaeque legunt compendia siluae.
lecta dolis sedes: gemini procul urbe malignis
faucibus urguentur colles, quos umbra superni
montis et incuruis claudunt iuga frondea siluis 500
(insidias natura loco caecamque latendi
struxit opem), mediasque arte secat aspera rupes
semita, quam subter campi deuexaque latis
arua iacent spatiis. contra importuna crepido,
Oedipodioniae domus alitis 505
…
tacitis huc gressibus acti
deueniunt peritura cohors, hostemque superbum
adnixi iaculis et humi posita arma tenentes 525
expectant, densaque nemus statione coronant.

The nearer way leads through thickets, where they hurry forward on a hidden path and
choose a short cut through the dense woods. A choice place for a stratagem: two hills
near the city press hard upon one another with an evil gulf between them; the shade of
a high mountain and leafy summits close the hills with surrounding forest – nature has
built treachery into the place and a secret means of lying hidden – and through the
midst of the rocks there narrowly cuts a rough path, beneath which lie fields and sloping
fields in broad expanses. On the other side, a threatening cliff, the home of Oedipus’ wing-
ed monster… Here speeding on silent steps came the doomed cohort, and they await the
arrogant foe leaning on their spears and holding their weapons placed on the ground,
and they surround the grove in a thick picket.

Commentators frequently cite Turnus’ ambush of Aeneas in Aeneid 11 (11.522– 31)

as Statius’ model here, for the two passages describe the same type-scene (am-
bush: dolis, Aen. 11.523; Theb. 2.498) and outcome (failure, though in quite differ-
ent ways: Vergil’s narrative outflanks Turnus’ ambush, while Tydeus meets and
defeats his ambushers).³⁷ Moreover Statius’ phrasing at 2.498 – 9 closely reprodu-
ces Vergil’s at 11.525 (angustaeque ferunt fauces aditusque maligni). Nonetheless,
the intrusion of Oedipus’ monster, the Sphinx, into Statius’ Vergilian landscape
points to the deformation of the Vergilian model by Ovid’s Theban narrative, as
Statius borrows the adjective Oedipodioniae from Ovid’s Metamorphoses (15.429).
Ovid’s Actaean episode in particular invites retrospective interpretation as a
series of ambushes (narrative and otherwise) of the hapless Boeotian youth
while he wanders the trackless wastes outside the city of Thebes (per deuia lustra
uagantes, Met. 3.146) – first by Diana in the Gargaphie valley (Met. 3.155 – 6), and
then by his own hounds, who pursue him (in the guise of a deer) over rough and

 See Mulder 1954 ad loc.

 Ovidian Geographies in Flavian Mythological Epic 371

trackless terrain,³⁸ until he is outflanked by three who find a shortcut

(Met. 3.225 – 7, 232– 5):

… ea turba cupidine praedae 225

per rupes scopulosque adituque carentia saxa
quaque est difficilis quaque est uia nulla sequuntur.
…
prima Melanchaetes in tergo uulnera fecit,
proxima Therodamas, Oresitrophos haesit in armo
(tardius exierant, sed per compendia montis
anticipata uia est)… 235

Out of desire for prey, that crowd follows through the crags and cliffs, the rocks lacking an
approach, where the way is difficult and where there is none… First Melanchaetes made
wounds in his back, next Therodamas, and Oresitrophos latched on to his shoulder
(they had gone out more slowly but they stole a march on the others by taking a short
cut over the mountain)…

The short cut, the anticipation of their quarry’s route, and the difficulty of the
terrain help the Theban ambushers in both Ovid and Statius to master the Boeo-
tian landscape and thereby outflank their targets.
In keeping with Statius’ focus on Ovid’s Theban topographies in his The-
baid, we may conclude by considering the site of Tiresias’ necromancy in The-
baid 4. Eteocles summons Tiresias to predict the outcome of the attack of the
Seven against Thebes (4.406 – 9) and Statius’ seer, as a (Homeric and Lucan-
esque) devoté of the necromantic arts (Theb. 4.409 – 18), undertakes to answer
Eteocles by necromancy.³⁹ Statius locates his seer’s necromancy in a grove sa-
cred to Diana, at the edge of the plain on which the Spartoi fought their fratrici-
dal war: extra immane patent, tellus Mauortia, campi,/ fetus ager Cadmo (“Be-
yond lies the wide plain of Mars’ field, Cadmus’ fertile ground,”
Theb. 4.434– 5).⁴⁰ This setting is strikingly evocative of Ovid’s Theban land-
scapes, especially as Statius’ lengthy ecphrasis begins with a description of an
ancient forest, inaccessible to the elements: silua capax aeui ualidaque incurua
senecta,/ aeternum intonsae frondis, stat peruia nullis/ solibus (“there stands
an ancient wood, strong and stooped in age, its foliage unshorn through the

 Cf. Parkes (this volume) on the Argive army’s difficult negotiation of the trackless wastes
around Nemea.
 In this regard, of course, he is modeled generally on Homer’s Tiresias (Od. 10.492– 5;
11.90 – 9) and specifically on Seneca’s Tiresias (Oed. 530 – 658). On Lucan’s use of Ovid, see Keith
2011 with further bibliography.
 For the importance of landscape in Ovid’s “Thebaid,” see Segal 1969, 42– 9.
372 Alison Keith

years and accessible to no sunlight,” Theb. 4.419 – 21). This is the very site of the
cave of the serpent of Mars, to which Cadmus inadvertently sends his compan-
ions at the outset of Ovid’s Theban history: silua uetus stabat nulla uiolata securi
(“there stood an ancient wood, harmed by no axe,” Met. 3.28). Statius conflates
this wood with a second inviolate forest of Ovid’s Theban landscape, in which
Narcissus comes upon a lonely pool: siluaque sole locum passura tepescere
nullo (“and there was a wood that would suffer the ground to be warmed by
no sun,” Met. 3.412).⁴¹ The divinity who presides over the site of Tiresias’ necro-
mancy is Diana: nemori Latonia cultrix/ additur (“the daughter of Latona inhabits
the grove,” Theb. 4.425 – 6). Her residence in the grove points to a third Ovidian
topos of Theban geography, the wooded valley in which Actaeon comes upon the
goddess at her bath: uallis erat piceis et acuta densa cupressu,/ nomine Garga-
phie, succinctae sacra Dianae (“there was a valley thick with pine and sharp-
leaved cypress, Gargaphie by name, sacred to belted Diana,” Met. 3.155 – 6).
Bringing together all the Theban woods of the third book of the Metamorphoses
in the ill-omened grove of Diana, the Flavian poet foreshadows the return to The-
ban origins divined by Tiresias’ necromantic arts (Theb. 4.553 – 78).
Observing that the landscapes of Statius’ Thebaid, including this one, “lack
the characteristic Ovidian element of deception”, Carole Newlands has recently
argued that without “the power to trick and ensnare their visitors… they openly
serve as the ground on which the mayhem of civil discord is vividly inscribed”.⁴²
One of the reasons that Statius’ mythic terrain lacks that element of deception is
because it is so closely modeled on the mythological topoi of Ovid’s Metamor-
phoses, especially his Theban topographies of Books 3 – 4. Statius creatively
evokes the landscapes of Callimachus, Vergil, Ovid (and others) throughout his
epic but the narrative pressure of Ovid’s doomed Thebes repeatedly informs
the itineraries – narrative and geographic – of his dark Thebaid. If Vergil’s Ae-
neid supplies the structural framework of Statius’ battle epic (Theb. 12.816 –
17)⁴³ and Callimachus’ Aetia a poetics of resistance to his battle narrative,⁴⁴
the topographies of Statius’ poem are strikingly Ovidian in their symbolic im-
port. Both Statius and Valerius Flaccus dynamically renegotiate the mythological
landscapes of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in order to illuminate the martial and mar-
ital themes of their own epics, renovating Ovidian techniques of landscape de-
scription in their articulation of the political and social complexities of contem-
porary Roman imperial order.

 Or were they perhaps the same wood? Statius’ imitation begs the question.
 Newlands 2004, 141.
 Cf. Vessey 1973, Ganiban 2007.
 McNelis 2007; cf. Newlands 2004.
Erica Bexley
Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape
of War*
quantas acies stragemque ciebunt
aggeribus socer Alpinis atque arce Monoeci
descendens, gener aduersis instructus Eois!
(Verg. A. 6.829 – 31)

How great the battles and slaughter they’ll wreak!

The father-in-law rushing down from the rampart
of Alps, the peak of Monoecus, and his son-in-law
all ready, equipped with troops from the East.

Introduction
From these three lines of Vergil, Lucan creates two catalogues: in Book 1 (392–
465) he describes Caesar’s troops withdrawing from Gaul to march on Rome; in
Book 3 (169 – 297) he lists the Eastern tribes and peoples who have come to Pom-
pey’s aid. The two passages follow standard epic precedent to the extent that
they deploy a range of geographic and ethnographic detail. For Lucan’s prede-
cessors, the military catalogue’s main purposes were to identify the warriors
who would participate in the coming battle and to allow readers a glimpse of ge-
ography beyond the poem’s scope.¹ The Pharsalia reinterprets these aims in
order to show how civil war upsets a world previously discovered, conquered,
and arranged according to Roman imperialism. To evoke the geographic confu-
sion that civil war entails, Lucan gives his catalogues an unconventional form: in

* This article has had a rather prolonged genesis; my thanks are many and well overdue. First, I
am grateful to the editors of this volume, for giving me the opportunity to write on one of my
favorite topics, and to the anonymous readers, for their advice and encouragement. I would also
like to thank the Classics faculty and students at Oberlin College where I presented a modified
version of this paper in Feb. 2012: your thoughtful feedback helped me a lot. Thanks are likewise
due to my fellow members of the Mellon Interdisciplinary Writing Group, and in particular to
Sam Kurland, whose unflinching criticism saved my analysis from numerous blunders and
illogicalities. As befits its subject matter, this article has accompanied me to three different
continents in the past three years: my heartfelt thanks to Aristotle University, Thessaloniki;
Cornell University; and the Australian National University, for being intellectual shelters in the
midst of my peregrinations.
 A common definition, expressed succinctly by Fraenkel (1945, 8 – 9) and, more recently, Roche
(2009, 277).
374 Erica Bexley

Book 1, rather than list Caesar’s troops, Lucan describes the lands and peoples
from which they are withdrawing; in Book 3, he imagines Pompey’s forces as
both a triumphal parade and a funeral. In each instance the Pharsalia depicts
a geographic expanse far exceeding the work of Homer or Vergil, and Lucan’s
aim in doing so is not just to challenge epic tradition, but to emphasize what
civil war means when the price and prize is empire. The global dimensions of
Lucan’s catalogues reveal, paradoxically, how much Roman power has shrunk.²
Beyond this main idea, the final three sections of my paper examine topog-
raphy, etymology, and genealogy in Lucan’s catalogues. These topics are promi-
nent throughout the Pharsalia as a whole, and so provide a useful means of con-
textualizing the catalogues within Lucan’s entire work. For instance, Lucan uses
topographic features – especially rivers and seas – to symbolize his main char-
acters and motifs; the rivers in his catalogues therefore represent moral bounda-
ries as well as geographic ones, while crossing them is portrayed as an essential-
ly tyrannical act. Further, Lucan concentrates on whether rivers lose or maintain
their names when joined by other waters, and he uses this ostensibly geographic
information to symbolize Caesar and Pompey’s conflict.³
Names are, of course, a crucial element of epic catalogues; including so
many foreign or unfamiliar ones gives Lucan the opportunity to etymologize.⁴
In general, his catalogues define words in ways that show how language inter-
acts with the physical world; the Pharsalia’s etymologies complement its symbol-
ic landscape. Yet Roman names are noticeably absent from Lucan’s catalogues,
with the result that the poet draws no aetiological or genealogical connections
between the poem’s participants and the Romans of his own day. Since ancient
readers often treated epic catalogues as sources of genealogical information, Lu-
can’s omission represents a denial of poetic tradition.⁵ It is also a denial of his-
torical continuity: rather than mention Romans, Lucan concentrates on foreign

 Gassner (1972, 161 and 167) asserts that creating a sense of immensity and space was one of
Lucan’s main aims in composing these two catalogues.
 Masters (1992, 43 – 70, 93 – 9, 106 – 18, and 150 – 78) argues that Lucan’s topography/geography
replicates the civil war waged between Caesar and Pompey. On names in the Pharsalia, what
they signify and how Lucan puns on them, see Feeney 1986, 239 – 43 and Henderson 1998, 165 –
211.
 Playful etymologizing became mainstream with the Hellenistic poets: see O’Hara 1996a, 21–
42. In Latin epic, it is particularly characteristic of Ovid – see Ziogas’ article in this volume – and
Lucretius. Vergil likewise uses etymological wordplay, on which see O’Hara 1996a, Paschalis
1997, and the extensive notes accompanying Ahl’s 2007 translation of the Aeneid.
 Hall (1997, 41– 2) and Finkelberg (2005, 171) describe the epic catalogue’s role in creating and
preserving genealogies in ancient Greece; Hannah (2004, 141– 64) analyzes genealogy in Vergil’s
Aeneid. Overall, the topic still awaits adequate investigation.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 375

tribes and territories, demonstrating in the process how civil war has destroyed
what it means to be Roman, geographically, ethnically, morally.

The World in Reverse

1. Caesar

Halfway through Pharsalia 1, Caesar gathers his troops and heads towards Rome.
It is the moment for a catalogue, so when Lucan pauses his narrative, we expect
him to enumerate Caesar’s soldiers; their names, legions, and places of origin.
This is precisely what Lucan does not do. Instead of listing Roman legionaries,
he describes the tribes and regions of Gaul from which they are withdrawing;
the catalogue at 1.392– 465 subverts epic convention and runs inside-out.⁶ In a
concise and perceptive study of this passage, Emily Batinski argues that Lucan’s
catalogue-in-reverse enables the poet to equate Caesar with Rome’s barbarian
enemies, a motif that contributes to the epic’s general theme of civil war as a par-
adoxical and perverted activity.⁷ My current analysis expands on Batinski’s ideas
and interprets Lucan’s unconventional first catalogue as symbolizing the geo-
graphic reversals that occur when people bent on imperial conquest fight them-
selves instead.
I stated in the introduction that the military catalogue’s main functions are
to introduce individuals who will feature in the coming battle narrative and to
indicate, in snapshots, a geographic scope beyond the poem’s immediate
events.⁸ In fulfilling each of these functions, traditional epic military catalogues
generate a sense of forward movement that is simultaneously textual: they antic-
ipate a critical point in the narrative – and physical: they depict peoples from
different towns and regions converging on a single location. The epic poet usu-
ally focalizes these gatherings from a position at or near the battle site, so that
readers can ‘watch’ the various ranks as they arrive.⁹ Homer, for instance, intro-
duces his catalogue of ships as ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον (“as many as came beneath

 Williams (1978, 222) notes this curious feature of Lucan’s Caesar-catalogue. Fuller analysis of
this catalogue’s unconventional style is provided by Batinski (1992, 19 – 24). Green (1991, 244)
reasons that the innovative form of Lucan’s first catalogue emphasizes Caesar’s individuality at
the same time as it refuses the Roman soldiery their κλέος by leaving them unnamed.
 On Romans as barbarians, see Batinski 1992, 21– 4.
 See above, n. 1.
 Here I use the language of narratological analysis, of which de Jong 1987, 29 – 40 is a useful
summary.
376 Erica Bexley

Ilion,” Il. 2.492), an expression that places his readers in Troy and imagines the
Greeks’ journey as an approach rather than a departure. Forward movement is
the reason why ἔρχομαι and ἱκάνω are the most common verbs in a Homeric mili-
tary catalogue; Vergil, too, creates a similar effect with his list of Italian allies at
the close of Aeneid 7, not only by employing uenio and its compounds (7.750;
803), but also via terms like ecce (7.706) that position readers directly amongst
the throng of warriors.¹⁰ But Lucan’s first catalogue reverses this conventional
use of perspective. The passage is framed by forms of the verb desero: at the out-
set, Lucan envisages Caesar’s soldiers deserting their camps (deseruere… tento-
ria…/ castraque, 1.396 – 7) and at the end his narrative voice reproaches them
for leaving the banks of the Rhine (Rheni…/ deseritis ripas, 1.464 – 5).¹¹ This is
a catalogue of departure, not arrival, and although other poets likewise use
verbs of leaving, they do not grant them the prominence that Lucan does.¹²
Three lines after deseruere (1.396), the verb liquerunt (1.399) confirms that Lu-
can’s narrative is positioning its readers in Gaul and focalizing the Roman with-
drawal from a Gallic perspective.¹³
Further, Lucan encourages readers to sympathize with the Gauls, to share in
their relief and happiness at the Roman army’s departure. He characterizes the
river Atax as glad that it no longer has to carry Roman keels (Atax Latias gaudet
non ferre carinas, 1.403) and describes one tribe, the Ruteni, as having been re-
leased “from long occupation” (soluuntur… longa statione Ruteni, 1.402). Here
context transforms longa from a fairly neutral adjective into an expression of
how the Gauls feel about Caesar’s conquest: it has been oppressive. The poet
makes this point explicit later in the passage when he depicts a Gallic tribesman
“happy that battle has changed direction” (laetatus conuerti proelia, 1.441) and
another “rejoicing now that the enemy has gone” (gaudet… amoto… hoste,
1.422). Though calling Caesar an enemy is unremarkable for a poem that revels
in reviling its monstrous main character, the Pharsalia’s first catalogue uses hos-

 I do not agree entirely with Williams (1973 ad loc.), who asserts: “the reader’s viewpoint
constantly changes, the troops are seen arriving, departing, en route”. True, Vergil varies his
verbs and his readers’ perspective shifts accordingly, but a sense of gathering, of forward mo-
vement, is what dominates the passage overall.
 Batinski (1992, 20 – 1) notes the presence of the verb desero at the beginning and end of the
catalogue, but does not contrast the way Lucan emphasizes Caesar’s departure with the way
other epic writers stress the arrival of warriors.
 See, for instance, A. R. 1.40 and 105; Verg. A. 7.670, 676, and 728. Roche (2009, 281– 2)
remarks that the language of departure is common in catalogues. It is, however, noticeably
absent from Homer’s catalogue of ships, which emphasizes the leaders’ home towns but not
their movement away from them.
 A point noted but not explored by Batinski (1992, 21).
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 377

tis for the more precise purpose of reinforcing a pro-Gallic narrative perspec-
tive.¹⁴ Lucan’s reader is encouraged to accept the Gauls’ vision of Rome. It is
as if Homer had written from the Trojan viewpoint a catalogue of Greek forces
leaving Troy after the war. As Caesar withdraws from his province, Lucan sug-
gests that there may be other, non-Roman, ways of looking at the world.
Innovation of this kind enables Lucan to differentiate his work from his fa-
mous predecessors’, but poetic novelty is not his catalogue’s only or even most
important purpose. When Lucan inverts traditional catalogue motifs, he does so
to complement Caesar, who reverses the traditional direction of war. Instead of
moving outwards from Rome to conquer other lands, Caesar has turned around
and is heading back to conquer Rome. Geographic expansion is the medium of
empires which, William Mitchell notes, “move outwards in space as a way of
moving forward in time”.¹⁵ Any civil war waged by an imperial power will there-
fore provoke a sense of contraction and spatial dislocation as the conquering na-
tion narrows its focus to the area within its own borders. Rome’s dwindling geo-
graphic reach is a recurrent theme in Lucan’s epic, and the Pharsalia’s first cata-
logue provides a neat, illustrative example: when Romans fight each other, em-
pire turns inwards, and the poetry used to describe such warfare must likewise
change direction.¹⁶
So, Caesar’s soldiers march into war and towards their homes, a combina-
tion that differentiates civil conflict from the more traditional kinds of war de-
scribed by Homer and Vergil. The standard epic military catalogue mentions
the towns and regions from which its participants have arrived, and these places
are invariably the participants’ homes: forms of ἔχω and νέμω appear frequently
in Iliad 2, as do forms of habeo and teneo in Aeneid 7. Lucan appropriates the
idea and turns it inside-out when he describes Caesar’s soldiery holding sway
over regions that are patently not their own:

 I say ‘revels’ because Lucan appears as attracted to Caesar as he professes to be repelled by

him. At 9.985 – 6, he even combines his venture with Caesar’s, declaring: uenturi me teque legent;
Pharsalia nostra/ uiuet. Zwierlein (1986, 477) interprets this line as non-complimentary, as Lucan
promising to condemn Caesar eternally, but I prefer to read it in the same manner as Masters
(1992, 214), who regards Lucan’s iconoclastic, rule-breaking poetic style as inherently “Caesa-
rian”. Viewed in this way, Caesar is a crucial part of the Pharsalia’s success.
 Mitchell 1994b, 14.
 Geography is a popular topic in recent studies of Lucan’s Pharsalia, many of which em-
phasize themes of boundary transgression, center/periphery, and Roman/non-Roman. See
Masters 1992, 150 – 78; Bexley 2009, 459 – 75; Pogorzelski 2011, 143 – 70; Myers 2011, 399 – 415.
378 Erica Bexley

Tunc rura Nemetis

qui tenet et ripas Aturi, qua litore curuo
molliter admissum claudit Tarbellicus aequor,
signa mouet
(1.419 – 22)

Then the cohorts that hold the regions of Nemes

and the banks of Aturus, where the Tarbellian
on his curving shore encloses the tides
that come in so gently – they pack up and march.

In contrast to Homer’s ἔχον, Lucan’s tenet means “to control a place as a con-
queror”, not “as an inhabitant”. Caesar’s army has been living in castra and ten-
toria, outpost fortifications intended to protect Rome and Romans as well as in-
crease the empire’s geographic scope. Homer’s warriors, on the other hand, have
come to Troy from cities most often described as strong and well built (ἐϋκτίμε-
νον πτολίεθρον) and in the heroic world of the Iliad, such phrasing implies not
just that these towns are beautiful, but that they are also well fortified against
would-be besiegers.¹⁷ In keeping with its subject matter, Lucan’s text is almost
perfectly antithetical to Homer’s: the Romans withdraw from their military
camps and endanger their own homes by leaving a barbarian enemy free to at-
tack.
And attacking is just what Lucan’s Gauls seem most likely to do. To complete
the effect of his anti-catalogue, Lucan lists Gallic tribes rather than Roman sol-
diers, and he portrays them fully armed. In doing so, he adapts another conven-
tion of the epic military catalogue where individuals are described principally in
terms of their weaponry, the difference being that when Lucan emphasizes the
Gauls’ prowess in battle he implies a geographic reversal wrought by civil war:
conquered foreigners now pose a threat to their Roman masters.¹⁸ Thus the Lin-
gones are pugnaces pictis… armis (“warlike in their painted weaponry,” 1.398);
the Leuci and Remi excel in hurling the javelin (excusso… lacerto, 1.424); the Bel-
gians are skilled at driving the couinnus, a British variety of war chariot (1.426).
Although some scholars have dismissed Lucan’s Gallic excursus as an inept at-
tempt at learned digression, such depictions have a clear poetic purpose aside

 Kirk (1985, 173 – 7) discusses Homer’s use of such epithets in the catalogue of ships and
concludes that they more likely reflect conventional diction and metrical demands than actual
fact. Lucan, however, is not interested in their historical validity (or lack thereof); he treats
Homer’s epithets as standard epic topoi and reinterprets them accordingly.
 A point brought out by Batinski (1992, 22). Gassner (1972, 160) makes a similar observation,
namely that Lucan describes the weapons of warriors not currently heading into war. The threat,
of course, is that they may do so.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 379

from any issues of historical accuracy.¹⁹ Ethnic diversity is, for instance, a key
theme in Vergil’s catalogue of Italian allies (A. 7.647– 817), and Vergil focuses
on his warriors’ peculiar weaponry not just to impress his readers with a display
of arcane knowledge, but also to evoke solidarity: despite their manifest internal
differences, Vergil’s Italians have united against a common enemy. That Lucan’s
Gauls are similarly united shows just how divided his Romans are; a catalogue
focused on Gallic military aggression illustrates the paradox of Romans going
into battle against their fellow citizens.
In fact, the major effect of Lucan’s first catalogue is to leave readers with the
image of barbarians and Romans both menacing Rome. Batinski remarks that
1.392– 465 assimilates Caesar’s army to a foreign enemy.²⁰ Like the verb desero,
the phrase Romam petit frames the Pharsalia’s first catalogue (1.395; 464) and its
two potential interpretations – “to head towards” and “to attack” – sum up Cae-
sar’s position as hostis. Notably, this section of Lucan’s poem stresses Caesar’s
association with the North-West, even though the historical Caesar approached
Rome from Ravenna, that is, from Italy’s Eastern seaboard.²¹ At 1.185 and
1.219, Lucan even implies that the Rubicon descends from the Alps instead of
the Apennines, blurring cartography not out of ignorance, as Charles Haskins
and Robert Getty assume, but in order to create a closer parallel between Caesar
and Hannibal.²² It is a regular conceit of Lucan’s poem that those pursuing civil

 Samse (1939, 164) and Martindale (1976, 50) both classify Lucan’s Gallic excursus as an
attempt at learned digression. Mayer (1986, 54) groups it among “Lucan’s excesses”. Many
scholars have faulted Lucan for what they regard as this passage’s historical and/or geographic
inaccuracies. Samse (1939, 164– 79) is particularly harsh, asserting that ignorance led Lucan to
mistake the Vosegus mountain range for a river, and to misplace the tribe of the Nemeti.
Discussions in Getty (1940) and Le Bonniec/Wuilleumier (1962 ad loc.) reach similar conclu-
sions, as does Bourgery (1928, 31). Roche (2009 ad loc.) refutes previous commentators and
argues that Lucan’s description of the Vosegus is, in general, accurate. While such discussion is
useful to the historian of ancient geography, it tends to downplay or forget Lucan’s poetic aims;
it is not, in other words, a fair assessment of Lucan’s literary talents.
 Batinski 1992, 21. On the topic of Caesar as foreign invader, Masters (1992, 104) notes that the
exiled Republican senators compare themselves to Camillus and thereby cast Caesar as the
Gauls who sacked Rome in 387 B.C.
 Although Lucan mentions the Rubicon and Ariminum (modern Rimini), both of which are
close to Ravenna, he stresses the N-W so much in Pharsalia 1 that readers could be forgiven for
thinking the Rubicon bordered Gaul.
 Haskins (1887) and Getty (1940 ad loc.) point out the Rubicon’s location as a mistake, but at
1.255, Lucan likens Caesar to Hannibal, and his mention of the Alps doubtless serves the same
purpose. On the identification of Caesar and Hannibal in Lucan, see Ahl 1976, 199 – 200.
380 Erica Bexley

war are imagined as non-Roman.²³ In this instance, Lucan likens Caesar to

Northern invaders (1.254– 6) and stresses that Caesar’s fellow Romans view
him as “more savage than his defeated enemy” (uicto… immanior hoste, 1.480).
Whether he is seen from the Gauls’ perspective or from that of the Romans fear-
ing his arrival, Caesar plays the role of hostile aggressor; both sides treat him as
the ‘other’.
Lucan’s first catalogue, then, anticipates not a glorious battle but a grim fu-
ture in which both Caesar and his formerly conquered Gauls pose a threat to
Roman power. It also shows how civil war has the potential to distort the geo-
graphic and ethnic hierarchy predicated on Rome’s imperium: ideally, the urbs
maintains its metaphorical centrality by sending soldiers out to conquer and
control peripheral territory; when these same soldiers move back from periphery
to center, their action destabilizes Rome’s power and, by association, its geo-
graphic and ethnic supremacy.²⁴ Geography is never neutral, or, to use Denis
Cosgrove’s words, “landscape is not merely the world we see, it is a construction,
a composition of that world.”²⁵ It follows that any imperialist project alters “spa-
tial and environmental order (both real and imagined).”²⁶ So when the Pharsa-
lia’s first catalogue presents Caesar from a Gallic viewpoint, its shift in ethnic
and spatial perspective implies a potential shift in power relations between
Rome and the rest of the world. It is one of the colonizer’s many privileges
that he or she may establish as normative a specific way of looking at geography
and landscape: in Lucan’s case, Gallic vision threatens to usurp the Roman one,
since Romans have turned their gaze inwards.²⁷
In its concern for imperial geography, Lucan’s first catalogue does not make
us look forward to Pharsalus so much as backwards to a past Caesarian war, the
Bellum Gallicum. By writing about Caesar’s departure from Gaul, Lucan engages
with, even challenges the Bellum Gallicum in its dual status as an historical event
and as a text. Thanks to the work of Michel Rambaud²⁸ and Jamie Masters²⁹ it is

 Roller (1996, 322– 32) discusses this phenomenon as the difference between Pompey’s
“communitarian” view and Caesar’s “alienating” one.
 On the theme of center and periphery in Lucan, see Bexley 2009, 459 – 75; Pogorzelski 2011,
143 – 70; Myers 2011, 399 – 415. Jal (1962, 261– 7) analyzes how Roman writers of the late Republic
and early Empire condemn civil war because of its internality but praise externally directed wars
of conquest.
 Cosgrove 1998, 13.
 Cosgrove 1998, 8.
 Riggsby (2006, 123) describes the trope of surveillance that features in colonial descriptions
of landscape and analyzes its application in Caesar’s Bellum Gallicum.
 Rambaud 1960.
 Masters 1992 and 1994.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 381

now widely recognized that Lucan used Caesar’s commentaries when composing
his epic, and Caesar’s history of the Gallic campaigns appears to be the main
source of material for 1.392– 465.³⁰ Seventeen of the twenty-two tribes mentioned
by Lucan in this passage also feature in the Bellum Gallicum, while Lucan’s cata-
logue and Caesar’s narrative (Gal. 1.2) begin with the same location: Lemmanus,
the modern Lake Geneva.³¹ In Caesar’s version, his first act is to quell the Helve-
tii, who are causing trouble in the lake’s surrounding regions. In Lucan’s version,
Roman troops leave Lake Lemmanus unguarded and consequently undo Cae-
sar’s expansionist project.
Emphasizing Gallic rebelliousness and danger is Lucan’s main means of dis-
mantling Caesar’s conquests. We have seen already how the poet of the Pharsalia
carefully describes the Gauls’ various weapons and preferred fighting styles; in-
terestingly, seven of the tribes that feature in Lucan’s catalogue also appear in
Caesar’s list of forces that joined Vercingetorix’s rebellion in 52 B.C. – the Ruteni,
Santoni, Bituriges, Suessones, Sequani, Averni, and Nervii (Gal. 7.75).³² This may,
of course, be mere coincidence, since both authors are attempting to catalogue
the Gauls systematically by tribe and territory, yet the fact that Caesar composed
his own mini catalogue suggests that Lucan engaged with this section of the Bel-
lum Gallicum deliberately rather than accidentally: re-writing Caesar’s story was
too good an opportunity to miss, especially for a poet well acquainted with that
general’s commentaries and impatient to promulgate his own version of histo-
ry.³³ Lucan is so eager to revise Caesar’s historical achievements that he even in-
troduces the Lingones as pugnaces (1.398), although they remained loyal to the
Romans during Vercingetorix’s uprising (Gal. 7.63).³⁴ Of course, the historical

 Connecting Lucan and Caesar seems self-explanatory, but prior to the work of Rambaud
(1960), the majority of scholars sided with Pichon (1912), who proposed that Lucan drew upon
Livy alone. For the Gallic excursus, Pichon (1912, 24– 6) assumed that Livy was Lucan’s main
source, while Bourgery (1928, 39) suggested some kind of chorographia. Roche (2009, 42– 3)
provides fair and succinct discussion of Lucan’s sources for Book 1. For detailed discussion of
how Lucan uses (and abuses) Caesar’s work, see Masters 1992, 13 – 25.
 Roche (2009, 279) notes that Lucan’s list of tribes corresponds very closely to those ment-
ioned in Caesar’s Bellum Gallicum.
 For Caesar’s account of the rebellion (and Lucan’s use of it at 1.392– 465), see Le Bonniec/
Wuilleumier 1962 ad loc. and Roche 2009 ad loc.
 Two good studies of Lucan’s historical bias are Lintott (1971, 488 – 505) and Bartsch (2011,
303 – 16). As regards the arrangement of Gallic tribes, it seems that Lucan followed a (roughly)
circular pattern, except in N-W Gaul, where he omits an entire region. The gap was recognized by
a scribe, who has tried to fix it with an interpolation (1.436 – 40). Bourgery (1928, 31) and Samse
(1939, 167– 8) discuss the Gallic tribes and their location in Lucan.
 An observation made by Roche (2009 ad loc.).
382 Erica Bexley

Caesar defeated Vercingetorix and conquered Gaul, but revisiting and adding to
this list of rebellious tribes is Lucan’s way of portraying Roman imperial col-
lapse: in deciding to turn and march against the urbs, Lucan’s Caesar negates
his own – and so, Rome’s – victories over foreign enemies. The Pharsalia re-
imagines history to render Caesar’s victories futile; with the onset of civil war,
Gaul acquires another opportunity for freedom.
Where Lucan’s writing is blatantly biased, Caesar’s is covertly so. His detach-
ed, scientific tone gives the appearance of objectivity while at the same time ar-
ticulating the conquering power’s desire to explore, map, classify and hence,
control foreign territory.³⁵ The famous opening lines of his Bellum Gallicum pro-
vide a perfect example:

Gallia est omnia diuisa in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam
qui ipsorum lingua Celtae, nostra Galli appellantur. Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus inter
se differunt. Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna flumen, a Belgis Matrona Sequana dividit.
(Gal. 1.1)

All Gaul is divided into three parts, of which the Belgae inhabit one, the Aquitani another,
and those who in their own language are called Celtae, in ours Galli, inhabit the third. All
of these differ from each other in language, customs, and laws. The river Garumna divides
the Galli from the Aquitani and the river Matrona divides the Sequani from the Belgae.

The passive diuisa est creates the illusion that this is Gaul’s natural state, as if it
were in three parts before Romans ever beheld it. Caesar expresses his coloniz-
er’s attitude with great subtlety, yet it is undeniably present: divisions seem to
occur naturally, by means of rivers, or linguistic and cultural divergence, but
when Caesar distinguishes between the Latin name, Galli, and the local name,
Celtae, his otherwise seamless narrative reveals momentarily that the inhabi-
tants of Gaul might view things differently from their Roman subjugators. In
fact, what Caesar is describing is not Gaul per se so much as a map of its terri-
tory, designed for Romans, by Romans.³⁶ Or, more exactly, the conqueror’s act of

 O’Gorman (1993, 135– 51) gives a very clever analysis of how ethnographic/geographic wri-
ting can express an imperial power’s desire for control; Leach (1988, 84– 90) discusses Roman
cartography and its relationship to written works like Caesar’s; Nicolet (1991, 2) summarizes as
follows the imperial need to classify foreign territory: “the ineluctable necessities of conquest
and government are to understand (or believe that one understands) the physical space that one
occupies or that one hopes to dominate, to overcome the obstacle of distance and to establish
regular contact with the peoples and their territories (by enumerating the former and by mea-
suring the dimensions, the surfaces and the capacities of the latter).”
 Leach (1988, 84– 90) analyzes the relationship between maps and literature. Nicolet (1991, 9)
remarks on one instance where diagram and text seem to have been combined: Agrippa’s map
was situated close to Augustus’ Res Gestae, a document that likewise reads like a geographic/
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 383

describing foreign territory is always an act of cartography; for instance, Caesar

later calls Britain a triangle (Gal. 5.13) thereby “reducing unfamiliar regions to an
understandable geometric abstraction.”³⁷ However many natural boundaries
Gaul may seem to have, Caesar is in the end responsible for its tripartite division,
and his written work contributes to this act, shaping the land for Roman readers
and dictating how they will come to view it.³⁸
Lucan’s first catalogue, in contrast, makes it clear that such maps are drawn
up by powerful individuals, and that even a slight change in the balance of
power will result in a new geographic arrangement. Concluding his catalogue
with a reproachful apostrophe, Lucan reminds Caesar’s soldiers that the map
could be redrawn at a moment’s notice:

et uos, crinigeros bellis arcere Caycos

oppositi, petitis Romam Rhenique feroces
deseritis ripas et apertum gentibus orbem.
(1.463 – 5)

Even you, stationed to block

the hairy Chauci from waging their wars,
you are marching on Rome and leaving the Rhine –
savage river! – and a world now exposed
to all tribes.

Whether we read bellis or Belgis in the first line of this passage, the meaning re-
mains essentially the same: the army stationed in Gaul maintains social order by
enclosing tribes (arcere) within designated geographic regions.³⁹ Ethnic divisions

ethnographic catalogue. Such contextual information makes Caesar’s opening description of

Gaul even more ‘maplike’.
 Leach 1988, 86.
 Granting shape to a foreign land/people is yet another function of imperial geographic
literature: see O’Gorman (1993, 136 – 7), who analyzes how descriptions in Tacitus’ Germania
impose ‘shape’ on the unknown.
 All the MSS have bellis at 1.463. The line’s vagueness prompted Bentleigh to suggest Belgis as
an alternative; Housman (1926 ad loc.) accepted the emendation. But Lucan has mentioned the
Belgae already, at 1.426, so repetition here seems unlikely. Bourgery (1928, 39) labels the
emendation “peu necessaire”; Getty (1940 ad loc.) maintains that the Chauci were a peaceful
tribe – quieti secretique nulla prouocant bella (Tac. Ger. 35.3) – and this induces him to choose
bellis, which he translates as instrumental: “by means of wars”. As my translation shows, I
follow Le Bonniec/Wuilleumier (1962 ad loc.) and Roche (2009 ad loc.) in taking bellis as an
ablative of separation: “kept away from wars”. Moreover, Tacitus’ comments on the Chauci are
irrelevant here, because Lucan is keen to stress the warlike capacities of North-Western tribes,
regardless of what the reality may have been.
384 Erica Bexley

depend on spatial location and the borders that Rome has created. Once Rome
begins to fight itself, though, it can no longer hope to impose external geograph-
ic control, and the world it defined is now – frighteningly – open to redefinition
(apertum gentibus orbem). With this final phrase, Lucan implies that the Roman
withdrawal frees the Gauls and that a new spatial perspective is the inevitable
consequence of such an event. Orbem is also an ironic final word, because it re-
calls the geographic scope of conventional military catalogues at the same time
as it accuses Caesar of losing the world through his own misdirected ambitions.
In keeping with the overall unorthodox style of his first catalogue, Lucan uses
orbem to acknowledge traditional epic (and traditional epic warfare), and to
show how Caesar has altered both its form and its function.

2. Pompey

The response to Caesar’s catalogue comes in Book 3 (169 – 297), where Pompey’s
forces assemble. Lucan’s second list of troops is twice as long as his first and far
more traditional in structure, two details that indicate the poet’s favoritism. A
catalogue-in-reverse suits Caesar, who typically flouts order and transgresses
boundaries; on the other hand, standard epic conventions evoke Pompey’s sta-
tus as the doomed representative of a long-established oligarchy.
To emphasize the traditional form of Pompey’s catalogue, Lucan frames it
with allusions to the Iliad’s catalogue of ships. Our first invitation to compare
the two passages comes at 3.174, where Lucan announces the arrival of the Boeo-
tian leaders, who similarly occupy prime position in Homer’s list (Il. 2.494 – 5).⁴⁰
Though more succinct than Homer, and characteristically bereft of names, Lu-
can’s Boeoti coiere duces cites the Iliad both because of its introductory position
and because of the word duces, which picks up on Homer’s ἦρχον.⁴¹ Later, after
an exhaustive account of Pompey’s forces, Lucan revisits the Iliad via the culmi-
nating assertion that “the one who avenged his brother’s desire / did not pound
through the sea with so many ships” (non…/ …/ … fraternique ultor amoris/ ae-
quora cum tantis percussit classibus, 3.284– 7). Marion Lausberg is right to re-

 Hunink (1992 ad loc.) remarks on the correspondences between Lucan’s passage and the
Iliad’s.
 Strictly speaking, the Delphians (Phocaicas manus, 3.172) are the first group of warriors to
feature in Lucan’s list, with the Boeotians following immediately after. But the latter’s position is
still prominent, and the word duces confirms Lucan’s allusion to Homer. On Lucan’s tendency to
avoid naming individuals and hence endowing them with a κλέος that would contradict the
crime of civil war, see Gorman 2001, 266 – 77.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 385

mark: “mit dem Wort classibus ist… das Stichwort νεῶν κατάλογος zitiert.”⁴²
Here Lucan cites Homeric precedent in order to exceed it: not only does he imag-
ine Pompey as greater than Agamemnon and, by implication, the civil war of
49 – 8 B.C. as greater than the Trojan War, but he also stresses that the Pharsalia’s
geographic scope far outstrips that of the Iliad. ⁴³ The incredible reach of Pom-
pey’s catalogue, from Greece to Asia Minor, the Far East, and Africa, is Lucan
claiming a totalizing, almost cosmic breadth for his work and its subject matter.⁴⁴
Conventional as Pompey’s catalogue may be, Lucan is still at pains to show civil
war’s exceptional and excessive nature.
Equating civil war with world war is one of the Pharsalia’s major conceits.⁴⁵
Pompey’s catalogue begins in Greece (3.171– 202), moves across to Asia Minor
(3.203 – 13) and down through Syria (3.214– 24) before heading north again, to
the Taurus mountains (3.225 – 6), and northwest to Cilicia (3.228); next Lucan
takes us to India (3.229 – 41), returning via Cappadocia and Armenia
(3.244– 6), moving southwards to Arabia (3.247– 8), then north to Scythia
(3.266 – 70) and Colchis (3.271– 9), and finally, southwest to Libya (3.292– 5). Ap-
propriately enough, the entire catalogue begins and ends with the word orbem
(3.169 and 297) and the term serves a double purpose in this context: it draws
attention to the passage’s geographic expanse at the same time as it literally enc-
loses a large portion of the world as the Romans knew it.
This portion of the world is also relevant to Pompey specifically. With a few
fantastic exceptions, like India, the regions Lucan lists are those Pompey either
annexed or pacified during his eastern campaign that occupied four years from
66 to 62 B.C. Lucan uses such historical data to make his second catalogue mirror
his first: Pompey sides with the East; Caesar comes from the West: both generals
are associated with their most famous conquests and their lands just happen to
be balanced on either side of Rome.⁴⁶ Further, Lucan’s tendency to favor Pompey
leads us to expect that this catalogue will celebrate his past military successes,
but again, Lucan thwarts readers’ expectations and shows how Pompey’s ac-

 Lausberg 1985, 1577.

 Scholars have noted that throughout the Pharsalia as a whole, Pompey parallels Aga-
memnon, and Caesar Achilles: see von Albrecht 1970, 276; Lausberg 1985, 1574– 8 and 1583 – 6;
Green 1991, 234– 8.
 Hunink (1992 ad loc.) and Gassner (1972, 161) remark on the cosmic dimension of Lucan’s
second catalogue. Hardie (1986) studies epic in general as a cosmic – and in many cases,
cosmological – genre. In a study both broader and shorter than Hardie’s, Robertson/Inglis
(2004, 42– 7) survey Roman writings from the first two centuries A.D. and conclude that it was
common for intellectuals of this era to think in ‘global’ terms.
 A motif examined by Myers (2011, 401– 2).
 Masters (1992, 93 – 4) analyzes the importance Lucan ascribes to E/W compass bearings.
386 Erica Bexley

tions, like Caesar’s, contribute to the collapse of Roman power and the potential
rearrangement of Roman imperial geography.
The first hint that Pompey’s gathering might not be a positive event comes
near the catalogue’s end, where Lucan likens the procession to a funeral train.
“Fortune,” the poet declares, “has roused peoples and granted a procession/
worthy of Magnus’ death” (exciuit populos et dignas funere Magni/ exequias For-
tuna dedit, 3.291– 2). With these lines, Lucan draws our attention to the reversal
Pompey’s catalogue represents: the list is, in some sense, a record of Pompey’s
conquests, but all these peoples are about to participate in civil war, to fight an
internal, essentially Roman dispute, which means that they symbolize the em-
pire’s contraction rather than expansion. Whereas Pompey once labored to sub-
due peripheral territory, civil war is now drawing even the most distant inhabi-
tants closer to the center. Lucan’s long list of recruits illustrates the paradox that
Rome uses the world to fight itself and loses the world by fighting itself.
A heavy sense of doom follows Pompey throughout the Pharsalia and this
catalogue of troops in Book 3 is no exception. Even though Lucan claims a
broader geographic expanse than the Iliad’s, he also depicts Rome’s Eastern ter-
ritories as used-up, drained, and dying. Repeated references to weakness and de-
pletion create the feeling that Pompey’s soldiers rank far below their Homeric
counterparts and that Rome’s civil war, despite being greater than the Trojan
War, is also more terminally destructive. For instance, Lucan remarks of Athens:

exhausit totas quamuis dilectus Athenas,

exiguae Phoebea tenent naualia puppes,
tresque petunt ueram credi Salamina carinae.
(3.181– 3)

Although the conscription drained all Athens dry

few vessels came to the dock-yards of Phoebus.
With just three boats they ask us to believe
they won at Salamis.

In his commentary on Book 3, Vincent Hunink notes that Athens’ weakness may
have been a reality at the time Pompey was recruiting, but adds that whatever
possible historical details lie behind Lucan’s claim, the passage clearly invites
comparison with Homer’s catalogue, where Athens appears with fifty ships
(τῷ δ’ ἅμα πεντήκοντα μέλαιναι νῆες ἕποντο, Il. 2.556).⁴⁷ Mention of Salamis

 Hunink 1992 ad loc. He cites a fragment of Livy preserved by the Commenta Bernensia: nam
Athenienses de tanta maritima gloria uix duas naues effecere. But Lucan’s reference to Salamis
could just as easily have been prompted by the sequence at Il. 2.546 – 58, where Ajax’s Sala-
minian contingent follows upon the Athenians’ keels.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 387

similarly prompts us to think of Athenian naval prowess, even though it was the
relatively small number of Greek ships that made this particular battle exception-
al (Hdt. 8.48). Either way, Lucan portrays Athens as a dying city, with scarcely
enough soldiers to fill three vessels. Its moribund state is like Pompey’s and
its pathetic contribution adds to the catalogue’s overall feeling of imminent
loss and decay.
Such visions are typical of the Pharsalia’s literary landscape, in which once-
great towns and territories appear as mere ruins.⁴⁸ A further example from Book
3’s catalogue occurs at the beginning of the Asia Minor section (3.203 – 13), where
Lucan calls the town of Arisbe nimium glaebis exilis (“having very thin soil”,
3.204) in contrast to its Homeric epithets, δῖος (Il. 2.836) and ἐϋκτίμενος
(Il. 6.13). Granted, both Homeric terms are formulaic, with ἐϋκτίμενος being par-
ticularly suited to the second half of a hexameter line; what matters is not geo-
graphic reality but the fact that Lucan chooses to respond to these epithets with
a negative version.⁴⁹ In fact, nimium glaebis exilis picks up on and inverts the Ho-
meric ἐριβώλαξ (“having rich earth”), another standard epithet to appear in the
Iliad’s catalogue of ships. At 2.841, Homer applies this adjective to Larissa just
five lines after he has mentioned Arisbe, and the two places’ proximity in Hom-
er’s catalogue suggests a direct and deliberate allusion on Lucan’s part. Like Ath-
ens, Lucan’s Arisbe is less than Homer’s; its infertility and poverty make it a fit-
ting participant in Pompey’s doomed enterprise.
So, when Lucan ends Pompey’s catalogue on an ominous note, he suggests
that this military gathering is not what it initially appears: it is not a glorious dis-
play of empire but a grim parade of imminent defeat. Further, it symbolizes the
death of Rome’s imperialist ambitions not only because it envisages movement
from periphery to center, but also because the catalogue’s processional quality
evokes and inverts a Roman triumph.
One of the main functions of triumphal parades was to display the captives
and spoils of conquest – they literally brought the orbis into the urbs. ⁵⁰ The cata-
logue of Pompey’s forces achieves an equivalent effect by depicting a procession
composed largely of subject or allied peoples who are defined according to ster-

 Troy (9.950 – 1000) is the most famous of Lucan’s ruins: see Zwierlein 1986, 460 – 78; Rossi
2001, 313 – 26; Spencer 2005, 51– 6; Tesoriero 2005, 202– 15. Less well known is his depiction of
Italy as a ruined landscape (1.24– 9), which Bartsch (1997, 132) and Zwierlein (1986, 475 – 6)
associate with the later portrayal of Troy.
 On the metrical necessity of Homer’s epithets, see Kirk 1985, 173 – 7.
 Beard (2007, 123) writes: “the obvious point is that the triumph and its captives amounted to
a physical realization of empire and imperialism… the procession… instantiated the very idea of
Roman territorial expansion, its conquest of the globe.”
388 Erica Bexley

eotypical cultural traits. Hence: the Scythians are nomadic (errantes, 3.267); the
Sarmatians eat horses (3.282– 3); the Indians practice self-immolation (3.240 –
41). Lucan’s catalogue also pays much attention to rivers, which, as territorial
markers, were a regular feature of triumphal placards and statuary. For Lucan’s
readers, then, proceeding through this catalogue is a visual experience akin to
attending a triumph, except of course that all of these peoples are marching
into civil war, and that civil wars were the one form of Roman military engage-
ment that did not allow triumphs.⁵¹ At his poem’s outset, Lucan as narrator be-
moans the fact that Rome could have conquered as far as China (1.19) but chose
instead “to wage wars that would bring no triumphs” (bella geri… nullos habitura
triumphos, 1.12). By granting Pompey’s catalogue a triumphal quality, Lucan
draws our attention to the self-defeating nature of this particular conflict: it
does not bring captives and spoils into the city, but squanders the results of pre-
vious conquests.
This motif of inverted triumphs appears elsewhere in the Pharsalia, and al-
most always in relation to Pompey. In Book 2, for instance, the republican gen-
eral declares, “let all my triumphs return to my camp” (omnes redeant in castra
triumphi, 2.644). It is an ornate way of saying that Pompey will recruit from the
lands he has conquered, but by putting the idea in these precise terms, Lucan
shows how civil war negates conquest and so, contradicts and cancels out a tri-
umph. The catalogue in Book 3 reifies Pompey’s wish in Book 2, where the world
that he has brought into the empire now follows him into civil conflict. Appro-
priately enough, the historical Pompey’s triumphs pretended to the same kind
of global dimensions that Lucan claims for his account of civil war. Pompey cele-
brated victories over Africa in 79 B.C., Spain in 71, and the East in 61, and at the
last of these processions, he included trophies from all his previous conquests
along with a large depiction of the orbis terrarum (D. C. 37.21.2).⁵² It was a
clear declaration not just of Pompey’s power, but of Rome’s imperialist world-
view. Lucan replicates this geographic scope in his list of Pompey’s forces, yet
does so in order to show Rome’s territory contracting to the narrow confines
of rivalry between two Roman generals.
So, Lucan portrays Pompey’s military catalogue as both a triumph and a fu-
neral. Evidence from Cassius Dio suggests that this connection could also occur
outside of Lucan’s fertile imagination: at Augustus’ funeral in A.D. 14 τοῦ Πομ-

 Valerius Maximus (2.8.7) explains that, in the case of civil war victories, imperator… eo
nomine appellatus non est… neque aut ouans aut curru triumphauit, quia… lugubres semper
existimatae sunt uictoriae, utpote non externo sed domestico partae cruore.
 Nicolet (1991, 32– 3) discusses how Pompey himself represented these triumphs in global
terms. Beard (2007, 7– 41) is a readable account of Pompey’s triple triumph in 61 B.C.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 389

πηίου τοῦ μεγάλου εἰκὼν ὤφθη, τά τε ἔθνη πάνθ’ ὅσα προσεκτήσατο, ἐπιχωρίως
σφίσιν ὡς ἕκαστα ἀπῃκασμένα ἐπέμφθη (“there was seen an image of Pompey
the Great, and all of the tribes he had gained, each represented in images that
bore their local characteristics, appeared in the procession”, D. C. 56.34). As in
an actual triumph, the inclusion of these images at Augustus’ funeral implies
achievement.⁵³ In Lucan’s Pharsalia, however, Pompey’s demise implies the
end of Rome’s imperial expansion.
Lucan takes this idea to an even more paradoxical level at the catalogue’s
end, where he imagines Caesar conquering the world simply by claiming victory
over Pompey’s army: “to ensure that fortunate Caesar could seize everything in
one go/ Pharsalia gave him the world to be conquered all at once” (acciperet felix
ne non simul omnia Caesar/ uincendum pariter Pharsalia praestitit orbem,
3.296 – 7). Such a tight, paradoxical conclusion makes us aware of how internal
Caesar’s victory will be: he will gain territory by defeating a fellow Roman. As in
Caesar’s catalogue, orbem is the ironic final world that recalls Rome’s imperial
ambitions and acknowledges precisely what the empire will lose by engaging
in internecine conflict.

The Sea is the Limit

Having analyzed the most significant themes in the Pharsalia’s military cata-
logues, I shall now address some lesser motifs, ones that appear in these passag-
es by virtue of their presence throughout Lucan’s entire epic. The first of these is
bodies of water, which the poet treats as physical and metaphorical boundaries,
often simultaneously: besides delineating territory, Lucan’s rivers, seas, and
Ocean hold back anyone too greedy for knowledge and power, so that crossing
a body of water becomes synonymous with transgression, and represents the
moment when inquisitive behavior transforms into acquisitive.

 Because these images would represent the lands and tribes that Augustus had gained
(though not conquered in person) by taking over command of Rome’s empire. Dio (56.34) adds
that another part of the procession displayed an image of Augustus riding in a triumphal chariot.
Beard (2007, 284– 6) examines the possible links between triumphs and state funerals in ancient
Rome; Versnel (1970, 115 – 31) argues that although the two rituals had no essential or originary
relationship, funerals for members of the imperial family often resembled triumphs: “it is ab-
undantly clear that the funus imperatorium took over a number of the features of the triumph”
(Versnel 1970, 122).
390 Erica Bexley

Of all the topographic features available to ethnographers and geographers,

rivers are by far the most frequently mentioned.⁵⁴ The reason for this is straight-
forward: they form a natural boundary to an area of land, delimiting its confines
in the same way as lines on a map.⁵⁵ Yet Lucan’s preference for describing rivers
does not just stem from his use of ethnographic literature; in the Pharsalia,
streams, creeks, and mighty watercourses everywhere contribute to the theme
of Caesar’s transgression and Pompey’s opposition. From the moment he crosses
the Rubicon (1.204– 5, 213 – 24) Caesar ignores or flouts deliberately those boun-
daries that demarcate not only his geographic position but also how he should
conduct himself.⁵⁶
The Rubicon is, then, the original site of Caesar’s revolt, yet the Pharsalia’s
first catalogue presents it with an unexpected rival when Lucan makes the river
Var into the boundary of Italy (finis et Hesperiae, promote limite, Varus, 1.404).
Scholars have debated whether or not this remark is an anachronism – an in-
soluble question because it is impossible to tell whether Lucan is referring to
his own time or to the world contemporary with Caesar’s act.⁵⁷ When the real
Caesar marched his forces through the Rubicon on a chill winter day in January
49 B.C., the Var was not yet Italy’s boundary; it became so a few months later in
March 49, when under Caesar’s direction the lex Roscia enfranchised the Cisal-
pine Gauls.⁵⁸ So where does this leave Lucan’s Caesar? As the poet portrays it,
Italy seems to have more than one boundary and the rebellious general more
than one crossing to make. But puzzling topographic tricks like this one are
stock in trade for Lucan and, as Masters’ work has shown, there is almost always
method in the seeming madness of the Pharsalia’s map.⁵⁹ Earlier in the narrative,

 Thomas (1982, 3) points out that rivers define landscape more than most other natural
features. Whittaker (2004, 76) asserts that Romans generally experienced space “by lines and not
by shapes”, that is, they thought in terms of itineraries and linear divisions. If Whittaker is
correct, it seems likely that Roman geography would emphasize rivers more than, say, forests or
deserts.
 Thomas 1982, 3.
 In Roman custom, the Rubicon represents a social as well as physical boundary because,
like the pomerium and the triumphal ritual, it separates miles from ciues. On transgression in the
Pharsalia, see Bartsch 1997.
 Getty (1940 ad loc.) contends that Lucan’s remark is parenthetical, meant to explain the
river’s status in Lucan’s own day. Roche (2009 ad loc.) disagrees and calls Lucan’s comment an
anachronism. Though I am inclined to agree with Getty, I feel that the issue is essentially
irresolvable.
 As explained in Getty (1940 ad loc.) and Roche (2009 ad loc.).
 The work of Masters (1992, 45 – 53 and 150 – 78) has been instrumental in showing how the
puzzling details of Lucan’s geography often serve a poetic purpose.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 391

Lucan has made Caesar cross the Rubicon twice (once at 1.204– 5 and again at
1.213 – 24), and Masters resolves this apparent error in continuity by calling it a
narrative delay, a means by which Lucan postpones Caesar and Pompey’s inevi-
table meeting at Pharsalus.⁶⁰ I see similar cleverness at work in Lucan’s treat-
ment of the Var. To some extent, this second river reminds us of Caesar’s initial
transgression – a likely parallel since both the Rubicon and the Var are described
as limes (1.216 and 1.404).⁶¹ Further, when the historical Caesar confirms the Var
as a boundary, he necessarily reinterprets the Rubicon’s status, deliberately or
not. Such an act has powerful implications for Lucan’s Caesar, who typically
transforms established order and reorients it to his own liking.⁶² For Lucan to
mention the Var at the moment when Caesar marches on Rome is tantamount
to suggesting that Caesar will in time redefine his own transgression by reposi-
tioning Italy’s borders. As Gore Vidal says, “it is the perquisite of power to invent
its own past.”⁶³
The motif of the Rubicon returns in Book 9, in Lucan’s Troy episode, when
Caesar wanders the ruins and unwittingly crosses “a small stream snaking
through the dust”. It is Xanthus: inscius in sicco serpentem puluere riuum/ tran-
sierat, qui Xanthus erat (9.974– 5). Kirk Ormand remarks that in this instance,
Caesar’s ignorance makes him seem incredibly powerful – one step and he
stands on the opposite bank of a once famous river.⁶⁴ I believe the scene also
symbolizes Caesar’s increasing confidence: at the Pharsalia’s opening, Caesar
hesitates at the Rubicon, shocked by the vision of Roma (1.192– 4), but by the
time he reaches Troy, transgression has become such a simple act that he crosses
a boundary without even realizing.
As boundary markers, Lucan’s rivers also represent the meeting point of con-
tinuity and change: they demarcate regions though they themselves are fluid.
Their mutability interests Lucan as much as their fixity does, and he is drawn
to speculate on the names of watercourses and whether they retain those
names in confluence. The Pharsalia’s first catalogue describes the Isère as fol-
lows:

 Masters 1992, 1– 3.
 Meaning both “boundary limit” and “water channel”, this word captures the river’s double
identity. The terms Lucan uses are quite ironic: Bartsch (1997, 14) notes that Caesar violates and
renders “uncertain” the Rubicon’s certus limes (1.215 – 16); Green (1991, 240) remarks that the
paruus Rubicon (1.185) “is small in size but not in significance.”
 The main argument in Henderson (1998, 165 – 211) is that over the course of the Pharsalia, the
name Caesar becomes the center of all signification; it outstrips Pompey’s ‘greatness’ (Magnus),
and redefines and reorients Roman discourse around itself.
 Vidal, Julian.
 Ormand 1994, 52.
392 Erica Bexley

hi uada liquerunt Isarae, qui, gurgite ductus

per tam multa suo, famae maioris in amnem
lapsus, ad aequoreas nomen non pertulit undas
(1.399 – 401)

They left the streaming Isère, which flows down

through so many regions in its own torrent
then spills into a river of greater renown
and so cannot carry its name to the sea.

Ironically, Lucan does not name the more famous river (it is the Rhone).⁶⁵ Yet his
circumlocution, famae maioris in amnem, has greater purpose than irony alone:
the words maior and nomen recall Pompey, that magni nominis umbra (“shadow
of a great name/ of the name Magnus”, 1.135) whose name will be overtaken in
the course of the poem by the transcendental greatness of ‘Caesar’.⁶⁶ Like Pom-
pey, the Isère retains its name until it encounters a greater force, a force that sur-
passes its own magnitude. Paul Roche’s commentary on Pharsalia 1 cites other
poets speculating about the names of rivers (for instance: Ov. Fast. 4.337– 8)
and it may be that such remarks formed a standard part of ethnographic and
geographic literature.⁶⁷ But Lucan’s relentless puns on Pompey’s name give
this terminology new meaning. John Henderson detects similar wordplay at
4.16 – 23, where Caesar challenges Pompey by stationing his camp nec… colle mi-
nore (“on a non-lesser hill”, 4.17) and where the river Hiberus robs the Cinga of
its name (aufert tibi nomen Hiberus, 4.23).⁶⁸ In fact, the theme is pervasive; in his
catalogue of Pompey’s troops, Lucan spends a few lines wondering which of the
two would triumph if the Euphrates and the Tigris met: “if earth mingled the riv-
ers together,/ who knows which name would prevail over the waters” (incertum,
tellus si misceat amnes,/ quod potius sit nomen aquis, 3.258 – 9). Who knows in-
deed, but when at 3.256 Lucan calls the Euphrates magnus, he surely gives us a
clue as to which of the rivers would win.
Greater and lesser rivers, higher hills and lower ones: the natural world in
the Pharsalia reifies Caesar and Pompey’s conflict repeatedly, from the very
first similes of oak (1.136 – 43) and lightning (1.151– 7).⁶⁹ Episode after episode,
Caesar’s swift, fiery capacity for destruction is slowed, checked momentarily

 As noted by Roche 2009 ad loc.

 On the significance of Pompey’s name and Lucan’s tendency to pun on it, see Feeney 1986,
239 – 43; Henderson 1998, 177 and 202– 3; Hardie 1993, 7– 8.
 Roche 2009 ad loc.
 Henderson 1998, 189 – 90.
 Rosner-Siegel (1983, 65 – 8) analyzes these similes in depth.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 393

but not permanently by some ponderous obstruction: in Book 3 (432– 9), Caesar
chops down a sacred oak; in Book 5 (597– 667), he faces the stormy Adriatic.⁷⁰
Caesar’s initial encounter with an impeding body of water is an image that
Lucan reprises throughout the Pharsalia, so that when Pompey breaks out of
his camp at Dyrrachium, the poet compares him to the Po in spate
(6.272– 8).⁷¹ The same set of associations lies behind Lucan’s description of
the Ganges in his second catalogue. Here it is not Caesar, but his prototype,
Alexander, who pauses before the river’s greatness and the flat expanse of
Ocean: hic ubi Pellaeus post Tethyos aequora ductor/ constitit et magno uinci se
fassus ab orbe est (3.233 – 4).⁷² Though Caesar’s hesitation is only ever momenta-
ry, Alexander here confesses himself defeated by the world’s magnitude; in Lu-
can’s symbolic topography, this is one rare instance in which Pompey snatches
victory.
In Lucan, as in many other writers of the early imperial period, a strong mor-
alizing tone accompanies narratives of geographic exploration, and large bodies
of water often symbolize the permitted limits of knowledge and possession.⁷³ Re-
peated encounters with rivers and seas are a major part of what characterizes Lu-
can’s Caesar as a tyrannical over-reacher. In this regard he resembles the de-
claimers’ Alexander, whose ambition to sail across Oceanus is interpreted as ex-
cessive (Suas. 1). Oceanus in particular represents not just the edge of the known
world, but the edge of the world it is permitted to know; marching, sailing, or
mapping further is an act of greed and recklessness.⁷⁴ Lucan appropriates this
rhetorical tradition and incorporates it into his depiction of Caesar. Like the de-
claimers’ Alexander, Lucan’s Caesar is a conqueror for whom “the world is not
enough”: in the first Suasoria (1.5), Cestius Pius describes the Macedonian gen-
eral with the phrase, orbis illum suus non capit; Lucan repeats it, once in refer-
ence to Caesar: cui Romani spatium non sufficit orbis (10.456), and once to his

 Episodes analyzed by Rosner-Siegel (1983, 172 and 176).

 Noted by Rosner-Siegel (1983, 174– 5) who, like Masters (1992), pays careful attention to the
symbolism of the Pharsalia’s topography.
 Hunink (1992 ad loc.) interprets this passage as a reference to Pompey and Caesar. On
Alexander as a “Caesar prototype” in Lucan’s Pharsalia, see von Albrecht 1970, 275 – 6; Ahl 1976,
222– 30; Zwierlein 1986, 465 – 9; Narducci 2002, 240 – 7.
 Romm (1992, 123) remarks: “the idea of Roman conquest of Ocean had its darker side,
especially to those who saw Alexander’s exploits as a paradigm of reckless greed: thus the
philosopher Seneca and others see Rome’s maritime expansion as the final stage in a long slide
toward reckless ambition, amorality, and self-annihilation.”
 Romm 1992, 123.
394 Erica Bexley

army: quibus hic non sufficit orbis (5.356).⁷⁵ Further, Lucan portrays both Alexand-
er (10.40, 272– 5) and Caesar (10.191– 2) as wanting to know the Nile’s source. For
each, this desire symbolizes megalomania in its purest form, a compulsion to
see, know, conquer, and possess every place on earth.⁷⁶
In this matrix of moral significance that Lucan accords to rivers, seas, and
Ocean, ignorance is often synonymous with innocence. In Pharsalia 10, the
Egyptian priest Acoreus admits that he can reveal of the Nile’s secrets only as
much as the divinity has allowed him to know (tua flumina prodam,/ qua deus
undarum celator, Nile, tuarum/ te mihi nosse dedit, 10.285 – 7). His words form
a not-so-oblique warning to Caesar, whose frequent transgression of natural
boundaries Lucan equates with transgression of moral ones. A fragment of Albi-
novanus Pedo preserved at the end of Suasoria 1 expresses the same idea: de-
scribing Germanicus’ exploratory North Sea voyage, the poet exclaims, “the
gods call us back and forbid mortal eyes/ from knowing the end-point of nature”
(di reuocant rerumque uetant cognoscere finem/ mortales oculos, Suas. 1.15). It is
against this background that we should read a passage from the Pharsalia’s first
catalogue, in which Lucan the narrator refrains from inquiring into the reason
for Ocean’s tides:

quaerite, quos agitat mundi labor; at mihi semper

tu, quaecumque moues tam crebros causa meatus,
ut superi uoluere, late.
(1.417– 19)

Let them seek answers, those who ponder

the ways of the world; but whatever the cause
of your ebb and flow, keep it hidden from me,
just as the gods wish.

Carin Green interprets Lucan’s recusatio as deliberate avoidance of material bet-

ter suited to the cosmological tradition of poets like Lucretius.⁷⁷ Her argument is

 Bonner (1966, 273 – 4) and Thomson (1951, 437) identify this intertext. Schmidt (1986, 71) has
culled numerous examples of Alexander and Ocean from declamatory texts.
 Quint 1993, 155. As Romm (1992, 155) notes, Lucan appears to contradict himself by advo-
cating imperial conquest at the same time as criticizing Alexander and Caesar for conquering
excessively. Romm resolves the contradiction by suggesting that, in Lucan’s view, conquest
“undertaken for the benefit of an entire society” is good, while conquest “arising out of self-
serving impulses” is to be condemned.
 Green 1991, 245 – 6. That Lucan refrains from a poetic digression at this point is made even
more interesting when we consider that Greek and Latin literature often presented rivers and
Ocean as sources of poetic inspiration. Jones (2005, 51– 80) and Manolaraki (2011, 177– 81)
analyze this topic as it appears in Vergil and Lucan.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 395

valid, but I feel that the primary reason for Lucan’s hesitation is his tendency to
present extensive geographic knowledge as an essentially autocratic desire. The
phrase ut superi uoluere fits the sentiments expressed by Acoreus and Pedo, and
implies that even scientific inquiry – as is the case in this passage – passes be-
yond permitted moral limits. By pulling himself back from Ocean’s brink, the
Pharsalia’s narrator signals that in this instance he will not behave like Alexand-
er or Caesar.
The rivers and seas in Lucan’s catalogues thus represent some of the major
themes in his epic: boundary transgression, geographic and moral limitation,
and the ways in which topography replicates Caesar and Pompey’s conflict. Be-
sides delineating areas of land, each river in the Pharsalia evokes ethical issues
that flow from Caesar’s initial crossing of the Rubicon, and reminds Lucan’s
characters that they cannot possess nature entirely.

Wordscape
Just as rivers constitute a locus classicus of ethnographic writing, so do proper names
shape and define a catalogue; names are what catalogues are built from.⁷⁸ As such,
they provide opportunities for the poet to play with etymologies, and Lucan’s work
is no exception to this trend.⁷⁹ Unlike many of the Augustan poets, however, Lucan
does not concern himself with how true (ἔτυμον) his logoi are; he is far more inter-
ested in how physical characteristics – of landscapes in particular – can reflect or be
influenced by the names they are given.⁸⁰ I have described already the remarkably
symbolic quality of Lucan’s landscape, how it exemplifies Caesar and Pompey and
the war they wage against each other. Lucan’s etymological work exhibits similar
concerns, presenting a cycle in which the natural world is both producer and prod-
uct of verbal meaning.
A brief digression in Lucan’s second catalogue illustrates clearly how words and
nature interact in this epic. At 3.220 – 4, Lucan pauses over a curious piece of paren-
thetical information, Egyptian hieroglyphs and the Phoenician invention of lettering:

 Regarding the role of names in catalogues, Kyriakidis (2007) makes many interesting ob-
servations.
 To give just one example: Paschalis (1997, 264– 74) analyzes the etymological wordplay in
Vergil’s catalogue of Italian allies (A. 7.647– 817).
 In an attempt to detect intentional etymologies, Maltby (1993, 268 – 9) focuses on markers
like uerum. My analysis inclines more toward the list supplied by Cairns (1996, 26), because
Lucan’s catalogues present etymologies by glossing foreign words, so uerum does not appear.
396 Erica Bexley

Phoenices primi, famae si creditur, ausi

mansuram rudibus uocem signare figuris:
nondum flumineas Memphis contexere biblos
nouerat, et saxis tantum uolucresque feraeque
sculptaque seruabant magicas animalia linguas.
(3.220 – 4)

The Phoenicians first dared, so they say,

to fashion a permanent sound from rough outlines
long before Memphis even knew how
to weave paper from reeds, and only in stone
did its birds and wild beasts and animals sculpted
preserve the speech of the wise.

Like Lucan’s other digressions, this passage functions partly as a display of

learning.⁸¹ But its purpose is more profound than mere entertainment. Notably,
Lucan focuses on the Egyptian ability to preserve speech not through abstract
symbols but via configurations of the natural world (uolucresque feraeque/ sculp-
taque… animalia); hieroglyphs transform the outlines of nature into the rudi-
ments of writing and in doing so, they emphasize nature’s pre-existing symbol-
ism. When Lucan resumes his catalogue at 3.225, the first place he mentions is
the deserted groves of mount Taurus (deseritur Taurique nemus), a locale
whose pictographic name recalls the Egyptians’ pictographic language. As in
his other descriptions of topography, here Lucan emphasizes nature’s capacity
for representation – landscape is never meaningless in the Pharsalia.
Let us turn now to Lucan’s etymologies. For the most part, the poet of the Phar-
salia follows the standard literary practice of using a modifying phrase or adjective
to explain a word’s meaning. Hence he etymologizes the Heniochi as “a fierce peo-
ple when they shake their reins” (moto gens aspera freno, 3.269; translating ἡνίοχος);
he describes the river Meander as errans (errantem Meandron, 3.208); he calls the
Ruteni “blond” (flaui, 1.402); he translates the Gallic wind, the Circius, with the
verb turbat (1.407).⁸² In each case, Lucan’s definitions correspond to their subjects
directly, but the poet also uses antonymic description when, in his first catalogue,
he matches the river Cinga with the verb pererrat (1.432).⁸³ It is an ironic pairing.
Lucan is aware that in order to live up to its name, the Cinga should encompass

 On Lucan’s digressions, see above n. 19.

 Hunink (1992 ad loc.) detects Lucan’s etymology of Heniochi; Pichon (1912, 29), Le Bonniec/
Wuilleumier (1962 ad loc.), and Roche (2009 ad loc.) note the play on flaui/Ruteni; Getty (1940 ad
loc.) and Roche (2009 ad loc.) cite Cato apud Gel. 2.22, who explains that the Gauls named the
wind “Circius” a turbine.
 For antonymic forms of etymologizing, see Maltby 1993, 263 – 4.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 397

something, and this is exactly how he portrays the river in Book 4: camposque co-
erces,/ Cinga rapax (“greedy Cinga, you enclose the fields,” 4.20 – 1). Running
through (pererrare) is something an encircling river (cingere) should not do.
Lucan’s treatment of the Cinga demonstrates that the Pharsalia’s natural fea-
tures are rich in symbolism, whether they are named according to their behavior
or behave according to their names. Further, when Lucan imagines Caesar and Pom-
pey as elemental forces, he makes nature an active participant in civil war: topogra-
phy in the Pharsalia replicates human conflict and also changes in response to it. In
his second catalogue, Lucan suggests that ethnic identity is similarly affected. Here
he mentions a tribe, the “distant Orestae”, whom “Roman madness has roused” and
compelled to join Pompey’s forces (tum furor extremos mouit Romanus Orestas,
3.249). Hunink detects a geographic oddity in the line, and argues that Lucan cannot
really mean the Orestae, who live in Epirus, because the catalogue has by this stage
passed beyond Greece.⁸⁴ He proposes instead that the poet has misspelled either the
Oretae, “a very obscure people living in Southern India”, or the Oreitai/Oritae, from a
region near Gedrosia.⁸⁵ Although Hunink’s explanation is reasonable, Abel Bourgery
seems to me to come nearer the mark when he notes the close resemblance of Ore-
stas and Orestes: both the distant tribe and the mythological hero experience furor
(3.249), while Lucan’s use of the verb mouere reinforces the idea of mental as well as
bodily disturbance.⁸⁶ The line thus combines ethnography with etymology: interpret-
ed literally, the Orestae are an obscure tribe whose presence in the catalogue empha-
sizes the global effects of civil war, but the collocation of significant words like furor
and mouit suggest that the tribe derives its name from Orestes. Further, the verb
mouit indicates a changed state, as if the madness of Roman civil war had actually
transformed this distant tribe into Orestean figures.⁸⁷
I have saved for the last the most important example of etymologizing in Lu-
can’s catalogues: Haemonia. Obviously derived from the Greek αἵμα, the region
around Mt. Haemus claims a long tradition and prominent status in Latin verse,
where its brutally apt nomenclature is used to signify both Pharsalus and Philippi
even though the three areas are not that close to each other.⁸⁸ By Lucan’s time,

 Hunink 1992 ad loc.

 Hunink 1992 ad loc.
 Bourgery 1928, 30: “Le jeu de mots est trop manifesté pour qu’on puisse modifier le nom du
peuple, et il est tout à fait dans le goût de Lucain qui aime à appuyer, sous une forme ou sous
une autre, sur la signification, vraie ou supposée, des noms propres.”
 OLD s.v. moueo, entry 2 g.
 Thomson (1951, 433 – 4) and Mayer (1986, 49 – 50) explain that significant distances separate
Pharsalus, Philippi, and Mt. Haemus. Latin poets’ conflation of these various locations is in-
tended to serve a poetic purpose, not to represent geographic reality.
398 Erica Bexley

the word carries such strong and evocative connotations that it requires barely any
explanation on the poet’s part, so when the place appears in the Pharsalia’s second
catalogue, it is in a passing reference to “the men through whose toil/ the Thessalian
plough furrows Haemonian Iolcos” (quorumque labore/ Thessalus Haemoniam
uomer proscindit Iolcon, 3.191– 2). Here Haemus’ etymology does not emerge via a
modifying phrase or adjective – as is usually the case – but via Lucan’s allusion
to G. 1.491– 7, a passage in which Vergil describes Haemonia’s grim potential for ag-
riculture:

nec fuit indignum superis bis sanguine nostro

Emathiam et latos Haemi pinguescere campos.
scilicet et tempus ueniet cum finibus illis
agricola incuruo terram molitus aratro
exesa inueniet scabra robigine pila,
aut grauibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanis,
grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulcris.
(G. 1.491– 7)

Twice over the gods thought it right to enrich

Emathia and Haemus’ fields with our blood.
and then I’ve no doubt that one day the farmer,
rolling up earth with the curve of his plough
in these very lands will uncover some lances
old and corroded and scabrous with rust,
or he’ll strike with his mattock those helmets now empty
and wonder at old bones dug out of their graves.

Lucan speaks of a uomer (3.192) to parallel Vergil’s aratrum (G. 1.494) and con-
firms his allusion by employing Haemonius in an agricultural context: under-
neath Lucan’s “Thessalian plough” lies the suggestion that it will soon be turn-
ing up remnants of Roman conflict. Further, it is Vergil who etymologizes Hae-
mus with the verb pinguescere, by which he presents Roman blood as fertilizer;
Luc. 3.191– 2 recalls the etymology obliquely.⁸⁹ It is not until the end of Book 7
that Lucan pursues Vergil’s idea more fully:⁹⁰

 Putnam (1979, 71– 2) and Thomas (1988 ad loc.) both read Vergil’s pinguescere as an ety-
mological gloss.
 For more on this particular allusion, see Leigh (1997, 254), who also detects many other
allusions to the Georgics in Pharsalia 7 (1997, 292– 9). Thompson/Bruère (1968, 1– 21) show how
Lucan uses the Georgics more generally throughout the Pharsalia.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 399

quae seges infecta surget non decolor herba?

quo non Romanos uiolabis uomere manes?
ante nouae uenient acies, scelerique secundo
praestabis nondum siccos hoc sanguine campos.
…
plus cinerum Haemoniae sulcis telluris aratur,
pluraque ruricolis feriuntur dentibus ossa.
(7.851– 4; 858 – 91)

What crop will not grow with stained, discolored stalks?

Where will one not disturb Roman ghosts with the plough?
Fresh troops will arrive, and you will present
for this second crime fields still wet with our blood.
…
More ashes ploughed up in Haemonian furrows,
more bones that are struck by the tooth of the hoe.

As much as Lucan alludes to Vergil, he also tries to surpass the earlier poet in
this instance, stressing that the second round of civil conflict at Philippi will
bring more ashes and more bones (plus cinerum…/ pluraque… ossa), and that
Roman blood will taint crops permanently (infecta, decolor) rather than simply
nourish them. The basic idea, however, remains the same: civil war provides
Mt. Haemus with a kind of reverse aetiology, an anachronistic reason for the
title it possesses already; bloodshed is bound to occur at ‘Blood Mountain’.
For Lucan, such play on ‘Haemonia’ is more than just aetiology and etymol-
ogy; it is also an example of how Roman conflict affects the landscape in which
it occurs. Civil war transforms the region’s name into a physical reality; it con-
firms Haemus’ symbolic potential. Robert Maltby remarks that Greeks and Ro-
mans treated etymologies as a means of accessing “the nature of the thing
named”.⁹¹ The etymologies in Lucan’s Pharsalia tend instead to stress that
that ‘nature’ is always in flux, that language transforms the physical world
and vice versa.

Bloodlines
Although Lucan’s catalogues abound with the names of foreign mountains, riv-
ers, regions, and tribes, the names of Romans are noticeably absent. The cata-
logue of Caesar’s troops in Book 1 mentions Gauls in place of Roman soldiers,
and the parallel list of Pompey’s forces in Book 3 spans territory from Greece

 Maltby 1993, 257.

400 Erica Bexley

to India without including a single Latin name. The result is that, unlike Vergil,
Lucan draws no aetiological links between the individuals in his catalogues and
the Roman families famous in his own day. Tracing descent was a common oc-
cupation among ancient readers, who treated epic catalogues – military or oth-
erwise – as a locus of genealogical information, no matter how fanciful.⁹² But
Lucan denies his catalogues this function, omitting Roman names in order to
promote the tendentious idea that all Romans of any significance died at Phar-
salus.⁹³ The claim is manifestly false, but it enables the poet to rework epic tra-
dition in innovative ways: if the Pharsalia’s catalogue contains no genealogy, it is
because all the great Roman bloodlines have soaked into Thessalian soil.
While genealogy features more prominently in Greek epic,⁹⁴ Vergil is the
most immediate source for this aspect of Lucan’s work. Constructing continuities
between the remote, proto-Roman past and its Augustan future is a technique
that pervades the entire Aeneid, and it stands out especially in Vergil’s cata-
logues. For instance, at the end of Aeneid 6, Anchises presents Aeneas with a ge-
nealogy in the future tense, a parade of Romans who are both famous in their
own right and represent some of Roman history’s most significant families.
Next, at the end of Book 7, Vergil’s catalogue of Italian allies connects pre-
Roman Italy with the poet’s own time. When Vergil asks the muses to sing of
the men quibus Itala iam tum/ floruerit (“that Italy even then/ produced in abun-
dance”, A. 7.643 – 4), the iam tum reveals his contemporary perspective.⁹⁵As two
single syllables filling the line’s final foot, iam tum occupies an emphatic posi-
tion and so displays its programmatic importance for the catalogue: Italy’s
strength is the same, then and now.⁹⁶ In the list that follows, Vergil combines
continuity with genealogy when he pauses to describe the descent of the gens
Claudia from the Sabine leader, Clausus (A. 7.705 – 9). To some degree genealogy
is the inevitable consequence of Vergil inventing a past to fit the present.
Lucan, in contrast, not only avoids genealogy, but expressly denies it. He
makes this clear by placing Trojan recruits in the catalogue of Pompey’s forces
and explaining that they support the republican leader because they do not be-

 For example, the Pseudo-Hesiodic Catalogue of Women was a major source of genealogical
information in the ancient world – see Hall 1997, 41– 2. Greeks wishing to define their ethnic
localities and substantiate claims to cultural unity treated the Iliad’s catalogue of ships in a
similar manner, as Finkelberg (2005, 8 – 10, 18 – 19 and 171) makes clear.
 At 7.540 – 3, Lucan goes so far as to claim that there will be no Romans left after Pharsalus,
and that Galatians, Syrians, Cappadocians, Gauls, Iberians, Cilians, and Armenians will become
the people of Rome instead.
 On the prominent role of genealogy in Greek epic, see above n. 92.
 Fraenkel 1945, 9.
 Williams (1973 ad loc.) notes the emphasis Vergil places on iam tum.
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 401

lieve Caesar’s claim of descent from Iulus: nec fabula Troiae/ continuit Phrygiique
ferens se Caesar Iuli (“the story of Troy/ did not hold them back nor did Caesar
claiming descent from Phrygian Iulus”, 3.212– 13). With these words the poet de-
nies not just a Roman genealogy, but the Roman genealogy; he exposes the Julio-
Claudian origin myth for what it is: a myth. Not even the Trojans are convinced
by it. Invented by Caesar and substantiated by Vergil, the story of Aeneas is re-
pudiated by the real Trojans who live in historical time in the pre-Aeneid world of
Lucan’s Pharsalia. ⁹⁷ Frederick Ahl is right to remark that Troy’s presence in this
catalogue anticipates the Roman dead at Pharsalus: when Caesar conquers Pom-
pey he will not only gain eastern territories but also cut off his own – supposed –
lineage.⁹⁸ It is yet another way in which Lucan portrays the self-defeating, self-
imploding nature of civil war. In Lucan’s catalogues, genealogy is a dead end.
Its death, moreover, is the subject of another catalogue, one that is quite
minor and until now has passed unnoticed by Lucan scholarship. It comes at
the end of Book 7, where Lucan lists the animals that arrive on the battlefield
to feast on Roman bodies. Since the passage is quite short, I take the liberty
of citing it in full:

non solum Haemonii funesta ad pabula belli

Bistonii uenere lupi tabemque cruentae
caedis odorati Pholoen liquere leones.
tunc ursae latebras, obscaeni tecta domosque
deseruere canes, et quidquid nare sagaci
aera non sanum motumque cadauere sentit.
iamque diu uolucres ciuilia castra secutae
conueniunt. uos, quae Nilo mutare soletis
Threicias hiemes, ad mollem serius Austrum
istis, aues.
(7.825 – 34)

To feed on the dead of Haemonia’s war

wolves came from Bistonia and lions that smelt
the blood, rot, and slaughter left dens on Pholoe.
Bears came out of hiding, disgusting dogs
left houses and homes, and they all gathered there,
whatever could sense with its keen, upturned nostrils
the air so unhealthy, so tainted by corpses.
Birds flock together, the birds that had followed

 Tesoriero (2005, 202– 15) examines the Pharsalia’s complex temporality: Lucan’s readers
know the Aeneid, but Lucan’s Caesar does not. The poet frequently exploits the situation’s ironic
potential.
 Ahl 1976, 219.
402 Erica Bexley

our civilian armies, day after day.

And you, the cranes that migrate to the Nile
escaping the winters in Thrace, you will come
to the soft southern sun a bit late this year.

Close reading of this passage reveals a host of structural and linguistic features
typical of epic catalogues: Lucan uses verbs of leaving (liquere, deseruere), ap-
proaching (uenere), and convening (conueniunt) to create a sense of forward move-
ment; for the wolves and lions he states places of origin (Bistonia and Pholoe); he
even records some ‘ethnographic’ information for the cranes that migrate between
the Nile and Thrace. The entire description is simultaneously bitter and humorous.
These animals converge on the battlefield like warriors; they are identified by their
geographic locales and associations; but they come to Thessaly after the battle, not
before it, and to feast rather than fight (ad pabula belli).⁹⁹ Being eaten is the fate of
Roman families that might otherwise have figured in a catalogue display of rank
and file. Interestingly, Lucan’s Romans suffer what Homer’s warriors threaten
each other but never actually undergo: having their bodies thrown to the dogs
and birds.¹⁰⁰ Once again, Lucan changes and challenges standard epic form,
this time by writing a catalogue-after-the-fact, which enables him to depict the bat-
tle as a moment of massive rupture, an event that denies continuity between the
Republican past and the Caesarian future, no matter what Vergil may claim.
And when Lucan interrupts Roman genealogy, he also upsets geography.
Typically, epic catalogues classify family or tribal groups according to location,
so that the absence of Romans from Lucan’s catalogues makes us more aware of
the absence of Rome itself. The lists of troops in Books 1 and 3 survey everything
from the Belgian coast to the Ganges, but the result is a feeling of dislocation:
Rome is disowning its territories and embroiling foreign peoples in civil war.
Post Pharsalia, the catalogue in Book 7 depicts “the paradox of a Roman war
fought out in alien Thessaly.”¹⁰¹ As with Caesar’s withdrawal and Pompey’s
levy, so here: we see no Romans (at least, nothing recognizable as Romans),
and such lack of recognition is a typical effect of Lucan’s civil war, which over-
turns geographic norms and established ways of viewing the world. If Romans

 There is another catalogue in the Pharsalia that performs a similar function: the list of
snakes at 9.700 – 33, and the subsequent battle waged between serpents and Roman soldiers at
9.734– 833. I have refrained from analyzing this episode mainly because it has already been the
subject of much scholarly attention: Morford 1967, 126 – 8; Leigh 2000, 95 – 109; Eldred 2000, 63 –
74; Raschle 2001; Wick 2004 ad loc.
 A suggestion made, independently, by both Thomas Van Nortwick and Ioannis Ziogas.
 Henderson 1998, 187 (his emphasis).
 Lucan’s Catalogues and the Landscape of War 403

barely feature in Lucan’s catalogues it is because civil conflict has at best imper-
iled, at worst eradicated what it means to be Roman.

Conclusion
The catalogue may be only one poetic form among many that Lucan uses to con-
vey his recurring motif of geographic, moral, and civil disorder, but it is certainly
the most ironic. I say ironic because the catalogue itself is a fundamental expres-
sion of order. Visually, catalogues resemble processions: they depict the orderly
movement of people arranged into various groups and subgroups. Catalogues
aim to divide, circumscribe, categorize, and define; they lead us to expect hier-
archy and artful sequence. Conscious or not, all of these ideas lie behind Lucan’s
treatment of this standard epic feature. Catalogues in the Pharsalia are points
where the Empire’s disorder is seen most clearly because it is least expected.
Whether Lucan inverts their traditional form, as he does for Caesar, or alters
their purpose, as he does for Pompey, the Pharsalia’s catalogues always reflect
the inverted, perverted, paradoxical qualities of their subject matter.
Moreover, Lucan regards civil war as chaotic and confusing not just because
it is civil, not just because it involves Romans fighting each other, but also be-
cause Rome and Roman power ought to be principles of order. By including a
wealth of geographic and ethnographic detail, Lucan shows how Roman military
operations ought to define the world. Conquest does not simply move from cen-
ter to periphery; it creates these two categories. And when war turns inwards,
Rome’s imperial ideals unravel: empire contracts, maps are redrawn, triumphs
become funerals, Romans behave like barbarians, boundaries are transgressed,
and genealogies meet a brutal end. That Lucan presents civil war as world war is
not just a clever paradox: in the poet’s mind, the two are inextricable. The Phar-
salia’s catalogues demonstrate that when Caesar fights Pompey then Rome shall
fall, and with Rome, the world.
Ruth Parkes
The Long Road to Thebes
The Geography of Journeys in Statius’ Thebaid

Journeys are integral to the Thebaid, dominating much of the action. Book 1 in-
cludes the trip of Polynices, Books 2 and 3 feature the travels of Tydeus, whilst
Book 12 relates the journeys of the Argive women and Theseus’ army. Moreover,
the heart of the epic, Books 4 to 7, is concerned with the progress of the Argive
expedition. For a poem whose goal is apparently that of the fratricidal duel at
Thebes, a considerable amount of time is spent getting to the scene of the
crime. As Augoustakis¹ observes, “…Statius indulges in rebalancing the ‘middle’
of the poem from Thebes itself to ‘the trip towards Thebes’, namely the details of
the Argive expedition on its way to the centre of the action”. The importance of
journeys to the Thebaid may also be shown by their presence in the poem’s im-
agery. The land expedition of the Argive army is figured in terms of birds flying
through the air, first in the symbolism of the ornithomancy conducted by Am-
phiaraus and Melampus where seven eagles stand for the Argive chieftains
(3.530 – 47), and then in the simile of 5.11– 16 in which the army is compared
to cranes leaving the Nile. The expedition is also assimilated to a sea-trip, a proc-
ess which begins with the comparison of Polynices on his way to Argos to a
storm-buffeted mariner (1.370 – 7) and the simile at 4.24– 30 in which the depart-
ing warriors are likened to men going on a voyage.² Furthermore, travel imagery
is applied to the Thebaid itself, as evidenced by the ship metaphor at 12.809
(mea iam longo meruit ratis aequore portum, “my bark in the wide ocean has al-
ready earned her harbour”)³ and Statius’ injunction to his text at 12.817 to “follow
[the Aeneid] from afar and always worship her footsteps” (longe sequere et ues-
tigia semper adora).⁴ In light of the convention whereby a poet can be viewed as
acting out his subject matter, we may even see Statius as travelling to Thebes in
the course of his work: on one level, the composition of the epic, whose narrative

 Augoustakis 2010, 3.
 Cf. 4.812– 15; 6.19 – 24; 6.799 – 801; 7.139– 43; 8.267– 70; 9.141– 3; 10.13 – 14; 10.182– 6; 11.520 – 4.
On sailing similes in the Thebaid, see Kytzler 1962, 155 – 8.
 For the concept of poetry as a sea-voyage, see Davis 1990, 48 and Zissos 2008, xxxix on
Valerius Flaccus and McNelis 2007, 82 on Statius. Quotations of the Thebaid are taken from Hill
1996; translations are my own.
 Cf. also iam certe praesens tibi Fama benignum/ strauit iter, 12.812– 13 (“without doubt, pre-
sent Fame has already paved for you a favourable path”).
406 Ruth Parkes

path mirrors the path of expedition for much of the poem, is a journey.⁵ This
journey is completed when all the protagonists have reached the city, their return
trips an untold story.⁶
Yet in spite of prominence of journeys in the Thebaid, little research has been
done on this topic⁷ or indeed, on Statius’ geography in general⁸ apart from his
use of landscapes.⁹ This paper aims to look at routes in the Thebaid, particularly
the one between Argos and Thebes which is travelled by many of the poem’s
characters. The first part examines the tension between the magnetic pull of
Thebes and reluctance to reach it as manifested by characters, the poet and
the poem. Attention is paid to the striking length of time it takes the army and
the narrative to get to Thebes, as incidents and topography delay the army’s pro-
gression towards conflict, and comparisons are made with the other journeys
undertaken in the poem. The second section looks at the way many trips in the
Thebaid are not repeated or at least not in the expected way and suggests that
a prior journey may be evoked when the same or different characters travel that
way in order to bring out the gap between expectation and outcome. The third
part examines Statius’ portrayal of itineraries through reference to landmarks
and locations. It notes how the provision of geographical and mythological infor-
mation about routes serves to comment upon the missions for which they are
being traversed, and considers the impact of the Argive expedition upon the
landscape of the poem.

 For parallels between a journey and the narrative trip of a poet, see Slaney (this volume).
 So, for example, we do not hear of the return of the Argive women, the allied troops or the
Athenian army. Comparatively little attention is bestowed upon the defeated army’s return:
cf. 11.757– 61; 12.141– 4. Adrastus’ journey to Argos is glossed over by the simile in which he is
compared to Dis going down to the underworld after the drawing of lots (11.441– 6).
 An honourable exception is Pollmann (2004), which contains a map (7) of the paths travelled
in Thebaid 12 and investigates the distances covered and times taken in an appendix (291– 3);
see also Vessey (1973), 92– 3 (arguing, “The path from Thebes to Argos has, in the Thebaid, a
symbolic significance. The two cities are not so much geographical entities, as embodiments of
moral and spiritual polarities.”); 143; 315; 324.
 The discussions which do exist tend to be brief and often dismissive: see e. g. Heuvel 1932 on
1.383 and Shackleton Bailey’s 2003 notes on 1.100 and 1.355 – 6, concerning poetic licence. We
can only speculate on the sources of Statius’ knowledge of the geography of Greece but it would
seem surprising if he did not gain some information from his father who competed in the
Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian games (Silv. 5.3.142– 3) and who appears to have visited Eleusis
(Clinton 1972).
 See e. g. Brown 1994, passim; Keith 2000, 57– 63; Newlands 2004; McNelis 2007, 87– 93; 112–
15; 120 – 22 (on Nemea and Asopus as Callimachean topography), and Augoustakis 2010, 30 – 91
passim.
 The Long Road to Thebes 407

Journey Length
a) The Argive Expedition

If the Thebaid has any geographical centre, it may fairly be said to be Thebes.¹⁰
This city is the site of the engagement between the armies and, more specifically,
the duel between the brothers Polynices and Eteocles, portrayed in Book 11,
which is the initial goal of the poem’s narration before the focus moves to the
interment of the Argive corpses. From the moment that Polynices leaves his
home city (1.312– 14) and decides to travel to Argos (1.324– 6) to spend his
year’s exile, we await the repeat journey. Indeed, we are tantalized by the pros-
pect: at 2.322– 3 we learn that Polynices plans to return (Dircen Cadmique nega-
tas/ apparat ire domos, “he makes ready to go to Dirce and the forbidden home
of Cadmus”). However, it is Tydeus who travels to Thebes to ask for the throne on
his behalf, as Polynices later observes: Thebas me propter …/ …. adisti,/ ceu tibi-
met sceptra et proprios laturus honores (“on my account you went to Thebes, as
though to gain the sceptre for yourself and honours of your own,” 9.65 – 7): Poly-
nices’ alter-ego¹¹ is substituted in his place. The desire of the reader to get to
Thebes is matched by the poem’s main characters. Polynices, whose thoughts
turn back to his home as soon as the twelve-day celebration of his nuptials
has ended (2.306 – 8), is understandably attracted to Thebes by the thought of
his kingdom.¹² But the other characters in the poem who are not already resi-
dents in the city also appear to be drawn there: Tydeus as ambassador, the Ar-
give troops, the Theban allies, Theseus and the Athenian host, and the mourning
Argive women.¹³ In fact, people make their way directly or indirectly to this one
destination from all over Greece: the Argive army mobilizes men from every part

 On Thebes as the centre and Argos as the periphery, see Augoustakis 2010, 34– 7, 89.
 For Tydeus as Polynices’ double, see (according to Eteocles) illum/ mente gerens, 2.417– 18
(“his mental image”); ipsi ceu regna negentur, 2.477 (“as though it was he who was denied the
kingdom”); dubium… adeo cui bella gerantur, 4.114– 15 (“indeed, it is uncertain for whom the war
is being waged”).
 The desire to return may also be part of Polynices’ inheritance: in adulthood his father
Oedipus travels back to Thebes and his mother’s womb: cf. proprios … reuolutus in ortus, 1.235
(“returning to his own origins”); qui semet in ortus/ uertit, 4.631– 2 (“who turns himself to his
origins”).
 Even the dead return temporarily: see 2.7– 70 (Laius is brought back as a ghost); 11.420 – 3
(Theban ghosts are sent from the underworld to watch the duel). The magnetic attraction of
Thebes will continue in the poem’s future, as the sons of the Seven march upon the city to
avenge their fathers (cf. 7.221 ultoresque alii, “other avengers”).
408 Ruth Parkes

of the Peloponnese¹⁴ and from Aetolia (4.101), the Theban allies come from Boeo-
tia (7.254– 342), Phocis (7.343 – 58) and Euboea (7.369 – 71), and Theseus’ recruits
are from the towns and districts of Attica (12.614– 34). That our poet shapes his
material so that (almost) all roads lead to Thebes may be demonstrated by the
grieving females from Argos: Statius chooses the version of the myth in which
the corpses of the defeated army are buried before Thebes rather than transport-
ed to Eleusis or Athens¹⁵ and so it is to Thebes that their wives and relatives
come.
Thus the Thebaid’s readers, characters, and the very narrative hasten to-
wards the conflict at Thebes. However, as critics have noted,¹⁶ this is not the
whole story. The war between Argos and Thebes is in essence a civil one as Poly-
nices, a hostis/ indigena (“native enemy,” 7.383 – 4) marches upon his brother.
Some characters, such as King Adrastus and Amphiaraus, are reluctant to en-
gage in such nefarious activity and welcome delay. So, for example, whilst in
Nemea Amphiaraus wishes for more obstructions and a journey without end:
atque utinam plures innectere pergas,/ Phoebe, moras, semperque nouis bellare
uetemur/ casibus, et semper Thebe funesta recedat (“Phoebus, may you continue
to weave more delays and we always be barred from fighting by new chances and
may you, deadly Thebes, ever recede,” 5.743 – 5). Furthermore, the characters’
divided attitude to war is mirrored by the poem itself. Taking its cue from the
conflict portrayed in Lucan’s Bellum Ciuile “between the will to tell the story
and the horror which shies from telling it”,¹⁷ the Thebaid stages a tension be-
tween the narrative’s drive to relate the tale and a consciousness that it should
be obliterated from memory. At 11.577– 9 the poet feigns reluctance to relate the
duel between Polynices and Eteocles: omnibus in terris scelus hoc omnique sub
aeuo/ uiderit una dies, monstrumque infame futuris/ excidat, et soli memorent
haec proelia reges (“In all lands and in every age let one day only have seen
this crime. Let the infamous atrocity be forgotten by future generations and

 Note, for instance, catalogue references to Drepanum (4.50) in the north, Malea (4.224) in the
south-east, Troezen (4.81) in the east and Arene (4.81) in the west.
 See Pollmann 2004 on 12.802– 3.
 See e. g. Hutchinson 1993, 176: “despite the urge of the poem and of Tydeus towards war, the
shape of the poem keeps that outcome a long way off, above all through the extended part where
the Argive army is kept at Nemea … The impetus is teasingly frustrated, and the reader’s
sensations are articulated by characters in the poem”; McNelis 2007, 76 – 123; Augoustakis 2010,
45; Parkes 2012, xvii-xx.
 Masters 1992, 9. Cf. also V. Fl. 2.216 – 19. McNelis (2007, 77) draws parallels between the
narrative struggles figured in the Bellum Ciuile and the Thebaid and contrasts the different
means by which these are created (appeals to political and literary history).
 The Long Road to Thebes 409

only kings remember this fight”). As in the Bellum Ciuile,¹⁸ the disinclination to
portray nefarious subject matter also manifests itself in the Thebaid’s postpone-
ment of the fighting, forming one side of the schizophrenic narrative tussle in
which the poet’s efforts to delay the conflict are necessarily foiled by his alter-
ego.¹⁹ Although Jupiter and Tisiphone provoke strife in Book 1 and the first spill-
ing of enemy blood occurs in Tydeus’ defeat of the ambushers at 2.527– 703,²⁰ the
next hostile encounter is not until the killing of Aconteus at 7.603 – 5 and the two
brothers do not face each other in combat until Book 11 (11.388 – 573). As Mars
repeatedly rouses the Peloponnese (3.343 – 4; 3.420 – 5; 3.575 – 6) in accordance
with his instructions from Jupiter (3.229 – 39), so the poem lurches towards
war; as his efforts are halted, by his encounter with Venus (3.263 – 316), the Ar-
give divinations (3.440 – 647) and Adrastus’ procrastination (3.714– 20), so too is
the progression towards description of the conflict. These delays are followed by
the roll-call of the soldiers, which keeps the host in Argos until line 344 of Book
4, and the preparations of the Theban side, including the necromancy, which
take the narrative up to 4.645. Much of the remaining narrative delay before
the first skirmish is taken up with the journey of the army, particularly its expe-
riences in Nemea which occupy two and a third books. The soldiers may depart
from Argos in Book 4 but they do not arrive in Thebes until part way through
Book 7.
The striking length of time devoted to the expedition by the narrative has its
counterpart in the surprising amount of chronological time it takes for the Argive
army to arrive at Thebes. The expedition does not even set off until the third year
(4.1– 2) since the brothers’ quarrel and Polynices’ exile. And once they do set off
from Argos, the soldiers break their travels at Nemea, 18.75 kilometres away. We
may calculate from references to the sun’s zenith at 4.680 – 1 and 4.690 – 1, which
pin-point their arrival at noon-time, that the first part of the journey is completed
in a morning. Comparing this with Herodotus’ claim at 5.53 that soldiers are able
to march 150 stadia per day (i. e., 28.125 kilometres), we may see that the army
has made good progress. Yet such efficiency does not last. Had they kept up
their speed, the army should have covered the 120 kilometres trip from Argos
to Thebes within four or five days. Instead, the journey takes weeks as the

 Cf. Masters 1992, 5: “powerless as Lucan may be to prevent the final catastrophe, he has at
least the power, as a poet, of delaying it within his poem”. For this delay, see e. g. Masters (ibid.),
3 – 10.
 The Thebaid must go on, like the Bellum Ciuile (for which, see Masters 1992, 6: “Although
Lucan is reluctant, he does yet continue the action”. On p. 9, Masters (ibid.) speaks of Lucan’s
“schizophrenic poetic persona”).
 Cf. primo… imbutas sanguine gentes, 3.219 (“races stained with the first bloodshed”).
410 Ruth Parkes

army linger in Nemea. On the afternoon and evening of their first day’s journey,
recounted at 4.646 – 5.753, the Argives are held up by a series of events: a drought
caused by Bacchus to delay the army, an encounter with Hypsipyle, discovery of
the spring Langia, Hypsipyle’s longa… querela (“lengthy complaint,” 5.500) de-
tailing her Lemnian past, the infant Opheltes’ crushing by a snake, the slaughter
of the serpent, reactions to Opheltes’ death, and the reunion between Hypsipyle
and her sons. Night falls (5.753) as Amphiaraus finishes his address (5.733 – 52).
Book 6 contains fewer clear temporal indications. However, it would appear from
references to dawn (6.25) and night (6.237) that Opheltes’ funeral takes up one
day and that the Argives spend eight days building his memorial (6.238 – 42).
Games then take place in honour of the slain infant (6.249 – 946). The Argives lin-
ger in Nemea long enough for report of these competitions to spread (6.1– 4), for
spectators to arrive (6.249 – 53), and for the duration of six events. Furthermore,
the crowd do not disperse once the games end (7.90 – 1): despite his claim that
they are a festina cohors ( “fast-moving host,” 7.100), Adrastus appeases
Opheltes’ shade with wine and prayer (7.91– 104). Jupiter’s exasperated com-
ments at the beginning of Book 7 highlight the army’s lack of progress. After
catching sight of the Argives cunctantes… primordia belli (“delaying the start of
the war,” 7.1,), he complains that despite commanding Mars to fire up the Argives
olim (“long ago,” 7.14), illi, uix muros limenque egressa iuuentus,/ sacra colunt (
“they, though the soldiers have scarcely passed their boundary walls, hold a sa-
cred festival,” 7.17– 18). The Greeks are resides in proelia (“listless for war,” 7.83)
and Mars must propel them on their way again (7.105 – 46). Once the Argives are
roused by the war-god, the emphasis is on their speed: their journey is said to be
“swift” (7.146 rapidum) and unhindered by obstacles: nihil flagrantibus obstat:/
praecipitant redimuntque moras (“nothing obstructs them in their burning desire:
they rush headlong, making up for their delay,” 7.138 – 9). The march from Nemea
to the river Asopus, a distance of less than 80 kilometres, appears to be covered
in two days and nights (7.398 – 400); rest is scorned and meals and sleep scarcely
delay them (7.400 – 1). However, as we shall see below, the time taken to traverse
this distance still compares unfavourably with the speeds managed by some
other characters in the poem.
As well as being held up by a series of incidents such as the drought insti-
gated by Bacchus and the accidental death of Opheltes, the Argives are also de-
layed by topography. Even before the expedition departs, location acts as a hin-
drance. The terrain of Greece is criss-crossed by the men who join the army. All
those who enlist for the war muster at Argos before setting off, including those
who dwell between Argos and Thebes, such as the inhabitants of Nemea (4.159)
and Corinth (4.59 – 62), and those who are actually from Thebes (4.76 – 80, the
supporters of Polynices). Further topographical obstacles are encountered once
 The Long Road to Thebes 411

the soldiers have gathered. As Henderson²¹ notes, Statius has “removed” the
“shape” of Thebes “by un-featuring the Walls, the Gates” of the Greek tragic tra-
dition.²² He does not lay emphasis on the walls of Thebes as a physical barrier to
the invading army.²³ So, for instance, there is nothing made of the gates in the
first clash of the armies at 7.616 ff., which follows the deaths of the tigers and
Aconteus. In fact, the fortifications of Thebes are presented as crumbling and
in need of repair, as indicated at 4.356 – 7 (ipsa uetusto/ moenia lapsa situ,
“the very walls have collapsed through long neglect”). The focus is rather
upon geographical features which are in the army’s way as they travel to Thebes:
they must fight their way through dense foliage²⁴ and ford a river in spate. On
one level, such obstacles are a substitute for the ultimate barrier, the fortifica-
tions of Thebes: thus the felling of the Nemean grove is likened to the destruc-
tion of a city by a victorious army (nec urbem/ inuenias; ducunt sternuntque abi-
guntque feruntque, “nor would you find the city; they drag, flatten, drive off, and
plunder,” 6.115 – 16) and Hippomedon crosses the Asopus with the cry: sic uos in
moenia primus/ ducere, sic clausas uoueo perfringere Thebas (“so do I vow to be
first to lead you into the walls, so to break through closed Thebes,” 7.433 – 4). Of
course, despite the inroads made by the army at 10.519 – 30 and efforts of Capa-
neus in his gigantomachic climb (10.837– 82), the army do not successfully man-
age to breech the walls of Thebes: it is only the Athenian host which manages to
enter the Thebans’ homes (12.785). Their plundering is confined to the Nemean
woods (6.114– 16, above cit.), the river Langia (cf. 4.830) and the arms of the
watchmen sleeping outside the Argive camp (10.342). The Argives’ mastery of
the journey’s obstacles throws into relief their failure to break through to their
final destination, the heart of Thebes.
The first, and indeed the most challenging, of the barriers encountered by
the marching army is the thickets (dumeta, 4.647) of Nemea.²⁵ Within but a
short distance of its setting-off point, the host becomes enmeshed and lost.
Even before the description of the previously untouched (6.90 – 1) ancient forest,
which is felled to create a towering pyre (6.84– 106), attention is drawn to the

 Henderson 1993, 170.

 See further, Brown 1994, 14– 15.
 There is, however, interest in the walls of Thebes as barriers for the female characters (see e.g.
Augoustakis 2010, 67, 81) and the walls feature in various scenes (Henderson 1991, 72, n. 113; Brown
1994, 15), such as Antigone’s teichoscopy (7.243– 373) and Menoeceus’ deuotio (10.756 – 82).
 Cf. Brown 1994, 15: “the most significant topographical challenge to the Seven … is not the
city walls, but the Nemean woodland.”
 Cf. Brown 1994, 9: “In Thebaid IV-VI, topography itself originates delay, detaining the Argives in
Nemea’s woods after barely one book of action to face their greatest physical obstacle en route for
Thebes.”
412 Ruth Parkes

density of the shrubs and trees through which the army must make its way: at
4.804 the warriors are led per dumos (“through bushes”), at 5.44– 5 Adrastus an-
nounces that nec facilis Nemea latas euoluere uires/ quippe obtenta comis et in-
eluctabilis umbra (“nor does Nemea accommodate the rolling out of a broad
power, for she is screened by foliage and enmeshed in shade”), at 5.514– 15
the Nemean snake is depicted scraping trees and thinning ashes, and at
5.564– 5 Hippomedon’s rock-throw causes the densi/ … nexus (“close-knit inter-
twinings”) of the forest to part. The expedition is hampered by this density as
the trees cause the men to disperse²⁶ and digress.
Brown²⁷ comments that, “[p]athless and devoid of spatial markers, the forest
is a topographical version of the labyrinth which dooms those caught inside to
directionless wandering.” Certainly, as it is initially portrayed wooded Nemea
is almost²⁸ devoid of distinguishing features, rendering its comparison to the
sandy deserts of Africa at 4.744 especially appropriate. It seems telling that
when the demarcating boundary stone is mentioned at 5.558 – 9,²⁹ it is in the con-
text of Hippomedon’s removal of the rock as a missile. The landscape seems to
be made up of trees, grass and water-courses which in their dried-up state fail to
provide topographical information.³⁰ There is no suggestion of a clear path
which the Argives are following as they traverse the nemora auia (“trackless
woods,” 6.29).³¹ Indeed, the land seems to swallow up tracks in the case of
the traces left by Opheltes’ crawl through the grass (prata recentes/ amisere
notas, “the meadow has lost the recent marks,” 5.548 – 9). And even if there
were a path, the warriors are forced to wander in order to find water. We learn
at 4.740 – 2 that huc illuc impellit Adrastus/ exploratores, si stagna Licymnia rest-
ent,/ si quis Amymones superet liquor (“this way and that Adrastus sends scouts
to see if the Licymnian pools are left and if any of Amymone’s water survives”).
Moreover, when the Argives do come across a guide, Hypsipyle, they are led
through deuia (“remote parts,” 4.805) and taken to a stream, Langia, which is
auia (“out-of-the-way,” 4.726) and said to nurture her waters secreta… sub

 Cf. uaga legione, 4.647 (“scattered host”); the rush to find water at 4.805 – 6 and 816 – 17
further disrupts the soldiers’ formation. The army’s horses also range over Nemea: see perfurit
aruis/ … pecus, 4.739 – 40 (“the herd rages over the land”).
 Brown 1994, 14.
 Note, however, Jupiter’s altars (5.512) and temple (5.576 – 7).
 saxum,/ quo discretus ager, “a rock by which the field is marked off”.
 Cf 5.522– 3 where the snake wanders stagna per arentesque lacus fontesque repressos/ … et
uacuis fluuiorum in uallibus (“through pools and arid lakes and stopped springs… and in empty
river valleys”).
 Cf. also the auius aether (“trackless sky,” 5.14) which equates to Nemea in the crane simile of
5.11– 16.
 The Long Road to Thebes 413

umbra (“under secluded shade,” 4.724). Nemea is, in fact, a locus of deviation, of
error (4.650), where the wandering of the Argives (errantes, 4.747) and Hypsipyle
(pererratis… campis, 5.588) is matched by the wandering of the waters (errantes…
riuos, 4.687), Opheltes (inerrat, 4.800), and the parched snake (errat, 5.523).
In fact, delay and deviation do not only typify events in Nemea, they also
characterize the episode itself. The wandering of the Argives is matched by the
winding path of the narrative: the poem gets “lost” in the Nemean section as
it turns away from the route to Thebes and the goal of relating the conflict.
The story sidesteps away from its focus on the coming together of the two
sides to detail the Argives’ encounter with a female and an infant. Moreover,
within this digression of the Nemean interlude, there is further narratorial di-
gression in Hypsipyle’s day-time storytelling of the Lemnian massacre (5.49 –
498), a particularly indulgent-seeming choice of diversion in light of the
army’s mission, as Hypsipyle’s own words make clear: uos arma uocant
(“arms call you,” 5.37).³² The sense of deviation is further bolstered by the epi-
sode’s choice of intertexts. Names, plot details and diction engage with the Ar-
istaeus epyllion in Vergil’s Georgics (4.315 – 558), a mythological digression con-
taining the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Nemea’s heat and drought, which
look to the parching conditions at G. 4.425 – 8,³³ lead to the rampaging of a
snake. This creature unwittingly³⁴ kills Opheltes who has been left in the “long
grass” (alto/ gramine, 4.793 – 4). The situation reworks the plot of Georgics 4: it
is the child of a character named Eurydice (5.632) who is killed by the snake, in-
stead of Eurydice.³⁵ And rather than the victim accidentally stepping upon the

 The Homeric Odysseus and Vergilian Aeneas, who serve as models for Hypsipyle (see e. g.
Ganiban 2007, 72– 82), tell their stories against the conventional backdrop of an evening feast.
By contrast, Hypsipyle’s narrative takes place during the afternoon and in a less comfortable
outdoor setting (cf. 5.19: Adrastus stands, leaning on a spear). The description of the marshalled
army at 5.7– 8 suggests that Adrastus’ claim to be waiting for the army to mobilize (5.43 – 6) is an
excuse: like the rest of the army, he wishes to hear her story (cf. cunctis tunc noscere casus/ ortus
amor, “Then a desire to learn her fortunes arose in all,” 5.41– 2).
 As at Verg. G. 4.425– 7, the dog-star (4.691– 2) and the noon-sun (4.680 – 1) bake the ground,
including the streams: cf. caua feruenti durescunt flumina limo, 4.701 (“deep river-beds grow hard
with hot mud”) with caua flumina siccis/ faucibus ad limum radii tepefacta coquebant, Verg. G.
4.427– 8 (“rays made warm and scorched deep rivers, with their dry openings, to the mud”).
 Cf. ignaro serpente, 5.539 (“the snake is ignorant”).
 Cf. the use of Lycurgus, the name of the mythical character killed by Bacchus, as the
appellation of her husband when it is the god’s intervention that causes his son’s death.
414 Ruth Parkes

unseen snake in the long grass (alta… herba, G. 4.459), it is the snake that doesn’t
see its victim.³⁶
Following a traditional epic intervention³⁷ by Jupiter and the war-god, the
army and narrative get back on track after the Nemean delay. The next and
final³⁸ geographical barrier encountered by the invading army is the Boeotian
watercourse Asopus. Although the Argives are rumoured to be on its banks at
Theb. 4.370 – 1 (hic iam dispersos errare Asopide ripa/ Lernaeos equites, “One
man says that scattered Lernaean cavalry are already roaming on the bank of
Asopus”), they do not arrive at the river until several books later: 7.424– 5 (iam
ripas Asope, tuas Boeotaque uentum/ flumina, “now they came to your banks,
Asopus, and Boeotian streams”). As 3.337 suggests, where Tydeus is said to
rouse quidquid et Asopon ueteresque interiacet Argos (“all that lies between Aso-
pus and ancient Argos”), this appears to act as the entrance to hostile territory.
In portraying the river, Statius stresses its obstructive nature. The river-god’s an-
tagonism towards the Argives is suggested by his provision of aid to Ismenos at
9.449 – 50 and by the fact that a prominent fighter on the Theban side, Hypseus,
is his son (7.315). Such enmity is suggested on a physical level by the turbulence³⁹
of the waters facing the warriors at 7.424– 40. This “hostile river” (hostilem fluui-
um, 7.427) is in spate,⁴⁰ causing the army to halt until Hippomedon shows the
way. Here the description of the obstacle helps highlight the nefarious nature
of the expedition. Whilst the arrival of the Argives at the Asopus looks to
Homer (Il. 4.383), the detail of the passage draws on Lucan’s depiction of a
key physical barrier to the war, the swollen Rubicon, which blocks the way of
Caesar’s army (1.185 – 227).⁴¹ The evocation of Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon
to wage war against his own country in Hippomedon’s fording of the Asopus
brings out the impious nature of the fraternal strife.

 Further engagement may come in the bird simile at 5.599 – 604, which Brown (2004, 125) links
with the nightingale comparison at Verg. G. 4.511– 15.
 See 7.1– 89 with Smolenaars 1994.
 As Smolenaars (1994) on 7.398 – 469 comments, “[t]he crossing of the Asopos in lines 424 ff.
is the ultimate hindrance to the Argives’ progress.”
 Asopus’ torrential nature is also indicated by the catalogue entry for Hypseus at 7.316 – 27.
 forte… trepidantibus ingens/ descendebat agris, 7.426 – 7 (“by chance he was descending in
flood upon the frightened fields”).
 See Smolenaars 1994 on 7.424– 40; McNelis 2007, 121.
 The Long Road to Thebes 415

b) Other Journeys

The prolonged duration of the Argives’ trip to Thebes is highlighted by contrast

with other cases in which the same or similar journey is completed in a shorter
time. Statius shows his deities travelling all or part of the route between the two
cities in a speedy and effortless way.⁴² So at 2.55 – 65 Mercury escorts the shade
Laius on a nocturnal flight from the underworld entrance Taenarus (2.32– 54) to
Thebes, so Mars, who is roused from Thrace by Mercury, is shown crossing the
Isthmus of Corinth in his chariot (7.105 – 7), and so Diana hurries between Arca-
dia and Thebes on a divine path (9.637– 69)⁴³ and encounters her brother Apollo
as he returns from that city (9.644– 6). Rumour also makes frequent, swift trips
between the two states, as shown by Adrastus’ familiarity with the twisted ge-
nealogy of Oedipus’ house (nec sic auersum fama Mycenis/ uoluit iter, “nor
does Fame journey so distant from Mycenae,” 1.683 – 4), Theban awareness of
the nuptials at Argos (2.205 – 13), Argia’s assertions about Eteocles’ arrogance
and hostile attitude (2.345 – 7), and the Argive women’s knowledge of their
loved ones’ defeat (12.106).⁴⁴
Admittedly, we might expect divine journeys to prove easy. But even those
trips done by mortals turn out to be speedier than that embarked upon by the
Argive expedition and, if not without difficulties, the participants are not unduly
delayed by obstacles. So, for example, in spite of the stormy conditions which
attend his nocturnal trek through the wild and unfamiliar territory of the Pelo-
ponnese (1.346 – 69), Polynices’ journey from Thebes to Argos in book 1⁴⁵
seems quick. We know that his walk through the Peloponnese to Argos occurs
during the night (cf. 1.336 – 41). And, although the duration of the first part of
his journey from Thebes up to the Peloponnese is unclear, the absence of any
other references to darkness may imply it was completed during the day. The nar-
rative of his journey is similarly speedy. After an introductory section which re-
lates his decision to go to Argos (1.324– 8), it takes less than a hundred lines to
show him passing Cithaeron (1.328 – 31), walking over Sciron’s cliffs (1.333),
crossing the Isthmus (1.333 – 4), and walking through the Peloponnese to Adras-

 For a contrast between divine and human journeys in Homer, see Lateiner (this volume).
 Note the ease and speed of movement suggested by 9.639 – 42 (in mediis frondentem Mae-
nalon astris/ exuperat gressu saltumque ad moenia Cadmi/ destinat, interior caeli qua semita
lucet/ dis tantum, “Stepping out, she crosses leafy Maenalus in mid-air and directs her leap to
Cadmus’ walls, where the inner path of heaven shines for gods alone”).
 Compare also the spear thrown by Bellona at 4.5 – 8 which flies from Argos to Thebes.
 For the Ovidian background to Polynices’ journey, see Keith (this volume).
416 Ruth Parkes

tus’ palace (1.336 – 89). Compare similarly Tydeus’ first journey⁴⁶ from Argos to
Thebes. The only suggestion of difficulty comes in the adjective durum
(“hard,” 2.375) and, although there is no indication of time scale, the whole
trip is described within ten lines (2.375 – 84). Nor, once he has survived an am-
bush (2.527– 742) at the site of the Sphinx’s lair near Thebes,⁴⁷ does Tydeus’ re-
turn trip pose problems. Indeed, he manages it in spite of the wounds sustained
during the attack (3.326 – 36) and he appears to have hastened back, travelling
through darkness (cf. 2.527– 8) and without stopping to sleep (cf. insomnes… ocu-
los, “sleepless eyes,” 3.328). This journey receives even less narrative attention:
after learning at 2.743 that he is leaving the place of the ambush for Argos, we
next hear that he has “retraced his route” (remensus iter, 3.324) and is approach-
ing his destination (3.324– 5), having fired up the places between Asopus and
Argos (3.336 – 8). At 3.347 he is said to be improuisus adest (“suddenly present”)
within the city.
The slowness of the Argives is further put into relief by the speed with which
their wives and female relatives travel. The Argive women are shown leaving
their home city at 12.105 ff., crossing the Isthmus at 12.130 – 1, and passing Eleu-
sis at 12.132. After a chance meeting with the fugitive soldier Ornytus (12.141– 66),
who suggests they seek aid from Theseus (12.163 – 5), they then walk to Athens
(12.464 – 6), which is approximately 20 kilometres away.⁴⁸ The last stage of the
women’s journey, from Athens to Thebes, is glossed over: we merely hear of
their entrance into the city from Dirce through their comparison to Bacchantes:
ecce per aduersas Dircaei uerticis umbras/ femineus quatit astra fragor, matresque
Pelasgae/ decurrunt: quales Bacchea ad bella uocatae/ Thyiades amentes (“See
over in the shades of Dirce’s height opposite, a shout of women shakes the
stars and the Pelasgian matrons run down like frenzied Thyiads summoned to
Bacchic wars,” 12.789 – 92). However, these lines indicate that they finally
reach their destination. According to the chronology proposed by Pollmann,⁴⁹
which counts the first day after the battle as day one, they set off on day four,
arrive in Athens on day seven, and reach Thebes on day eight. In other words,
the Argive women manage to trek from Argos to Thebes in five days, a far shorter
time than their menfolk. And this is in spite of the facts that their route takes

 Tydeus had travelled part of this route before, in his journey from Calydon to Argos:
cf. 1.403 – 4 (of the path taken by Polynices) leaving Calydon: eadem, sub nocte sopora,/ lustra
terit (“in sleep-inducing night he traverses the same wilds”).
 This is traditionally placed on mount Phicion.
 Cf. prope, 12.163 (“nearby”). Pollmann (2004, 292) calculates this distance could be covered
in half a day.
 Pollmann 2004, 291– 3.
 The Long Road to Thebes 417

them through auersos calles (“unfrequented paths,” 12.134) and their journey is
longer because of their diversion to Athens: the distance between Argos and Ath-
ens is over 100 kilometres⁵⁰ and the distance between Athens and Thebes is
more than 70.
Argia herself arrives in Thebes even sooner, travelling there within four days.
She sets off with the other Argive women on the fourth day and accompanies
them until the encounter with Ornytus. At this point she decides to ignore the
warnings and go to Thebes with only her guardian Menoetes for company
(12.177– 219). In a journey which involves some backtracking from Eleusis, she
hastens to Megara (magno Megareia praeceps/ arua rapit passu, “she speeds
over the Megarian fields with great pace,” 12.219 – 20) and thence to Thebes. If
we adopt Pollmann’s time scale, it would seem that she diverges from the
mourners early on the seventh day and arrives near Thebes at Mount Cithaeron
(12.244) during the night between the seventh and eighth day.⁵¹ As Pollmann ob-
serves, the distance from the region around Eleusis to Thebes is probably more
than 70 kilometres depending upon the route taken and her journey is “much
more arduous”⁵² than that picked by the other Argive women. Statius emphasiz-
es the hazards Argia faces. Not only does she carry on through the night (12.228 –
32), but she travels through difficult and dangerous terrain: she goes back the
same pathless way (12.143 per auia) that Ornytus came (12.207), treks cross-coun-
try over the fields of the country of Megaris,⁵³ and passes through woods and riv-
ers: nec frangit iter per et inuia saxa / lapsurasque trabes nemorumque arcana (se-
reno/ nigra die) caecisque incisa noualia fossis,/ per fluuios secura uadi, somnos-
que ferarum/ praeter et horrendis infesta cubilia monstris (“nor does she check
her way through pathless rocks and boughs ready to fall and the secrets of
the forest, which are black on a bright day, through ploughlands cut up by hid-
den ditches, through rivers, without bothering about the fords, past sleeping wild
beasts, and lairs infested with fearful monsters,” 12.232– 6). Moreover, the area is
unknown to her (cf. ignara locorum, “without knowledge of the region,” 12.206)
and she frequently loses her path (12.240 – 1). Her journey, which does not end
until she finds Polynices’ corpse, continues to be beset with difficulties, as she
wanders over the weapon-strewn (12.283; 12.286) battle-plain in the dark and
without a guide (12.282).

 Allowing three and a bit days of journeying with breaks, Pollmann (2004, 292) calculates the
women covered 30 to 40 kilometres per day, “a remarkable achievement for untrained people”.
 Pollmann 2004, 293.
 Pollmann 2004, 292.
 Pollmann 2004 on 12.219 – 20.
418 Ruth Parkes

Finally, we might note the speed with which Theseus marches his army from
Athens to Thebes, a distance of over 70 kilometres. Theseus has only just re-
turned from defeating the Amazons in Scythia (12.519 – 22) yet after hearing
the Argive women’s pleas, he decides to act immediately (nulla mora est,
“there is no delay,” 12.596). He remobilizes his troops, which he bolsters with
“untrained” (12.613 rudes) recruits from the towns and districts of Attica: contin-
uo (“at once,” 12.611) they are in pugnas… accensa (“inflamed to war,” 12.611). Em-
phasis is laid upon the army’s rapidity: setting off on the seventh day,⁵⁴ Theseus
praeceps iter incohat (“begins the headlong journey,” 12.649) and marches
through the night (12.661) to arrive on the eighth.

Repetition
We may see from the above study that some of the routes in the Thebaid are trav-
ersed wholly or in part by characters on more than one occasion: Polynices jour-
neys from Thebes to Argos and back again, Tydeus makes a repeat trip to Thebes
as ambassador and, as some of those who muster at Argos live somewhere be-
tween there and Thebes or even Thebes itself, those men end up retracing their
path.⁵⁵ That repetition is not only a feature of journeys between Argos and
Thebes can be seen in the case of Hypsipyle, a character whose repetitive ten-
dencies⁵⁶ are evident even in her travels. When she flees Lemnos after the
other women discover that she had faked her patricide, Hypsipyle takes the
same route she had traversed when escorting her father Thoas to the harbour
(5.278 – 89). As she tells the Argives, after having reprised her role as a guide
to water (but with the result of her foster-son’s death rather than her father’s sur-
vival): uaga litora furtim/ … sequor funestaque moenia linquo,/ qua fuga nota pat-
ris (“I follow the winding shore in secret and leave the deadly walls by the
known path of my father’s flight,” 5.494– 6). Of course, the second time she
makes the trip, she is alone (incomitata, “unaccompanied,” 5.495).⁵⁷ She is the

 Pollmann 2004, 292.

 Within the expedition itself there is also regression: Adrastus sends out scouts to look for
water in places such as the area of Tiryns (stagna Licymnia, “Licymnian pools,” 4.741), which
involves back-tracking from Nemea. He might even be sending men who have come from this
city: cf. 4.146 – 7.
 Hypsipyle is wont to tell the story of her past: audiences include the Argive host (5.499),
Lycurgus (5.658 – 60), Opheltes (5.615 – 16: repeatedly), and Eurydice (6.149 – 50). See further,
Nugent 1996, 54– 5; Gibson 2004, 161– 3; Ganiban 2007, 93.
 Hypsipyle’s past experience renders her treatment of Opheltes, whom she abandons alone
on the grass (4.786 – 7), the more culpable.
 The Long Road to Thebes 419

one fleeing and Bacchus does not appear to guide her.⁵⁸ Instead of escaping to
safety, she is captured by pirates and brought to Nemea as a slave (5.496 – 8).
Set alongside these examples of repeat trips are, however, many journeys
which characters do not make again despite their intentions. Indeed, the
poem often draws attention to these failed returns by, for instance, portraying
hopes of a homecoming, as in the case of Tydeus’ reference to Aetolia at
2.726 – 7, or by building up the outward journey, as exemplified by the Argive ex-
pedition. The journey back from Thebes to Argos is the one which most conspic-
uously fails to materialize for many of the soldiers die at Thebes, including all of
the chieftains apart from Adrastus (cf. 6.945 – 6).⁵⁹ There are some examples of this
return journey, including a few which, as we have seen, are glossed over by the
poet. Yet all but one of them are shrouded in sorrow. Only Tydeus makes the
round trip with any success,⁶⁰ and even he does not manage to leave Thebes
alive on his second go, dying there rather than making the homeward journey
to Aetolia which he had dreamt of.
Thus returns from Thebes usually either do not occur or do not occur as de-
sired. When they are described, the poem encourages us to recall the initial jour-
ney, comparing the outward leg with its return and expectation with outcome.
So, for example, those Argives who survive the conflict steal away from Thebes
at night in disgrace (11.757– 61). Their defeated and fugitive return is symbolized
by the description of the wounded Ornytus: timido secreta per auia furto/ debile
carpit iter (“in timid stealth he takes his enfeebled way through deserted wastes,”
12.143– 4). The contrast with the soldiers’ portrayal in the catalogue of Book 4 and
their journey to Thebes is marked.⁶¹ The warriors left Argos in glory but return in
shame (11.760). Instead of the trumpet blasts (4.342– 3) and song (4.157– 8) which
accompanied their departure, they eunt taciti (“go quietly,” 11.759). The order of
their march, as suggested by the catalogue, has disappeared. The soldiers no lon-
ger have their standards or leaders (11.758 – 9) or military formation (cf. passim,
11.759). And rather than proudly advancing as a mighty force, they trek through
wilderness in order to avoid pursuit.
We may also be guided to compare trips as undertaken by different charac-
ters. Some journeys can prompt thought of a previous occasion when the same
route was traversed. So, for example, the description of Argia’s walk from Argos

 Ganiban 2007, 93.

 And at 11.441– 6 he is compared to the king of the dead going down to the underworld.
 Cf. 2.743. So Vessey 1973, 148: Tydeus “is the only person in the Thebaid who succeeds in
visiting Thebes and returning unscathed and triumphant”.
 The way is not exactly the same for Ornytus treks through the wilderness (12.143– 5): the
difference highlights the fugitive status of the Argives.
420 Ruth Parkes

to Thebes in Book 12 responds to the narrative of Polynices’ journey from Thebes

to Argos.⁶² In both instances, the route is characterized in part by references to
the Isthmus of Corinth (1.334– 5; 12.130 – 1), Megara (1.333 – 4; 12.219 – 20), and
Cithaeron (1.330 – 1; 12.243– 4), the latter place only featuring as a marker of
route in these two cases. Moreover, there are numerous correspondences in
the particulars of the journeys. As Pollmann comments:⁶³ “The situation of
their nightly march (deserta pererrat, 1.313 ~ errantem, 12.241) is quite similar
in details: at 231– 7 S. mentions the impervious rocky region (cf. 1.364), frighten-
ing forests (cf. 1.363), deep rivers (cf. 1.356 ff.), and lairs of wild animals
(cf. 1.377).” Similarly, the journey of the female Argive mourners to Thebes
looks back to the expedition of their menfolk to the same city.⁶⁴ As has been ob-
served,⁶⁵ the list of Argive women at 12.105 – 28 engages with the catalogue of
Book 4. After a preliminary description (12.105 – 10), it is loosely divided into
six sections, headed with a variety of ordering diction, one for each bereaved
wife or mother of the seven chieftains.⁶⁶ The sequence in which the women
are presented broadly mirrors that of their menfolk in the catalogue of Book
4,⁶⁷ with two notable exceptions: Adrastus has no need of a mourner and Capa-
neus’ spouse Evadne comes at the end rather than after Nealce, Hippomedon’s
wife. The general military diction with which the mourners are portrayed⁶⁸ and
details which resonate with the descriptions of their loved ones in Book 4 also
send us back to the catalogue. Queenly (regina, 12.111) Argia, who needs the sup-
port of her servants (12.112– 13), initially evokes her father Adrastus, a king (rex,
4.38), who advances scarcely of his own accord and with his weapons borne by
his troops (4.40 – 2). However, lines 113 – 16 recall Polynices’ and Argia’s mutual
love as suggested by 4.91– 2 and 4.196 – 210 (cf. Polynicis amati, “beloved Polyni-
ces” at 4.198 and 12.114). Deipyle, who comes next (proxima, 12.117), rivals Argia
in lamentation (12.118 – 19) just as her husband rivalled Polynices in his martial
eagerness (4.114– 15). After Nealce, there is Amphiaraus’ impia coniunx (“impi-
ous wife,” 12.123), Eriphyle, the tale of whose betrayal is told at 4.187– 213,
and then Atalanta, whose appellation Maenaliae… comes… Dianae (12.125) partly

 Cf. Vessey 1973, 315; Pollmann 2004, 22 and on 12.228 – 90.; Parkes 2012, xxvii-xxviii.
 Pollmann 2004 on 12.228 – 90.
 There are some differences: for instance, Juno leads the Argive women through an obscure
route to prevent their journey from being blocked and hence glory lost (12.134– 5). The expe-
dition attended by pomp is not the one which leads to distinction.
 See Frings 1991, 140 – 1; Georgacopoulou 1996, 96 – 7; Lesueur 1994, 178, n.11; Pollmann 2004 on
12.105– 40.
 Georgacopoulou 1996, 96.
 Georgacopoulou 1996, 97 n. 6.
 Georgacopoulou 1996, 97.
 The Long Road to Thebes 421

looks back to the goddess’ patronage of Parthenopaeus at 4.256 – 59. Finally, we

hear of Evadne, whose tirade against the gods is inspired by thoughts of her hus-
band (12.127– 8), a man whose blasphemous tendencies are symbolized by his
flaunting of a helmet adorned with a giant (4.175 – 6). The true outcome of the
expedition, death and lamentation, is made manifest as a company of female
mourners retraces the steps of the loved ones they saw depart amidst dreams
of military glory. It is not only the warriors who suffer but also their innocent
families. The women who are bearing wounds of grief and are likened to a de-
feated army (12.107) also form a female counterpart to those soldiers limping
home from Thebes to Argos.

Locations and Landmarks

In the Thebaid, routes are identified not only by reference to their points of de-
parture and destination but also to places and landmarks along the way.⁶⁹ Thus
the path between Thebes and Argos, which is traversed numerous times in the
poem, is delineated by allusion to a handful of locations, such as Megara
(1.333 – 4; 2.382; 12.219 – 20), the Isthmus of Corinth (1.334– 5; 2.379 – 81;
12.130 – 1), Nemea (1.355; 2.377– 8; 4.646 – 7.144), and the Lernaean swamp
(1.359 – 60; 2.376 – 7). References to places are not, however, merely used to spec-
ify itineraries. The characterization of routes is exploited to reflect upon the par-
ticular journeys being undertaken. This is exemplified by the presentation of
geographical detail about the Isthmus of Corinth, an area which must necessa-
rily be crossed on any land journey between Argos and Thebes, as shown by
1.334– 5, 2.379 – 81, 7.105 – 7 and 12.130 – 1 where it is traversed by Polynices, Ty-
deus, Mars and the Argive women. This stretch of land, which separates the Pe-
loponnese from mainland Greece and which lies between the Ionian and Aegean
seas, is by nature a barrier, an aspect brought out by Jupiter’s description of the
Peloponnese at 7.15 – 16: omne quod Isthmius umbo/ distinet (“all that the Isth-
mian prominence holds apart”). However, it is a fragile barrier. Whilst in practice
no traveller in the Thebaid encounters problems when crossing the Isthmus,
which even at its narrowest part is about five and a half kilometres wide, this
narrow strip of land is repeatedly pictured as a passage which is under threat
from the encroaching waters on either side. So the hiss of Tisiphone nearly caus-

 Compare the argument of Brodersen (1995, 290), in his investigation into the Romans’ linear
conceptualization of the geographical space of countries and regions, that the Roman mental map
is structured by routes which only register the relative position of the landmarks situated on them.
422 Ruth Parkes

es a deluge at 1.120 (geminis uix fluctibus obstitit Isthmos, “the Isthmus scarcely
withstood the twin waves”) and the descriptions at 2.380 – 1⁷⁰ and 4.62⁷¹ empha-
size the menace posed to the land by the waters. Statius is reliteralizing an image
used by Lucan. For in the Thebaid, the Isthmus itself is a vulnerable physical
barrier to the fraternal war whereas at Bellum Ciuile 1.99 – 106, it is used as a ve-
hicle for Crassus, who stands as the one check to civil war between Caesar and
Pompey: nam sola futuri/ Crassus erat belli medius mora. qualiter undas/ qui
secat et geminum gracilis mare separat Isthmos/ nec patitur conferre fretum, si
terra recedat,/ Ionium Aegaeo frangat mare, sic, ubi saeua/ arma ducum dirimens
miserando funere Crassus/ Assyrias Latio maculauit sanguine Carrhas,/ Parthica
Romanos soluerunt damna furores. ⁷² Although Lucan’s image is made concrete,
nevertheless the Isthmus is still imbued with symbolic associations. Statius is
not the first to focus upon the Isthmus’ vulnerability,⁷³ but he seems to draw at-
tention to its fragility in order to underline the threat of conflict. In symbolism
which complements the strain of imagery whereby the Argive-Theban war is fig-
ured as a storm-tossed sea stirred up by winds,⁷⁴ waves endanger the land which
lies between Argos and Thebes just as war imperils Greece at the journey of the
expedition from one state to the other. Aptly, the hisses of Tisiphone which cause
the waves of the Ionian and Aegean seas to swamp the land are uttered as this
war-mongering Fury enters the fray.
When not described in terms of its geography, the Isthmus is depicted with
reference to its mythology. This is the legend of Ino and her son Melicertes who,
after being pursued from the Isthmus into the sea by the frenzied Athamas, were
received as the sea-gods Leucothea and Palaemon, and honoured by the Corin-
thians. So, for example, Corinth appears in the catalogue at 4.59 as the place

 irataque terrae/ curua Palaemonio secluditur unda Lechaeo (“the curved wave, angry at the
land, is kept apart by Lechaeum sacred to Palaemon”).
 Isthmos… a terris maria inclinata repellit (“the Isthmus thrusts back from the land the seas
bearing upon it”).
 “for Crassus, who stood between, was the sole check on future war. As the narrow Isthmus
which divides and separates the twin seas and does not allow the waters to come together, if its
land were withdrawn, would dash the Ionian sea against the Aegean, so Crassus, who kept apart
the savage arms of the leaders, by his lamentable death stained Assyrian Carrhae with Italian
blood and the loss inflicted by Parthia let loose Roman madness”.
 Cf. e. g. Ov. Fast. 6.495; Sen. Thy. 111– 13.
 See e. g. 2.105 – 8 (Eteocles is compared to a captain who ignores the winds’ raising of the
Ionian sea); 3.432– 9 (Mars’ rousing of the Peloponnese is compared to Neptune’s stirring of the
Aegean sea by the winds); 7.560 – 1 (return to battle ardour is likened to the sweeping of the sea
by clashing winds); 11.520 – 4 (the duelling brothers are compared to ships brought together in a
storm).
 The Long Road to Thebes 423

“consoling Ino’s laments” (Inoas… solata querelas) and at 7.420 – 1 an inhabitant

of the Isthmus reports the lamentation of Palaemon as an omen attending the
march of the army.⁷⁵ The allusions to this tale of death, mourning and commem-
oration resonate with the narrative of the Argive expedition. On their journey,
which includes passage over the Isthmus, the soldiers indirectly bring about
the death of Eurydice’s infant son, Opheltes, by distracting his carer Hypsipyle
with a request for water. As part of the subsequent mourning, funeral games
are instituted in the child’s honour, just as Isthmian games were established
by the Corinthians in honour of Palaemon.⁷⁶ The expedition causes further
deaths upon its arrival at Thebes. Casualties on the Theban side include Cren-
aeus, who had been compared to Palaemon at 9.330 – 1 and whose mourning
mother Ismenis is likened to Leucothea at 9.401– 3: qualiter Isthmiaco nondum
Nereida portu/ Leucothean planxisse ferunt, dum pectore anhelo/ frigidus in ma-
trem saeuum mare respuit infans (“So they say that Leucothea, not yet a Nereid,
lamented in Isthmus’ haven, as her cold infant with gasping breast spewed upon
his mother the cruel sea”). Loss and lamentation also affect the Argives. And it is
no coincidence that the allusion to the Isthmus which marks the itinerary of the
mourning Argive women at 12.130 – 1 is characterized by a reference to the be-
reaved mother Ino, who is shown sympathizing with the women’s plight.⁷⁷
A different kind of mythological detail, concerning heroic deeds rather than
family tragedy, similarly serves to reflect upon the expedition. At 1.333 Polynices
leaves behind infames Scirone petras (“Sciron’s ill-famed cliffs”) on his way from
Thebes to Argos. This evokes the journey made by the youthful Theseus from
Troezen to Athens in which he rid the route of criminals.⁷⁸ However, Polynices
travels the path in self-absorbed resentment and he likewise fails to display
any altruism during his return trip, on which he is accompanied by men from

 Frequent allusions are made to the story in Thebaid: see Dewar 1991 on 9.328 – 3; see also
Keith (this volume).
 Cf. mox circum tristes seruata Palaemonis aras/ nigra superstitio, quotiens animosa resumit/
Leucothea gemitus et amica ad litora festa/ tempestate uenit: planctu conclamat uterque/ Isthmos,
Echioniae responsant flebile Thebae, 6.10 – 14 (“Then came a black cult observed at Palaemon’s
gloomy altars as often as brave Leucothea renews her groans and comes to the friendly shores at
festival time; the Isthmus on either side resounds with lamentation and Echionian Thebes makes
tearful response”); 7.97 nec sua pinigero magia adnatet umbra Lechaeo (“nor rather lets its own
shade swim to pine-clad Lechaeum”).
 Cf. the effect of the reference at 12.132– 3 to another mourning mother, Ceres, which marks
the women’s passage through Eleusis.
 The reference also foreshadows Theseus’ aid-bringing journey from Athens to Thebes in
Book 12. Cf. 12.576 – 7 where Evadne refers to Theseus’ defeat of Sinis, Cercyon and Sciron in her
plea for his help.
424 Ruth Parkes

the area (Theseia Troezen, 4.81): indeed, he is marching with his army towards
fratricidal crime. The poem also alludes to places which Hercules travelled
through in his wanderings around Greece,⁷⁹ such as the Lernaean swamp still
containing the Hydra’s venom which is passed by Polynices on his way to
Argos (1.359 – 60) or “Hercules’ Nemea” (Herculeam Nemeen, 6.368) in which
the Argives linger. The army traverses these locations with very different results:
a sacred snake is killed, rather than the monstrous Hydra, and a child dies in-
stead of a lion.⁸⁰ Rather than clear the landscape of pests, the soldiers wreak de-
struction upon the countryside: they crumble the banks of Langia and soil its
water in their haste to drink (4.823 – 7), and they despoil Nemea’s venerable, re-
nowned forest (6.90 – 6) in order to build a funeral bier and pyre (6.54– 106).⁸¹ In
place of the trees, they leave a templum ingens (“great temple,” 6.243) of stone
(6.242) in commemoration of Opheltes, providing a new focus of worship in
Nemea.⁸² This monument, an enduring landmark for future generations to see,
bears witness to the army’s flawed greatness. Significantly, it is a solitary con-
struction: the Argives have the might to erect this vast structure but will not suc-
ceed in building any more temples in Thebes as Adrastus hopes (7.100 – 3). More-
over, its scenes reflect the inglorious and impious side of the Argives’ stay in
Nemea, advertising their need for female aid and their part in the deaths of
an infant and a sacred snake (6.244– 8).
Thus the reader is provided with information about local legends, informa-
tion which can guide their response to the deeds enacted in the poem. In fact,
mythological awareness pervades the world of the epic. Characters can be keenly
aware of the history attached to places, as demonstrated by the story of the Nem-
ean lion: the local shepherds have not yet regained their courage even though
the monster has been destroyed (2.377– 8),⁸³ the field of Molorchus, which
bears the imprint of where Hercules rested before going to fight the lion, is a tou-
rist attraction (4.162– 4),⁸⁴ and the Argives refer to the labour in their address to

 As Brown (1994, 36) notes in passing.

 On the Argive chieftains as failed Hercules figures, see further Parkes 2009, 484– 8. Brown
(1994, ch. 2 passim and 192) explores how Statius associates Nemea with Hercules’ killing of the
lion and thereby creates the (unfulfilled) expectation of an excursus on Hercules’ deeds.
 On destruction in Nemea, see Newlands 2004, 141– 6.
 Jupiter’s sacred snake (5.511– 12), which the nymphs used to adorn with flowers (5.580), has
been killed (5.570 – 8); rustic deities are forced to leave or suffer destruction (6.110 – 13).
 qua uix carmine raro/ … sonat Nemea nondum pastoribus ausis (“where … Nemea scarcely
resounds with rare song, its shepherds still fearful”).
 paruo… ostenditur aruo,/ robur ubi et laxos qua reclinauerit arcus/ ilice, qua cubiti sedeant
uestigia terra (“in the small field it is shown where he laid his club, by which oak he put down
his unstrung bow, and where on the ground traces of his elbow remain”).
 The Long Road to Thebes 425

Nemea (4.833 – 5).⁸⁵ Furthermore, one of the characteristics of the landscape of

the Thebaid is that locations such as fields, woods, and rivers frequently bear
consciousness of events that have taken place within them, sometimes with
the memory manifested by the continued physical impact of the incident on na-
ture.⁸⁶ So the inhabitants of Schoenus cultivate land still marked by the footsteps
of Atalanta in her race against suitors: 7.268 noti… colunt uestigia campi (“they
farm the traces of her famous field”). So the wooded hill near the ambush site
has awareness of the nocturnal massacre (3.175 – 6), the Nemean thickets entered
by the Argives are said to have been conscia laudis/ Herculeae (“privy to Hercules’
deed of praise,” 4.646 – 7), that is to say his vanquishing of the Nemean lion, the
wood in the vicinity of the Sphinx’s abode feels the legacy of the monster’s pres-
ence a generation later (2.519 – 23),⁸⁷ and the hills and forest which once wit-
nessed Diana’s punishment of Niobe still remember and tremble at the presence
of the goddess (9.680 – 2). And so the Lernaean swamp bears traces of the Hydra
and its conquest by Hercules,⁸⁸ the Achelous river remains affected by its fight
with this hero (4.107– 9),⁸⁹ and the banks of the Asopus river continue to show
the effect of Jupiter’s lightning-bolts (7.325 – 7).⁹⁰ This retention of consciousness

 quam tu non Herculis actis/ dura magis, rabidi cum colla comantia monstri/ angeret et tumidos
animam angustaret in artus! (“how you were not crueller to the labours of Hercules when he
throttled the maned neck of the raving monster and squeezed the breath into its swollen limbs”).
Their consciousness of Hercules’ services to the area makes the Argives’ failure to emulate his
deeds the more damning.
 On the contaminated landscape, see Micozzi 1999, 362– 70.
 monstrat silua nefas: horrent uicina iuuenci/ gramina, damnatis auidum pecus abstinet herbis./
non Dryadum placet umbra choris non commoda sacris/ Faunorum, diraeque etiam fugere uolucres/
prodigiale nemus (“The wood reveals the horror: bullocks dread the neighbouring pastures, the
flock, though greedy, keeps away from the doomed grass. The shade does not please the bands
of the Dryads, nor is it fitting for the rites of the Fauns; and even ill-omened birds flee the grove
marked with prodigies”).
 Cf. ueteri spumauit Lerna ueneno, 1.360 (“Lerna foamed with ancient poison”); Herculeo
signata uapore/ Lernaei stagna atra uadi, 1.384– 5 (“the black marsh of Lerna’s water, marked by
the heat of Hercules”); qua Lernaea palus, ambustaque sontibus alte/ intepet hydra uadis,
2.376 – 7 (“where is the Lernaean swamp and where the charred hydra is warm in the depths of
the guilty waters”).
 adhuc imis uix truncam attollere frontem/ ausus aquis glaucoque caput summersus in antro/
maeret, anhelantes aegrescunt puluere ripae (“still he scarcely dares to lift his maimed brow from
the waters’ depths and grieves with his head sunk in his blue-green cave while his panting
banks sicken with dust”).
 adhuc ripis animosus gurges anhelis/ fulmineum cinerem magnaeque insignia poenae/ gaudet
et Aetnaeos in caelum efflare uapores (“still the flood, proud in its steaming waters, rejoices to
breathe out the ashes caused by the lightning flash, emblem of his great punishment, and the
vapours of Etna into the sky”).
426 Ruth Parkes

of events by plains, woods, and water-courses creates a disturbing picture of

what the landscape might be like in the wake of the Argive expedition. What
will the despoiled thickets of Nemea, the plundered river Langia, and the
blood-stained battle-plains⁹¹ before the city of Thebes remember in future?
In short, the Thebaid uses three key features of journeys to comment upon
the trips made in the poem, especially the march of the Argive army towards fra-
tricidal conflict at Thebes. Firstly, it exploits the comparative length of time
taken to complete journeys in order to underline the impious nature of the expe-
dition: for the delay experienced by the narrative and army is part of the conflict
which the poet stages as to whether he should unfold the tale of civil war. Sec-
ondly, the poem utilizes the fact that routes are travelled on numerous occasions
to set journeys against each other, notably in the case of the Argive expedition
which suffers in comparison with the altruistic travels of Theseus and Hercules
and the rescue mission of the soldiers’ female kin. Finally, the epic makes careful
use of itinerary markers in the shape of geographical and mythological referen-
ces to locations and landmarks which resonate with the trips undertaken. The
poem may have its finale in the city of Thebes but it is the long, winding and re-
gressive road to this destination that prepares us for it.

 Will it continue to exhale noxious vapours (cf. 12.566– 7), as the ambush site still appears to
(7.546– 7)? The battle seems to have made an impression upon the landscape in the case of the
location of Amphiaraus’ descent (Keith 2000, 61): the Thebans go to the site to see if the chasm is
still gaping (12.41– 2). They also look to see if the embers of Jupiter’s thunderbolt continue to
glow amongst Capaneus’ limbs (12.42– 3; cf. hostiliaque urit/ arua et anhelantem caelesti sul-
phure campum, “he burns the hostile fields and the plain that pants with heavenly sulphur,”
11.16 – 17). The parallel situation of Asopus (7.325 – 7) suggests that this will be so.
Helen Slaney
The Voyage of Rediscovery
Consuming Global Space in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica

Introduction
Pathless and barren, romanced and plundered, the sea opens wide to the eyes of
Valerius’ first ship. The voyage is the poem, the poem the voyage, tracing a frag-
ile arc in an Arctic ark across those vast spaces into a wasteland of water and
finally scrawling its autograph across sheet after sheet of ice. Valerius Flaccus’
Roman Argonautica is propelled by the paradox that the prima ratis, audacious
invention – so new that the paint has scarcely dried on panels self-consciously
culled from Catullus – has already sailed.¹ Not just once, either, but repeatedly;
this well-traversed route is a tour packaged up for literary consumption, for the
virtual tourism available to consumers who wish to thrill to the conquest of wil-
derness without crossing a single threshold.
The following discussion of how foreign landscapes appear in this poem can
be situated in a framework of interrelated theoretical positions. As Edward Said
has commented regarding imperialist conceptions of colonized or subordinated
Others, “[i]t needs to be made clear about cultural discourse and exchange with-
in a culture that what is commonly circulated by it is not “truth” but represen-
tations.”² Texts containing such images can themselves make an ideologically
loaded contribution to shaping the perception and therefore treatment of regions
under imperial control. “Representations,” Stephen Greenblatt argues, “are not
only products but producers, capable of decisively altering the very forces that
brought them into being.”³ An influential stream of imagery runs through the fic-
tional texts produced within an imperialist culture, which supplement self-con-
sciously “objective” accounts of the frontiers with visions that need not comply
with external standards of realism. The friction stimulated by a brush with alter-
ity nevertheless generates an imaginative charge that feeds the appetite for fur-
ther such encounters. Martin Green, in his study of the relationship between ad-
venture novels and the British Empire, proposes that “adventure tales… were, in
fact, the energizing myth of English imperialism. They were, collectively, the

 Davis 1990, 48 – 9 and 65 – 7; Malamud/McGuire 1993. Catullus 64.1– 30; compare Valerius
1.129 – 36.
 Said 1978, 21.
 Greenblatt 1991, 6.
428 Helen Slaney

story England told itself… They charged England’s will with the energy to go out
into the world and explore, conquer and rule.”⁴ The power of fictional discourse
to construct and authorize impressions of global space should be kept in mind
when considering the impact of a Roman Argonautica. According to landscape
theorist W. J. T. Mitchell,

[The] semiotic features of landscape, and the historical narratives they generate, are tailor-
made for the discourse of imperialism, which conceives itself precisely (and simultaneous-
ly) as an expansion of landscape understood as an inevitable, progressive development in
history, and an expansion of “culture” and “civilization” into a “natural” space as a way of
moving forward in time.⁵

Much of this applies to Roman imperialism: the manifest destiny of global rule,
the ideology of civilized core advancing on savage periphery, and the synchroni-
zation of the temporal narrative with the spatial.⁶ The Argonautica as conceived
in Roman literature shares these features. The first ship signifies a revolution in
both spatial terms – as it opens the world to sea-traffic – and temporal, as it
marks the point at which humanity fell from ignorance into an alienated Jovian
world of commerce and labor.
Valerius Flaccus rejuvenates en route this well-worn trope of Argo as “first
ship”, morally ambiguous in its transgression of natural boundaries, by a contra-
dictory revelation: the untouched and untouchable wilderness turns out to be al-
ready occupied, and occupied moreover by disconcertingly familiar individuals.
Tension develops between the Argo’s claims to primacy and the clichés forming
the bedrock of the landscapes that “open” to its passage.⁷ The supposed “un-
known” penetrated by Jason and his intrepid crew is conveyed to the poem’s au-
dience in a network of familiar terms. Resonant place-names, well-known myths
and vistas consonant with literary expectation ensure that the Argo sails not into
an indifferent, undifferentiated ocean of mist but into a web of pre-existing ref-
erences. Its ability to take conceptual possession of new worlds, on this voyage
of discovery where imperialism is never far from the surface, is therefore limited.
Surveying and recording new territory makes an indispensable contribution to
conquest; that is, to articulating abstract ownership of something as inhuman

 Green 1979, 3.
 Mitchell 1994b, 17.
 Romm 1992; Nicolet 1991. Romanae spatium est Urbis et orbis idem (Ov. Fast. 2.684) could be
taken as the official slogan.
 pandere, patere, aperire and cognates occur (for example) at 1.169, 1.526, 2.556, 2.612, 4.710,
5.85 and 7.46; variant uses include Phineus’ revelations (pandere, 4.559) and Medea’s chamber
(patuere, 7.328). Aeetes complains, Heu! Asiam penetrauit Iason? at 7.43.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 429

and resistant to hierarchy as land.⁸ But when it becomes apparent that every dec-
laration of discovery pertains not to the object or region newly explored but back
to a reference point in the explorer’s own cultural matrix, pretensions to primacy
– or to unmediated experience – break down. Nothing is actually discovered,
merely recycled. As Valerius shapes the unknown into epic, it must necessarily
be circumscribed by a language, a meter, a structure, and a vocabulary of images
that transform distant land into communicable discourse. Acquiring “knowl-
edge” of new territory involves imposing an epistemological grid rather than ab-
sorbing alien elements without prejudice or preconceptions. Taking possession
thus becomes tautological. In part, this is a contradiction generated within the
poem, but is also an act performed by the poem as it constructs a sublimity
on the remote fringe of the empire for its audience’s imagination to explore with-
out consequences or constraints. Via the nostalgic medium of fantasy, Valerius
approaches the challenge of rediscovery.
After assessing how Valerius’ epic depicts its landscapes, then, this chapter
considers how this discourse participates in structuring the conceptual appropri-
ation of foreign space. Mitchell proposes,

that we think of landscape not as an object to be seen or a text to be read, but as a process
by which social and subjective identities are formed… One must pay attention to the spe-
cificity of effects and to the kinds of spectatorial work solicited by a medium at a particular
historical juncture.⁹

A Roman Argonautica in 80 CE has altogether different connotations from those

of a Hellenistic Argonautica (or indeed a Roman Argonautica in the late Repub-
lic).¹⁰ It was written into – and more importantly, received by – a culture of rapid
imperialist expansion, negotiating not only the military and economic complex-
ities of overseas government, but a crisis of internal representation both thrilling
and confronting. I am less concerned with Valerius’ motives in producing an Ar-
gonautica for imperial Rome than with the text’s operation in conjunction with
other attempts to write the unknown into place. Flavian Rome represented global
(colonial) landscapes for internal circulation in a range of media. These ranged
from spectacles of exoticism in the recently erected Colosseum, through literary
refashionings, to Tacitus’ possessive surveys of Britain and Germany and Pliny’s

 For general comment on human geography, see Gregory 1994; Fitter 1995; Muir 1999. Green-
blatt (1991) and McLeod (1999) offer useful parallels from modern imperialism, and Nicolet
(1991) provides an account of the relations between geography and power in the ancient world.
 Mitchell 1994a, 1– 3.
 Varro of Atax (fragments ed. Courtney 1993).
430 Helen Slaney

compendious overview of the natural world. Distant locations were becoming in-
creasingly accessible, yielding not only to the movement of people and goods but
to the popular imagination. Works of fantasy do not escape ideological implica-
tion by embedding themselves in a literary tradition and a mythic past; they si-
multaneously contribute to contemporary discourses structuring knowledge and
power.¹¹ Bruce McLeod identifies in colonial fiction “a desire to survey, know and
grasp the totality of… [the colonizing power’s] territorial expansion and provi-
dential future; a desire to (re)locate the self in a new geography.”¹² In its capacity
as colonial narrative, then, Valerius’ Argonautica participated along with concur-
rent works of non-fiction and propaganda in formulating “Roman” self-defini-
tion. Valerius’ depiction of distant lands – their conversion into a readily assim-
ilable SimScythia, an OceanWorld – both confirms and contests the perceived
position of Rome as globalizing superpower.

The Roman Argonautica in Context

Valerius’ Argonautica has been the subject of several recent studies, but none
deal specifically with the subject of landscape.¹³ Its eight extant books essential-
ly fall into two halves: the outward voyage, dominated by the perspective of
Jason; and the events in Colchis, dominated by that of Medea. Valerius’ Argo-
nauts are enlisted as mercenaries in an unprecedented Colchian civil war, in
which Virgilian and Lucanian allusions supplement references to recent
Roman history. The poem’s precise date is controversial. Its dedication to Vespa-
sian, referring to victories over Judaea and Britain, places it after 69 CE, although
it is unclear whether the emperor’s apotheosis as imagined at 1.15 – 16 should be
regarded as proleptic flattery or posthumous fact. ¹⁴ Valerius’ death in the early
90 s appears to have left the poem incomplete.¹⁵ Whether composed under Ves-

 See in general Said 1993; Kerslake 2007; Greenblatt 1991, 6. On Latin epic in particular, see
Boyle 1993; McGuire 1997; and Quint 1993, esp 45, 208.
 McLeod 1999, 29.
 Notably Hershkowitz 1998; a series of articles by Zissos, e. g., 2002, 2003, 2006; and the
articles collected in Korn/Tschiedel 1991, Eigler/Lefèvre/Manuwald 1998 and Spaltenstein 2004.
See also Manuwald and Keith (this volume).
 Some scholars believe Vespasian is being addressed after apotheosis, however. See Taylor
1994 for a discussion of the competing theories. One attractive suggestion is that the epic was
begun under Vespasian and was still an on-going project when Valerius died c.93 (Zissos 2003,
660). Strand (1972, 35 – 7) proposes conservative dates – 75 – 85 CE – and argues that “the proem
of the A. must be regarded as written under Vespasian.” Feeney (1991, 334) concurs.
 Poortvliet 1991a. See also Hershkowitz 1998, 1– 34 on some potential endings.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 431

pasian, Titus, Domitian, or – as seems likely – spanning all three Flavian reigns,
the Argonautica belongs among the discourses on global space that emanated
from an imperial authority anxious to assert its legitimacy. Addressed to the
ruler/s of a successful military coup, it weaves the perennially contentious issues
of overseas expansion and civil war into the politically provocative genre of epic.
Civil war shadows the Argo’s voyage throughout,¹⁶ providing one of the dis-
turbingly contemporary currents that distinguish Valerius’ version of the myth.
Other recurring leitmotifs engaging with the exercise of imperial power include
the figure of the tyrannous ruler, ambivalence towards the dissolution of boun-
daries through overreach, and a universe where the designs of gods are less con-
sistent than chaos, black magic and death.¹⁷ Valerius takes an altogether darker
– perhaps less innocent – route to Colchis than Apollonius. The romance is a lit-
tle tainted, overripened; landscapes somewhat more lush conceal Ovidian hor-
rors, such as the monster that comes for Hesione or the pool that swallows
Hylas.¹⁸ Medea, too resilient to be seduced by a cherubic Eros, feels instead
the full, invasive force of Venus furiala (7.254– 5).¹⁹ Catalogues of well-behaved
archipelagos are supplanted by empty horizons and windswept northern plains.
The morbid and the spectacular stand out in chiaroscuro brilliance, breaking up
the chilling, heaving expanse of endless aequor, aequor, aequor.
Spectacle, in particular the display of the foreign and exotic, enabled the
Flavian emperors to demonstrate authority, affluence and generosity to a
Roman populace construed as their fortunate beneficiaries. Vespasian’s reign
commenced with the magnificent Triumph of his son Titus over Judaea.²⁰ The
Flavians then proceeded to demolish Nero’s palace in order to build the biggest
public entertainment venue in the West: the Colosseum. Global space, in the Fla-
vian economy of theatricality, was exhibited in metonymic fragments: gold, ti-
gers, Ethiopians, Thracian weapons, German blood. Spectators of the exotic, ac-
cording to Greenblatt, are attracted by

 Primary examples are the Lemnian massacre (2.107– 310), the attack on Cyzicus (3.15 – 248)
and fraternal conflict in Colchis (Book 6, passim).
 See Hardie 1993 on overreach; McGuire 1997 on the tyrant; and Hershkowitz 1998, 256 – 64
on the duplicity of gods.
 Malamud/McGuire (1993, 203) comment on Valerius’ use of Ov. Met. 4.285 – 388 (Salmacis) in
the Hylas episode. See also Segal 1969, 25 – 6 and 52– 3. Keith (this volume) identifies several
allusions to Ovidian landscapes.
 Occupat amplexu Venus et furiala figit / oscula permixtumque odiis inspirat amorem. Venus
also appears as a Fury on Lemnos (2.101– 6). Compare Apollonius’ charming Aphrodite (A. R.
3.36– 155). On Venus’ representation as a Fury, see Elm 1998.
 Titus’ Triumph is described in Josephus BJ 7.132– 62.
432 Helen Slaney

the experience of wonder in the presence of the alien: they see and perhaps touch… a frag-
ment of a world elsewhere, a world of difference. But of course that world is not present;
only a sliver of it… has crossed the immense distance… The discoverer sees only a fragment
and then imagines the rest in the act of appropriation.²¹

While the precise dynamics of spectatorship at such events are undeniably com-
plex, both Triumph and amphitheatre encourage patriotic identification with the
victors rather than sympathy for the defeated.²² Asserting absolute power over
the spectacle presented, the amphitheatre exerts a considerable allure, and ex-
erts a corresponding pressure on the spectator to participate in order to secure
a share in that power. Under Domitian, argues Carole Newlands, the Colosseum
“visibly articulates the idea of an empire based upon limitless consumption. The
world is the people’s for the taking – especially if the emperor arranges it… com-
pensating for the loss of individual liberties through overabundance.”²³ As the
citizen is redefined as a consumer, global space becomes a virtual currency
for purchasing his loyalty. Not quite a bribe; more of an insurance policy. The
power on offer remains, of course, illusory.²⁴ Those who provide the spectacle
both control its content and more or less manipulate its recipients into complic-
ity with the act of provision. Nevertheless, gratifying the urge to possess a small
piece of elsewhere (held in the hand, the stomach, or the eyes) can sustain and
defer an obsession with escape in an autocratic paralysis from which all other
exits are blocked.
In comparing the ideological project of Pliny’s Natural History with that of
the amphitheatre, Gunderson shows how the roles of auctor and editor are equiv-
alent to that of triumphator. All three are instrumental in bringing the spoils of
empire to Rome.²⁵ Tacitus’ Agricola likewise accomplishes epistemological occu-
pation, geography that writes the secretive landscape of Britain into conceptual

 Greenblatt 1991, 122. For contemporary evidence of such displays, see eg. Mart. Sp. and Stat.
Silv. 1.6.
 Murphy 2004, 155.
 Newlands 2002, 245. See also Murphy 2004, 201– 2. Romm (1992, 136 – 7) likewise argues that
“limitless, ever-expanding empire was the prize which the new regime offered its citizens, as
both a recompense for and a distraction from the loss of republican government.”
 Jameson (1981, 287) contends that mass consumer-spectacle offers “substantial incentives…
for ideological adherence.”
 Gunderson 2003, 643 – 7. See also Murphy 2003 on Pliny as supplying aristocratic munera.
Murphy (2004, 18) writes that the Natural History was intended “to show mastery over know-
ledge and to aid the reader to similar mastery,” and argues that “the book displays its contents to
be witnessed by a literate elite, as a textual embodiment of an empire known and ruled” (2004,
194).
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 433

existence.²⁶ Circumnavigating the island provides more than military intelli-

gence. Discovery is itself an aspect of conquest: inuenta Britannia et subacta
(Ag. 33.3). A similar form of commodification occurs when works of fiction appro-
priate colonial territory, or the material items derived from its occupation.²⁷ Own-
ing a painted landscape has been recognised as a virtual means of owning the
framed and depicted space, even if it is elite property, far-distant, or otherwise
unattainable.²⁸ Literary landscapes confer a similar power on their consumers,
who participate in imaginatively reconstructing the setting encoded in the text
and so create their own personal spatium mundi. Just as in the amphitheatre,
the ethnography and Pliny’s encyclopaedia, place compressed into poetry pro-
vides the illusion of control. No exception to this process, the Argonautica’s read-
er is continually implicated in forming the world exposed by the ship, man-
oeuvred into reconstituting geophysical space as literary property.
Flavian epic, like other contemporary discourse, profoundly influenced the
orientation of its consumers in relation to global space. To illustrate how this
could affect Roman perceptions of the region in practice, it is useful to examine
a passage from Appian’s Mithridatic Wars in which Pompey takes some time off
for sightseeing:

τοὺς Κόλχους ἐπῄει καθ’ ἱστορίαν τῆς Ἀργοναυτῶν καὶ Διοσκούρων καὶ Ἡρακλέους ἐπιδη-
μίας, τὸ πάθος μάλιστα ἰδεῖν ἐθέλων, ὃ Προμηθεῖ φασι γενέσθαι περὶ τὸ Καύκασον ὄρος.
(App. Mith. 103)

He advanced to Colchis because of the legend (historia) of the Argonauts and the Dioscuri,
and the wanderings of Heracles, wanting especially to see what they say Prometheus suf-
fered around Mount Caucasus.

Like Lucan’s Caesar at Troy (9.965 – 79), Pompey plays tourist in the middle of a
war; unlike Caesar, he knows exactly what he is looking at. The Argonauts and
Prometheus have impressed their mythological presence upon locations strategi-
cally marginal, but enticing nevertheless because of the glamour of historia. Col-
onial landscapes are typically shaped by the preconceptions of the colonizing
power, preconceptions which affect both depictions and treatment of occupied

 Evans 2003, 257. On secrecy and its charms, see Tac. Ag. 25.1, 30.3. Nicolet (1991, 95) likewise
argues that “to govern it [sc. the empire], it must be known, measured and above all drawn.” On
the operation of this principle in Caesar’s Gallic Wars, see Riggsby 2006.
 A good example is Stat. Silv. 1.2.122 – 8, which dresses a young bride in Chinese groves,
Sidonian secretions, crystallized snowfields, the golden banks of the Tagus, and completes the
outfit with a necklace made of India.
 Muir 1999, 177; Helsinger 1994, 105.
434 Helen Slaney

space.²⁹ The general’s approach to territorial conquest alters accordingly. As tou-

rist, as well as triumphator, Pompey becomes a consumer of space he has invest-
ed with his own cultural capital.³⁰
Boundless acquisition comes at a price. As the first vessel which dared to
venture onto the sea, the Argo delivered Valerius a rich stock of references
from prior Latin literature: Ennius, Varro, Catullus, Horace, Ovid, Lucan, Seneca.
Sea travel promises not only abstract knowledge, but contact and commerce and
the material disruption of Roman cultural integrity, the obsessive auaritia that
leads, in some accounts, to civil war.³¹ Despite the long-standing association
of the Argo with humanity’s primal descent into civilization, its explicit link to
Roman expansion and corruption was in fact a relatively recent development. Al-
though Valerius gratifies the reader’s appetite for pre-digested space instead of
deploring Rome’s consumer revolution from the generic high ground, he
shows at the same time acute sensitivity to the ambivalence of his theme. The
Argo symbolizes progress and decline as far back as Horace’s Carm. 1.3, where
“impious ships” permit their bold (audax) passengers to exceed human capacity
and charge ruinously into the forbidden, nefas – unspeakable – space beyond.
“That man had oak and tripled bronze around his heart,” writes Horace, “who
first sent a fragile ship onto the violent sea.”³² He identifies Prometheus’ theft
of fire as an identical moment of trespass which precipitates poverty and suffer-
ing. The noua cohors febrium this brings on can easily be diagnosed as the burn-
ing desire for fulfilment that is driving men to destroy themselves and one anoth-
er in order to gratify an endless macies, the gnawing hunger implanted by Prom-
ethean generosity. Seafaring makes distant points unnaturally accessible, and
inspires the pursuit of satisfaction further and further from its source. Horace’s
ode is addressed to Virgil on the occasion of a (probably fictitious) voyage to
Greece, and it has been suggested that the “vessel” on which Virgil is embarking
is in fact his Aeneid. ³³ Transferred to the epic enterprise itself, the hubris of “civ-
ilization” recalls the uneasy symbiosis of epic discourse and imperial ideology.

 Muir 1999, 121 and 173. As Braund (1994, 178) comments, “even such matters as these
[Prometheus, Jason, myth] were of concern to the Roman government in its assessment and
conception of a region.” See also 11– 13, 168. In his Periplus maris Euxini (132 CE), Arrian also
mentions the Argonauts (Peripl.M.Eux. 6.3 & 9.2– 3) and Prometheus (Peripl.M.Eux. 12.1).
 See Urry 1995, 1 and 36 on the tourist gaze and Muir 1999, 177– 8 on visual ownership.
According to Fitter (1995, 22), “literary landscape overtly beds the optical in the ideological.”
 Especially Luc. 1.158 – 82. Also Petr. 119 – 20, Tac. Hist. 2.38, Caes. Gal. 6.22.3, Sal. Cat. 11– 13.
 The Argo has been first ship since Catullus if not Ennius. Malamud/McGuire (1993, 195)
identify Cat. 64 as the first ship’s debut; Ennius uses the pregnant phrase nauis incohandi
exordium/ coepisset (fr. 255), but does not explicitly refer to the Argo’s primacy.
 Davis 1990, 51.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 435

Seneca’s Medea unites for the first time the trope of Argo-as-arch-transgres-
sor with the trope of foreignness-as-corrupting. Sea travel links the two; once the
sea has been opened to shipping, commerce swiftly follows, and adds the partic-
ularly Roman dread of imported decadence to the ubiquitous human dread of
shipwreck and storm. Unlike Horace, who makes his Argo carrier of mankind’s
newly-contracted plague of audacia, Medea lays its stress on what the Argo
brings back. Quod fuit huius pretium cursus? ask the Chorus: “What was the
price/prize of this voyage?” and they answer, “A golden fleece, and Medea
more malicious than the sea: merchandise worthy of the first ship” (aurea pellis
maiusque mari Medea malum,/ merces prima digna carina, Med. 361– 4). Valerius’
Jason, incidentally, will flatter Aeetes with the same phrase, prima dignum… car-
ina (5.472). Lust for gold drove Seneca’s Argonauts to Colchis (Med. 613 – 15; com-
pare Med. 483 – 6 on Colchis’ extreme wealth), but the “merchandise” they ac-
quire will turn on Jason and destroy his household from within. Seneca’s
Medea represents in many ways the outraged natural world, mare prouocatum
seeking supernatural retribution for the violent rupture of its “sacred bonds”
(sancta foedera, Med. 605 – 6).³⁴ Men should have been content, according to
Seneca’s chorus, with sticking to well-known paths (uia nota, Med. 603), replete
like their ancestors with local bounty (paruo diues,/ nisi quas tulerat natale
solum/ non norat opes, 332– 4). Greed sent them venturing abroad, and will ulti-
mately result in the complete dissolution of identity: all boundaries liquidated,
geography freewheeling in perpetual motion bringing Indians to Scythia and
Persians to the Rhine, until

uenient annis saecula seris

quibus Oceanus uincula rerum
laxet, et ingens pateat tellus,
Tethysque nouos detegat orbes
nec sit terris ultima Thule
(Med. 375 – 9)

a time will come in future years

when Ocean will release all things
from their bonds, and the giant earth lie open.
Tethys will uncover new worlds
and Thule no longer be the furthest land.

 According to Romm (1992, 169), “Medea is virtually made to personify Ocean’s vengeance.”
See also Fyfe 1983.
436 Helen Slaney

Valerius takes Seneca’s choral admonition audax nimium qui freta primus / rate
tam fragili perfidia rupit (Med. 301– 2) and spreads it through his first four pro-
grammatic lines:

Prima deum magnis canimus freta peruia natis

fatidicamque ratem, Scythici quae Phasidis oras
ausa sequi mediosque inter iuga concita cursus
rumpere
(Val. Fl. 1.1– 4)

The seas first travelled by the sons of gods I sing,

and the fated ship which dared to chase the shores
of Scythian Phasis, blasting a passage right between
the clashing rocks.

As has been noted by other scholars,³⁵ the aspect of the Argo’s voyage given
prominence here is its rupture of boundaries (rumpere) and revolutionary daring
(ausa). The Medea of tragedy reappears in Valerius’ equally programmatic ec-
phrasis describing the doors of Apollo’s Colchian temple (5.442– 54). Instantly
recognisable to any Roman reader, the enigmatic images depicted here fascinate
the Argonauts and repulse the Colchians. Reassembling the signs is the prerog-
ative of readers literate in the iconography of serpents, poison, betrayal and mur-
der, making the interpretive superiority thereby granted somewhat dubious, as it
taints this reader with a too-intimate knowledge of violence so corrosive that oth-
ers refuse to even look on it. One brings one’s own romance to bear on foreign
objects. The existence of other meanings, and the possibility of other responses
(for instance, to turn your face away) is overridden by the satisfaction of “making
sense”. Reading the temple doors as tragic pastiche leaves you entirely in control
of the encounter. True, the images can certainly be read as The Tragedy of Medea
– although Valerius does not dictate this – just as the Triumph can be read as
The Success of Roman Conquest, but both of these readings assume a standpoint
from within the dominant culture, and as such a tacit endorsement of its val-
ues.³⁶ Stripped of aesthetic privilege, gold is just dull metal, and murder is
just bloody murder. The power to reconstruct dislocated signs as narrative is
gained at the expense of a naïve reaction to their content; in a similar way,

 Davis 1990; Hardie 1993; on Prometheus’ role in Valerius, see Tschiedel 1998.
 Hershkowitz (1998, 20 – 2) compares the Argonauts here to Aeneas viewing the shield at A.
8.730, but whereas Virgil identifies all the figures by name, Valerius offers no such clarification.
She also makes the point that prolepsis may be illusory, as despite the apparent “superior
intertextual knowledge” possessed by the reader, the events may not come to pass quite as
predicted (1998, 33).
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 437

the power to reconstruct a dominated world from constituent fragments is a pre-

rogative granted by imperial authority in exchange for experiential autonomy.

The Argo’s Imperialist Expedition

Discursive occupation, then, collaborates with other methods of imposing impe-
rium, and finds expression through the very act of composing a Flavian Argonau-
tica. When Jupiter unveils his Weltenplan (1.531– 60), as at Aeneid 1.257– 96, it ap-
pears that the Argo’s voyage will enable the transfer of global hegemony from
Asia to Greece, and ultimately to… But here Jupiter coyly refuses to specify. Gen-
tesque fouebo / mox alias, he temporizes. “Soon I will favour other peoples.”
With Virgil so transparently behind him, Jupiter evidently knows exactly who
will end up holding the reins (habenas, 1.560) of terrestrial government after
the fall of Troy, although once again Valerius leaves an inviting gap for his reader
to fill in the honours.³⁷ Once the world has been made available for conquest, its
mountains and forests and lakes and all the barriers of the sea laid open (pa-
teant montes siluasque lacusque/ cunctaque claustra maris, 1.556 – 7), Jupiter’s
great imperial experiment (ipse… experiar, 1.558 – 9) can begin. Just as Jupiter
presides over the voyage he has commissioned (deus… imperat, 1.245 – 6), so
the emperor Vespasian presides over Valerius’ poem (1.10 – 12, 21– 2). Metaphor-
ical identification of a work of poetry with a sea voyage is a well-established
trope in Latin literature,³⁸ but Valerius’ literary labores (1.247) not only stand
in for the voyage they represent but lend it tangible substance. The text consti-
tutes their journey as well as conveying it. When Jason declares that the start of
this great enterprise has received great encouragement (datur spes maxima coep-
tis, 1.242) and they should now embark on “such deeds as will please us to re-
member, and will inspire our descendants” (1.249), he refers to the substance
of epic poetry itself. Readers are thus invited on board as passengers on what
promises to be a daring, spectacular and teleological ride.
In its expedition through a frontier zone both geographically specific and
sensationally mythologized, the Argonautica resembles what Mary Louise Pratt
calls “the popular genre of survival literature” which inundated eighteenth-cen-
tury readers with accounts of “hardship and danger on the one hand, and mar-

 On this point, see Manuwald and Keith (this volume). Keith sees the Ovidian progression
behind it as well.
 Prop. 3.9.3; Ov. Met. 15.176; Hor. Carm. 4.15.3, Verg. G. 2.40 – 5. For discussion, see for example
Romm 1992, 196 and Davis 1990, 48. On the journey/poem synchronization in Statius, see Parkes
(this volume).
438 Helen Slaney

vels and curiosities on the other.”³⁹ Similarly, by immersing themselves in a

pseudo-landscape grafted onto territory theoretically subject to Roman rule,⁴⁰
residents of the imperial metropolis could experience, vicariously, the ‘energiz-
ing’ frisson of first contact.⁴¹ The poem defines itself as coextensive with the
Argo’s voyage, even synonymous with the Argo itself,⁴² effectively exposing to
its reader every vista laid open before the ship. Through selective focalization,
it places him in the Argonautic role of explorer and virtual conqueror of un-
known lands. By “survival literature,” Pratt refers to the colourful and often un-
substantiated accounts of confronting the frontiers of European empire. Unlike
these accounts, however, the Argonautica need not purport to relate fact, be-
cause it derives its influential status from generic affiliation, not eyewitness ve-
racity; it invokes textual, rather than external referents. As James Romm has
shown, the boundaries in ancient geography between observation, myth, trans-
mitted knowledge and poetic invention were porous and constantly shifting.
“Roman writers gave mythic dimensions to the frontiers that surrounded their
world,” writes Romm, noting that poetic authorities such as Homer retained
their status alongside more prosaic geographies.⁴³ Martin Green defines survival
literature and its novelized spin-offs as a para-literary or non-serious genre.⁴⁴
Conversely, Roman epic speaks with – or at least, from within – the establish-
ment; it articulates and brokers relations of power. Epic bases its authority not
on credibility but on efficacy.
As noted above, Roman tradition identified the Argo unambiguously as the
first ship, which implied a revolution in spatial as well as technological terms. Its
launch involved not only a miracle of engineering but the violent rupture of nat-
ural limits (inter iuga concita cursus/ rumpere, 1.3 – 4) and the prospect of enter-
ing an alien world (alium prospectus in orbem, 2.227– 8). Valerius insists on his
Argo’s primacy: Jason praises Colchis as prima dignum… carina, a worthy desti-
nation for the “first ship” (5.472) and boasts that he knows himself to be the only
human being to have attempted these forbidden routes (1.196 – 7) which so in-
timidated their forefathers (1.628). “We have achieved what former ages only

 Pratt 1992, 20.

 Muir 1999, 121 & 173. As Braund (1994, 178) comments, “even such matters as these [Pro-
metheus, Jason, myth] were of concern to the Roman government in its assessment and con-
ception of a region.” See also 11– 13, 168.
 Green 1979, 14
 Davis 1990, 46.
 Romm 1992, 156.
 Green 1979. Even though some of these works – Robinson Crusoe, Kim, King Solomon’s Mines,
Lord Jim – became classics or even canonical texts, at the time of their production they were
“popular” rather than “literary”.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 439

shuddered at,” Jason asserts, “and navigated a whole world of waters” (5.314–
15). The gods, indignant at the intrusion, must be appeased for the unprecedent-
ed phenomenon of a ship (subitae noua puppis imago, 1.672). Boreas calls it
nefas, this “strange mass” (nouam molem) wallowing in his element, and incites
the storm-winds to sink the outrageous thing before it can do too much damage
(da mergere Graios insanemque ratem, 1.604 – 5), “while it has only been seen by
the shores of nearby Thessaly, and not by any other lands” (1.606 – 7). The ro-
mance of venturing into the wilderness, striking out for barbarus Phasis across
the as yet unknown sea (maria et nota… nondum, 5.660) appeals not only to a
restless – very human – thirst for constant new horizons, but a characteristically
imperialist dream of leaving the first progressive, possessive impression on virgin
earth.
It could be objected that the Argo does not set out on a colonizing mission
but to recover a sacred object, the Golden Fleece, originally Greek but now the
property of Colchian Aeetes. In practice, however, neither Jason’s supporters
nor his opponents regard the voyage as such. For Jupiter and Neptune, its signif-
icance derives from the rupture of established boundaries; for the Argonauts, it
represents an opportunity to pillage Scythia; for Sol and Aeetes, it amounts to
invasion. Although the Argo has no interest in systematic colonization, the
ethos of global conquest can take alternative forms. In assuming a right to
raid the property of others (the Fleece), in overpowering hostile natives whose
resistance is figured as inhuman (Abycus) and eradicating the monstrous crea-
tures infesting air and water (the Harpies, the sea-serpent), but most of all in
carving a path through imperuia freta and making meaning in otherwise ignota
aequora, the Argo hails from what McLeod calls “the plunder-and-glory school”
of imperial expansion.⁴⁵ Davis argues that “Jason is making Jupiter condone his
own commercial enterprise, in fact an act of piracy.”⁴⁶ The “facts” of colonial
contact, however, shift radically according to perspective. My piracy serves an-
other’s master-plan; your homeland serves as a field for my fantasies to roam un-
limited.
The type of empire projected as ensuing from the Argo’s originary voyage de-
rives its ascendancy not from military occupation nor settlement abroad, but
from trade. The insatiable Roman market for imported luxury consumer goods
such as jewellery, spices and dyes in the first century CE depended on the ship-
ping lanes that threaded the Mediterranean. The Vespasian of Valerius’ prologue
presides over these maritime networks, through which Greece, Sidon and the

 McLeod 1999, 43.

 Davis 1990, 63.
440 Helen Slaney

Nile will send their ships (te duce Graecia mittet et Sidon Nilusque rates, 1.19 –
20), and where his star will provide a navigational reference point for Tyrian ves-
sels (Tyriis… carinis, 1.17– 18). Famed for opening the Caledonian ocean (pelagi
cui maior aperti/ fama, Caledonius postquam tua carbasa uexit/ oceanus,
1.7– 9), Vespasian now attracts trading fleets from the profitable East rather
than dispatching Roman navies abroad. Jupiter himself, at least according to
Jason, intends the voyage to promote global commerce (commercia mundo)
and to reinforce human progress through liberal cooperation (hominum miscere
labores, 1.246 – 7). Similarly, when Neptune permits the Argo to sail, it is the mer-
chant traffic sailing from Egypt and the Levant which he envisages following its
example (uenient Phariae Tyriaeque carinae, 1.644). These locations, both in
Roman poetry and practice, were associated with luxuria and with the influx
of consumer goods perceived as flooding into the capital.⁴⁷ Valerius claims for
his Argo the honour of instigating international commerce. Consequently, insofar
as Rome’s capacity for consumption could provide an index of imperial power,
its “world”-domination may also be attributed to the first ship’s audacity (or ra-
pacity).
Only the disingenuous refer to the Fleece as rightfully Greek.⁴⁸ It functions as
pretext and emblem, but hardly cause or effect. Jason’s father anticipates wel-
coming him home as “victor (uictorem) over the sea and the Scythian king”
(1.345 – 6). Likewise, Hypsipyle would have him return “when the Colchian
shores are conquered” (domitis a Colchidos oris, 2.423), while Jason himself,
even less euphemistically, plans destruction for Scythia right from the start (Scy-
thicis struerem cum funera terris, 3.617). He imagines returning to Cyzicus’ island
having ravaged (populatus) the plains of distant Phasis for their Scythian treas-
ure (3.307– 8). This vocabulary of domination extends to the natural world: the
Argo “rejoices to conquer the sea (domat aequora) with its great sail” (1.600). Al-
though Jason worries that overcoming the Symplegades (domitis… Symplegados
undis, 5.299) may have been ultimately futile, he nevertheless refers nonchalant-
ly to the expanse of sea behind him as uictum aequor (5.511). He vows to set up
an effigies of the river Phasis on his return to Greece, ostensibly in reverence but
unavoidably reminiscent of the effigies carried in Roman Triumphs which re-
duced geophysical entities (rivers, mountains, continents) to personifications

 See Young 2001 on the extent and administration of Roman trade routes; Gowers 1993, 12– 13
and 19 – 20 on consumption as an index of Roman power; Fredrick 2002, 252 and Edwards 1993
on ambivalent attitudes towards foreign acquisition.
 Pelias when conscripting Jason (1.40 – 63), Jason when pressuring Aeetes (5.471– 518) and
Venus when seducing Medea (6.592– 9).
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 441

or models, thus articulating remote control.⁴⁹ Refuting Jason’s claims to come in

peace, Mars regards the Fleece as holy to Colchis and its theft as desecration
(Phrixo spolientur templa metallo, 5.632). The god concurs with Colchian Absyrtus
that Jason is a common praedo, a pirate, and a lawless raptor (5.646; 8.265 – 7;
see also 7.50 and 8.151). Such terminology, whether deliberate or subconscious,
speaks for an ideology which endorses aggression as an orthodox approach
and domination as a successful outcome.
The sun-god Sol, ancestor of the Colchian people, raises strenuous objec-
tions to the Argo’s destined destination. Through fear of just such an incursion,
he deliberately settled his offspring far from the rich lands sprawled temptingly
around the fertile (uberrimus) Mediterranean basin. Instead, he selected a region
where savage frost oppresses shivering fields and frozen streams (horrida saeuo
quae premis arua gelu strictosque insedimus amnes, 1.512– 13), on the very rim of
the habitable world, beyond which the arctic zone stands solid with cloud and
never experiencing thaw, throwing back his heat (nube rigens ac nescia ueris /
stat super et nostros iam zona reuerberat ignes, 1.515 – 16).⁵⁰ What possible busi-
ness, Sol demands, could Greeks have in such a remote, inhospitable and savage
part of the earth? He pleads that his race remain undisturbed by foreigners
greedy for profit, and if Jupiter must open the seas to mankind (aequora pandere
uiris, 1.526) that this feat not be accomplished at his expense (uulnere nostro,
1.525). Sol’s speech offers a painful insight into the perspective of the colonized
and/or exploited Other. Beneath the superficial rhetorical dressings sanitizing
invasion as Jason’s quest and Jupiter’s grand design, Sol’s open wound contin-
ues to sting.
Valerius has Aeetes express similar sentiments. “Sons of another world, hav-
ing shores of your own, what madness drove you through the waves to mine?” he
berates the Argonauts, not unreasonably outraged by their presumption (Orbe
satos alio, sua litora regnaque habentes,/ quis furor has mediis tot fluctibus egit
in oras? 7.35 – 6). Like Sol, he recognises no relationship between his world
and theirs. “Who among kings is this Pelias, what is a Thessalian, what is
Greece?” (7.40 – 1). Such terms, to Aeetes, fall somewhere between irrelevant
and meaningless; within his frame of reference, they have no currency. He re-
gards Jason merely as a stranger washed up on Scythian shores, his crew a rab-
ble of outcasts and exiles lacking any identifiable origin, living by piracy (infan-
dis… rapinis) and attached only to the floating signification of their ship. That a
reckless, landless nobody should order him to surrender himself and open up

 Fredrick 2002a, 251. Another parallel might be the Danube depicted on Trajan’s Column.
 A better reading conjectured for this line is nescia frugum (Kleywegt 2005 ad loc.).
442 Helen Slaney

his sacred groves (ipsum offerre, meos ipsum me pandere lucos/ imperet, 7.46 – 7)
is an affront so breath-taking that Aeetes suspects he must have concealed sup-
plementary forces somewhere on his boat (7.59 – 60, 7.71– 2). Incredulity aside,
Aeetes repeats the language of conquest, despoliation and domination to de-
scribe the Argo’s arrival. Asiam (pudet heu!) penetrarit Iason? he exclaims.
“Will Jason penetrate Asia? Oh, the shame!” (7.43). Aeetes’ shame, like Sol’s in-
jury, fatally disrupts any interpretation of Valerius’ Argonautic mission as a
harmless escapade or an inconsequential diversion.
For the Roman reader carried along with Jason and his crew, a further factor
comes into play. The quasi-mythic frontier zone surveyed by Valerius’ ship is
only accessible because it has been subsumed within the realms of Roman
knowledge, and therefore potential possession. Jason tempts his cousin Acastus
to join the expedition with the bait of gaining unrestricted knowledge about exot-
ic lands and peoples. “Oh, how much of the earth, how much of the heavens
we’ll be able to know!” he enthuses. “For what great profit are we opening
the sea! You’ll catch your breath when I talk of the peoples we’ve seen!” (O quan-
tum terrae, quantum cognoscere caeli/ permissum est! Pelagus quantos aperimus
in usus… quae referam uisas tua per suspiria gentes, 1.168 – 73). In terms of land-
scapes, it is the sheer quantity which makes them desirable. An Argonaut can
amass knowledge only available to the eyewitness;⁵¹ Acastus will sigh enviously
to hear the reports of what others have actually seen. This device also tempts Va-
lerius’ reader – appetite whetted, like Acastus’ for adventure – with the prospect
of privileged insight. The seas will moreover be opened up in usus, for usage, im-
plying that the Argo’s passage will organise a previously inert or even obstructive
element into productive, profitable sea-lanes. In another sense, the sea will open
for personal use, the Argonauts licensed at least temporarily by their uniqueness
to exploit and interpret it freely. The ship charges off the edge of the map, scrib-
bling an insolent wake in aqua nullius.

Aqua Nullius (or Tellus Incognita)

Legally speaking, the term terra nullius may be anachronistic, but conceptually it
fits Valerius’ treatment of “unknown” space remarkably well.⁵² Valerius most

 Greenblatt 1991, 122: “Everything in the European dream of possession rests on witnessing, a
witnessing understood as a form of significant and representative seeing. To see is to secure the
truth of what might otherwise be deemed incredible.”
 Pratt (1992, 61) provides an excellent articulation of the terra nullius concept and the in-
terests it serves: “It is the task of the advance scouts for capitalist “improvement” to encode what
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 443

regularly depicts the sea as immense and empty, his ship dwindling to a speck in
the desolation of a maris vasti (1.37). Aside from Boreas’ storm in Book 1 and the
Clashing Rocks (discussed below), the sea generally appears placid and undis-
turbed, a flat surface stretching away into the measureless distance: uacuum ae-
quor (4.588).⁵³ Sheer remoteness, rather than turbulence, makes the lands be-
yond imperuia and hard to attain (2.641– 2). The Argo, wind creaking in the rig-
ging, holds course in the middle of a silent ocean (medii tenuere silentia ponti/
stridentesque iuuant aurae, 2.584– 5), suspended beneath an equally featureless
dome of sky (ingens undique caelum, 2.627). Helle, rising from the Hellespont to
address the sailors, can provide no accurate account of the Black Sea coastline,
unlike the more practical Phineus. Hers is a formless vision of unmarked space:
“over the vast earth, the long sea-surface… and truly far-off Phasis itself will give
you anchorage” (uasta super tellus, longum…/ aequor, et ipse procul, uerum dabit
ostia Phasis, 2.596 – 7). The first ship must traverse unknown seas (ignota per ae-
quora, 2.592), generating meaning as it goes.
The first nightfall at sea provokes powerful apprehension in the crew. The
passage may be compared to Apollonius 4.1694– 701, but displays significant
variations. It occurs at the beginning, rather than the end of the voyage, and
rather than smothering the ship with pure darkness, instead disorients with in-
explicable shadows and shooting stars:

auxerat hora metus, iam se uertentis Olympi

ut faciem raptosque simul montesque locosque
ex oculis circumque graues uidere tenebras.
Ipsa quies rerum mundique silentia terrent
astraque et effusis stellatus crinibus aether.
Ac uelut ignota captus regione uiarum
noctiuagum qui carpit iter non aure quiescit,
non oculis, noctisque metus niger auget utrimque
campus et occurrens umbris maioribus arbor,
haud aliter trepidare uiri
(Val. Fl. 2.38 – 47)

they encounter as “unimproved” and, in keeping with the terms of the anti-conquest, as di-
sposable, available for improvement. European aspirations must be represented as uncontest-
ed… The European improving eye produces subsistence habitats as “empty” landscapes, mea-
ningful only in terms of a capitalist future and of their potential for producing a marketable
surplus. From the point of view of their inhabitants, of course, these same places are lived as
intensely humanized, saturated with local history and meaning.” See also Said 1978, 216 and
McLeod, passim.
 aequor is Valerius’ favoured word for sea, occurring over 100 times in the epic, more than
double his use of alternatives mare and pontus.
444 Helen Slaney

Each hour increased their fear as they saw the face of Olympus
wheel away, as the mountains and all other places were snatched
from their eyes, and deep darkness surrounded them.
The stillness itself and the universal silence were terrifying,
the stars and the night sky resplendent with flowing comet-tails.
Just as when someone is caught in an unknown place
and must find his way on the road by night, relaxing neither ear
nor eyes, and the black field to either side increases his fear of the dark
as does encountering the deeper ghostly shadows of a tree,
even so were the men afraid.

The same warriors who charge into battle with such ferocity that they do not
even bother to check who they are killing (3.74– 86, esp. 82) are here filled
with dread by the absence of any definite sound or movement. Floating in shad-
ows under a firmament flaring silently with shooting stars, awe overcomes them.
The magnitude of the nocturnal universe, the threats imagined massing in the
oppressive darkness, and most of all their isolation in an utterly ignota regione
combine to prevent the Argonauts from interpreting their environment. At the
same time, sensory deprivation allows Valerius’ reader a rare suspension of cer-
tainty. Perspective vanishes, and in place of the brilliantly lit coastline packed
with jolly guidebook-anecdotes comes the hush and profundity of night. Superi-
ority drains away.
Sublime terror and existential insecurity never last long. Tiphys the helms-
man quickly starts pointing out useful constellations – the Hyades, Orion, the
Serpent – and explains how to predict the weather from the colour of the
moon (2.47– 68). His speech regains control of an otherwise intimidatingly vast
cosmos, picking out the pinpricks of light and fashioning them into a system
of signs with navigational utility. Imposing this artificial pattern reassures the
Argonauts (pectora firmans, 2.47) as it renders the unknown not only legible
but reduces it to a code set to guide their exploratory mission. The double vision
established in this scene, which shows natural phenomena systematically subor-
dinated to human ingenuity, may be read as programmatic of the Argo’s voyage.
Confronted with the unknown, the ignota, and frequently described as ignorant,
ignari, they inscribe it with knowledge imported from elsewhere.
Interrupting the plain sailing, however, dividing sunlit Mediterranean from
the forbidding alium orbem of the Black Sea, tower the Symplegades, the legen-
dary Clashing Rocks: katabasis, initiation, birth canal, and most powerfully
charged threshold in the Graeco-Roman mindscape. Crossing this formidable
frontier compresses the Argonautic project into a single symbolic thrust. Divine
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 445

assistance assures the triumph of technology over nature and the inception of a
new imperial order.⁵⁴ Here in the maelstrom at the physical and temporal gate-
way between worlds, chaos rules. Elements collide, change places, change prop-
erties, smash into one another in violently transformative confusion. The Sym-
plegades themselves “did not seem rocks to the men, but a slice of starry firma-
ment flung down into the depths” (praecipitata profundo / siderei pars visa poli,
4.641– 2). The Argo’s first attempt to pass through is impeded by the tidal waves
that charge ahead of the titanic, tectonic collision of stone into stone (miscentur
rupes, 4.657). Showers of sparks cascade through the spray like a lightning bolt
shattering thunderheads, a simile which submerges the reader in a nightmare of
darkness shot with incongruous flames that dissolve into drenching breakers
and swamp the ship (4.659 – 66). As Juno and Pallas strain physically to hold
back the bucking cliffs, the Argonauts row frantically into the channel, where:

uelut mixtas Vulcanis ardor harenis

uersat aquas, sic ima fremunt, fluctuque coacto
angitur et clausum scopulos super effluit aequor
(Val. Fl. 4.686 – 8)

as though volcanic heat churned water up

with sand, the depths raged, the compressed waves
were strangled, and pent-up water boiled over the rocks.

Elemental forces resist both passage and separation, remaining an impressionis-

tic blur as the Argonauts emerge from their ordeal. Valerius follows Apollonius in
comparing their narrow escape to an emergence from Hades. The heroes rest on
their oars,

discussa quales formidine Auerni

Alcides Theseusque comes pallentia iungunt
oscula, uix primas amplexi luminis oras
(Val. Fl. 4.700 – 2)

just as when the horror of Avernus fell away behind them

Alcides and Theseus his companion exchanged pale
kisses, embracing almost before the first shoreline of light.⁵⁵

 On transgression sanctioned by the gods, see Hardie 1993, 315 – 18 and 330 – 5 and Feeney
1991 Clare (2002, 167) mentions the interpretation of the voyage as a katabasis. Hershkowitz
(1998, 45) calls the Symplegades “an obstacle of almost cosmic proportions” while Murgatroyd
(2009, 306) recognises them as “not just a geographical feature… [but] virtually characters in
their own right.”
 Compare the brief mention of this at A. R. 2.609 – 10.
446 Helen Slaney

They have survived their hellish rebirth, and – although they remain unaware of
the fact – their passage has fixed the Symplegades in place (4.707– 9). Natural
flux has been replaced by stability and permanence, the wildly dancing rocks
made motionless, tame aequor lapping at their frozen feet. Meanwhile, the Argo-
nauts, ignari as usual (8.195; compare nescius, 4.709), have eyes only for the glis-
tening vista of the open(ed) sea ahead (maria aspectans, 4.704).
Valerius’ initial vision of the Black Sea combines a number of the themes re-
curring elsewhere in his treatments of landscape: vast distances, flat emptiness,
bitter cold, frozen tracts of water indistinguishable from land or marsh (compare
2.201– 2, 8.201– 2) and dark mist that swallows visibility (compare 1.515 – 16). All
the lands, kings and people of Pontus are laid open (patent… repostae, 4.712–
13), but Valerius concentrates instead on the sea itself, marvellous for its unpar-
alleled expanse (non alibi effusis cesserunt longius undis / litora, 4.714– 15) and
for the many torrential rivers (uastos… amnes, catalogued briefly at 4.717– 20)
which provide the influx of fresh water that cause it to freeze over in winter (ex-
orta facilis concrescere bruma, 4.723):

utque uel immotos Ursae rigor inuenit amnes

uel freta uersa uadis, hiemem sic unda per omnem
aut campo iacet aut tumido riget ardua fluctu,
atque hac Europam curuis anfractibus urget,
hac Asiam Scythicum specie sinuatus in arcum.
Illic umbrosae semper stant aequore nubes
et non certa dies
(Val. Fl. 4.724– 30)

and whether the freeze of the Bear finds rivers motionless

or tossed in choppy straits, throughout the whole winter the sea
either lies in a flat plain or stiffens into hard swollen waves.
Here it presses on Europe with broken curves,
here on Asia, bent in the shape of a Scythian bow.
Dark clouds gather on the water’s surface
and daylight is weak.

Rather than seizing the opportunity to celebrate his protagonists’ success with
the triumphant prospect of everything that lies ahead, Valerius ends his survey
in mist and obscurity, perpetuating the mystery shrouding the global perimeter.⁵⁶
As the voyage proceeds, the coastline will be revealed in odd, sporadic and
somewhat disorienting glimpses, unmaking the certainties of geographical

 Romm 1992, esp. 22– 3. On the importance of transitional or border zones in the Argonautica,
see also Manuwald (this volume).
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 447

knowledge and replacing them with fragmentary sensory impressions. The iron-
working Chalybes, for example, are only heard, rather than seen, as they labour
through the night in subterranean forges (5.140 – 3); ‘lofty’ Carimbis and ‘pale’
Cytoris are succeeded by the exquisitely fragile mirage of Sinope, casting her be-
guiling reflection on the water (magnae pelago tremuit umbra Sinopes./ Assyrios
complexa sinus stat opima Sinope,/ nympha prius blandosque Iouis quae luserat
ignes, 5.108 – 10). In reality, “rich Sinope” was founded as a Greek trading colo-
ny.⁵⁷ Temporal logic collapses as the first ship to enter the Black Sea passes the
major port that its audacity will someday inspire: a world-weary courtesan of a
city who still appears, in certain uncertain lights, to retain the youthful form of a
mocking nymph.
Another landscape which baffles the senses with negative information, uac-
uum aequor sucking at the eyes and returning no image, is Valerius’ Cimmeria.
Threshold to the Underworld, it dilates on the gloomy coastline sketched by
Homer at Odyssey 11.13 – 22:

est procul ad Stygiae deuexa silentia noctis

Cimmerium domus et superis incognita tellus,
caeruleo tenebrosa situ, quo flammea numquam
Sol iuga sidereos nec mittit Iuppiter annos.
Stant tacitae frondes immotaque silua comanti
horret Auerna iugo; specus umbrarumque meatus
subter et Oceani praeceps fragor aruaque nigro
uasta metu et subitae post longa silentia uoces
(Val. Fl. 3.398 – 405)

Far off, sloping down to the silent Stygian night,

is the Cimmerians’ home, a land unknown to the gods above
located in blue-black shadow, where the Sun never sends
his fiery team nor Jupiter the starry seasons.
Leaves stand silent. The infernal forest bristles motionless
on the dense ridge. A cavern below, where the ghosts drift;
the headlong pounding of the Ocean; vast plains
black with fear. After long silences, sudden cries.

Tellus incognita in every sense, the land lies sunken in dark-blue (caeruleo) shad-
ow like the ocean depths, unnaturally still except for the bristling of motionless
forests and the cavernous boom of surf. There seems no end to the wasteland.
Blind dread (nigro… metu) is compounded by the surreal touch of disembodied,
inarticulate cries that pierce the outstretching silence. Procul (distant), longa,
uasta, immota, incognita, the landscape’s enormity resists puny verbal incur-

 Braund 2005, 123.

448 Helen Slaney

sions, absorbing and deadening perception just as its cave-mouth might swallow
an infinite multitude of shades. Despite its nightmarish formlessness, Valerius’
Cimmeria may be identified with a real place, or at least coexist with a Scythian
region of the same name which sends warriors to fight in Colchis’ civil war
(6.60 – 64). Whether or not Valerius regards the metaphysical Cimmeria where
Mopsus, the Argo’s seer, learned his craft as synonymous with the geopolitical
Cimmeria allied to Colchis,⁵⁸ repetition of the name within the same epic narra-
tive without differentiation suggests at least conceptual if not spatial correspond-
ence. The Argonauts do not sail here, but have its topography relayed to them by
Mopsus in preparation for a ritual purgation of guilt and grief. What is incognita
to the Olympian gods is all too cognita to the uates (3.397): uncertainty, mortality,
and the unspoken suspicion that all discourse might be powerless, in the end,
against the dark places of the earth.
Finally, the Argo reaches the Black Sea’s furthest bay, its ultimus sinus
(5.154). Their arrival coincides with Hercules’ release of Prometheus from the
nearby Caucasian peak where he has been chained as a punishment for the
same progressive, transgressive impulses that drive the (Roman) Argo. His re-
lease has been sanctioned by Jupiter (4.58 – 81), but it comes about by chance
(forte, 5.157) just as the Argo approaches its destination. This differs in two
marked respects from Apollonius’ version, in which the Argonauts hear – and
identify – Prometheus’ cries as the eagle tears his liver: firstly, to underline
the Argo’s Horatian relationship to over-ingenuity, Valerius releases the Titan
whom Apollonius keeps chained; and secondly, whereas the Apollonian Argo-
nauts straightforwardly and unambiguously hear Prometheus and see his
eagle, their Flavian counterparts have more trouble converting signs to sub-
stance. They have only a partial appreciation of the event, despite seeing the
snow-capped mountain ahead (cernitur in gelidas consurgens Caucasus arctos,
5.155), feeling the earth shudder in protest, and hearing the thunderous clamour
of iron wrenched from bedrock. In a flash of inspired error, they misinterpret the
cacophony as the Symplegades clashing, misprision which effectively unites the
two momentous breakthroughs spatially as well as temporally. The Argo has
sailed; Prometheus is unbound. Valerius’ reader, made aware of the real source
of the upheaval, is able to appreciate the moment’s redoubled significance. He
cannot, however, renounce interpretive superiority for the naïve perspective of
the Argonauts, who marvel – ignari, yet again – at the dislocated signs of crisis:

 Spaltenstein (2002, 121– 2) comments that ancient writers hardly made distinction between
the mythical and the historical Cimmerians. Strabo (1.1.10) regards Homer’s Cimmerians as
inhabiting the Cimmerian Bosporus, and further suggests at 3.2.12 that Homer’s elision of the
cold, dark Bosporus with Hades was retaliation for the Cimmerians’ recent invasion of Ionia.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 449

tantum mirantur ab alto

litora discussa sterni niue ruptaque saxa
et simul ingentem moribundae desuper umbram
alitis atque atris rorantes imbribus auras
(Val. Fl. 5.173 – 6)

they wondered greatly at the shore

strewn with snow scattered from the heights, and shattered rocks,
and the giant shadow above them of a dying bird,
the air dripping dewy with a blood-black rain.

Shadows and fragments: their reassembly into coherent narrative, like the ec-
phrasis of tragic Medea or Tiphys’ reading of the stars, contrasts with an alterna-
tive opacity, laying a subtle but deliberate stress on the resistance of alien phe-
nomena to adequate description. Even at this point where the Argo should the-
oretically be most successful in taking conceptual possession of the great un-
known, mastery is permitted to dissolve into mystery and misapprehensions.
At the same time, one of Valerius’ persistent ironies resurfaces. In order to
trace the otherwise inexplicable rockfalls and blood-stained snow back to
their source and make sense of the Caucasian landscape, it is necessary to
apply a pre-existing account, knowledge derived not from local observation
but from Classical sources.

Before the First Ship

Works of imaginative fiction such as the Argonautica have the capacity to struc-
ture real-life geographical perceptions. Both voyage and poem constitute an act
of taking possession, opening undiscovered territory and performing what could
be termed conceptual occupation. This relies, however, on forming a consistent
impression of land and sea as unknown and formerly impenetrable, available for
discovery, enabling the Argo to emerge as sole reference point in an otherwise
trackless wilderness. To an extent, as the previous section showed, Valerius ach-
ieves precisely this impression with his wide-open spaces, impenetrable dark-
nesses and fragmented sensory details. Simultaneously, however, he undermines
the romance of conquest completely. The Argo, contrary to everything you may
have heard, is not the first ship. Colchis is not a foreign port, but uncannily fa-
miliar. Otherness is conveyed, paradoxically enough, through an entirely deriva-
tive depiction of Scythia, which turns out to be populated not only by legions of
entirely derivative Scythians but also by Greeks. The imperialist dream of ad-
vancement, of establishing new geographical and epistemological frontiers, be-
gins to break down.
450 Helen Slaney

The Lemnians have been sailing well before the Argonauts. Even if their re-
turn from Thrace in ships (puppes, 2.108) laden with the spoils of war could con-
ceivably just post-date the launch of the Argo, Hypsipyle saves her father by set-
ting him adrift in a decrepit boat that has been abandoned for many years:

ratis saeuae defecta laboribus undae,

quam Thetidi longinqua dies Glaucoque repostam
solibus et canis urebat luna pruinis
(Val. Fl. 2.285 – 7)

a ship worn out by labour on the savage sea,

which, long since retired from Thetis and Glaucus,
the days had burnt with sun, the moon with white frosts.

Furthermore, Thoas not only successfully puts to sea but manages to navigate as
far as Diana’s temple in the Tauric Chersonesus, on the far north Black Sea coast,
where he becomes established as priest-king (2.300 – 3). This discrepancy cannot
be attributed to a geographical slip, as Valerius mentions the shrine again when
the Argonauts pass it on their return from Colchis (8.208).⁵⁹ To dismiss the incon-
sistency as authorial carelessness underestimates the degree of doubt it casts on
the Argo’s legitimacy.⁶⁰ What it takes a whole shipload of heroes five books of
epic fanfare to accomplish has already been done by one old man in a leaky
tub. But Thoas’ exile is hardly epic material, and so his story, like Sol’s, remains
as a troubling counterpoint to the dominant narrative.
Other travellers have also made this crossing before, and their journeys
haunt Valerius’ Argo, slyly anticipating its trajectory. Malamud and McGuire ap-
preciate the irony of a “first ship” with so many literary predecessors, comment-
ing that “Valerius’ Argonauts sail through seas choked with precedents, crowded
with doppelgangers,” but restrict this to a witty comment on literary belatedness,
“a metaphor for the impossibility of creating a truly original text.”⁶¹ In addition,
this irony functions as a metaphor for the impossibility of geographical discov-
ery. Like the European explorers centuries later whose “discoveries” were predi-
cated on knowledge acquired from local inhabitants (subsequently written out of

 Valerius names the Lemnian king as Thoas at 2.418. Frings (1998, 265 – 8) argues that
Lemnian Thoas the priest and Tauric Thoas the king should be regarded as two separate figures,
but concedes that the confusion may have entered the tradition with Valerius.
 Vessey 1985, 338 – 9. Poortvliet (1991b, 169) remarks snidely that “Valerius has forgotten [?!]
that the Argo was the first ship.”
 Malamud/McGuire 1993, 215 and 196. Hershkowitz (1998, 37) takes a similar approach,
arguing that “intertextuality is the main process by which Valerius signals his awareness and
ensures his reader’s awareness of his epic’s belatedness.”
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 451

the picture of a primal, aestheticized wilderness),⁶² the Argonauts and their

Olympian patrons blow primacy out of proportion. In Apollonius, Orpheus
sings the creation of the universe (A. R. 1.494 – 511). In Valerius, he sings two
major set-pieces which both relate, with a slightly subversive undertone, the jour-
neys of those whom the Argo must follow: Io and Phrixus. Io, enchanted and out-
cast, abused and dehumanized, wandering crazily through the unknown (igno-
tas… uias, 4.371) until she stumbles across the Bosporus with no motive other
than escaping from torment, links Europe to Asia by accident. She too, although
Orpheus omits to mention it, will eventually reach Prometheus (as in Aeschylus).
But Io is scarcely a figure comparable to the Argo: her journey is erratic, not lin-
ear; she crosses frontiers unawares; she flees the persecution of the gods, rather
than carrying out their plan.⁶³ Like Thoas, then, she has no place in the official
scenario. Stories danced by a mute and tortured woman are only told when they
can be twisted to serve imperial interests in the mouth of an eloquent man:

Bosporon hinc ueteres errantis nomine diuae

uulgauere; iuuet nostros nunc ipsa labores
immissisque ratem sua per freta prouehat Euris
(Val. Fl. 4.419 – 21)

The ancients termed this place the Bosporus, named

after the wandering goddess; may she support our mission,
and speed our ship through her strait with favourable winds.

As well as preceding the Argo in his crossing to Colchis, Phrixus also complicates
the ethnic identity of the Colchian royal house, and disrupts any residual binar-
ies splitting Greek Self from barbarian Other. Sol points out that Aeetes has
Greek descendants through the exiled Phrixus, who settled in Colchis a genera-
tion earlier (coniugio uidet e Graia nunc stirpe nepotes/ et generos uocat et iunctas
sibi sanguine terras, 1.523 – 4). Jason’s claim to consanguinity is not altogether
specious, but it sits uneasily with the bellicose intentions elsewhere expressed.
Sol uses the bond of kinship to discourage the Greek invasion; Jason uses it to
style himself as the rightful owner of the Golden Fleece. Non aliena peto terrisue
indebita nostris, he tells Aeetes. “I’m not seeking tribute, or anything belonging
to another (aliena)” – atque ea Phrixo crede dari, Phrixum ad patrios ea ferre pe-
nates (5.508 – 10). He invites Aeetes to participate (crede) in a make-believe role-

 Pratt 1992, 61; McLeod 1999.

 Aricò (1998), on the other hand, argues for a parallel between the two journeys. Von Albrecht
(1977) simply compares the passage to Ov. Met. 1.568 – 747. Hershkowitz (1998, 200 – 1) follows
the established line in attributing Io’s crossing “a paradigmatic function for the Argonauts.”
452 Helen Slaney

play in which Jason stands in for his distant cousin and carries the sacred item
back to its ancestral home. As has already been established, however, Aeetes
and Mars regard the Fleece as a dedication made to Colchis, and its removal
under any circumstances as theft. Duplicity aside, Valerius’ two conflicting nar-
ratives ensure interpretive duality. One narrative represents the Argo as the first
exploratory foray of Greek subjectivity into barbarian territory (barbarus Phasis,
1.517– 18; maria et nondum qui nota, 5.660; effera Ponti loca, 4.318; hinc saevas
tellus alat horrida gentes, 2.645). In the other, Phrixus has already been a reluc-
tant trailblazer. His peaceful interactions in the contact zone, which included
asylum-seeking, intermarriage, and finally donating a precious artefact, repre-
sent at least some degree of integration into Colchian society. When the Argo-
nauts arrive, their foreignness initially terrifies Medea (5.352– 3), but her Nurse
is more phlegmatic. “Oh,” she says, “it’s a Greek. They’re all just like Phrixus
the Greek.” (Graius adest, Graio sunt cuncta simillima Phrixo, 5.362). Recognising,
identifying, even domesticating the Argonauts, Medea’s Nurse reduces their sup-
posedly groundbreaking expedition to a family excursion.
In another illustration of how Valerius could have maintained the alien qual-
ity of Colchis but instead constructs an environment of uncanny familiarity, the
first landmark encountered by the Argonauts upon entering the Phasis is
Phrixus’ grave. Beside the tumulus itself has been erected a statue depicting
his drowned sister Helle (5.184 – 9). Apollonius’ Argonauts, in contrast, were con-
fronted with corpses suspended from trees (A. R. 3.200 – 9). In place of this out-
landish custom, the first glimpse of Colchis offered to Valerius’ reader contains a
Classical marble funerary monument and a cousin’s tomb: a grove of Pontic pop-
lars that will be forever Minyan. The Argonauts have arrived at the ultimus sinus
of an alium orbem only to find themselves back home. Perhaps, then, Jason
might be forgiven for mooring his boat in someone else’s estuary “as if he had
entered his homeland and the Pagasaean river” (ceu Pagasas patriumque intra-
uerit amnem, 5.190).
Other familiar figures are also present in this landscape. From among the
hostile barbarian kingdoms (4.613 – 14) that line the Black Sea coast – Macrones
(remember them from Xenophon?) and Mossynians (who live in trees, according
to Strabo, engaging in unforgettable sexual practices),⁶⁴ Tibarenes and Byzeres
and Massagetae, names to conjure with – emerge a handful of Greeks. Hercules’
campaign against the Amazons, whose country Valerius locates in its conven-

 X. An. 5.325 – 401 on the Macrones and 5.4.33 – 34 on the Mossyn(oec)ians; Str. 12.3.18. See
also A. R. 2.10.15 – 25 and 2.379 – 82. Valerius puts his Macrones in the trees instead.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 453

tional setting by the river Thermodon,⁶⁵ has left behind three survivors who come
yelling and splashing into the shallows treating the Argo as their rescue team
(5.113 – 17). Even though the dishevelled trio reached this point by land, not
sea, their sudden appearance out of the undergrowth interrupts the Argo’s cruise
through Phineus’ checklist of exotica. In addition, just as the Argo’s landfall in
Colchis is marked by Phrixus’ grave, entry into the Black Sea also takes them
past a Greek tumulus. This belongs to Sthenelus, another of Hercules’ compan-
ions. As the ship passes the site,

it Sthenelus: qualem Mauortia uidit Amazon

cumque suis comitem Alcides ut condidit armis,
talis ab aequorei consurgens aggere busti
emicuit; fulsere undae, sol magnus ut orbem
tolleret aut nubem quateret polus. atque ea uixdum
uisa uiris atra nox protinus abstulit umbra
(Val. Fl. 5.89 – 94)

Sthenelus came: as when the martial Amazon saw him,

and just as Alcides buried him, in arms,
surging up from his mound heaped on the plain,
he shone. The waves flashed as if a great sun had risen
or the pole-star had scattered the clouds. Scarcely had he appeared
to the heroes when darkness immediately snatched him back into black shade.

Neither of the encounters is Valerius’ invention; both occur in Apollonius (A. R.

2.955 – 7 and 2.911– 22, respectively). But whereas Apollonius’ Sthenelus is moti-
vated by a personal craving for human company (A. R. 2.916 – 17), Valerius’ is
sent as a representative from the Underworld to verify the rumour (Fama, 5.82)
reporting that a ship has achieved the inconceivable and addita iamque fretis ref-
erens freta iamque patentes/ Cyaneas (5.84– 5). This effectively juxtaposes the
Roman Argo’s hyperbolic reputation with the possibility that reaching this part
of the world may not be so earth-shatteringly unique after all. The Apollonian
Sthenelus rises with comparative subtlety, the red crest on his helmet happening
to catch the light (A. R. 2.919 – 20), and makes a dignified exit. His Valerian coun-
terpart goes up like a spectral firework, blazing out across the water in a brief
and magnificent solar flare before the void hauls him back in. Valerius intensi-
fies, or perhaps polarizes the incident. He could have omitted to mention it alto-
gether, since not everything from Apollonius has been retained, but instead

 See for example A. R. 2.370 – 74 and 2.964– 88; [A.] Pr. 723 – 7; Herodotus (4.111– 17) has them
migrating from the Thermodon to Maeotis. More detail is given in Str. 11.5.1– 4.
454 Helen Slaney

opens up a deliberate fissure in the first ship’s claim to fama. Through this fis-
sure rise those curious discrepancies, the ghosts of missions past.
Apollonius’ Argonauts, as Williams notes, leave discernible marks on the
landscape they encounter, primarily by establishing cult-sites or providing an
aetiology for place-names.⁶⁶ Valerius’ Argonauts do not. The places they pass
are already named, either picked out with the authoritative terseness of an itin-
erarium from the anonymous coastline by the omniscient Roman narrator, or
used as stimuli for digressions on existing rites (Bacchus at 5.74– 81, or the Sa-
mothracian Mysteries at 2.432– 42) and mythological back-stories (such as the Gi-
gantomachy at 2.16 – 33, or Vulcan’s fall to Lemnos at 2.78 – 100). Valerius’ Argo-
nauts do not actively shape the land so much as passively absorb it. For all the
aggressive posturing and the episodic eradication of threats such as Amycus, the
land itself remains unaltered. It has already been mapped. Nowhere is this more
apparent than in the itinerary supplied by Phineus, who tethers Helle’s uastum
aequor to geographical specificity with a string of place-names (4.586 – 617). The
Argonauts, deprived of the imperialist privilege of (re‐)naming,⁶⁷ become tourists
rather than colonizers, cruising past already-famous landmarks selected and
packaged like delicacies for the Roman reader’s inexhaustible consumption of
space.

SimScythia
Scythia itself – also known, in Valerius’ interchangeable terminology, as Colchis,
or Phasis, or Pontus – demonstrates how the Argonautica fashions landscape as
a pastiche of prior textual representations.⁶⁸ Topographically, Valerius’ Pontus
corresponds with reasonable accuracy to contemporary geopolitical knowledge

 Williams 1991, 189 – 203.

 This is not just a modern conceit, as shown by Alexandria and Hadrianopolis (for example).
McLeod (1999, 54) comments on naming that “officially being able to label and map, to produce
“the” knowledge about the colonized, then undoubtedly the “simple” ability to name, say rivers
is an index of the colonizer’s success or failure. The act of naming is to give space a specific
history: a history that naturalizes the rule of the colonist.” See also Gregory 1994, 171– 2.
 Murphy (2004) demonstrates that Pliny employs a similar method. According to Said (1978,
93), “it seems a common human failing to prefer the schematic authority of a text to the
disorientations of direct encounters… When a human being confronts at close quarters some-
thing relatively unknown and threatening and previously distant… one has recourse not only to
what in one’s previous experience the novelty resembles but also to what one has read about it…
The book (or text) acquires a greater authority, and use, even than the actuality it describes.”
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 455

of the region, which was relatively precise.⁶⁹ In terms of overall impressions,

however, it draws consistently on conventional depictions of Scythia, the most
influential being Herodotus’ Histories, Virgil’s Georgics and Ovid’s Tristia, al-
though Aeschylus, Xenophon, Strabo and (naturally) Pliny may also have con-
tributed to this collocation of topoi. As noted above, the boundaries between as-
serted geographical facts and acknowledged geographical fictions were some-
what blurred in the classical period, especially towards the edge of the oikou-
mene where reliable authorities became more scarce and marvels proliferated.⁷⁰
Valerius’ Argonautica, certainly no stranger to pastiche, assembles a Scythia that
recalls Greenblatt’s concept of

a world that does not depend upon so much as call into being an external reality, a self-
authorizing, self-authenticating representation that cannot be falsified or diminished in
value through circulation… a representation that intensifies imaginative possession of
the world.⁷¹

In other words, Valerius’ referential source is less the Black Sea region itself than
a densely allusive archive of overlapping, mutually reinforcing images with in-
stant popular appeal.
Although the sense most frequently charged with taking imperialist posses-
sion of space is vision,⁷² Valerius’ Scythia reaches its reader through the skin.
Pontus is cold. So cold that the sea freezes into a plain (4.725 – 6). So cold that
men hunt on rivers as solid and slippery as marble (6.147) and gouge out chunks
of ice with axes (6.99 – 100). So cold that birds, frozen in mid-flight, are defeated
by the gale (7.562– 3). Gelida, hiberna, arcta, bruma, frigor, niuis, nix: the cold
seeps in everywhere, inescapably, numbly, testing endurance. Frozen rivers ca-
pable of carrying vehicles, perhaps the region’s most iconic feature, flow from
Herodotus (4.28) to the Georgics (3.354– 62), becoming tributaries of Ovid’s bitter
Danube, where uidimus ingentem glacie consistere pontum/ … durum calcauimus
aequor (Tr. 3.10.37– 9).⁷³ Strabo notes inlets that are “both a strait and a road”
(7.3.18), while according to Herodotus the entire sea freezes over, enabling armies

 Poortvliet (1991a) identifies a few inconsistencies, for instance an apparent confusion be-
tween locations on the north and south coasts of the Black Sea, and the convenient epic fiction
(retained from Apollonius) that has the Danube flowing out of Europe to the Ocean.
 Romm 1992.
 Greenblatt 1991, 37– 8.
 On vision as an index of imperial power, see Mitchell 1994b, Gregory 1994 and Pratt 1992; for
an overview of debates concerning the applicability of ocularcentricism to a Roman context, see
Fredrick 2002b.
 Compare Val. Fl. 1.43, 1.513, 4.345, 4.723 – 6, 6.100 – 1, 6.147, 6.154– 5, 6.328, 6.568, 8.201.
456 Helen Slaney

to march across (4.28). Similarly, Valerius’ first mention of the river Phasis has it
frozen rigid (rigentem), and his reader’s first impression of the Black Sea itself is
an unbroken sheet of ice (hiemem sic unda per omnem/ aut campo iacet,
4.725 – 6). The simile comparing it to a Scythian bow comes from Pliny
(Nat. 6.1), or possibly Sallust (Hist. 3 fr. 63). Distinguishing between aequor as
ice, aequor as steppe, and aequor as ocean becomes difficult: when the Argo-
nauts have plotted their course up the Danube, and protinus inde alios flexu reg-
esque locosque/ adsuetumque petunt plaustris migrantibus aequor (8.200 – 1), it is
unclear whether their ship will be ploughing through snow-melt, flood-plain or
liquid ice.
These frozen rivers do not, incidentally, resemble the green and foaming es-
tuary, flaming in the sunset, that eventually greets Jason (5.177– 86); nor Arrian’s
metallic torrent (Periplus Ponti Euxini 8); nor the malarial swamp from the Hip-
pocratic tract Airs, Waters, Places (15). Nor do they bear any resemblance to the
environment imagined by Apollonius, whose Colchis displays no perceptible cli-
matic difference from Greece. Rather, they reproduce a Scythia which Richard F.
Thomas calls “thoroughly traditional… virtually a paradigm for the wintry
north.”⁷⁴ Valerius grounds his landscape in the ethnographic tradition common
to other Roman authors who exploited the northern outskirts of their empire as
an antithesis to the Italian heartland.⁷⁵ Scythia’s climate is brutal; and, as the
ethnographic tradition prescribed, the inhabitants of any given location absorb
and reflect its local conditions. This is not to suggest that Valerius simply exag-
gerated the harshness of Jason’s destination in order to offset Greek sophistica-
tion. More intricate veins of identification and desire run under the ice.
Valerius’ Scythia is populated by “barbarian” figures conforming to stereo-
types that both reinforce and destabilize Roman values. Weapons on the table
and beards in the wine, quaffing their horses’ blood (5.578 – 80, 591– 2, 603),
these warriors indulge wholeheartedly in the kind of behaviour consistently –
and indiscriminately – attributed to ethnic groups from northern Europe. Their
lifestyle is nomadic, the other typical trait by which classical authors distin-
guished their sedentary culture from that of savage (occasionally noble) “Scythi-
ans”.⁷⁶ During the Colchian civil war, one of these characters, the belligerent
Gesander, taunts his Greek opponent:

 Thomas 1982, 51.

 See Thomas 1982, 51– 5 and 98 – 100 on Horace and Virgil. The contrasts drawn throughout
Ovid’s Tristia are equally informed by this tradition.
 Romm 1992, 47; Thomas 1982, 53 – 5 and 114– 15. See for example Val. Fl. 2.160, 2.176 – 86,
6.79 – 83, 6.329 – 32.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 457

alium hic miser aspicis annum

altricem niuem festinaque taedia uitae.
non nos aut leuibus componere bracchia remis
nouimus aut uentos opus exspectare ferentes.
imus equis, qua uel medio riget aequora Pontus
uel tumida fremit Hister aqua.
…
…numquam has hiemes, haec saxa relinquam,
Martis agros, ubi tam saeuo durauimus amne
progeniem natosque rudes, ubi copia leti
tanta uiris. Sic in patria bellare pruinis
praedarique iuuat
(Val. Fl. 6.324– 39)

You see an alien climate here:

snow our nursemaid, rapid exhaustion of life.
We don’t put our arms to lightweight oars,
or wait for favourable winds to do our work.
We go on horseback, out in the middle of the sea’s hardened surface,
or where the Danube’s swollen waters roar.
…
I will never give up these winters, these stones,
the fields of Mars where we’ve toughened up our children –
our new-born sons – in the raging river,
where men have such an abundance of death.
Thus we delight, in our frozen fatherland,
in war and plunder.

If all this sounds strangely familiar, that’s probably because it repeats several
key points made by Virgil’s Latin warrior Numanus Remulus as he praises the
austerity of pre-Roman Italy:

durum a stirpe genus natos ad flumina primum

deferimus saeuoque gelu duramus et undis;
uenatu inuigilant pueri siluasque fatigant,
flectere ludus equos et spicula tendere cornu.
at patiens operum paruoque adsueta iuuentus
aut rastris terram domat aut quatit oppida bello.
omne aeuum ferro teritur, uersaque iuuencum
terga fatigamus hasta, nec tarda senectus
debilitat uiris animi mutatque uigorem:
canitiem galea premimus, semperque recentis
comportare iuuat praedas et uiuere rapto.
(A. 9.603 – 13)

A hard (durum) race, we bring our new-born sons (natos) to the river,
and toughen them up (duramus) in the icy, savage (saeuo) waves.
458 Helen Slaney

Our boys are out late hunting and exhaust the forest.
They play at breaking horses (equos), and archery;
enduring toil and used to deprivation, our young men
subdue the earth with spades or shake cities in war (bello).
Our whole life is chafed away by iron…
And nor does slow old age
diminish our virility or alter our vigour.
We press helmets on white hair, and always delight
in amassing new spoils (iuuat praedas), and living on plunder.

The act of toughening or hardening up infants by immersing them in icy water is

common to both cultures, along with a life spent in war and on horseback and
pleasure taken in pillage. Gesander speaks as the antithesis of the classical
world, and as the mouthpiece of noble barbarians who retain lost ideals of
self-sufficient toughness and masculinity. Scythians in particular provided Augu-
stan literature with images of displaced uirtus. ⁷⁷ Tacitus’ Germania, as O’Gorman
shows, performs a similar transfer of archaic Roman values to ‘unspoiled’ Ger-
man tribes, who have not yet been touched by the material avarice and sexual
deviance corrupting Tacitean Rome.⁷⁸ Valerius, in explicitly identifying Gesand-
er’s hyperbolically rugged Scythia with Rutulian Italy, merges pre-Roman auster-
ity with that of the barbarian outsider. Here, too, a declaration of alterity disclo-
ses no actual otherness. As in the Germania, “the representation of the foreign
land, traditional repository of the strange and divergent… [is] now a refuge for
the familiar.”⁷⁹ It represents a nostalgic repository of everything which has
been rejected or eroded by current cultural practice. The Argonautica’s Scythians
are not only figures familiar from ethnographic discourse. They are also the last,
fictitious refuge for customs that used to define what being Roman ought to
mean.
This nostalgia for the primitive, when projected onto the external, has anoth-
er motive beyond recapturing simplicitas or admonishing oneself severely for
decadence while surrounded by flamingos’ tongues and amber spoons.⁸⁰ It
seeks to make contact with a rawness of experience, an immediacy: the shock
of plunging into glacier-water, the pounding of hoofbeats for mile after mile

 Horace (Carm. 3.24.9 – 24) describes Getic/Scythian frugality and chastity, as does Virgil (G.
3.349 – 83); compare Cicero Tusc. 5.90 on Scythian Anacharsis as a model of self-denial, with
discussion in Thomas 1982, 51– 5 and 114– 15.
 O’Gorman 1993, 146 – 8.
 O’Gorman 1993, 148.
 Flamingos’ tongues are consumed in Suet. Vit. 13. On the amber trade, see Tacitus Ger. 45
and Pliny Nat. 37.11.42– 50.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 459

with nothing behind, the horizon ahead and no need to ever look back; the stars
before the zodiac, the sea before the periplus, the dark before the dawn. This is
an economy not of spectacle, but of sensation. Mitchell writes of the tourist who
ventures into wilder and wilder landscapes, determined to obtain “a certificate of
the Real”, or access to something lawless and unmediated, outside Culture, pos-
sessed of a precious authenticity elsewhere compromised. Depicting such land-
scapes attempts to fulfil the desire for “representation that “breaks through” rep-
resentation into the realm of the nonhuman.”⁸¹ Unfortunately, however, as the
Argo and its passengers discover, this breakthrough is no breakthrough. Attain-
ing the alium orbem merely entangles them further in discursive nets, inescapa-
bly bound by the representational conventions of epic and other discourse, and
by the power structures of Flavian Rome.
Barbarus Phasis should be the antithesis of Argonautic (or Roman) desire:
infertile, inaccessible, a frozen wasteland whose harshness ought to protect its
inhabitants from ‘invidious’ outsiders. This is no Eden, no Arabia, no South
Sea spice island to tempt the sensualist. As Seneca observes in de Tranquilitate,
however, men who are worn out with luxury turn for stimulation to inculta de-
serta (2.13). Consumer theorist John Urry identifies adventure-tourism and delib-
erate risk-taking among leisured classes as a reaction to socio-political ‘disempo-
werment’.⁸² Manufactured adrenaline compensates for political paralysis. This
recalls Newlands’ analysis of an arena culture that offers the spoils of empire
back to citizens redefined as consumers.⁸³ Valerius’ readers want more than
just a distant view of “their” domain, more than a backdrop of mountains drift-
ing out of reach. They want sensation, even if – especially if – that sensation is
delivered as a kind of pain. Extremes, in literature as well as in performance,
characterize Roman aesthetics in the late first century.⁸⁴ The opportunity to vis-
ualize the penetrated otherworld as an observer allows the reading subject to re-
main detached. Absorbing it into the body, on the other hand, constitutes a loss
of bounded self, a liquidation of personal frontiers. At one point, Valerius com-
pares Jason to the Caucasus range: he towers above the battlefield quantus ubi
ipse gelu magnoque incanuit imbre/ Caucasus et summas abiit hibernus in arctos
(6.611– 12). Nature similes are not unusual in epic, but in this instance Jason ap-
pears not with the attributes of a generic mountain but assimilated to a specific

 Mitchell 1994b, 15 and 16 – 17.

 Urry 1995, 183 and 136 – 8 on the frustrated quest for authenticity in tourist experience.
 See above (n. 23).
 This phenomenon has been well-documented elsewhere. See for example Barton 1993, 52– 9,
who identifies a self-defeating “desire for the ultimate and the impossible”, including an-
nihilation, or “the experience of the unendurable” in Roman discourse.
460 Helen Slaney

landmark, a place. The Caucasus, as well as forming part of the landscape imme-
diately surrounding alien Colchis, has further resonance as the place where
Prometheus was chained, but Valerius chooses to focus on a different aspect
of the mountain, overloading it with an avalanche of keywords: gelu (“ice”), in-
canuit (“whitens”) hibernus (“winter”), arctos (“the arctic north”). For the dura-
tion of the simile, Jason fuses with his environment, becoming the Other, im-
mersed in the elemental extremes that give Scythian warriors their enviable dur-
itia. In order for this to happen, however, his own subjectivity momentarily dis-
appears into the snowy crags rising above the plain. Phasis appeals to the other
insatiable appetite of the hyper-civilized: craving for rugged wilderness, primitiv-
ism and landscapes bristling with untouched sublimity, an atavistic avarice for
ice and iron and blood.
To maintain the illusion of Argonautic primacy, Valerius could have provided
his reader with uniformly unnamed topography ready to be marked by aetiolog-
ical activity, and a commanding eye shaping chaos into form. He does not. Fol-
lowing instead the established precepts of skilfully layered allusion, and with an
ironic nod to the self-acknowledged “belatedness” of silver epic, he confronts his
protagonists – and reader – with obstacles to unmediated perception. Haunted
by dead Greeks gone before and cities not yet founded, following an itinerary de-
termined well in advance, the Argo hardly ever encounters the unknown. Only
isolated passages such as the first night at sea adumbrate the possibility of
space outside existing reference points. You can only hunt on Scythian icefields
through this highly stylized poetic medium, can only appreciate the value of
Gesander’s primitivism through Virgilian intertext. The effects of this would
not be so pointed if they were not so devastating to the “first-ship” topos. Valer-
ius short-circuits the project of consuming imperial space as would-be adventur-
ers are thrown back on familiar interpretive resources. Geographical discovery –
the self-aggrandizing burden of making a truly Promethean breakthrough – is ex-
posed as fantasy. His technique of undermining declarations of imperialist pri-
macy with demonstrations of their hollowness conveys the anxiety of Flavian
spectacle. It suggests that all the Argonautic reader can possess are simulacra,
fragments of an orbis concocted from sensory fraud. No matter how much
more dramatic they appear than (for instance) the shambolic Pontus crumbling
around the younger Pliny’s frustrated Letters, Valerius’ landscapes pay for their
vividness with unreality.
 The Voyage of Rediscovery 461

A Second Glance
Surely if any epic deprives its subalterns of expression, it would be this quintes-
sential account of imperialist expansion and its discontents. Oddly enough, how-
ever, whereas the colonial landscape is only rarely focalized explicitly through
the Argonautic gaze, the ship appears frequently in the eyes of others: the Lem-
nian women who will take the crew as lovers; Cyzicus, and vindictive Cybele,
who will use it as an instrument of revenge; Sthenelus, popping up to check
out the passing spectacula, and the Mossynians marvelling at its novelty. Even
that first prospect of the Black Sea, in fact, reverses the paradigm: although
the Pontic lands spread themselves open invitingly, they also stare fascinated
at the sudden appearance of the ship (ad subitam stupuere ratem, 4.711). Aeetes’
serpent, guardian of the Golden Fleece, turns burning eyes on the West, Graium-
que procul respexit ad orbem (5.255). Wherever Valerius’ reader attempts to fix his
gaze, he encounters another pair of eyes – hostile, vigilant, inquisitive, calculat-
ing – looking right back at him. The Argo has no monopoly on vision. Perhaps,
then, it may be possible after all to escape the representational circuit, exceed
the limits of knowledge and experience, become marvellous. But this would re-
quire relinquishing authority, regarding oneself not as isolated imperial subject,
struggling to impose interpretive discipline, but as an object dissolving into land-
scape, inseparable from the wide open sea.
Gesine Manuwald
Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica
The Argo’s Maiden Voyage from Europe into the Unknown

Voyages of a single protagonist or a group of heroes have been a prominent motif

in ancient epic since the beginnings; a prototypical manifestation is found al-
ready in Odysseus’ wanderings from Troy back to his native Ithaca. In Roman
epic, at any rate, the description of these travels in Homer’s Odyssey has been
present from the start, since the literary genre of epic started in Rome in the mid-
dle of the third century BCE with an adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey, Livius An-
dronicus’ Odusia. Although all subsequent Roman epics included journeys of
one sort or another as part of the plot, these travels are not actually topics of
these poems. There is only one extant Roman epic in which travelling, i. e. the
first ship voyage across the open sea, is the main topic, and this is Valerius Flac-
cus’ Argonautica. ¹ In Valerius Flaccus’ lifetime, the Flavian period at the end of
the first century CE, Romans, in their daily lives, had already had some experi-
ence of the regions and customs of a number of peoples, irrespective of details of
their views on the world’s geography.² Available itineraria allowed merchants,
military officials or even travelling ‘tourists’ to orientate themselves in geograph-
ical space: according to the almost contemporary evidence in Pliny the Elder
various routes to remote places were being explored, discussed and described,
and it was possible to calculate distances and travelling times with respect to
distant destinations such as India (Plin. Nat. 6.96 – 106).
Against this background it is interesting that in Valerius Flaccus’ epic the an-
nounced topic is not “the arms and the man” (arma uirumque, Verg. A. 1.1), “fra-
ternal war” (fraternas acies, Stat. Theb. 1.1), “war in the Emathian fields more ter-
rible than civil war” (bella per Emathios plus quam ciuilia campos, Luc. 1.1) or the
“middle of three wars, during which both parties tried to destroy and extermi-

 The Republican Argonautica by Varro Atacinus had already dealt with the same topic in
Rome. However, as this epic only survives in fragments (cf. pp. 231– 6 FPL4), its treatment of the
theme of travel is difficult to determine. No fragments referring to geographical details are
extant. Yet from the remaining text it seems that the poem kept a lot of the erudite detail that can
be found in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica and therefore may also have adopted this epic’s
main focus and not have brought the Argo’s first journey across the open sea to the fore in the
same way as Valerius Flaccus does (on this poem’s possible relationship to its time of com-
position see n. 77 below; on Varro Atacinus and Valerius Flaccus cf. Feletti 1998).
 On the geographical views of the world and its layout in antiquity, their basis and changes, cf.
e. g. Sonnabend 2007.
464 Gesine Manuwald

nate the opponent” (arma, Sil. 1.1; sed medio finem bello excidiumque uicissim /
molitae gentes, 1.12– 13); instead, the topic given in the first four lines of the
proem (Val. Fl. 1.1– 4) consists of the “straits first navigated” (prima… freta pe-
ruia) and “the prophetic ship” (fatidicamque ratem), which will travel through
the Symplegades to the Phasis in Colchis and will finally find a place “in the
starry firmament” (flammifero… Olympo).³ This overview mentions the medium
(fatidica ratis), the result of the journey (prima… freta peruia), an essential
step in the itinerary (Symplegades) as well as the final destination (Phasis in Col-
chis).⁴ The focus cannot be explained by the requirements of the chosen myth;
for in the Hellenistic Argonautica by Apollonius Rhodius, which was Valerius
Flaccus’ main model for the plot, the epic’s topic is described as follows in
the corresponding four-line proem: “the famous deeds of men of old, who, …,
down through the mouth of Pontus and between the Cyanean rocks, sped
well-benched Argo in quest of the golden fleece” (A. R. 1.1– 4).⁵ Although the
ship and items of the itinerary are mentioned as well, they are rather presented
as means to an end; the focus lies on the “famous deeds of men of old” and the
quest of the Golden Fleece, which is not included in Valerius Flaccus’ proem.
As the journey itself is more prominent in Valerius Flaccus’ introduction,
one might be inclined to think that its description, along with nautical details,
the itinerary, the places passed, the times of the day and the seasons, would
play an important role throughout the epic. However, scholars who have tried
to establish a precise itinerary for Valerius Flaccus’ Argonauts, by listing the pla-
ces visited, the times spent at each location and the times spent travelling be-

 For the broader focus of these epics, cf. Hardie 1993, 83: “Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica is a
version of the archetypal Greek myth of the questing journey. The Argo is traditionally the first
ship, and the institution of sea-faring is a pivotal event in ancient constructions of cultural
history, often marking the point at which a primitive innocence slides into a moral decline.
Valerius, unlike his Greek model Apollonius of Rhodes, chooses to stress this wider historical
aspect of the story: the particular adventures of Jason and his men assume a much wider
importance and symbolism as a nodal point in history, in much the same way that Virgil’s story
of Aeneas, Lucan’s account of the civil war and Silius’ narrative of the war against Hannibal all
reach beyond their localized plots to claim a universal significance.”
 All references to and quotations from the Latin text of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica are based
on Ehlers’ Teubner edition (1980); English translations have been taken from Mozley’s Loeb
edition (1934). For a discussion of how this introduction of the Argo and Valerius Flaccus’
depiction of landscape more generally may look back to Ovid’s treatment of the Argonautic
story, see Keith (this volume).
 Cf. παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν/ … οἳ Πόντοιο κατὰ στόμα καὶ διὰ πέτρας/ Κυανέας… /χρύσειον
μετὰ κῶας ἐύζυγον ἤλασαν Ἀργώ, A. R. 1.1– 4 – All references to and quotations from the Greek
text of Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica are based on Fränkel’s OCT edition (1961); English
translations have been taken from Seaton’s Loeb edition (1912).
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 465

tween them, have found that such an undertaking is more difficult for Valerius
Flaccus than for Apollonius Rhodius, since the Roman poet gives less and ac-
tually very little precise information. He provides just enough indications so
that a broad context for the movements can be visualized; he adds and omits de-
tails of stops and journeys, but sticks to basically the same, mythically given itin-
erary.⁶
Indeed Valerius Flaccus’ indications are so vague that his narrative hardly
mirrors a real sea voyage. Therefore the poet has been accused of giving an im-
plausible description, since his Argonauts seem to cover huge distances in just a
few days. Such an assessment is clearly voiced by Liberman in the introduction
to the Budé edition (1997, LI–LII):

A moins que le texte de Valerius ne nous fournisse plus de donnée chronologique précise,
on est obligé de conclure que le calendrier de navigation qu’il suit ici est passablement ir-
réaliste. Pour ce qui est du voyage et sans considérer l’escale à Lemnos, les Argonautes la-
tins arrivent à l’embouchure du Phase le 16e jour de leur voyage, chez Apollonios le 99e!
Le même insouci du réalisme de la chronologie pourrait ne pas présider à la relation
du retour des Argonautes: du Phase à Héraclée il y a près de 6 600 stades, et les Argonautes
de Valerius parcourent cette distance pendant une durée indiquée par l’expression sibylline
diem noctemque (8, 175). Le poète ne prend plus soin d’indiquer aucune chronologie pré-
cise. …
Le voyage d’aller des Argonautes dure 102 jours chez Apollonius (compte non tenu de
l’escale à Lemnos) et comprend 19 jours de navigation; chez Valerius 16 – sans compter le
séjour à Lemnos qui, je crois, dura un mois synodique mois un jour – et 13 jours respective-
ment.⁷

The result of such endeavours to assemble all travel details in Valerius Flaccus
confirms from a different angle what studies of Apollonius Rhodius’ epic have
found, which has been studied far more extensively with respect to its geogra-
phy:⁸ his epic can be regarded as similar to a Hellenistic periplus in some re-

 Cf. also Shreeves 1978, 13, 197– 8; Hershkowitz 1998, 193.

 Cf. also Liberman’s table listing the stages of the journey with inferred times on pp. LII-LVIII;
for a comparative table of the itineraries in Apollonius Rhodius and in Valerius Flaccus cf.
Shreeves 1978, 17– 24. For detailed geographical information on the journey in Apollonius
Rhodius cf. the introductions to the three-volume Budé edition (Vian/Delage 1974– 1981). Sou-
biran (2002, 16 – 20) shows how the legend is based on datable realities concerning the ex-
ploration and expansion of the Greeks. Jackson (1997) points out that in Apollonius Rhodius
“Argo was the best and most famous of all ships (Homer’s Argo pasimelousa), but she was not
the first.”
 Cf. e. g. Delage 1930; Williams 1991; Meyer 2001. Cf. Williams 1991, 317: “The significant
amount of landscape in the Argonautica in relation to Greek poetry in general must be recog-
nized as an important innovation, a departure from the style of poets earlier than Apollonius.
466 Gesine Manuwald

spects, as he mentions or describes the places passed and other features of the
coast in some detail, providing a large amount of aetiological information.⁹ By
contrast, it is generally accepted in scholarship that Valerius Flaccus has re-
duced the amount of erudite Hellenistic detail in comparison with Apollonius
Rhodius.¹⁰ However, it has not been studied systematically so far what principles
for the description of the journey he uses instead and what effect this different
form of narrative has for the portrait of the journey that emerges from the epic.¹¹
Since Valerius Flaccus does not give detailed descriptions of all places vis-
ited or passed, his epic is apparently not supposed to be a travelogue or a guide-
book for future journeys from Iolcos to Colchis. It rather tells the story of the first
voyage across the open sea and its consequences; therefore it only highlights
what is necessary and meaningful in this context. Events remain related to spe-
cific places even if those are not described in detail; at the same time details that
do get mentioned are usually not of antiquarian interest, but relevant for the
story.¹²
Valerius Flaccus’ different emphasis, as scholars have noted, is connected
with his re-interpretation of the whole story: in his version the Argo is the first
ship to travel across the open sea,¹³ thus to enable connections between peoples
previously separated and far removed from each other and eventually to trigger
changes of power among them.¹⁴ Again, it has not been studied in detail how

Even among poets of the Hellenistic age, it appears that landscape description is a particularly
Alexandrian trait, since it is found especially in Apollonius, Callimachus, and Theocritus.”
 Cf. e. g. Delage 1930, 281; Meyer 2001, 218.
 Cf. e. g. Venini 1971; Burck 1979, 217; Hershkowitz 1998, 211, 212; Zissos 2008, xlii.
 Most references to topography, geography and landscape in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica
are naturally connected with the voyage of the Argonauts, which will be the main focus of this
study. Additional references, which expand the spatial and temporal framework covered, can be
found in similes, sometimes adding Roman color (e. g. Calabrian farmers, earthquake and
eruption of Vesuvius, Tiber [e.g. Val. Fl. 1.682b–5; 3.208 – 11; 4.507– 11; 7.83 – 6]), in the catalogues
of the Argonauts in book one and of the Colchian forces in book six as well as in the brief
description of the underworld at the end of book one.
 Shreeves (1978, 42, 102, 200) regards the record of the journey as a device to indicate
transition and to create distance between the various adventures of the Argonauts as well as a
means of giving unity to the poem and of chartering the Argonauts’ emotional development.
This may be true in a structural sense, but the way in which the journey is described goes
beyond this. However, Shreeves (1978, 138 – 9) also notes that the idea of the journey is de-
veloped into one of the poem’s important themes, although the demands of the underlying story
need not necessarily have had this effect.
 On the question of whether this means progress or a primal sin, cf. Zissos 2006, and on
whether this actually opens up ‘new’ territory, see Slaney (this volume).
 On the role of this notion, cf. e. g. Burck 1979, 232; Manuwald 1999, esp. 130 – 76.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 467

this focus and the reduction of antiquarian and learned details in the Hellenistic
predecessor go together to endow the epic with a particular meaning, since
scholars have tended to concentrate on the structure and meaning of the stop-
overs or ‘episodes’. What is significant also is what geographical information
is given, where, when and how it is provided, when it is withheld and what
the effect of this strategy is.¹⁵
Hence, following the progress of the Argonauts sequentially, this contribu-
tion will look at the geographical information given at key stages in the journey
and relate this to the overall framework of the epic; therefore this investigation
into Valerius Flaccus’ handling of geographical and topographical information
will not assemble this information as a positivistic exercise, but rather try to
demonstrate how the selection and placing of information is linked to the
main aim of the poem. Thereby a study of geography and landscape in Valerius
Flaccus will be able to enrich the understanding of the use of poetic techniques
and the message of the poem more generally.¹⁶
In contrast to Apollonius Rhodius Valerius Flaccus gives the voyage a divine-
ly ordained overall purpose in the development of world history, outlined in a
speech by the supreme god Jupiter early in the epic (1.531– 60), even though
the human protagonists never become aware of the divine intentions. Jupiter’s
speech follows the model of that in Vergil’s Aeneid (1.254– 96); Aeneas’ voyage
in Vergil’s Aeneid is also divinely decreed, but since he has to find his ancient
homeland and then found a city there (as divine prophecies have made clear

 The only study dedicated to ‘Landscape, Topography and Geographical Notation in the
‘Argonautica’ of Valerius Flaccus’, the dissertation of C.E. Shreeves (1978), provides a useful
starting point, but does not address such questions. Instead, it focuses on the use of place
names and place descriptions as a means of establishing Valerius Flaccus’ position within the
epic tradition, the meaning of place names and the atmosphere conveyed thereby as well as
their illustrative function with regard to the emotional state of the Argonauts and the voyage’s
movement from Greece to barbarian countries. Shreeves recognizes that the function of geo-
graphical description in Valerius Flaccus goes beyond recording the mythical journey, but he
refers its role mainly to an illustration of the development of the Argonauts as well as of the
episodes’ emotional setting. Heeren in his dissertation (1899) ‘De chorographia de Valerio Flacco
adhibita’ had tried to determine the sources for the names used by Valerius Flaccus and the
geographical information provided by him; he had referred it to an unknown geographical
treatise that Valerius Flaccus had used diligently.
 As there is little secondary literature on the specific topic of geography in Valerius Flaccus,
all commentaries and continuous interpretations of the poem as well as treatments of major
individual scenes have been consulted. Yet references to these works are selective and closely
tied to the question at issue. Possible models in Apollonius Rhodius and Vergil as listed in
commentaries are not always mentioned here since analysis of what is found in Valerius Flaccus
is often sufficient for the purposes of this study.
468 Gesine Manuwald

to him), getting to the destination is the goal of the journey. In Valerius Flaccus,
however, the Argonauts have to inaugurate seafaring and to travel back once
they have reached Colchis in order to complete their mission. Besides, the voyage
itself has a purpose beyond the immediate concerns of the Argonauts; for Jupiter
has determined that it will serve to open up the seas and to allow competitive
struggles between originally distant peoples: according to Jupiter, Bellona, the
war goddess, will then be able to traverse the seas; this will be a means of en-
abling wars and thus the transition of power/hegemony from one nation to an-
other, initially from Asia to Greece as a result of the Argonautic voyage and later
from Greece to another people, which is not named, but likely to be the Ro-
mans.¹⁷
The Argonauts and their leader Jason in particular know from the start that
they are about to go on the first journey across the open sea and that this is
therefore not simply a matter of travelling to a destination, but rather that getting
there is a real issue. For this very reason Jason’s tyrannical uncle Pelias has or-
dered Jason to recover the Golden Fleece (of Phrixus’ ram), expecting that he will
not return (Val. Fl. 1.26 – 37; 1.59b–63). Hence when first confronted with the task,
Jason is at a loss as regards a suitable means of transport, and he wishes he had
Perseus’ winged sandals or Triptolemus’ chariot (Val. Fl. 1.66b–70). After having
resolved to make an attempt at conquering the sea with the means available to
him, he asks for the support of Juno and Pallas, but still fears that he might of-
fend maritime divinities (Val. Fl. 1.188 – 204). This will indeed be the case, but the
issue will be solved by intervention of other gods (Val. Fl. 1.211– 17a; 1.574– 685).
As for the lasting result of the voyage, Jason, applying human categories, expects
that the endeavor will lead to interaction and commerce between peoples far re-
moved from each other so far (Val. Fl. 1.245b–7). However, this will not be the
outcome according to Jupiter’s plan of the world, which the poet has him outline
just after the Argonauts’ departure (Val. Fl. 1.531– 60).
Against this background of impending conflicts between peoples in different
regions of the world, the narrative and the references to locations are shaped in
such a way so as to emphasize that this voyage takes a group of Greeks from Eu-
rope to Asia and as a result will initiate interactions between peoples living on
the two continents. This focus determines the information given about different
stages of the journey and the places visited. Therefore a full and continuous re-
cord of the itinerary and nautical measures is not provided; only at the begin-

 Cf. also Zissos 2005, 504: “For Valerius, then, the Argonautic expedition is an event of
transcendent geopolitical importance, inaugurating a new world order based on international
competitions.” On the role of this passage for the impression of the Argonautic voyage, see also
Slaney (this volume).
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 469

ning and at the end of the voyage is there a somewhat more extensive narrative
of the journey as these sections include slightly longer descriptions of travelling
uninterrupted by stopovers. This distribution is presumably intended to illustrate
at the beginning how the Argonauts get used to travelling by sea and to the new
conditions they are confronted with and at the end to return to the idea of trav-
elling and thus mark the conclusion of the journey.
For what is highlighted during the first section of the voyage, which is also
the first description of locations passed,¹⁸ are elements illustrating that travelling
through the great expanse of the sea is something new: the winds get enraged
and cause a sea storm, which is calmed down by Neptune, with the prospect
of further ships running into difficulties on the sea as a consequence of the
Argo’s enterprise (Val. Fl. 1.574– 685).¹⁹ In contrast to Apollonius Rhodius the Ar-
gonauts’ great fear during their first ever night at sea is coupled with the assur-
ance on the part of the helmsman that they are travelling with divine support,
and that he has been taught to guide the ship by the stars; in this context con-
stellations in the sky are described as they are now being taken into use by sai-
lors (Val. Fl. 2.34– 71).²⁰
The places passed by the Argonauts during this first section of their voyage
are listed briefly (Val. Fl. 2.6 – 33). What is singled out, signaled by an introduc-
tion with ‘Lo!’ (Val. Fl. 2.16: ecce), are the remains of the Giants at Pallene; their
mention includes a reference to Typhoeus at Sicily and the effect of his presence
on this island, along with a brief recapitulation of the story of the Giants (Val.
Fl. 2.16b–33).²¹ These earth-born creatures foreshadow the earth-born men
Jason will have to fight in Colchis (Val. Fl. 7.607– 43), and their defeat illustrates
Jupiter’s supreme power, which also determines the Argonautic enterprise. The
reference to Sicily is triggered by the story rather than the present physical loca-
tion of the Argonauts, but with the movements around Sicily it introduces a motif
that will be taken up throughout the epic (see below).²²

 Cf. Adamietz 1976, 30.

 Cf. also Adamietz 1976, 25 – 6.
 Cf. Adamietz 1976, 31.
 On the difference in locations highlighted here in Valerius Flaccus and in Apollonius
Rhodius as well as their connections to the plot cf. also Adamietz 1976, 30; Poortvliet 1991b, 28,
35; contrast Spaltenstein 2002, 312– 13. On the description of the journey in this section, cf. also
Lüthje 1971, 61. Shreeves (1978, 30 – 2) regards this scene with its description of an awe-inspiring
landscape as reminiscent of the Argonauts’ “own recklessness in making the first trial of the
sea” (cf. also Shelton 1971, 56 – 7).
 Therefore the insertion makes sense within the framework of Valerius Flaccus’ epic. But cf.
Poortvliet 1991b, 38: “The idea of inserting this curious digression on Typhoeus (who was not
there!) seems to have come from Aeneid 3, where the description of Aeneas’ fearful night off the
470 Gesine Manuwald

An essential element of the presentation of the Argonautic voyage as open-

ing up the seas is the Argo’s successful passing through several narrow straits;
and these points are emphasized in the narrative. The first crucial step in this
series is the crossing of the Hellespont, narrated towards the end of the second
book, when the eponymous goddess Helle (who had fallen off the golden ram
into the sea right there, when fleeing with her brother Phrixus) appears to the
Argonauts (Val. Fl. 2.584– 626).²³ The physical location of this encounter remains
rather vague since the only information given is that the Argonauts, after having
departed from Troy, first sail near the coast, then gain “the silences of mid-sea”
(Val. Fl. 2.579 – 84)²⁴ and, with favoring winds, soon reach “Phrixus’ sea and the
narrow gorges that of yore had no name” (Val. Fl. 2.585 – 6).²⁵
The major part of the narrative of the Argonauts’ crossing the Hellespont is
taken up by the appearance of the goddess Helle and a speech of hers. In terms
of the overall storyline Helle’s sketching of her own fate and comparing it to that
of Jason provide a parallel to the events described in the poem and supplement
elements of the prehistory that contribute to explaining how the present situa-
tion has come about. As for the voyage, Helle tells Jason that a “vast land is
still before thee, a measureless sea… and Phasis itself lies far off, yet it will
grant thee entrance” (Val. Fl. 2.596 – 7).²⁶ This information is suitably vague
for a prophecy; nevertheless, it contains the important reassurance that the Ar-
gonauts will reach their final destination and perhaps slightly enhances the Ar-
gonauts’ knowledge about it, though it does not include any indication of the
itinerary. Helle goes on to give a brief sketch of the funeral monument to Phrixus,
which Jason will find once he has reached the Phasis, and asks him to take a
message to her brother (Val. Fl. 2.598 – 607). The description of this sacred

Sicilian coast (583 ff.), of which lines 38 ff. below are a reminiscence, is preceded by a digression
on Enceladus (578 ff.).”
 On this scene, cf. e. g. Hershkowitz 1998, 190 – 3; Zissos 2004. On the connection of the Helle
and Io scenes to the main themes of the epic, cf. Adamietz 1976, 40 – 2. Shelton (1971, 108)
regards the crossing of the Hellespont as indicating the Argonauts’ movement from west to east.
The contrast between West and East, and the associated role of boundaries, are common epic
themes; see e. g. Elliott and Bexley (this volume).
 Cf. medii… silentia ponti, Val. Fl. 2.584.
 Cf. Phrixea…/ aequora et angustas quondam sine nomine fauces, Val. Fl. 2.585 – 6.
 Cf. uasta super tellus, longum (ne defice coeptis!)/ aequor et ipse procul, uerum dabit ostia,
Phasis, Val. Fl. 2.596 – 7. It is somewhat surprising that Helle mentions both tellus and aequor as
entities that Jason will have to travel through before he reaches his destination, the Phasis, as
the whole voyage will be made by ship. Perhaps the stopovers, where the Argonauts will en-
counter further difficulties, are included.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 471

spot is pretty generic; still, it later allows the Argonauts to recognize it (see
below).
When the actual narrative resumes after the appearance of Helle, it contin-
ues with one of the longest geographical descriptions of the course of the Argo-
nauts, which takes them to the peninsula of Cyzicus (Val. Fl. 2.613 – 36a).²⁷ This is
the point where the Argonauts start crossing from Europe into Asia and which is
apparently one of the crucial stages in the journey. Here even information about
the ‘geological prehistory’ of the region is given, which is illustrated via a simile
and highlighted by an authorial comment (Val. Fl. 2.613 – 20):²⁸ “Then onward he
steered the ship, and flew on between cities on either hand, where the race boils
with its narrow waters, and Europe, grimmer with its cliffs, breaks away from
pursuing Asia. These lands too, these fields with their once linked peoples lash-
ed by the ocean, Neptune’s trident, I think, and the slow workings of time the
enemy sundered of yore, even as they did the shores of Sicily and Libya, when
Janus and Atlas, lord of the sunset mountains, were struck aghast at the crash.”
The narrative does not reveal the precise topography; yet it illustrates vividly
how the Argonauts pass through the narrow strait with Europe and Asia on ei-
ther side.²⁹ Most interestingly, the poet refers to the view that these areas were
once united, but were then separated due to the effects of water and time.
Hence the voyage of the Argo actually brings together again what used to be
linked, and mythical narrative is combined with a kind of scientific explanation
as put forward in contemporary treatises. The simile again refers to Sicily (cf. Val.
Fl. 2.23b–33), whose fate is given as a parallel (cf. also Verg. A. 3.414– 19).³⁰ In
connection with the sea storm that the Argonauts experience immediately
after they have set sail for the first time, the poet had described the home of
the winds in the Sicilian Sea (Val. Fl. 1.579 – 96) and, in parentheses, added

 Lüthje (1971, 85), connecting this section with the preceding appearance of Helle, observes
that the crossing of the Hellespont is thus illustrated both on a mythical-historical and on a
scientific-geographical level.
 Cf. immittitque ratem mediasque interuolat urbes/ qua breuibus furit aestus aquis Asiamque
prementem/ effugit abruptis Europa immanior oris./ has etiam terras consertaque gentibus arua/
sic pelago pulsante, reor, Neptunia quondam/ cuspis et aduersi longus labor abscidit aeui/ ut
Siculum Libycumque latus, stupuitque fragore/ Ianus et occiduis regnator montibus Atlans, Val.
Fl. 2.613 – 20. For Neptune’s force, cf. also fit fragor, aetherias ceu Iuppiter arduus arces/ impulerit
imas manus aut Neptunia terras, Val. Fl. 5.163 – 4.
 On the description of this area, cf. also Spaltenstein 2002, 478.
 Cf. Poortvliet 1991b, 306; Spaltenstein 2002, 478; Zissos 2006, 89 – 91 (with references to
ancient parallels).
472 Gesine Manuwald

the following information about the history of the place (Val. Fl. 1.587b–90):³¹
“for at that time no Aeolus was their master, when the intruding sea broke
Calpe off from Libya, when Oenotria to her sorrow lost the lands of Sicily and
the waters burst into the heart of the mountains”.³² This description with refer-
ence to Sicily is based on the same idea that lands used to belong together, but
then have been separated by the force of water, a process the Argo is about to
reverse (with reference to Europeans and Asians), which underlines its function
to connect inhabitants of lands presently separated by the sea, though such a
connection may no longer lead to peaceful coexistence.³³
After having passed through the narrowest part of the Hellespont, the narra-
tive continues with a slightly more detailed description of the surroundings; the
Argonauts are said to speed past a few more places and to reach eventually a
wider expanse of sea (Val. Fl. 2.627– 8):³⁴ “Then land grew less, and again the
great vault of sky was all about them, and they began to look forth into another
world”. Technically, the Argonauts have now reached an area that belongs to
Asia and also a physically different region, and that is why they are described
as entering “another world”.³⁵ However, the poet does not continue immediately
with an ordinary itinerary or the next stopover; instead the notion of transition is
sustained for a while.
Again a longer topographical description follows, this time of the peninsula
of Cyzicus (Val. Fl. 2.629 – 36a).³⁶ This may seem remarkable, since, although this
peninsula is an interesting geographical feature, it is not immediately obvious
how its topography relates to the main aim of the Argonautic voyage. The reason
is probably that this location is a ‘middle place’ par excellence as it cannot be

 Cf. neque enim tunc Aeolus illis/ rector erat, Libya cum rumperet aduena Calpen/ Oceanus,
cum flens Siculos Oenotria fines/ perderet et mediis intrarent montibus undae, Val. Fl. 1.587b-90.
 Zissos (2008, 331) refers to two Vergilian models for this passage (Verg. A. 1.52– 63; 8.416 –
25); but these do not mention the separation of islands from the mainland. On the underlying
concept cf. also Spaltenstein 2002, 233.
 Zissos (2006, 89 – 91) points to Valerius Flaccus’ discussion of ‘continental drift’ and inter-
prets it within the context of the question of whether or not the first voyage across the open sea
means progress.
 Cf. rarior hinc tellus atque ingens undique caelum/ rursus et incipiens alium prospectus in
orbem, Val. Fl. 2.627– 8.
 This poetic description may or may not relate to ancient scientific discussions about the
division of continents (on this issue cf. Spaltenstein 2002, 481). For the arrival at Cyzicus after
having reached a new, unexplored world cf. also Adamietz 1976, 42.
 Spaltenstein (2002, 482– 3) remarks on the unusual description of the peninsula, but does
not offer an attempt at interpreting it within the terms of the poem. For factual explanations, cf.
Poortvliet 1991b, 311– 14.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 473

clearly assigned to any category: it is neither Europe nor Asia, it is neither an is-
land nor mainland, it is neither land nor sea, it is neither connected nor separ-
ate, it is neither mountainous nor level, it is neither wooded nor clear. This in-
termediate position seems to be important to the poet, since he points out
that the place lies “[m]idway upon the gulf between Pontus and Helle”, it is
“a land, as it were cast up from the bottom of the sea; for its fields are boldly
set amid treacherous shallows and it drives its shore in a long ridge over the wa-
ters”, and “one end is set towards ancient Phrygia whose shores meet it; the
other is a mountain, forest-clothed and apart”.³⁷ However, Cyzicus is connected
with Asia rather than with Europe since the land that joins the peninsula with
the mainland apparently leads to Asia (Phrygia). And it is here that the conflict
between Europeans and Asians begins; yet this happens against the intentions of
the people involved. In fact, the inhabitants of Cyzicus do not wish to have
ascribed to them characteristics typical of other inhabitants of Asia, and they
long for contact with Europeans.
The special position of the peninsula and the consequences for the locals are
confirmed and illustrated in a speech by the eponymous king Cyzicus when he
gives the Argonauts a warm welcome (VF 2.639 – 48):³⁸ he says that the Argo-
nauts’ arrival proves that this place and Eastern regions more generally are
not completely inaccessible. Although his land bordered on one side on savage
peoples (Asia) and was surrounded by water (Propontis), the inhabitants were as
civilized as the Argonauts, in contrast to other peoples in Asia.
This positive picture that Cyzicus paints of his people and the friendly en-
counter with the Argonauts contrast with what happens after the Argonauts
have departed in full harmony (Val. Fl. 3.1– 13): they are blown back after the
gods have put the helmsman Tiphys to sleep (Val. Fl. 3.39 – 42); and since in
the darkness of the night the people of Cyzicus mistake the Argonauts for
their inveterate enemies, the Pelasgians (Val. Fl. 3.43 – 5), a battle between the
former hosts and their guests ensues (Val. Fl. 3.46 – 256). Here at the border be-

 Cf. terra sinu medio Pontum iacet inter et Hellen/ ceu fundo prolata maris. namque improba
caecis/ intulit arua uadis longoque sub aequora dorso/ litus agit, tenet hinc ueterem confinibus
oris/ pars Phrygiam, pars discreti iuga pinea montis, Val. Fl. 2.629 – 33.
 Cf. incipit: ‘o terris nunc primum cognita nostris/ Emathiae manus et fama mihi maior imago,/
non tamen haec adeo semota neque ardua tellus/ † longaque † iam populis imperuia lucis eoae,/
cum tales intrasse duces, tot robora cerno./ nam licet hinc saeuas tellus alat horrida gentes/
meque fremens tumido circumfluat ore Propontis,/ uestra fides ritus<que> pares et mitia cultu/ his
etiam mihi corda locis. procul effera uirtus/ Bebrycis et Scythici procul inclementia sacri,’ Val.
Fl. 2.639 – 48.
474 Gesine Manuwald

tween Europe and Asia the first conflict between the two begins, as envisaged by
Jupiter (cf. Val. Fl. 1.531– 60), though it does not yet trigger changes of power.³⁹
After a purification ritual the Argonauts move on from Cyzicus without look-
ing back; but no information is given as regards the direction they are taking.
They then have to land in Mysia to get a new oar for Hercules, because he has
broken his original one in a light-hearted rowing contest (Val. Fl. 3.470 – 85a).
This stop for such a minor reason results in Hercules being left behind, and
his loss has important repercussions on the strength of the Argonautic group;
in geographical terms, however, this episode does not play a particular role.
The next major stage in the voyage is the stop in Bebrycia, where king Amy-
cus, a son of Neptune, “guarded the wild haunts of Pontus” (Val. Fl. 4.318):⁴⁰ he
looks out for people approaching his kingdom and then kills them by hurling
them from a cliff or by beating them in a boxing match. Hence he proudly claims
(Val. Fl. 4.209 – 21):⁴¹ “Here it is my law to raise gauntlet and arms in opposing
combat. Only so does Asia’s vast tract and sea that lies northward to the right
and leftward seek here my welcome; …; ’tis elsewhere Jupiter counts for king.
I shall see that no vessel sails Bebrycian waters, and that the Clashers dance
to and fro on an empty sea!”
The exact location of his kingdom and its physical appearance are not men-
tioned, but what is important is that it is defined as a barrier between Europe
and Asia; in this case it is not a natural barrier such as a river or a sea difficult
to navigate through, but rather an artificial one created by the hostile attitude of
the inhabitants of a particular area. As the Propontis is here called Bebrycium…
fretum (Val. Fl. 4.220 – 1),⁴² it is made clear that the difficulty in traversing this
part of the sea is due to the king in a specific location. Amycus guards this
sea and the entrance to Asia with the help of his father Neptune; but upon
the approach of the Argonauts Neptune withdraws his divine support for his
son in recognition of Jupiter’s greater powers (Val. Fl. 4.114– 32). Hence Pollux,
one of the Argonauts, is able to beat Amycus (Val. Fl. 4.199 – 343) and thus to

 In order to elaborate on the transition from Asia to Europe, Valerius Flaccus in no way
indicates that the Hesione episode (Val. Fl. 2.445 – 578), which he introduces just prior to the
Cyzicus episode, is located in Troy, i. e. geographically Asia (cf. Manuwald 2004, esp. 158 – 9).
 Cf. effera seruantem Ponti loca, Val. Fl. 4.318.
 Cf. ‘hic mihi lex caestus aduersaque tollere contra/ bracchia, sic ingens Asiae plaga quique per
Arcton/ dexter et in laeuum pontus iacet haec mea uisit/ hospitia,…/ … /…: aliis rex Iuppiter oris./
faxo Bebrycium nequeat transcendere puppis/ ulla fretum et ponto uolitet Symplegas inani,’ Val.
Fl. 4.209 – 21.
 Korn (1989, 153) notes that this is the only instance of Bebrycium … fretum used as a term for
Propontis.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 475

allow the Argonauts to continue their journey in line with Jupiter’s plan of the
world.⁴³
Immediately after having left Bebrycia, the Argonauts reach the Bosporus
(Val. Fl. 4.344– 421). Travelling through this strait parallels the passage through
the Hellespont, and it is again marked by the story of the eponymous goddess
(Val. Fl. 4.346 – 7; 4.419 – 20a).⁴⁴ Here, however, there is hardly any description
of the topography, and the tale is not presented by the person affected: instead,
the story of Io, along with its locations, is given by the Argo’s bard Orpheus, who
“tells of the places and their story” (refert casusque locorum, Val. Fl. 4.349). His
narrative takes as long as travelling through the Bosporus: just as Orpheus has
finished his tale, the poet continues with mentioning that the Argonauts experi-
enced calmer winds and that morning light revealed that they had traversed the
Bosporus (Val. Fl. 4.422– 4a); no further geographical and nautical details are
given for this section of the journey. Neither does the tale of Io provide back-
ground to the main narrative as that of Helle did. Yet it is the story of a person
who had to go on paths unknown and to leave the riverbanks of her father at the
behest of gods (Val. Fl. 4.370 – 3); she also travelled from Europe to Asia via the
Bosporus and was eventually deified and given a place in the heavens (Val.
Fl. 4.401b–8; 4.416b–18). Her experiences thus provide a parallel to the Argonau-
tic voyage, and therefore it makes sense that she is asked to support the Argo-
nauts on their journey through her strait (Val. Fl. 4.420b–1).⁴⁵
After emerging from the Bosporus, “all that they see is new” (noua cuncta
uident, Val. Fl. 4.424): this realization that the Argonauts have again progressed
into a new and unknown region on their first journey across the open sea is all

 On the opening of the path to the Symplegades by the removal of Amycus, cf. Adamietz 1976,
57. The Argonauts’ surpassing and removing the barrier created by Amycus is often connected
with the idea that the Argonauts’ journey spreads humanity and civilization and removes bar-
barism (cf. e. g. Adamietz 1976, 56; Burck 1979, 233; Shelton 1984; Korn 1989, 205 – 7; cf. also
Shreeves 1978, 102, 138 – 9). This may be a side effect of the voyage, but does not lead imme-
diately to a ‘better world’. Spaltenstein (2004, 256 – 7, 286) notes that in Valerius Flaccus Amycus
guards Pontus as a representative of Neptune, but seems not to see a connection to the epic’s
main theme.
 On this parallelism, cf. Shelton 1971, 217– 18; Adamietz 1976, 40 – 2. On this scene, cf. e. g. von
Albrecht 1977; Aricò 1998; Hershkowitz 1998, 199 – 201; Murgatroyd 2006; Davis 2009.
 The similarities are even more striking in Davis’ interpretation (2009), as he sees parallels
between Io and the Argo and between Io and Medea. By contrast Murgatroyd (2006) regards the
story as predominantly comic; this may be true with respect to some aspects of its literary
relationship to predecessors, but is problematic as regards the function and atmosphere of the
scene as a whole.
476 Gesine Manuwald

the information given about the setting.⁴⁶ The first place in this ‘new’ region is
the Thynian shores, whose location is only indicated by an unspecific “nearby”
(iuxta, Val. Fl. 4.424). This is the abode of the seer Phineus, who is being punish-
ed by Jupiter; but he expects that the sons of Aquilo (among the Argonauts) will
chase away the Harpies (Val. Fl. 4.460 – 4) and had been told that he can hope
for an end of his suffering when a ship has travelled through the Symplegades.
In terms of the voyage the essential piece of this episode (Val. Fl. 4.422– 636) is
the prophecy the seer is allowed by Jupiter to give to the Argonauts, where the
expectations concerning Phineus’ fate are connected with the tasks of the Argo-
nauts (Val. Fl. 4.553 – 625). Although Helle had already assured the Argonauts
that they would eventually reach the river Phasis (Val. Fl. 2.597), she had not
given details of the route or of obstacles to be overcome. Phineus’ prophecy,
by contrast, is the only passage in the epic where a substantial part of the voyage
is sketched in advance, with topographical information explicitly included;⁴⁷
thereby characteristics and dangers of the area still to traverse can be presented
coherently, followed by a relatively brief sketch of the final section of the jour-
ney.
Phineus outlines to Jason “thy destiny and the places thou shalt visit” (Val.
Fl. 4.557– 8),⁴⁸ though divine restrictions prevent him from revealing all details
(Val. Fl. 4.623b–5). He does announce that the Argonauts, having left Phineus,
will first have to surpass the Symplegades to get into Pontus (Val.
Fl. 4.561– 2a). Phineus describes the characteristics of the Symplegades, which
have never seen a ship and clash together in the middle of the sea, and gives
advice on how to get through them, although some doubt about the Argonauts’
eventual success remains (Val. Fl. 4.562b–86).⁴⁹ If the Argonauts manage to pass
through the Symplegades (Val. Fl. 4.587– 8), they will first meet the courteous
king Lycus on the coast of Pontus (Val. Fl. 4.589 – 93). In a praeteritio-like sum-
mary Phineus’ prophecy goes on to sketch briefly the dangerous and inhospit-
able further regions near Pontus up to the area of the river Thermodon, where
the Amazons, the daughters of Mars, live; landing there should be avoided
(Val. Fl. 4.601– 9). The metal-working Chalybes on the other hand need not be

 Spaltenstein (2004, 309) notes that this indication of novelty is only found in Valerius
Flaccus.
 Since the previous stopovers are also rehearsed by Phineus (Val. Fl. 4.438 – 43), the middle of
the epic is marked by a full overview of the main stages of the voyage (cf. e. g. Adamietz 1976, 60;
Manuwald 2009).
 Cf. fata locosque tibi, possum quas reddere grates,/ expediam rerumque uias finemque do-
cebo, Val. Fl. 4.557– 8.
 For more details cf. Manuwald 2009; cf. also Murgatroyd 2009 ad loc.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 477

feared to the same extent (Val. Fl. 4.610 – 12).⁵⁰ The Argonauts will then run past
“kings innumerable whose welcome none may trust” (innumeri reges…,/ hospitii
quis nulla fides, Val. Fl. 4.613 – 14)⁵¹ until they reach the rapid river Phasis, where
a fraternal war is already awaiting them (Val. Fl. 4.616 – 17). This description in
Phineus’ prophecy may be an illustration of the name of the sea called ‘Pontus
Euxinus’ that the Argonauts will have to travel through. Details remain rather un-
specific; what is highlighted are the Symplegades, the quintessential symbol of
the introduction of seafaring across the open sea, already mentioned in the
proem (Val. Fl. 1.1– 4),⁵² as well as a general atmosphere of the presence of inhos-
pitable kings and peoples associated with warfare.
Soon after the Argonauts have left Phineus and have again reached the open
sea, they fearfully watch out for the Symplegades (Val. Fl. 4.637– 40). Soon the
Symplegades come suddenly into view, without any indication of their exact lo-
cation. What is described is how this natural phenomenon appears to the Argo-
nauts and how they eventually manage to overcome it. When the area of the
Symplegades comes into sight, it seems to them to be “a part of the starry
pole plunged into the deep”, and they believe to see “the seas taking fright be-
fore the ship” (Val. Fl. 4.641– 6).⁵³ Despite the frightening appearance and power
of the rocks as described by the poet, the Argonauts, encouraged by Jason, ven-
ture to make an attempt at traversing the Symplegades; their eventual success,
however, is also due to the support of the goddesses Juno and Pallas (Val.
Fl. 4.647– 702).
After the Argo has passed through the Symplegades, the helmsman does not
look back nor do the Argonauts take a rest until “they had passed the dark
shores and stream of distant Rheba” (Val. Fl. 4.697b–8). But even then they
are not completely relaxed, because the fear of the return voyage remains. For
as the poet remarks (Val. Fl. 4.707b–10):⁵⁴ “Such words he utters, not knowing

 Phineus’ description in Valerius Flaccus is more detailed than the corresponding one in
Apollonius Rhodius (A. R. 2.311– 407; cf. Spaltenstein 2004, 349); there is also a greater emphasis
on the terrifying aspect of the area and a lack of instructions for navigation. Hence the passage
contributes to conveying the appropriate atmosphere rather than learned details.
 Spaltenstein (2004, 352) finds this phrase difficult to explain; but it is one element of the
atmosphere that is created for the stages that lie ahead.
 On the frequent references to the Symplegades throughout the poem, cf. Adamietz 1976, 61.
 Cf. cum procul auditi sonitus insanaque saxa,/ saxa neque illa uiris, sed praecipitata pro-
fundo/ siderei pars uisa poli. dumque ocius instant,/ ferre fugam maria ante ratem, maria ipsa
repente/ deficere aduersosque uident discedere montes,/ omnibus et gelida rapti formidine remi,
Val. Fl. 4.641– 6.
 Cf. talia fundit/ imperio fixos Iouis aeternumque reuinctos/ nescius. id fati certa nam lege
manebat,/ siqua per hos undis umquam ratis isset apertis, Val. Fl. 4.707b–10.
478 Gesine Manuwald

that they are fixed and eternally bound by Jove’s command. For that remained
sure by Fate’s unalterable law, should ever a ship pass between them through
an open sea”. This can be regarded as an explanation of a geographical feature;
and in the context of the epic the Argonauts have managed to open a path for
seafaring through a hitherto dangerous and impassable section of the sea,
which was part of their brief as given by Jupiter (Val. Fl. 1.544– 6a; 1.556b–7).
Yet neither are they aware of their function in world history nor do they realize
the consequences for themselves.⁵⁵
Having gone through the Hellespont, the Bosporus and the Symplegades, the
Argonauts have passed through three narrow straits that punctuate the path
from Europe to Asia; the first one, the Hellespont, is marked as the transition
from Europe to Asia, and the last one, the Symplegades, as the most challenging
one and hence as symbolizing the full opening of the seas.⁵⁶ This is appropriately
signaled in the epic by the following description of the region that the Argonauts
enter straight after the Symplegades (Val. Fl. 4.711– 32):⁵⁷

Then those waters which for long ages had been untravelled saw with amaze the sudden
bark, and all the land of low-lying Pontus and its kings and remote peoples are laid
bare. Not elsewhere have the coasts retired further before the pouring flood, nay, waters
so vast not even the seas Tyrrhenian and Aegean roll, nor can both Syrtes equal them.
For, moreover, earth sweeps hither mighty rivers; must I tell what abundance the mouth
of sevenfold Danube adds, or Tanais, yellow Tyres, Hypanis and Novas, or into what
huge bays the Maeotian waters open? Thus by its host of rivers has Pontus broken the
force of the bitter salt, giving way thereby to Boreas’ icy airs and easily freezing when win-
ter comes. And according as the rigour of the Bear comes upon rivers motionless or churned
to the depths of their waters, so the winter long doth the sea lie like a plain or stiffen into

 These lines illustrate the contrast between the relevance of the deeds of the Argonauts and
their knowledge of this importance rather than highlighting “how misguided Jason is in his
anxiety about the Cyaneae after passing through them” (so Murgatroyd 2009, 337).
 Cf. also Shelton 1971, 250; Adamietz 1976, 42.
 Cf. tum freta, quae longis fuerant imperuia saeclis,/ ad subitam stup<uer>e ratem Pontique
iacentis/ omne solum regesque patent gentesque repostae./ non alibi effusis cesserunt longius
undis/ litora, non, tantas quamuis Tyrrhenus et Aegon/ uoluat aquas, geminis tot desint Syrtibus
undae./ nam super huc uastos tellus quoque congerit amnes;/ non septemgemini memorem quas
exitus Histri,/ quas Tanais flauusque Tyres Hypanisque Nouasque/ addat opes quantosque sinus
Maeotia laxent/ aequora. flumineo sic agmine fregit amari/ uim salis hinc Boreae cedens gla-
ciantibus auris/ Pontus et exorta facilis concrescere bruma./ utque uel immotos Ursae rigor inuehit
amnes/ uel freta uersa uadis, hiemem sic unda per omnem/ aut campo iacet aut tumido riget
ardua fluctu,/ atque hac Europam curuis anfractibus urget,/ hac Asiam, Scythicum specie sinuatus
in arcum./ illic umbrosae semper stant aequore nubes/ et non certa dies, primo nec sole pro-
fundum/ soluitur aut uernis cum lux aequata tenebris,/ sed redit extremo tandem in sua litora
Tauro, Val. Fl. 4.711– 32.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 479

lofty swelling billows, and on this side it touches Europe with its winding curves, on that
side Asia, where it is bent to the shape of a Scythian bow. There ever stand shadowy clouds
upon the sea, and the daylight is fitful, nor at the sun’s first returning is the ocean melted
nor when the light draws level with the dark in spring, but at length at the end of Taurus
doth it return to its own shores.

This description by the narrator mentions a number of authentic features of the

Black Sea; such details convey the impression that indeed a region hitherto un-
known and characterized by particular natural phenomena has been reached. In
fact, these consequences of the Argonautic journey are stated explicitly: the
freta, which for a long time had been imperuia, have now been opened, i. e.
have been made peruia, and thus the aim signaled at the first line of the
poem (prima… freta peruia, Val. Fl. 1.1) has been realized.⁵⁸ The freta, which
have been opened up, in turn marvel at the ship called rates (cf. fatidicamque
ratem, Val. Fl. 1.2), since, obviously, they had not encountered such a thing be-
fore.⁵⁹ The sea that the Argonauts have just reached covers a particularly wide
expanse,⁶⁰ partly explained by the numerous huge rivers that open into this sea.
This triggers a reference to what seems to be an interesting geographical de-
tail, namely that thereby the amount of salt and salt water in this sea is reduced,
so that the water can freeze. Yet this feature is not simply a learned or marvelous
detail; for in connection with the description of the frozen Pontus it is said that it
touches Europe on one side and Asia on the other side. Again the Argonautic
voyage has reached a boundary between these two regions, and the fact that
the ocean can freeze in winter means that this boundary is not a permanent
or fixed one: the huge sea separates the two countries in warmer months, but
the freezing in the winter connects them again, though, obviously, not for trav-
elers by sea.⁶¹ Accordingly, during the fight in Colchis Gesander proudly claims

 Cf. Adamietz 1976, 62– 3. Spaltenstein (2004, 376) misses an explicit connection to Jupiter’s
plan of the world, but the link is rather implicit since opening up the seas is an essential
precondition for all further steps. On the other hand, Lüthje’s (1971, 179 – 80) description of this
passage as a quiet interlude, though connected with the narrative of the voyage, seems not to do
full justice to the relevance of the passage. On the relationship of this description to geo-
graphical literature, cf. Wistrand 1945; Pollini 1986, 27– 30.
 Significantly, it is the freta that marvel and not human beings, such as the shepherd in
Accius’ tragedy Medea siue Argonautae (cf. Cic. N. D. 2.89).
 This is said presumably from the perspective of inhabitants of the Mediterranean, since the
Pontus is much larger than the parts of the Mediterranean Sea mentioned as points of com-
parison.
 With respect to this description Zissos (2008, xlii) points out that Valerius Flaccus has not
removed all learned detail from the Argonautic story. This passage is a telling example of
480 Gesine Manuwald

that his people do not need oars or winds to move forward, but rather ride on
horses “where the sea lies stiff in mid-expanse” (Val. Fl. 6.326 – 9a).⁶²
Topographically it may seem astonishing that the transition from Europe to
Asia is mentioned at several different places in the narrative, since one might
think that the Argonauts cross the ‘border’ once and then move within areas
that belong to the other region. But in fact, they are shown to travel along the
borderline and to hit various lands and waters that extend between them.
Later in Colchis, when the hostile and wily king Aeetes is unwilling to surrender
the Golden Fleece, the theme of ‘crossing a border’ is taken up again in his
speech and connected with hostile confrontation. Aeetes refers the beginning
of all problems back to Phrixus’ arrival in Colchis; he now fears that the Argo-
nauts, “[s]ons of another world”, will “win through to Asia” (Val. Fl. 7.35 –
44a).⁶³ Obviously, Aeetes still wishes to keep the Greeks away and does not
know that ending the separation of his country and thus enabling conflicts is
an aim of the Argonautic voyage according to Jupiter’s plan of the world (Val.
Fl. 1.531– 60).
In the continuation of the Argonautic journey the narrative moves on to the
arrival at the Mariandyni (Val. Fl. 4.733) immediately after the presentation of
Pontus, without any indication of the itinerary; instead, the focus lies on the
friendly reception among a civilized people, contrasting with the subsequent
death of two Argonauts (Val. Fl. 4.733 – 5.72). In the beginning of book five the
Argonautic voyage and its description are quickly brought to an end; there are
no full-blown episodes, and only little geographical or nautical detail is given,
although the series of places mentioned gives some idea of the itinerary along
the coast of Pontus (Val. Fl. 5.73 – 183).⁶⁴
Inserted in the description of this section of the journey is a scene that picks
up on Phineus’ claim that Jason’s fame will spread all over the world (Val.
Fl. 4.553), and even surpasses it, since the boundaries of space and time are in-
deed overcome: Fama “has flown already through the farthest regions of the
world below” and told the shades the crucial news “that sea is now added to

Valerius Flaccus’ method to retain or add geographical information where it has an essential
function within the overall concept of the epic.
 Cf. non nos aut leuibus componere bracchia remis/ nouimus aut uentos opus exspectare
ferentes:/ imus equis qua uel medio riget aequore pontus/ uel tumida fremit Hister aqua, Val.
Fl. 6.326 – 9a.
 Cf. orbe satos alio, sua litora regnaque habentes,/… / quinquaginta Asiam (pudet heu) pe-
netrarit Iason/ exulibus, Val. Fl. 7.35 – 44.
 Cf. also Adamietz 1976, 64.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 481

sea, and that now the Cyanean rocks lie open” (Val. Fl. 5.82– 5a).⁶⁵ This is the
essential result of the Argo’s journey, and it is highlighted here although the con-
nection with the area the Argonauts pass through is tenuous (Val. Fl. 5.82– 100).
In another reference to Phineus’ prophecy, two places linked to warfare are
provided with more extended descriptions: the Argonauts pass the roaring river
Thermodon, sacred to Gradivus, the region of the Amazons (Val. Fl. 5.121– 7); and
they hear “the unresting labour of the Chalybes; thy husbandmen, Gradivus, they
ply their weary tools; loud rings the travail of those hands that first created war,
the scourge of all the earth” (Val. Fl. 5.140 – 6).⁶⁶ The few indications of the phys-
ical character of these places illustrate the terrifying nature of the inhabitants.
After the Argonauts have passed the “last bay” (ultimus… sinus, Val.
Fl. 5.154), where Prometheus is being freed without the Argonauts realizing
this (Val. Fl. 5.154– 76), they reach their destination, without any further indica-
tion of their route (Val. Fl. 5.177– 82a):⁶⁷ “The sun was kindling the waters with
nearer ray, and the last light began to show the longed-for Colchis to the weary
crew, where mighty Phasis with foaming mouth rushes to meet the ocean. To-
gether all recognise their destined goal, and mark the signs and tell the tale of
peoples they have passed, as they set their vessel for the river.” It is not said
what the area looks like and what the signs are that make them recognize that
they have arrived. What is important is that Jason soon spots Phrixus’ funeral
monument and has the Argo moor there “as though he had entered Pagasae
and his native stream” (Val. Fl. 5.184– 91).⁶⁸ Jason feels as if he has arrived
and is at home, he has met a kinsman.⁶⁹

 Cf. Fama per extremos quin iam uolat improba manes/ interea et magnis natorum laudibus
implet,/ addita <ia>mque fretis repetens freta iamque patentes/ Cyaneas, Val. Fl. 5.82– 5a.
 Cf. nocte sub extrema clausis telluris ab antris/ peruigil auditur Chalybum labor: arma fati-
gant/ ruricolae, Gradiue, tui; sonat illa creatrix/ prima manus belli, terras crudelis in omnes./ nam
prius ignoti quam dura cubilia ferri/ eruerent ensesque darent, Odia aegra sine armis/ errabant
Iraeque inopes et segnis Erinys, Val. Fl. 5.140 – 6.
 Cf. Sol propius flammabat aquas extremaque fessis/ coeperat optatos iam lux ostendere
Colchos,/ magnus ubi aduersum spumanti Phasis in aequor/ ore ruit. cuncti pariter loca debita
noscunt/ signaque commemorant emensasque ordine gentes/ dantque ratem fluuio, Val. Fl. 5.177–
82a.
 Cf. ac dum prima graui ductor subit ostia pulsu/ populeos flexus tumulumque uirentia supra/
flumina cognati medio uidet aggere Phrixi,/ quem comes infelix Pario de marmore iuxta/ stat soror,
hinc saeuae formidine maesta nouercae,/ inde maris, pecudique timens imponere palmas./ sistere
tum socios iubet atque hinc prima ligari/ uincula, ceu Pagasas patriumque intrauerit amnem, Val.
Fl. 5.184– 91.
 The description of Colchis, which follows at various points in subsequent books, is also
selective (cf. also Hershkowitz 1998, 201– 2). There is an extended presentation of the temple and
482 Gesine Manuwald

When, after overcoming a series of obstacles, Jason has eventually gained

the Golden Fleece and Medea, the Argonauts set off for their journey back
home. As one would expect, initially it is considerably easier, since this is al-
ready the second voyage across the open sea and along a known path: “more
grateful was the breeze to the homeward-bound, and familiar were the shores
that flew past the Minyae” (Val. Fl. 8.175 – 6).⁷⁰ The only difficulty that remains
is that the Argonauts do not know that the Symplegades are no longer a prob-
lem; hence they decide to use a different, longer route along the river Hister
in order to avoid travelling through the Symplegades again (Val. Fl. 8.177–
99).⁷¹ From then on they “seek other kings and other places”, as they are now
again following a new route along the river (Val. Fl. 8.200 – 1);⁷² yet these places
are not described in detail. Some indication of the itinerary is given only with
reference to Medea’s situation, since coasts, lakes, seas are mentioned as feeling
pity for her, and Jason points out regions to her, even pretending that Thessaly
can already be seen (Val. Fl. 8.202 – 16). Here topographical details are exploited
to illustrate a tense emotional state. They no longer play a particular role as
such, since the outward voyage of the Argonauts has opened a new, efficient
route between Europe and Asia.
With a rare proper ecphrasis, a description of the island of Peuce (Val.
Fl. 8.217– 19), a new section of the narrative starts, namely that Jason decides
“to tell his companions of his treaty and plighted troth of marriage and the bridal
compact”; they are all in favor of it (Val. Fl. 8.220 – 3).⁷³ This ecphrasis too is not
so much designed to be a precise description of the island, but rather to mark
this decisive event in the narrative. What is about to happen is not a happy end-
ing to a love affair; instead, Mopsus foresees evil for the couple (Val. Fl. 8.247–

its decoration (Val. Fl. 5.410 – 54) and there is mention of various movements to and from town,
but the locations of the various places in relation to each other remain unclear.
 Cf. inde diem noctemque uolant. redeuntibus aura/ gratior et notae Minyis transcurrere terrae,
Val. Fl. 8.175 – 6.
 Lüthje (1971, 340) rightly notes that the return voyage is easier and smoother than the
outward journey, but his view that the Argonauts have no worries about the return voyage
overlooks the fact that they are afraid of passing through the Symplegades for a second time. On
differences between the return journeys in the two Argonautic epics, cf. Adamietz 1976, 104;
Hershkowitz 1998, 209 – 10.
 Cf. protinus inde alios flectunt regesque locosque/ adsuetumque petunt plaustris migrantibus
aequor, Val. Fl. 8.200 – 1.
 Cf. soluere in hoc tandem resides dux litore curas/ ac primum socios ausus sua pacta docere/
promissamque fidem thalami foedusque iugale./ ultro omnes laeti instigant meritamque fatentur,
Val. Fl. 8.220 – 3.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 483

51), and the wedding ceremony is interrupted by the arrival of the pursuing Col-
chians, led by Medea’s brother Absyrtus (Val. Fl. 8.259 – 63).
According to his own words Medea’s brother Absyrtus has not come to regain
the Fleece or his sister, but “[t]hou, treacherous Greece, thou art my quarry,
against thy walls do I shake this brand” (Val. Fl. 8.275b–6).⁷⁴ The effect of the
seas now being open, in Jupiter’s sense, is precisely the start of the conflict be-
tween Asia and Greece; and this terrible consequence of the oceans no longer
being boundaries is brought out by the poet’s description of Medea’s reaction
to this conflict (Val. Fl. 8.312– 17):⁷⁵ “But thou, Medea – how then did thy crimes
appear to thee? What shame didst thou feel, seeing the Colchians and they
brother once more, and all that thou, safe at last, hadst deemed cut off by the
broad ocean? Therefore did she hide herself in that ill-omened bower, resolved
on naught else but death, whether her dear Jason fall, or her brother be slain
by a Grecian spear”.
For the time being the fight is decided by the intervention of Juno, who un-
leashes a tempest and fights the Colchians with the forces of nature (Val.
Fl. 8.318 – 84). Then the Argonauts want to give up Medea so that the quarrel be-
tween Europe and Asia can be postponed to another ravisher as the seer Mopsus
had indicated (Val. Fl. 8.393b–9).⁷⁶
As the epic breaks off soon afterwards, it is not known in what detail the re-
turn voyage would have been described, but it is clear already that the focus of
the narrative continues to remain on items relevant to the epic’s message; and it
is evident from the givens of the myth that Medea will come to Europe and the
confrontations that will ensue cannot be avoided.
Although part of the description of the return voyage is missing, the extant
portions of Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica are sufficient to demonstrate that the
Argo’s journey from Iolcos to Colchis is indeed the epic’s main topic as an-
nounced in the proem (Val. Fl. 1.1– 4). However, it is also clear that this does
not mean that every nautical or geographical detail of the journey is reported
for its own sake. On the contrary, the presentation of information is selective

 Cf. te, Graecia, fallax,/ persequor atque tuis hunc quasso moenibus ignem, Val. Fl. 8.275b-6.
 Cf. at tibi quae scelerum facies, Medea, tuorum/ quisue pudor Colchos iterum fratremque
uidenti/ quicquid et abscisum uasto iam tuta profundo/ credideras! ergo infausto sese occulit
antro/ non aliud quam certa mori seu carus Iason/ seu frater Graia uictus cecidisset ab hasta, Val.
Fl. 8.312– 17.
 Cf. sat uellera Grais/ et posse oblata componere uirgine bellum./ quemque suas sinat ire
domos nec Marte cruento/ Europam atque Asiam prima haec committat Erinys./ namque datum
hoc fatis trepidus supplexque canebat/ Mopsus, ut in seros irent magis ista nepotes/ atque alius
lueret tam dira incendia raptor, Val. Fl. 8.393b–9.
484 Gesine Manuwald

and often conveys only a rough idea of the precise location and physical appear-
ance of places visited or passed or the route of the Argonauts. Instead, geograph-
ical information that is given is closely linked to the main idea of the poem: the
first journey across the open sea from Europe to Asia and the changes to the
power balance in the world, resulting from connections being established.
Hence the widespread notion that Valerius Flaccus reduced the amount of
erudite detail and aetiological information found in his Hellenistic predecessor
Apollonius Rhodius is correct, but limited, since it does not take his own poetic
agenda and techniques into account. Valerius Flaccus omits, adds, modifies and
selects details to illustrate the difficulties of travelling from Europe to Asia, the
boundaries that have to be crossed and the consequences for humans according
to divine plans: geography and landscape in this epic are not minor details to
embellish the background. What seems also important to the poet is the essence
of travel: he typically describes places by the character of the inhabitants, the
feelings of the Argonauts upon passing, arrival and/or departure as well as
their experiences during stopovers rather than by location and physical features.
Thus the vague geographical indications and the extended description of the
crossing of the boundary between Europe and Asia may also be read as illustrat-
ing the feelings of the first seafarers who are not familiar with their route and are
unaware of the effect of their journey.
That Valerius Flaccus has turned the process of travelling and opening up
new and unexplored countries into an element of his epic’s main theme might
have resonated with contemporary audiences.⁷⁷ Inserting geographical informa-
tion could have met audience interests: for in this time literature tended to in-
clude more and more scientific elements;⁷⁸ and it has been suggested that Vale-
rius Flaccus drew on a thorough geographical treatise for the details of names
and locations mentioned.⁷⁹ In this period, geographical treatises were written;
explorations and surveys of areas as yet unknown or unexplored were under-
taken; and travelling throughout the large Empire had become a common ele-
ment of public and private life.⁸⁰ Indeed, it has been observed that Valerius Flac-
cus substitutes Roman geographical conceptions and categories for the Greek

 For Varro’s Republican Argonautica, the first Argonautic epic in Latin, Braund (1993) has
suggested that it might be connected with imperialist movements at the end of the Republic.
 For a discussion of descriptions of nature in post-Vergilian epic as informed by geographical
and other scientific treatises cf. Pollini 1986; on the use of erudite detail in Valerius Flaccus and
Statius in relation to their artistic aims and audience requirements cf. Venini 1971.
 Cf. Heeren 1899. On the intertextual element in Valerius Flaccus’ geographical descriptions,
see also Slaney (this volume).
 Cf. e. g. Nicolet 1991; Adams/Laurence 2001.
 Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica 485

references used by Apollonius Rhodius.⁸¹ In particular, Valerius Flaccus hints at

a connection to contemporary reality by alluding to Vespasian’s nautical exploits
in the proem (Val. Fl. 1.5 – 21).⁸² However, in Valerius Flaccus’ narrative the link
between the continents of Europe and Asia, which the maiden voyage of the Argo
establishes, and its consequences are endowed with a negative outlook, which
might highlight possible problems of the expansion of knowledge and mobility
in the Roman empire.
In sum it seems that Valerius Flaccus managed both to take up contempor-
ary concerns (just as he presumably did in the presentation of tyrants) and to
give his Argonautic story a distinctive meaning by turning those very issues
into a crucial element of the poem’s overall message. Still, the final assessment
of the long-term effects of travel and explorations rests with readers of Valerius
Flaccus’ Argonautica.

 Cf. Zissos 2009, 351– 2, on the ‘Romanization’ of Valerius Flaccus’ epic.

 On the possible contemporary relevance, cf. Hardie 1993, 83: “In the proem to his Argo-
nautica Valerius invites a comparison between the legendary achievement of Jason and the
power of the Roman emperor by praising Vespasian’s opening up of the ‘Caledonian Ocean’ (a
reference to Claudius’ expedition to Britain in A.D. 43). It would be perverse to dismiss this
association of the mythical and historical as no more than a flourish of flattery.”; Zissos 2008,
xlii: “The topical appeal of this material, which touches upon recent geopolitical developments,
is clear enough. Likewise, the detailed descriptions of the armour and fighting techniques of
Sarmatian warriors at 6. 161– 2 and 6. 231– 8 may have been suggested by recent Roman military
campaigns – whether the Sarmatian incursion of AD 69 or one of Domitian’s Danube campaigns
(89 and 92).” On different forms of possible contemporary connections, see Slaney (this volume).
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List of Contributors
Erica Bexley is a Visiting Research Fellow at the Australian National University in
Canberra. She has published articles on Lucan and Seneca, and her main re-
search interests include Neronian literature, Roman oratory, and imperial
Roman drama.

Katerina Carvounis was a British Academy Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the

Faculty of Classics, Cambridge, and a Fellow of Murray Edwards College (found-
ed as New Hall), Cambridge, before being appointed as Lecturer in Ancient Greek
Literature at the University of Athens. Her main research interests include early
hexameter poetry and later Greek literature (especially Quintus of Smyrna and
Nonnus). She is completing a commentary on Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica
14 (with Oxford University Press).

Anthony T. Edwards, Professor of Classics and Comparative Literature at the Uni-

versity of California, San Diego, received his PhD in Classics from Cornell Univer-
sity. His research activities have focused upon Old Comedy and epic texts of Ar-
chaic Greece. Representative publications include Achilles in the Odyssey: Ideol-
ogies of Heroism in the Homeric Epic (Meisenheim 1985); “Homer’s Ethical Geog-
raphy: Country and City in the Odyssey,” TAPA 123 (1993) 27– 78; Hesiod’s Ascra.
(Berkeley and Los Angeles 2004); and “αἰδὼς δ’ οὐκ ἀγαθή: Works and Days 317–
19,” GRBS 52 (2012) 1– 20.

Jackie Elliott is Assistant Professor at the University of Colorado at Boulder. Her

study, Ennius and the Architecture of the Annales, is forthcoming from CUP in
2013. Her research interests include Roman Republican historiography, the
epic tradition and the theory and practice of commentaries.

Johannes Haubold is Professor of Greek at Durham University. His research inter-

ests include Homeric epic and its reception, and the relationship between an-
cient Greek and Mesopotamian literature. His latest book, entitled Greece and
Mesopotamia: Dialogues in Literature, is forthcoming from Cambridge University
Press.

Alison Keith is Professor and Chair of Classics at the University of Toronto. The
author of three books and editor or co-editor of another three, she has written
extensively on the intersection of gender and genre in Latin literature (especially
520 List of Contributors

epic and elegy) and Roman society (especially Augustan and the early princi-
pate).

Stratis Kyriakidis is Emeritus Professor of Latin Literature at the University of

Thessaloniki and for many years Visiting Professor at the University of Leeds.
His books are: Roman Sensitivity: A Contribution to the Study of the Artistic Recep-
tiveness and Creativity of the Romans (146 – 31B.C.), Thessaloniki 1986 [in Greek];
Narrative Structure and Poetics in the Aeneid: The Frame of Book 6, Bari 1998;
Catalogues of Proper Names in Latin Epic Poetry: Lucretius – Virgil – Ovid, Pier-
ides 1, Newcastle upon Tyne, 2007; He is the co-editor (with Francesco De Mar-
tino) of Middles in Latin Poetry, Bari 2004. His articles are mainly on Latin liter-
ature of the late Republican and Augustan periods and on the Latin centos. To-
gether with Philip Hardie he is the editor of the Pierides series in Cambridge
Scholars Publishing.

Donald Lateiner teaches Greek and Latin in the Humanities and Classics depart-
ment at Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, Ohio. He specializes in the his-
toriographical methods of Herodotus and Thucydides. Books include The Histor-
ical Method of Herodotus (Toronto 1989) and Thucydides & Herodotus (co-edited
with Edith Foster), a volume (Oxford 2012) on Thucydides’ fraught relationship to
Herodotus. Sardonic Smile: Nonverbal Behavior in Homeric Epic (Ann Arbor 1995)
explores the variety of body language and proxemics in Homeric epic. He recent-
ly co-edited Domina Illustris (with Judith Perkins and Barbara Gold, New York
2013), a book of papers in honor of Judith Hallett examining Roman literature
and gender. His current research examines emotions and nonverbal behaviors
(especially insults and humiliations) in the novels of Petronius, Apuleius, and
Heliodorus.

Gesine Manuwald is Professor of Latin at University College London. She has

published widely on Flavian epic, especially Valerius Flaccus, on Roman
drama, on Cicero’s oratory and on the reception of the classical world, esp. in
Neo-Latin literature.

Kirk Ormand is Professor of Classics at Oberlin College. He is the author of Ex-

change and the Maiden: Marriage in Sophoclean Tragedy (1999) and Controlling
Desires: Sexuality in Ancient Greece and Rome (2008) and editor of A Companion
to Sophocles (2012). His next book, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and Archaic
Greece is forthcoming from Cambridge University Press.
 List of Contributors 521

Ruth Parkes teaches at the University of Oxford. She works on the epic tradition,
particularly with regards to the works of Statius and Claudian. Her commentary
on Statius, Thebaid 4 was published in 2012 by Oxford University Press.

Alex Purves is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Los

Angeles. She is the author of Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (Cam-
bridge 2010) and co-editor, with Shane Butler, of Synaesthesia and the Ancient
Senses (Acumen 2013).

Robert Shorrock teaches Classics at Eton College, Windsor. He has published a

number of articles on late antique literature and poetics and is the author of
The Challenge of Epic: Allusive Engagement in the Dionysiaca of Nonnus (2001)
and The Myth of Paganism: Nonnus, Dionysus and the World of Late Antiquity
(2011). He is co-editor of the journal Greece & Rome.

Evina Sistakou is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the Aristotle Univer-

sity of Thessaloniki. Her publications include: The Aesthetics of Darkness. A
Study of Hellenistic Romanticism in Apollonius, Lycophron and Nicander (Leuven
2012), Reconstructing the Epic. Cross-Readings of the Trojan Myth in Hellenistic
Poetry (Leuven 2008) and The Geography of Callimachus and Hellenistic Avant-
Garde Poetry (Athens 2005, in Modern Greek). She has published on Greek epi-
gram, Lycophron, Apollonius, Callimachus and Hellenistic poetics.

Marios Skempis is the author of Kleine Leute und große Helden in Homers Odys-
see und Kallimachos’ Hekale (2010) and Heaven’s Works: Narrativising Hermes as
God of Sexual Initiation and Marriage in Archaic Greece (forthcoming). His re-
search focuses on early Greek epic and lyric poetry, Hellenistic literature, and
Greek religion.

Helen Slaney is a Junior Research Fellow in Classics at St Hilda’s College, Oxford.

She recently completed a doctorate on the performance history of Senecan trag-
edy and now works mainly in classical reception studies. The chapter in the pres-
ent volume is based on her MA thesis.

Ioannis Ziogas is a Lecturer at the Australian National University. He is the au-

thor of Ovid and Hesiod: The Metamorphosis of the Catalogue of Women (CUP
2013). His other publications include articles mainly on Latin poetry and its re-
ception.
Index rerum et nominum

Abii 19, 25, 28, 29 Alexander the Great 12, 161, 190, 214 – 16,
Abraham 41 – 2 221, 393 – 5
abroad 63, 88, 92, 223, 226, 227, 435, 439, Alexandria 179, 209, 214, 454
440 altar 66, 67, 77, 82, 93, 185, 190, 200, 351,
Achelous 195 – 6 352, 359, 362, 412, 423
Achilles/Akhilleus 11 – 12, 14, 21 – 5, 36, 47, see also temple(s)
55 – 6, 58, 63 – 5, 70 – 85, 90 – 1, 142, Amazons 23, 25, 201, 418, 452, 453, 476,
149, 154 – 9, 181, 188, 190, 191, 194, 481
196, 198, 201, 216 – 17, 221, 237, 334, ambush 53, 78, 88, 215, 369 – 71, 416, 425,
343 – 8 426
– shield of 24, 65 – 6, 69, 71, 82, 83, 88 – Anchises 13, 232, 239, 267, 269 – 70, 276,
90 279, 283, 284, 314, 400
see also tomb(s) – bed of 11, 189 – 90
Achilles Tatius 211 – tomb of 190
ἄδηλος 13, 268, 274 – 6 Andros 287
Adonis 205 animals 15, 74, 81 – 3, 87, 92, 132, 144, 160,
Aeneas 13 – 14, 75, 76, 184 – 5, 189 – 90, 168, 199, 326 – 7, 334, 396, 401, 402,
232, 242 – 3, 265 – 72, 276 – 7, 279 – 80, 420
283, 285 – 8, 295 – 9, 301, 302, 304, 314, Anius 279
316, 319, 322 – 3, 330, 370, 400, 401, antonomasia 306
413, 436, 464, 467, 469 aphrodisiacs 153
Aesepos 201 – 3, 205, 207 Aphrodite 31, 35, 68, 69, 81, 169, 171, 189 –
Aethiopians 90, 215 – 16, 307, 314, 328, 345, 431
see Ethiopians – gifts of 141, 145 – 6, 149 – 54, 160
aetiology Apollo 12, 13, 14, 31, 83, 85, 90, 91, 157,
see etiology 168, 175, 185, 189, 203, 204, 217, 219,
aetion 193, 198, 207, 366 256, 265 – 71, 273 – 85, 334 – 8, 363,
Aetna 366, 368, 415, 436
see Etna – Delius 273 – 4
Africa 221, 229 – 31, 252, 260 – 1, 264, 268, Apollodorus 19, 139, 150 – 1, 327
271, 385, 388, 412 apples 10, 149, 152 – 3, 159, 179
Agamemnon 22, 30, 55 – 6, 63, 81 – 2, 87, – as aphrodisiacs 153
91, 93, 142, 191, 385 – golden 152, 156, 157, 160
see also Pompey Arcadia 14, 139, 174, 325 – 8, 347, 415
agore/ἀγορή 10, 67, 77, 96 – 9, 101 – 3, Argia 415, 417, 419 – 20
106 – 13, 115 – 17, 123, 125 – 6, 128 – 31, see also journey
136, 174 Argo 16 – 17, 162, 165, 171 – 2, 174, 176,
agriculture 32, 47, 87, 99, 106, 120, 123, 178 – 9, 206, 304, 350, 352, 355, 428,
331, 332, 398 431, 434 – 45, 448 – 53, 459 – 61, 463 – 6,
Aiaia 66, 72, 306, 309 – 11, 313, 321 469 – 72, 475, 477, 481, 483, 485
Aietes 303 – 5, 309 – 11, 315 – 17, 319 – 23 Argonauts 16 – 17, 161 – 2, 164 – 79, 192,
Aigaion 31 206, 240, 303, 305, 310 – 11, 318, 320,
Alcinous/Alkinoos 58, 64, 74, 80, 89, 349, 352 – 3, 360, 430, 433 – 6, 439,
524 Index rerum et nominum

441 – 2, 444 – 6, 448, 450 – 2, 454, 456, borderland 74, 88, 163, 164
464 – 84 Boreads 26
Argos (city) 16, 22, 31, 93, 162, 174, 363, Bosporus 167, 321, 448, 451, 475, 478
365 – 6, 369, 405 – 10, 414 – 24 boundary 15, 17, 64, 75, 96, 112, 125, 131,
see also journey 133, 136, 152, 160, 164, 213, 217 – 18,
Argos (dog) 81, 83 222, 296, 320, 377, 390 – 1, 395, 410,
Arimasps 24 – 5 412, 479, 484
Arisbe 387 see also river(s)
Artemis 151, 182, 276, 277, 282, 357 Branchos 187 – 9
Asia 12, 17, 191, 210, 229, 235, 428, 437, burial 11, 75, 89, 181, 191, 199, 201, 203 – 5,
442, 446, 451, 468, 471 – 5, 478 – 80, 207, 295 – 300, 316, 318 – 19, 323
482 – 5 Byblos 205
Asia Minor 12, 182 – 3, 209, 213, 336, 385,
387 Cadmus 15, 199, 211, 352 – 3, 360, 363 – 5,
Asopus 175, 406, 410 – 11, 414, 416, 425, 369, 371 – 2, 407, 415
426 Caeneus 14, 343 – 7
Assaracus Caesar 15, 190 – 1, 330, 374 – 86, 389
see tomb(s) – withdraws from Gaul 373, 376 – 7, 380 –
Asterie 276 – 8 95, 397, 399, 401 – 3, 414, 422, 433
Atalanta 10, 137 – 60, 420, 425 – author of Bellum Gallicum 380 – 2, 433
atelesta/ἀτέλεστα 140, 143 – 5 – behaves like Alexander 393 – 5
Athena 35, 47, 51 – 2, 54, 60, 65, 68, 70, 73, see also Gaul
77, 80, 81, 83, 179, 185, 190 – 1, 216, 345 see also Lemmanus
Athens 77, 386 – 7, 408, 416 – 18, 423 see also Troy
ἄτροπος 284 – 5 Caieta 13, 272, 291 – 307, 315 – 16, 318 – 19,
Ausonia 271, 311, 331 321 – 4
autika/αὐτίκα 43 – 7, 60 see also tomb(s)
Autolycus 47 – 9 Callimachus 171, 183, 209, 217 – 19, 222,
273, 277, 280 – 2, 284, 288, 300, 301,
banquet 105, 120, 133, 367 321, 332, 335, 337, 363, 366, 368, 372
barbarians 375, 379, 403, 458 – Hecale of 211, 218, 366
battle 10 – 12, 23 – 4, 33, 52, 66 – 7, 70 – 1, Calydonian boar
78 – 80, 82, 86 – 8, 93, 129, 136 – 7, 140, – hunt of 139, 151
142, 146, 153, 154, 156, 159, 166 – 7, 187, Calypso/ Kalypso 80 – 1, 83, 175, 177, 316
214, 216, 221, 224, 225, 234, 240 – 1, Caria 182, 187 – 9, 203
249, 250, 251, 253, 254, 255, 343 – 5, Carians 21
352 – 3, 355, 372, 373, 375 – 6, 378 – 80, catalogue 5, 220, 419 – 20, 422, 431
387, 402, 416 – 17, 426, 444, 473 – and etymology 287, 326 – 8
battlefield 4, 15, 25, 34, 53, 63, 65 – 6, 69 – – and genealogy 399 – 403
71, 76, 79 – 80, 159, 225, 247, 344, 358, – and geography 13, 69 – 70, 287, 325 – 6,
401 – 2, 459 328, 363
Belgians 378 – as a map 287 – 9
Beroe 211 – in Apollonius 162, 174
Black Sea 161, 164, 173, 320, 443 – 4, – in Homer 22, 27, 32 – 3, 36, 69 – 70
446 – 8, 450, 452 – 3, 455 – 6, 461, 479 – in Lucan 15, 373 – 81, 383 – 403
Boeotian(s) 362, 364, 365, 369, 370, 371, – in Vergil 287, 325 – 8
384, 414 Catalogue of Ships 161, 183, 187 – 9
 Index rerum et nominum 525

Catalogue of Women 5, 8, 10, 23, 26, 137 – core

59, 308, 312, 320, 345 – 6 see periphery
Caucasus 172, 175 – 6, 433, 448, 459 – 60 Corycian ridge 193
cave country 4, 49, 51, 77, 87 – 8, 96, 98, 102,
see enclosed space(s) 110 – 12, 116, 123, 125, 127 – 33, 136, 159,
cedar 306, 315 – 16 327, 424
Centauromachy 14, 343, 345 Cretans 280, 283
center 6, 14, 72, 93, 104, 285, 336 – 9, 345, Crete 13, 161, 179, 267 – 70, 280, 284,
347, 377, 380, 386 – 7, 391, 403 286 – 7
centrality 14, 104, 227, 314, 335 – 6, 338, cultural transference 324
346, 380 Cyclades 13, 286 – 8
see also Delphi Cyclopes/Kyklopes 28, 32, 65, 73, 171, 237,
see also Rome 331 – 2, 350 – 1
centrifugal 228, 336 Cyrene 175, 179, 180, 218 – 19
see also Ennius’ Annales Cyta 319, 321
chaos 179, 327, 340, 431, 445, 460, Cytherea
Chauci 383 see etymology
Chersonese 199 Cyzicus 17, 165, 173, 440, 461, 471 – 4
Cicero 231, 236 – 9, 243, 257 see also tomb(s)
Cimmerians 447, 448
Cinga 392, 396 – 7 Daphne 334 – 5, 338, 347
Circe/Kirke 13 – 14, 67, 73, 80 – 1, 83, 162, Daphnephoria 335, 337
173, 194, 291 – 5, 305 – 24, 331, 353 Dardania 189, 190
Circeii 306, 313, 319, 322 – 3 Dardanidae 270 – 1, 276
circle(s) Dardanos 190
city death 63, 67, 75 – 6, 79, 88, 91, 93, 118,
see foundation 135, 139, 140, 149 – 53, 156 – 9, 173 – 4,
civil war 15, 16, 191, 369, 373 – 5, 377 – 8, 176, 178, 181, 184 – 5, 187, 193, 199, 201,
380, 382, 385 – 6, 388, 397, 399, 203 – 5, 212, 217, 239, 295, 297, 316,
401 – 3, 422, 430 – 1, 434, 448, 456, 323, 330, 344, 362 – 3, 366, 369, 386,
463, 464 387, 401, 410 – 11, 418, 421, 423 – 4,
Colchian 164, 172, 303 – 4, 311, 315 – 23, 430 – 1, 480, 483
352 – 5, 357, 359, 430, 436, 439 – 41, declaimers 393
451 – 2, 456, 483 Delos 13, 189, 265 – 89
Colchis 162, 164, 170, 174, 305, 307, 310 – – Latonia 273
11, 315, 317 – 20, 324, 352, 355 – 8, 385, δῆλος 13, 278, 282
430, 431, 433, 435, 438, 441, 448 – 54, Delphi 14, 72, 229, 280, 334 – 8, 346 – 7,
456, 460, 464, 466, 468 – 9, 479 – 81, 363, 368 – 9
483 – omphalos 334
colonization 5, 13, 161, 180, 293 – 4, 299 – – oracle 336 – 8
300, 302, 304 – 5, 307, 321 – 3, 439 dense 56 – 7
see also foundation depth
Colosseum 429, 431 – 2 see thickness
conquest Deriades 214, 217
see geography desert 165 – 6, 178, 412
Constantinople 184
526 Index rerum et nominum

digression 23, 41, 45, 47, 52, 57, 59, 61, – representation of East and West 223, 229,
175, 183, 189, 195 – 6, 199, 206, 378, 231, 234 – 6, 239, 263 – 4
395 – 6, 413, 454 – ‘good companion’ fragment 12 – 13,
δίκη 101, 102, 107 – 10, 112, 115, 123, 128, 223 – 4, 240 – 1, 245, 247 – 8
130 – 4 – Hannibal 235 – 9, 252, 260, 263
Dindymon 167, 169 – Pyrrhus 224, 230 – 1, 237 – 9, 262
Diomedes 22, 31, 185, 189 Epic Cycle 203, 342, 345
Dionysus 12, 209 – 22 epiphany 11, 166, 168 – 9, 282 – 5
Dios apatē 35 erastes 144
disorientation 12, 224, 245, 306, 454 ἔργον 96 – 100, 102, 104 – 11, 113 – 14,
distance 9, 12, 63 – 6, 74, 79 – 81, 84 – 6, 116 – 18, 125 – 9, 135 – 6
137, 178, 186, 192 – 3, 205, 209, 221, Eridanus 164 – 5, 176, 206 – 7
279, 288, 316, 319, 410 – 11, 416 – 18, ἔρις 88, 97 – 8, 100, 107, 109, 123, 129 – 30,
432, 443, 446, 463, 465 134 – 5
Donusa 13, 286 – 8 eromenos 140, 144, 146
Dulichium 187 error 13, 265, 268, 271, 283 – 4, 286 – 8,
364, 413
Earth 21, 66, 68 – 71, 85, 168, 278, 332, 334 Erycina
East, the 6, 12, 161, 165, 184, 223, 232, see etymology
234 – 6, 263 – 4, 306, 310, 373, 385, 388 Ethiopians 8, 23 – 6, 28, 201 – 3, 207, 221,
– the Herodotean East 234 431
Eetion 34, 57, 190, 237, 343, 386 ethnicity 238, 295, 307
see also tomb(s) ethnography 7 – 8, 19 – 20, 24 – 29, 31 – 6,
Egypt 12, 66, 73, 209, 213, 219 – 21, 440 397, 433
Egyptians 23, 396 – and the gods 28 – 29, 31 – 32
ekphrasis/ecphrasis 3, 6, 14, 65, 88, 169, – as distraction 8, 25 – 8
338 – 42, 351, 356, 358, 371, 436, 449, – lure of 27
482 see also river(s)
Eleutherios 182 etiology 7, 16, 118, 193, 318, 333 – 5, 337,
elevation 63, 77, 80 366, 368, 399, 454
Elpenor Etna 331, 354
see tomb(s) etymology 7, 13, 272 – 6, 278 – 9, 286, 297,
embedded focalization 342 326 – 7, 329 – 34, 347, 374, 397 – 9
empire – Cytherea 328 – 30
see Rome – Erycina 333
enclosed space(s) – Euboea 331 – 2
– cave 65, 67, 70, 76 – 7, 80 – 1, 94, 166, – Haemus 334
171, 190, 193, 316, 351, 372, – Lycaeus 325 – 8
– hut 66 – Maenalus 325 – 8
– palace 22, 66 – 8, 70, 80, 89 – 90, 170, – Rhegium 331 – 3
172, 325, 327, 340, 416, 431 – Zancle 331 – 3
– walled town 123 Euboea
see also walls see etymology
Ennius’ Annales, Europe 17, 235, 438, 446, 450 – 1, 456, 468,
– augurate of Romulus and Remus 223 – 4, 471 – 5, 478 – 80, 482 – 5
240, 244 – 5, 247 Eurycleia 8 – 9, 38 – 47
– centrifugal thrust 228
 Index rerum et nominum 527

exile 15, 88, 339 – 40, 363 – 5, 367, 407, Gesander 456, 458, 460, 479
409, 441, 450 – 1 Glaucus (hero) 22 – 3, 59, 193, 203 – 5, 207
exoticism 19, 168, 429 (river) 11, 193 – 4, 203 – 5
(sea god) 14, 331 – 4
Fama 14, 338 – 43, 348 global sway
fantasyland 11, 72, 163 see Rome
Faunus 314 Golden Fleece 170 – 1, 352, 435, 439, 451,
female domain 175 461, 464, 468, 480, 482
footrace 10 – 11, 84, 140 – 2, 144 – 5, 150 – 1, Greece 5 – 6, 12, 14, 17, 113, 139, 182, 209,
153 – 5, 158 213, 229, 232, 235, 239, 248, 331,
footwashing 44 334 – 5, 350, 360, 363, 385, 387, 399,
foremother 308 407, 410, 421 – 2, 424, 434, 437, 439 –
forest 56, 65, 75, 90, 92 – 3, 168, 371 – 2, 41, 456, 468, 483
411 – 12, 417, 420, 424 – 5, 437, 447, 473 – and Macedon 229, 231, 262 – 3
foundation 299 – 300, 302 – 5, 316, 338 Greek novel 37, 211
– of city 171, 179, 183, 190 – 1, 211, 214, Greek tragedy 211
302, 304 – 5, 307, 323, 341, 363, 369 griffon(s) 25, 26
see also colonization grove 14, 166, 170, 201, 203, 205, 356 – 9,
370 – 2, 396, 411, 442, 452
Ganges 215, 393, 402 gunê 142
Ganymede 185 – 6 see also marriage
garden 69, 74, 77, 89, 92, 166, 168, 170,
178, 182 Hades 67, 69, 72, 76, 79, 173, 202, 445,
– of the Hesperides 174 – 5, 179 448
gates 63, 66, 68 – 9, 71, 90, 93, 167, 411 Haemus 334, 397 – 9
Gaul 15, 229, 373, 375 – 84, 390, 399 see also etymology
gender hail 55 – 6
see space(s), gendered Hannibal
genealogy 3, 306, 310, 313 – 15, 374, 400, see Ennius’ Annales
402, 415 harbor 73 – 5, 77, 86, 90, 162, 166, 189,
genre 3 – 4, 6, 8, 11, 18, 20, 24, 28, 34, 38, 295 – 301, 303 – 5, 311, 315 – 16, 319 – 23,
146, 162, 165 – 6, 209 – 12, 215, 219, 405, 418
248, 328, 431, 437 – 8, 463 Harpies 26, 172, 439, 476
geography hearth 43, 47, 78, 114
– and conquest 15, 225, 375 – 6, 381, Hector/Hektor 11, 22, 25, 47, 79 – 80, 93,
385 – 8, 403, 427 – 8, 433 – 4, 437, 439, 154 – 9, 181, 185, 191 – 2, 194, 267
442, 449 Hecuba 11, 193 – 4, 198 – 200, 207
– and perspective 1, 4, 8, 30, 41 – 2, 64, see also tomb(s)
70 – 1, 83, 86, 96, 106, 123, 224, 240 – 1, see also transformation(s)
243, 248, 306, 341, 376 – 7, 380, 384, 439, Helen 22, 66, 80, 89 – 90, 92, 139
441, 444, 448 Helenus 199, 271, 313
– counterfactual 11, 162 – 3, 169, 177 – 8, Heliades 176, 206 – 7
180 Helicon 105, 183
– ethical 9, 91, 95 – 6, 99 – 100, 103 – 4, Helius 176, 307, 310 – 12
109 – 10, 116, 127, 136 Hellespont 20, 161, 191 – 2, 198, 200, 205,
factual 161, 169, 171 234, 257, 263, 341, 443, 470 – 2, 475,
geopolitics 14 478
528 Index rerum et nominum

Heniochi 396 Indian war 211, 217

Hera 35 – 6, 68 – 70, 86, 275, 278, 345 Indians 12, 210 – 11, 213 – 15, 218, 221, 388,
Heracles/Hercules 16, 105, 166, 169, 174 – 5, 435
178 – 9, 356, 424, 433, 448, 452 – 3, 474 Indus 220 – 1
Hermus 182, 196 innocence
Hesione 190, 356, 431, 474 – sexual 146, 150
Hesperia 229, 259, 268 – 71, 296, 299, 304, intertext 319, 460,
306, 314, 390 intertextuality 159, 351
Hesperides Io 451, 475
see garden island 13, 17, 33, 60, 67, 70 – 3, 75, 77, 80,
heterotopia 10 – 11, 37, 143, 146, 171 – 4 82, 162, 166, 168 – 9, 172, 175, 177, 179,
Hindu Kush 213 182, 209, 265 – 7, 272 – 9, 284 – 8, 303,
Hippemolgi 8, 19, 25 – 8 306 – 13, 316, 328, 330, 433, 440, 459,
Hippomenes 10, 145, 148 – 53, 155 – 60 469, 473, 482
history 5, 8, 11 – 12, 14, 21, 125, 139, 165, Issedones 24 – 5
209 – 10, 215, 226, 234 – 5, 237, 269, Isthmus of Corinth 341, 361, 422, 423
273, 303, 341 – 3, 348, 349, 364, 372, Italian peninsula 13, 229, 236, 259 – 60,
381 – 2, 400, 424, 430, 467, 472, 478 303, 311, 324, 332
see also Rome Italy 13 – 14, 223, 229, 233, 269 – 72, 294,
house 296, 303 – 5, 307, 312, 315, 319, 321 – 4,
see enclosed space(s), palace 331 – 4, 336, 379, 387, 390 – 1, 400,
hunt 457 – 8
– of Calydonian boar 139, 151 Ithaca/Ithaka 60, 65 – 7, 71 – 2, 75 – 7, 79 –
hunting 47, 50, 60, 88, 90, 143 – 4, 151, 159 81, 87, 89 – 92, 200, 463
hut itinerary 12, 16, 70, 72, 137, 177, 179, 213,
see enclosed space(s) 288, 315, 325, 327, 340, 423, 426, 454,
Hydaspes 12, 210, 213 – 22 460, 464 – 5, 468, 470, 472, 480, 482
Hypsipyle 169, 172, 410, 412 – 13, 418, 423,
440, 450 Jason 16, 161, 164, 169 – 71, 179, 277, 311,
317, 320, 322, 352 – 6, 358 – 60, 428,
Iasios 141, 144 – 5 430, 435, 437 – 42, 451 – 2, 456, 459 –
Icarius 212 60, 468 – 70, 476 – 8, 480 – 3, 485
Ida 33, 69 – 70, 86, 190, 201 journey 3, 8, 13, 16, 41, 50, 60, 68, 70 – 2,
idyllic landscape 74, 162, 164, 173, 176, 181, 209 – 11, 221,
see landscape 296, 304, 310, 360, 366, 376, 405 – 11,
Ilia 223 – 4, 240 – 5, 247 – 8 415 – 23, 426, 437, 450 – 1, 463 – 9, 471,
Ilion 66 – 7, 87, 185, 190 – 1, 376 475 – 6, 479 – 84
Illyria 175, 229, 261 see also travel
Ilus Jupiter 272, 283, 325 – 8, 339 – 40, 351, 360,
see tomb(s) 409 – 10, 414, 421, 425, 437, 439 – 41,
immigrant 94, 296, 315, 321 – 2 448, 467 – 9, 474 – 6, 478 – 80, 483
immota 266, 284 – 5, 447
imperialism 17, 223, 229, 336, 373, 387, kestos 35
427 – 9
impiety 363, 364 Laertes 63, 71, 76, 88 – 9
India 12, 209, 213 – 15, 217, 220 – 1, 385, lair 8 – 9, 39,44, 47 – 50, 52 – 3, 56, 58 – 61,
397, 400, 463 325 – 6, 416 – 17, 420
 Index rerum et nominum 529

landmark(s) 6 – 7, 11, 16, 33, 38, 77, 81, 89, Maeander 187 – 8
93, 162, 166 – 7, 183 – 6, 188 – 91, 194 – Maenalus
200, 203 – 5, 207, 210, 292, 304 – 5, 316, see etymology
324, 361, 406, 421, 424, 426, 452, 454, Macedon
460 see Greece
landscape(s) 4, 7 – 9, 11, 14, 16, 18, 37 – 9, magnanimus 283
41, 47 – 50, 56 – 7, 60 – 1, 65 – 6, 76, 89, magnus 283, 392
93 – 6, 111, 117, 125, 132, 136, 166 – 70, Magnus
173, 176 – 9, 181, 183 – 6, 188 – 9, 193, see Pompey
195 – 6, 200, 207, 224, 242, 244, 315, map 1, 9, 13, 20, 66, 69 – 71, 73, 162 – 3,
326 – 8, 331 – 2, 347, 350, 352, 363, 365, 166 – 7, 169, 213, 287, 336, 347, 382 – 3,
369 – 72, 374, 380, 387, 395 – 6, 399, 390, 403, 442
406, 412, 424 – 33, 438, 442, 446 – 7, Marica 314
449, 452, 454, 459, 459 – 61, 467, 484 Maron 217
– description of 6, 41 – 2, 68, 71, 243, 327, marriage 10 – 11, 138 – 46, 150 – 3, 159 – 60,
349, 361, 429 345, 345, 452, 482
– idyllic 169, 173, 177, 326 – 7, 328, 347, see also gunê
356 see also parthenos
– sexualized 15, 140, 224, 243, 345 – 7, 356, see also telos
358 – 60 Marsyas 203
λανθάνω 274 – 5 marvel (θαῦμα) 22, 28 – 30, 32 – 5, 178 195 –
lateo 13, 268, 272, 274, 278 200, 455
Latinus 307 – 8, 313 – 16, 323 measurement 64
Latium 13, 258, 260, 267 – 8, 270 – 3, Medea 15, 169, 171 – 3, 311, 320, 349, 356 –
275 – 7, 283, 292, 305 – 6, 314, 322 – 3 60, 430 – 1, 435 – 6, 449, 452, 482,–3
Latmos 187 – 8 medius 335, 361, 422
Latona 13, 274, 273 – 8, 284, 285, 372 μέγας 217, 282 – 3
Lemmanus 381 Memnon 11, 193, 201 – 7
Lemnos 70, 172, 418, 431, 454, 465 memory 20, 77, 89, 93, 169, 175, 191 – 2,
Leto 269, 298, 324, 408, 425
see Latona metamorphosis 11, 179, 323, 327 – 8, 334,
Leucippe and Clitophon 211 337 – 9, 346
Libya 161 – 2, 177 – 9, 261, 264, 356, 385, metonomasia 302
471 – 2 Miletus 11, 187 – 9
liminal 5, 72, 75 – 6, 79, 83, 178, mirage 11, 177, 447
– Hades’ threshold 76 mirroring
– Odysseus’ threshold 77 – 8 – extratextual 285, 287
Lingones 378, 381 – intertextual 326
λιτός 282 – 3 Molossian 327 – 8
locus amoenus 71, 169, 356, 359 mound(s)
Lycaeus see tomb(s)
see etymology mountain
Lycia 22, 182, 203 – 4 see Circeii
Lycians 22, 203 see Haemus
Lydius [Thybris] 268 – 9, 271, 276 see Ida
see Parnassus
Muse(s) 4 – 5, 182 – 3, 214, 291, 337, 400
530 Index rerum et nominum

Mycale 187 – 8 orior 13, 277 – 8

Myconos 287 ὄρνυμαι 277 – 8, 279
Mysia 167, 174, 474 Ortygia 13, 266, 267, 274, 276 – 9, 286 – 7
Mysians 19, 25, 27, 69 see also Delos
ὄρτυξ 278, 279
nature 1, 9 – 10, 15, 29, 37, 50 – 1, 53, 55 – otherworld 69, 71, 76, 83, 165, 171, 177, 459
61, 65, 79, 86, 143, 166, 168 – 9, 176,
282, 464, 394 – 7, 399, 421, 425, 445, Paiones 22
459, 483 palace
Naxos 13, 287 see enclosed space(s)
necromancy 371 – 2, 409 Pan 217, 326, 328
Neptune 345, 439 – 40, 469, 471, 474 Pandora 10, 117 – 18, 120 – 2, 124, 128,
Nero 338, 431 135 – 6
Nestor 14, 88, 90 – 3, 181, 343 – 6, 348 panoramic 3, 6, 69, 86, 167, 361, 363
Nile 12, 205, 219 – 21, 394, 402, 405, 440 Panormos 187 – 9
Niobe 11, 193 – 200, 207, 363, 425 Paphlagoneios 11, 193 – 4, 201, 203 – 7
– rock of 193 – 200 Paris 22, 80, 185, 187, 190
see also Sipylos Parnassus 9, 38, 44, 47 – 8, 60, 278, 361,
see also transformations 363
nudity Paros 13, 287
– male 151 parthenos 142, 158 – 9
nurse 241 – 2, 295 – 7, 299, 301 – 2, 316, see also marriage
322, 452 Patroclus/Patroklos 47, 55, 64 – 5, 74, 79,
Nymphs 76, 169, 171, 175, 193 – 4, 196, 82, 181, 191
201 – 4, 207, 359 Penelope 54 – 5, 63, 78 – 82, 88 – 9, 92 – 3,
– cave of 77, 81 132, 326
Peneus 335
Ocean 15, 23 – 4, 48, 69, 71, 75 – 6, 83, 164, periphery 6, 12, 14, 63, 73, 221, 223, 336,
175, 320, 389, 393 – 5, 435, 440, 447 338, 340, 377, 380, 387, 403, 428
Odysseus 5, 8 – 9, 27, 38 – 54, 56 – 61, 63, perspective(s)
67, 70 – 85, 87 – 8, 90 – 4, 132, 161 – 2, see geography
165, 177, 181, 191, 194, 200, 306 – 10, see space(s)
312 – 14, 463 Phaeacians/Phaiakians 73 – 4, 76, 90, 162,
Olearos 13, 287 171, 194, 199 – 200
Olympos/Olympus 68 – 71, 82, 166 – 8, 209, Phaethon 176, 206 – 7, 330, 363
213, 282 Pharos 209
omphalos Phasis 164, 316 – 17, 319 – 21, 350, 355 – 7,
see Delphi 436, 439 – 40, 443, 452, 454, 456, 459 –
onomastics 60, 464, 470, 476 – 7, 481
see etymology Philoctetes
oracle – cave of 193
see Delphi Phineus 162, 164, 172, 428, 443, 453 – 4,
orbis 335 – 6, 338, 387 – 8, 393 – 4, 460 476 – 7, 480 – 1
orchard 58, 64, 71, 76, 81, 89 Phoenicians 75, 396
Oreitai 397 Phrixus 317, 451 – 3, 468, 470, 480 – 1
Orestes 397 Phrygia 187, 473,
orientation 80, 162, 178, 192, 433 Phthires 188
 Index rerum et nominum 531

pietas 299 – and Smyrna 182 – 3

place(s) – and supernatural landmarks 195, 204
– mythical 11, 174 – 6, 196, 210, 294, 300, – and Roman Empire 183 – 4
310, 313, 319, 324, 465
– vs. space 1 – 2 rain 48, 50, 51, 55 – 6, 59, 134, 215, 449
see also toponym rank 58, 82, 84, 238, 353, 375, 386, 402
πλαγκτή 284 recognition 8, 37 – 9, 45 – 7, 53, 60, 63, 79,
politics 6 – 7, 161, 180, 223, 227, 324, 339, 191, 402
341 Remus
see also geopolitics see Ennius’ Annales
see also imperialism Rhegium
see also Rome see etymology
Polynices 15 – 16, 360, 364 – 6, 369, 405, ritual 65, 81 – 2, 89, 93, 152, 167 – 8, 226,
407 – 10, 415 – 18, 420 – 1, 423 – 4 243, 245, 295, 298 – 9, 302, 316, 318 –
Pompey 15, 191, 237, 373 – 4, 384 – 95, 397, 19, 322 – 3, 448, 474
399 – 403, 422, 433 – 4 river(s) 11 – 12, 15, 23, 66, 71, 75 – 6, 79, 86,
– and the name ‘Magnus’ 386, 389, 391 – 3 88, 90, 93 – 4, 162, 164 – 7, 176, 182,
– likened to Agamemnon 385 188, 193 – 4, 196, 201 – 7, 213 – 22, 242,
see also river(s) 243, 269, 271, 300 – 1, 316 – 17, 319 – 20,
portal 113, 163, 165, 167, 173 345, 355, 363, 374, 376, 382 – 3, 388 –
Porus 214, 215 97, 399, 410 – 14, 417, 420, 425 – 6, 440,
Poseidon 26, 33 – 5, 63, 67 – 8, 70 – 2, 84, 446, 452 – 7, 474, 476 – 9, 481 – 2
90, 175, 178, 181, 184, 200, 345 – and Pompey 390 – 3, 395
Priam 22, 30, 33, 58, 64, 79 – 80, 93, 185, Romanocentricity 335, 340 – 1
190, 194, 198, 201, 232, 239, 263 Rome 5 – 6, 14 – 16, 184, 190 – 1, 223, 225 –
prima ratis 427 40, 248, 256 – 7, 266, 271, 307, 319,
Prometheus 118, 175, 176, 433 – 4, 436, 323, 334 – 43, 347, 350, 373, 375, 377 –
448, 451, 460, 481 80, 382 – 9, 391, 402 – 3, 429 – 30, 432,
Protesilaus 434, 440, 458 – 9, 463
see tomb(s) – centrality 227, 336, 338, 380
proxemics 9, 63, 76, 78 – 80, 91 – empire 16, 183 – 4, 223, 238, 324, 335 – 7,
pukinos/πυκινός 9, 39, 50 – 6, 58 – 9, 61 339 – 40, 343, 348, 374, 377 – 8, 386 – 9,
see also thickness 403, 429, 432, 456, 459, 484 – 5
Pygmies 23 – 6 – global sway 14, 16, 339, 374, 430
Pylos 89 – 90, 280, 343, 345 – 6 – history 226, 234 – 5, 341 – 3, 348, 400,
Pyrrhus 430
see Ennius’ Annales see also Quintus of Smyrna
Pythian Games 334 – 5, 338 Romulus
Python 278, 334, 367 – 9 see Ennius’ Annales
Rubicon 379, 390 – 1, 395, 414
quest 13, 163 – 4, 169, 173, 243, 272, 285, Ruteni 376, 381, 396
331, 343, 441, 464
Quintus of Smyrna Samothrace 33
– and Apollonius’ Argonautica 192, 206 – 7, sanctuary 185 – 6
– and Homer 181 – 3, 185 – 6, 188 – 9, see also temple(s)
191 – 6, 200, 204, 207 – 8 Sarpedon 22, 56, 91, 94, 203 – 4
– and invocation to the Muses 182 – 3 Saturn 272 – 3, 332
532 Index rerum et nominum

Scamander 12, 216 – 17, 221 – indoor vs. outdoor 7, 12, 240
scar – martial 15, 240 – 1, 247
– of Odysseus 8, 37 – 47, 53 – 4, 57, 60 – 1 – of desire 10 – 11, 15, 137 – 8, 140 – 1, 146,
sceptre 91, 407, 159 – 60, 168 – 71, 356, 359 – 60
Scheria/Skheria 9, 50, 71 – 2, 74, 77, 80, – phenomenology of 116, 292, 322 – 3
91 – 2, 200 – privileged 63, 76, 89
Schoeneus 138 – 9, 148 – 9 – public vs. private 9, 67, 76 – 9, 91, 93,
Scylla/Skylla 71, 73, 162, 165, 331, 366 242, 247 – 8, 484
Scythia 355, 385, 418, 435 – 6, 439 – 40, – sacred 67, 81, 93, 182, 286, 324, 371 – 2,
449, 454 – 6, 458 442, 470 – 1, 481
sea 15, 17, 63, 65, 67 – 70, 72 – 3, 75, 83, – semanticization of 12, 292 – 3, 300,
86, 88, 90, 113 – 16, 126, 161 – 8, 173, 304 – 5, 319, 321 – 4
178, 191 – 2, 199, 285 – 7, 303, 306, 312, sparsae 286 – 8
319 – 20, 327, 333, 345 – 6, 353, 362, Sparta 89 – 90, 363
374, 384, 389 – 95, 421 – 3, 427, 434 – 7, spectacle 429, 431 – 2, 459 – 60
439 – 44, 446 – 50, 452 – 3, 455 – 7, 459 – spectatorship 432
61, 463, 466, 468 – 84 spondeiazon 281
Selene Sporades 288
– cave of 193, 197 Sthenelus/Sthenelos 173, 453, 461
Sicily 332 – 3, 356 – 7, 469, 471 – 2 Strabo 19, 63, 71, 94, 188 – 9, 191, 205,
Sidonians 23 274, 300 – 5, 319, 320, 333, 335, 336,
simile 7, 9, 23, 47, 49 – 50, 52 – 9, 61, 448, 452, 455
64 – 6, 71, 74, 78 – 9, 81 – 8, 90, 92 – 3, street 137, 336
103, 132, 155, 170, 237, 244 – 5, 247, Sun 305 – 6, 310 – 11, 321, 329 – 30, 363,
253, 277, 343, 355, 362, 392, 405, 445, 441
456, 459 – 60, 471 see also Sol
Sipylos 11, 193 – 9 surface 41, 43, 47, 53, 57, 60 – 1, 287 – 8,
see also Niobe 443
Sirens 26 – 7, 162, 165 survival literature 437 – 8
sky 21, 66 – 9, 83, 85, 178, 443, 469, 472 syllepsis 150, 332
snake 194, 334, 353, 363 – 4, 369, 410, symbolism 53, 168, 169, 396 – 7, 405, 422
412 – 14, 424 – sexual 356,
snowflake(s) 86 Symplegades 165, 440, 444 – 6, 448, 464,
Sol 439, 441, 447, 451 476 – 8, 482
see also Sun
Solymians 23 Taurus 385, 396, 479
Sown Men 353 Telamon 303 – 4, 317, 356
space(s) Telandrus 203
– appropriation of 14, 296, 316, 356, 429 Telchines 218
– as expression of perspective 4, 64, 70 – 1, Telmedius 205
224, 243, 306, 341, 376 – 7, 380, 384 telos 141 – 4, 152 – 3, 159 – 60
– as expression of ethics and ideology 107, temenos 64, 94
240, 248, 296, 428 temple(s), of
– civic 113, 247, 369 – Apollo 277, 436
– contested 67, 80 – Artemis/Diana 182, 450
– gendered 1, 4, 12–13, 71, 79–81, 224, 245 – Athena 80, 185, 191
see also landscape(s), sexualized territoriality 69, 87
 Index rerum et nominum 533

thalamos 78, 80 toponym 3, 13, 294, 320, 322 – 3

Thebes 15 – 16, 23, 71, 123, 171, 349, 360, town 63, 65, 71, 74, 76 – 7, 87 – 8, 92, 185,
363 – 6, 369 – 72, 405 – 11, 413, 415 – 24, 205, 239, 375, 377 – 8, 387, 408, 418
426 see also enclosed space(s)
Theognis 10, 140 – 6, 150, 152 see also Memnon
Theogony 5, 34, 111, 129, 131, 134 – 6, 138, transformation(s) 13, 14, 17, 67, 113, 117,
159, 183, 307 – 8, 310 – 12, 314 – 15 143, 154, 194, 198 – 200, 207, 293, 298,
Thessaly 14, 343 – 8, 355, 402, 439, 482 346 – 7, 362
thickness 9, 50 – 2, 54, 58, 59, 61 – Phaeacian ship 200
see also pukinos see also Caeneus
Thracians 19, 27 see also Caieta
Thrinacia 177 see also Circe
Thybris 268 – 9, 271, 276 see also Ethiopians
see also Tiber see also Hecuba
Tiber [Tiberis] 184, 259, 269, 271, 291, see also metamorphosis
305 – 6, 320 see also Niobe
time 1, 7 – 9, 11, 16, 37 – 41, 43 – 5, 47, 50, translatio imperii 350
53, 57, 59 – 61, 71 – 2, 83, 89, 117, 127, travel 5 – 6, 8, 16, 66, 69 – 70, 74, 161,
135, 146, 174 – 7, 181, 184, 190, 192 – 6, 163 – 6, 175, 220, 325, 331 – 2, 342, 365,
207, 279, 293 – 4, 298, 377, 390 – 1, 405 – 7, 409, 411, 415 – 18, 423 – 4, 426,
400 – 1, 405 – 6, 409 – 10, 415 – 18, 426, 434 – 6, 463 – 6, 468 – 9, 475 – 80, 482,
463 – 4, 471, 479 – 80 484 – 5
timemark 192, 298 see also journey
Titanomachy 68, 211 triumph 15, 215, 253, 255 – 6, 261, 334 – 7,
tomb(s) 93 – 4, 173, 192 – 3, 198, 201 – 2, 339, 374, 387 – 90, 392, 403, 431 – 2,
204 – 6, 452 434, 436, 440
– Achilles 190 – 1 Troad 183, 199 – 200, 356
– Ajax 190 Troezen 423 – 4
– Assaracus 185 see also journey
– Caieta 298 – 9 Troy 14, 19 – 20, 22 – 3, 26 – 7, 30, 33, 35 – 6,
– Cyzicus 193 67 – 71, 79, 83, 89 – 93, 113, 123, 155,
– Eetion 204 181, 183 – 6, 190, 191, 201, 229, 232 – 4,
– (wished for by) Elpenor 191 239, 265 – 6, 268 – 9, 279, 305, 308,
– Hecuba 199 322, 324, 334, 341 – 4, 346, 348,
– Ilus 185 376 – 8, 391, 401, 433, 437, 463, 470
– Protesilaus 194 Tydeus 369 – 70, 405, 407 – 9, 414, 416,
see Memnon 418 – 19, 421
topography 1, 7, 14 – 15, 18, 42, 44, 47, 58, see also journey
69, 71, 75, 90, 162 – 5, 170, 172 – 3, 178, Tyre 211, 230
294, 301 – 2, 305, 309 – 10, 313, 315, Tyrrhenian
319, 325, 332, 337, 346, 358, 365, 374, – coast 296, 300 – 4, 309, 311 – 12, 316,
393, 395 – 7, 406, 410, 448, 460, 471 – 2, 322, 324
475 – mainland 309, 311, 313
– of death 318
see also death Underworld 173, 191, 296, 310, 358, 415,
– of remembrance 173, 297 – 8 447, 453
see also memory urbs 279, 380, 382, 387
534 Index rerum et nominum

Var 390 – 1 West, the 6, 12, 14, 17, 161, 164, 184, 221,
Vercingetorix 381 – 2 223, 229, 231, 235 – 6, 239, 264, 306,
Vespasian 350, 430 – 1, 437, 439 – 40, 485 308 – 12, 338, 385, 431, 461
vine 168, 209 – 12 wilderness 7 – 8, 15, 39, 47, 58 – 60, 90,
violence 15, 65, 102, 108, 110 – 12, 119, 142, 146, 150, 172, 328, 363, 419,
122 – 5, 132, 134, 347, 360, 436 427 – 8, 439, 449, 451, 460
Vitruvius 336, 338 wind 59, 178, 214, 396, 443
wine 31 – 2, 65, 91 – 2, 126 – 7, 210, 212, 218,
walls 30, 64, 66 – 8, 71, 74, 89, 90, 93 – 4, 410, 456
111, 155, 358, 410 – 11, 418, 483 – skin 217, 219
see also enclosed space(s) wordplay 274, 325, 347, 392
wandering 5, 13, 63, 162, 265, 268, 271 – 2, see also etymology
276, 280, 284 – 8, 322, 347, 363 – 5, 367,
412 – 13, 424, 451, 463 Xanthus 71, 184, 216, 391
Wandering Rocks 162, 165, 177
water 15, 29, 43, 50, 75, 164, 168 – 70, 176, Zancle 14, 331 – 3
193, 201, 203, 205 – 7, 217, 219, 221, see also etymology
279, 363, 374, 389 – 93, 412 – 14, 418, zetema 301, 313, 323
421 – 7, 439, 446 – 7, 453, 458, 471 – 4, Zeus 8, 19, 21, 25 – 8, 30, 33 – 6, 63, 67 – 71,
479 – 81 77, 79, 86, 91, 98, 100 – 2, 104, 107, 112,
wealth 81, 88, 92, 99 – 104, 108 – 11, 120, 118, 125 – 6, 128, 130, 132 – 6, 166, 172,
125 – 7, 129, 170, 435 175 – 6, 185 – 6, 190, 200, 202, 204, 207,
weather 50, 68, 127, 444 209 – 10, 275, 278, 345
– Herkeios 185, 190
Index locorum

Aeschylus (ed. Radt) 2.268 172

TrGF fr. 402 333 2.317 – 407 162
2.397 – 403 316 – 17
Agathemerus 2.401 319
1.1.2 335 2.417 – 18 164
2.498 – 505 175
Apollodorus 2.549 – 606 165
Epitome 2.669 – 713 168
5.23 199 2.679 – 80 168
Bibliotheca 2.680 168
3.9.2 143, 150 2.681 168
2.681 – 2 168
Apollonius Rhodius 2.720 – 51 173
Argonautica 2.835 – 50 173
1.1 – 2 192 2.851 – 3 193
1.1 – 4 464 2.859 – 63 173
1.18 165 2.911 – 22 173
1.19 165 2.916 – 17 453
1.121 – 32 174 2.919 – 20 453
1.124 – 5 174 2.924 – 9 173
1.128 174 2.946 – 54 175
1.130 – 1 174 2.1030 – 89 166
1.308 277 2.1088 – 9 166
1.419 277 2.1231 – 41 175
1.494 – 511 451 2.1246 – 59 175
1.525 165 2.1247 – 8 175
1.537 277 2.1251 – 5 175
1.609 – 39 172 2.1256 – 9 175
1.721 – 67 171 2.1260 – 1 164
1.725 – 6 169 3.131 – 41 169
1.915 – 21 175 3.158 – 66 167
1.936 166 3.199 – 203 317 – 18
1.985 – 8 167 3.200 – 3 173
1.1058 – 62 173 3.200 – 9 452
1.1104 – 52 167 3.213 – 38 170
1.1141 168 3.250 – 2 172
1.1172 – 363 169 3.307 – 13 310 – 11
1.1188 169 3.313 313
1.1221 – 39 170 3.616 – 824 172
1.1347 – 8 174 3.869 – 86 172
2.178 172 4.35 – 81 173
2.178 – 239 172 4.123 – 61 170
2.223 – 5 172 4.166 170
2.232 – 3 172 4.167 – 70 170
536 Index locorum

4.170 – 82 170 Apollonius Sophistes

4.184 – 6 170 99.16 300
4.257 – 93 162
4.282 – 93 164 Appianus
4.428 – 9 169 Mithridaticus
4.430 – 4 169 103 433
4.557 – 61 311
4.566 – 76 175 Aristeas of Proconnesus (ed. Bernabé)
4.592 165 test. 2 24
4.595 – 626 176 fr. 4 24
4.596 – 611 206 fr. 5 24
4.597 – 8 176 fr. 6 24
4.599 – 600 176, 206 fr. 7 25
4.601 – 3 206 fr. 11 28
4.603 – 5 176
4.604 206 Aristoteles
4.605 206 Historia animalium
4.605 – 6 207 608a30 327
4.621 – 3 206
4.625 – 6 176 Arrianus
4.627 – 31 164 Anabasis
4.659 – 752 311 1.11.7 – 8 190
4.825 – 31 165 1.12.1 190
4.891 – 919 165 Periplus Ponti Euxini
4.924 – 63 165 8 456
4.964 – 81 177
4.1128 – 55 171 Aulus Gellius
4.1141 – 2 171 Noctes Atticae
4.1225 – 619 177 6.12.6 – 7 236
4.1246 – 7 178 7.6.9 243
4.1251 178 12.4 245
4.1264 – 6 178 12.4.1 246
4.1292 178
4.1293 178 Caesar
4.1309 – 11 179 De bello Gallico
4.1312 – 14 179 1.1 382
4.1396 – 405 179 5.13 383
4.1422 – 30 179 7.63 381
4.1436 174
4.1444 – 9 179 Callimachus
4.1513 – 17 179 Aetia
4.1546 – 7 165 fr. 1.3 – 5 Pf. 218
4.1573 – 85 162 fr. 2.1 Pf. 183
4.1601 – 19 179 frr. 28 – 34 M. 366
4.1694 – 701 443 fr. 43.69 – 71 Pf. 332
4.1705 277 frr. 86 – 9 Pf. 335
4.1733 – 9 179
 Index locorum 537

Iambi Dionysius (ed. Garzya)

fr. 229 Pf. 189 De avibus
Hecala 1.8 205, 206
fr. 47.5 – 6 H. 301
Hymnus in Jovem Ennius
8 280 Annales
94 – 8 281 12 – 13 228
Hymnus in Apollinem 14 232, 239, 263
1–2 282 15 – 16 232, 239
9 – 10 282, 283 20 259
108 – 9 217 21 259
Hymnus in Delum 22 259
11 284, 285 26 259
35 – 6 284 28 263
36 284 30 259
51 – 4 274 – 5 31 259
53 284 34 – 50 223, 240, 241 – 2
70 – 197 275 37 242
192 284 38 242, 243
240 – 4 275 38 – 9 243
269 284 39 242
273 284 39 – 42 243
42 243
Catullus 44 – 9 243
2.11 – 13 160 45 242
69 – 70 249
Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi (ed. West) 71 249
12 – 13 34 – 5 72 – 91 223, 240, 243, 243 – 4
74 244
Cicero 75 – 6 244
De divinatione 77 244
1.107 – 8 243 78 244
De officiis 79 – 83 245
1.38 238 90 – 1 244
1.84 236 121 249
Pro Balbo 122 249
50 – 1 237 128 – 9 259
130 249
Dio Cassius 131 249
4.17.6 189 132 249
37.21.2 388 142 259
78.16.7 191 143 – 4 249
150 256
Diodorus Siculus 151 250
4.56.5 303 152 250, 259
4.56.6 303 154 – 5 256
156 236
538 Index locorum

157 259 267 250

158 256 268 – 72 247
160 250, 259 268 – 86 223, 240, 246
161 250 272 247
162 253 277 – 8 264
165 262 286 247
166 262 287 236, 253, 260
167 251, 262 288 253
169 251 VIII.xv 260
170 – 2 251, 256 VIII.xvi 260
173 – 4 250 289 250, 259
180 – 2 253 290 256
183 – 90 238, 251, 262 291 250, 259
191 – 4 251 292 239, 252, 260
195 – 6 251 294 – 6 252
197 – 8 251, 262 297 230, 253, 260
199 – 200 251 298 250
201 251 299 253, 256, 261
202 251 300 – 1 253
213 251 302 261, 264
214 236, 252, 260 303 236, 261
215 252, 260 304 – 8 256
216 251, 260 309 252, 261
218 252 310 236, 253, 261
219 252 315 250
225 – 6 253 316 253
227 – 8 251 319 – 20 237
229 252, 259 322 – 3 253, 262
230 251 324 257
233 251 326 – 8 252
234 – 5 237, 251, 260 329 257
236 – 7 250, 260 330 – 1 252
238 251 340 – 2 262
239 252 343 252
240 – 1 256 344 – 5 233, 235, 239, 263
242 230, 252, 260 346 262
243 – 4 253 347 252
247 – 53 256 349 253
254 – 5 256 355 250
256 – 7 256 356 250
261 251 357 262
262 251 362 257
263 252 363 236
263 – 7 234 363 – 5 257
264 250 366 – 8 253
265 234 369 234, 235, 257, 263
266 234, 250 371 – 3 252, 263
 Index locorum 539

377 – 8 252 517 254

379 – 80 252 519 255
381 252, 262 524 260
382 – 3 252 525 260
384 250 526 254, 261
385 – 6 253 527 254
387 250 528 254
388 252 531 254
389 – 90 250 533 258
XV.iv 261 544 254
391 – 8 250 545 254
403 253 548 255
407 261 550 254
XVI.viii 257 557 255, 264
408 261 559 258
409 250 560 – 1 258
410 251 563 258
411 251 573 254
412 252 577 254
418 239, 253 581 258
424 252 582 254
425 – 6 252 583 254
428 251 584 254
431 252 597 254
432 – 4 253 599 255
440 251 603 255
450 254 607 255
451 254 609 260
453 259 611 255
455 259 612 254
457 260 618 255
459 – 60 263 620 254
468 254 623 254
471 231, 236, 264
472 261 Etymologicum Magnum
474 – 5 255, 236 543.40 329
477 260
480 254 Euphorion (ed. Lightfoot)
483 – 4 254 fr. 68 198
485 – 6 254
494 – 5 258, 260 Euripides
498 255 Hecuba
499 258 1265 198
502 255 1273 198
504 254 Troades
512 254 820 186
515 – 16 254 833 – 5 186
540 Index locorum

835 – 7 186 150.31 26

151 26
Herodianus 204.103 105
4.8.4 – 5 191 241 320
390a 312
Herodotus 390b 312
1.90 335 Opera et dies
1.157 189 3–4 128
1.216 69 5–6 128
2.159 189 7 128
4.28 455, 456 11 129
5.53 409 12 129
7.42 – 3 190 13 107
14 107
Hesiodus 15 107
Fragmenta (ed. Merkelbach-West) 15 – 16 107
30.35 345 16 107, 129
43a.31 142 17 – 24 129
43a.62 105 18 – 19 134
73.1 – 8 147 20 109
73.2 154 20 – 4 100
73.5 150 27 – 9 102, 103
73 – 6 138 27 – 34 98
74 151 27 – 41 97
75.1 – 25 147 28 98, 107, 123, 129
75.18 – 23 150 28 – 9 98, 109
75.21 154 28 – 34 129
76.1 – 23 147 – 8, 150, 151, 152 29 98, 107
76.4 – 8 152, 154 30 107
76.5 154 30 – 2 98
76.9 159 31 106
76.10 150 33 98, 107
76.16 151 33 – 4 98
76.18 – 19 152, 153 33 – 6 130
76.18 – 23 156 34 102, 108
76.19 157 35 98, 107, 130
76.20 154 35 – 6 98
76.20 – 4 152 36 102, 107, 130, 133
150.11 26 38 107, 108
150.15 26 38 – 9 101, 107
150.16 26 38 – 41 131
150.17 – 18 23 39 107, 130
150.19 26 40 132
150.20 26 40 – 1 110, 132
150.27 26 42 102, 118
150.28 26 42 – 52 117
150.30 26 44 118, 125, 127
 Index locorum 541

45 – 6 114 214 – 16 110

47 102 219 101
90 – 2 118 219 – 24 109, 130
91 118 220 – 1 101, 102
106 – 201 118 220 – 4 102, 130
108 118 221 101
109 – 26 119 222 105
112 119 225 103, 110
112 – 13 124 225 – 6 101, 111
112 – 15 119 225 – 37 103, 110
113 120 225 – 47 116
115 120 226 103
116 120 227 111
117 120 227 – 37 103
117 – 18 120, 124 228 110
118 120, 133 230 110
119 121 230 – 1 115
123 120 231 110
124 121 232 110
124 – 5 121 232 – 3 110
126 120 234 110
134 – 7 124 235 111
137 105 237 111
145 – 6 123 238 111
146 124 238 – 40 134
146 – 7 123 242 – 3 111, 115
158 102 243 111
167 – 8 105 244 111
170 – 3 124 246 – 7 112
172 102 248 – 51 130
172 – 3 102 248 – 73 107
174 – 201 121 249 107, 130
176 – 7 122 249 – 50 102
177 122 250 107, 108
182 – 4 122 252 – 62 134
183 – 9 101 254 107
189 123 256 108
190 – 1 109 256 – 62 102, 130
190 – 2 123 258 102, 108
190 – 4 101 258 – 62 130
192 – 4 123 259 – 61 108
194 123 260 108
195 – 6 123 261 – 4 102
200 123 262 – 4 108
212 – 24 101 263 – 6 132
213 109 267 – 9 131
213 – 18 101, 108 269 108, 130, 131
542 Index locorum

270 – 2 130 379 134

270 – 85 134 379 – 80 100
271 130 380 116
272 130 381 – 404 103
273 130 381 – 413 103
274 – 80 132 382 99
274 – 85 101 391 – 4 115
275 101, 109 397 – 8 99, 115
276 132 398 102
276 – 80 102 404 114
277 – 80 132 410 – 13 103
280 101 411 – 12 106
280 – 3 109 413 103
281 101 415 – 16 134
282 101 458 – 72 100
286 – 92 100, 126 473 – 4 100, 134
289 100 475 – 6 106
299 – 302 115 488 134
299 – 308 103 493 112
299 – 309 102 493 – 503 127
302 102 495 – 9 127
303 132 498 – 9 103
304 – 6 132 525 105
305 103, 132 527 105
305 – 6 110, 132 574 112, 127
306 – 7 106 574 – 7 100
312 – 19 100 582 – 96 126, 133
313 100 584 127
314 – 16 108 585 – 7 126
315 100, 114 589 127
315 – 16 108 600 – 1 106
316 100 618 – 94 113
320 103, 108, 110 623 114
320 – 2 101 629 – 30 114
320 – 6 103 631 – 3 115
322 108, 115 633 – 40 115
322 – 4 115 638 134
324 115 639 – 40 105
326 110 641 – 2 114
327 – 34 101, 134 643 – 5 115
334 114 644 115, 116
336 – 43 133 646 114
341 104 646 – 9 114, 115
342 – 60 105 647 114
344 105 648 114
344 – 5 105 650 – 60 115
352 110, 115 650 – 62 116
 Index locorum 543

667 – 8 134 1.266 – 73 93

673 – 94 114 1.302 63
700 – 1 105 1.349 91
766 – 7 133 1.403 – 4 31
Scutum 1.423 – 4 23
201 – 6 112 1.448 82
305 – 13 112 1.499 68
Theogonia 1.533 68
22 183 1.533 – 6 68
35 159 1.533 – 611 69
81 – 2 131 1.597 68, 82
81 – 93 111 1.605 – 11 68
83 – 90 131 1.606 – 8 68
86 131 1.610 68
87 131 2.50 – 2 91
89 131 2.53 – 5 91
91 112 2.84 – 6 91
214 135 2.206 75
223 – 5 129 2.303 – 19 194
225 129, 135 2.484 – 92 183
226 129, 135, 136 2.492 376
337 – 40 320 2.556 386
434 131 2.581 – 2 300
434 – 30 [Solmsen] 131 2.625 – 8 187
435 112 2.734 – 5 188
453 – 506 134 2.781 – 4 86
617 – 745 134 2.815 – 77 70
820 – 68 134 2.819 – 21 190
885 134 2.836 387
901 – 6 134, 136 2.841 387
903 134 2.848 22
965 – 1018 308 2.849 70
1011 – 5 307 2.857 70
1014 313 2.863 70
2.867 21, 188
Hesychius 2.867 – 71 188
κ 219 300 2.867 – 75 187
2.872 – 5 187
Hippocrates 2.877 70
De aere aquis et locis 3.3 – 7 23
15 456 3.12 85
3.15 – 20 22
Homerus 3.69 66
Ilias 3.90 66
1.122 – 40 63 3.181 – 3 30
1.185 63 3.182 23
1.199 47 3.382 – 3 69
544 Index locorum

3.406 – 7 68 7.87 – 90 192

3.416 66 7.132 – 57 93
4.3 68 7.133 – 5 93
4.52 71 7.459 – 63 90
4.383 414 8.13 – 16 68
4.438 21 8.369 76
4.541 – 2 94 8.382 – 9 68
5.59 – 61 316 8.389 69
5.72 187 8.393 68
5.266 185 8.478 69
5.304 192 8.555 – 60 85
5.339 – 42 32 8.559 86
5.364 – 9 69 9.141 – 56 63
5.440 – 2 30 9.354 93
5.445 – 6 185 9.360 – 3 73
5.512 185 9.381 – 4 23
5.720 – 32 69 9.383 71
5.720 – 52 69 9.395 344
5.749 – 51 68 9.412 – 16 344
5.767 – 8 69 9.413 344
6.13 387 9.439 344
6.55 – 60 22 9.479 – 83 93
6.88 71, 185 9.573 71
6.88 – 92 65 9.578 – 9 64
6.118 – 85 81 10.5 – 10 55
6.146 – 9 59 10.74 – 81 91
6.184 – 5 23 10.110 187
6.186 23 10.175 187
6.204 23 10.351 – 2 85
6.234 – 6 22 11.86 – 8 89
6.241 – 9 65 11.166 – 70 89
6.242 – 9 93 11.488 – 91 76
6.242 – 50 22 11.669 – 760 88
6.269 185 11.707 – 72 93
6.279 185 11.762 – 4 91
6.289 – 95 23 12.13 – 35 192
6.297 71 12.176 67
6.313 – 24 80 12.278 – 83 89
6.317 80 12.278 – 87 86
6.379 – 80 65 12.310 – 25 91
6.414 – 27 69 12.310 – 28 22
6.512 80 12.383 192
6.516 158 12.449 192
7.1 71 13.1 – 9 8, 19, 25, 27, 35, 36
7.55 66 13.4 – 7 69
7.83 185 13.10 – 16 33
7.86 192 14.30 – 6 66
 Index locorum 545

14.153 – 6 27, 35 20.234 – 5 186

14.157 47 20.287 192
14.157 – 8 69 20.301 – 8 184
14.161 – 23 35 20.302 184
14.166 68 20.307 – 8 184
14.204 67 21.1 – 2 216
14.278 – 80 69 21.251 85
14.301 70 21.300 79
14.331 – 53 87 21.407 64
15.158 – 217 63 22.122 – 8 158
15.189 – 93 68 22.124 158
15.193 67 22.128 158
15.271 – 6 49 22.137 93
15.358 – 9 85 22.144 71
15.519 187 22.146 – 56 93
15.520 187 22.157 – 66 155
15.528 187 22.189 – 92 49
15.655 – 6 67 22.194 – 8 93
16.211 67 22.195 71
16.313 187 22.199 – 204 157
16.419 – 20 204 22.201 157
16.456 – 7 204 22.262 – 7 22
16.459 204 23.13 – 14 82
16.667 – 84 204 23.59 – 107 79
16.674 – 5 204 23.97 – 8 79
16.678 204 23.99 – 102 79
16.681 204 23.114 – 20 89
16.682 – 3 204 23.164 64
17.84 47 23.202 – 7 23
17.281 – 3 49 23.245 – 7 65
17.375 66 23.327 65
17.443 – 7 29 – 30 23.517 – 22 84
18.59 – 60 83 23.629 – 42 93
18.264 66 23.743 23
18.314 – 23 55 – 6 23.758 – 83 85
18.478 – 607 83 23.760 – 4 85
18.504 82 24.306 185
18.505 – 6 83 24.308 – 13 185
18.511 – 14 71 24.317 64
18.520 – 40 87, 88 24.322 – 9 71
18.574 – 5 83 24.453 – 5 71
18.590 – 605 82 24.476 – 515 79
18.603 82 24.525 – 6 36
18.609 – 16 83 24.602 – 17 194
19.239 187 24.614 194
19.291 – 8 69 24.614 – 15 196
20.4 – 6 68 24.614 – 17 194
546 Index locorum

24.615 – 16 195 9.112 75

24.615 – 17 195 9.116 – 41 72, 75
24.617 196 9.119 75
Odyssea 9.159 72
1.3 20 9.190 29
1.338 20 9.322 – 4 64
2.124 85 9.325 65
4.1 – 2 300 9.352 75
4.43 – 54 89 10.28 – 55 72
4.71 – 4 89 10.29 – 32 73
4.220 – 32 89 10.47 – 55 72
4.351 – 586 73 10.51 – 4 75
4.455 – 9 194 10.135 – 9 309
4.561 – 9 76 10.167 65
4.563 – 70 71 10.190 – 2 306
4.605 – 8 75 10.211 65
5.249 84 10.235 – 43 194
5.291 – 390 72 10.350 – 70 65
5.329 56 10.508 – 15 75
5.333 – 5 362 10.513 – 14 76
5.383 68 11.5 – 22 71
5.401 – 35 72 11.13 – 22 447
5.433 56 11.38 – 41 76
5.446 58 11.66 – 80 76
5.475 – 94 52 11.75 – 6 192
5.478 – 81 50, 52 11.82 – 3 76
5.479 51 11.110 – 14 72
5.483 52 11.150 – 225 79
5.483 – 93 51 11.153 47
5.489 88 11.157 – 8 75
6.40 93 11.187 – 96 88
6.43 71 11.227 – 30 76
6.85 – 7 93 11.240 – 1 345
6.127 – 34 59 11.543 76
7.112 – 35 72 11.561 76
7.113 64 11.563 – 4 76
8.65 – 6 82 11.576 – 600 76
8.192 74 11.577 64
8.197 74 11.627 – 9 76
8.221 74 12.1 – 4 310
8.234 74 12.9 – 15 75
8.236 74 12.170 – 80 72
8.250 – 3 82 12.337 – 9 72
8.262 82 12.366 – 70 72
8.378 – 80 82 12.405 – 19 72
9.8 82 12.417 – 19 72
9.21 – 2 75 12.431 – 44 84
 Index locorum 547

13.149 – 52 90 19.453 59
13.155 – 6 200 19.467 – 8 45
13.157 – 8 200 19.467 – 75 60
13.160 – 4 194 19.468 – 70 41
13.161 – 4 199 – 200 19.474 – 5 46
13.163 200 19.515 – 21 54
13.187 200 19.519 – 20 59
15.384 71 21.5 – 60 78
17.204 – 39 87 21.215 78
17.239 – 44 77 21.350 – 4 78
17.339 – 41 78 22.384 – 9 78
17.365 82 22.448 – 50 78
17.383 – 6 92 23.183 – 204 53
17.447 – 50 82 24.83 – 4 191
17.475 – 87 77 24.150 88
17.494 77 24.226 – 86 88
17.507 – 10 79 24.244 – 7 71
17.529 79 24.339 – 44 71
17.554 79
17.569 – 70 80 Horace
18.40 – 1 83 Carmina
18.41 82 1.3 434
18.327 – 9 113
18.358 88, 89 Hyginus
18.366 – 78 88 Fabulae
18.374 64 53 277 – 8
19.109 – 14 111 140.1 – 4 278
19.386 – 490 38
19.388 ff. 40 Hymni Homerici
19.388 – 93 43, 60 in Apollinem
19.389 40 1–2 281
19.389 – 90 44 14 – 6 277
19.390 43, 45 45 – 6 274
19.390 – 1 43 50 – 82 274
19.391 45 52 280
19.392 45, 46 469 280
19.392 – 3 45 469 – 73 280
19.393 41, 44, 47
19.393 – 466 60 Isidorus
19.394 93 Origines
19.428 – 43 47 – 8, 50 11.1.86 297
19.439 – 42 52
19.439 – 43 50 John Milton
19.442 51, 59 Paradise Lost
19.442 – 3 52 4.270 359
19.443 52, 59
19.445 59
548 Index locorum

Julianus 3.169 385

Epistulae (ed. Bidez) 3.169 – 297 373, 384
79 191 3.171 – 202 385
3.174 384
Livius 3.181 – 3 386
Ab urbe condita 3.191 – 2 398
30.26.7 236 3.192 398
3.203 – 13 385, 387
Lucanus 3.204 387
Bellum ciuile siue Pharsalia 3.208 396
1.1 463 3.212 – 13 401
1.12 388 3.214 – 24 385
1.19 388 3.220 – 4 395, 396
1.135 392 3.225 396
1.136 – 43 392 3.225 – 6 385
1.151 – 7 392 3.228 385
1.185 379 3.229 – 41 385
1.185 – 227 414 3.233 – 4 393
1.192 – 4 391 3.240 – 1 388
1.204 – 205 390, 391 3.244 – 6 385
1.213 – 24 390, 391 3.247 – 8 385
1.216 391 3.249 397
1.219 379 3.256 392
1.254 – 6 380 3.258 – 9 392
1.392 – 465 373, 375, 379, 381 3.266 – 70 385
1.395 379 3.267 388
1.396 376 3.269 396
1.396 – 7 376 3.271 – 9 385
1.398 381 3.282 – 3 388
1.399 376 3.284 – 7 384
1.399 – 401 392 3.291 – 2 386
1.402 376, 396 3.292 – 5 385
1.403 376 3.296 – 7 389
1.404 390, 391 3.297 385
1.407 396 3.432 – 9 393
1.417 – 19 394 4.16 – 23 392
1.419 – 22 378 4.17 392
1.422 376 4.20 – 21 397
1.424 378 4.23 392
1.426 378 5.356 394
1.432 396 5.597 – 677 393
1.441 376 6.272 – 8 393
1.463 – 5 383 7.825 – 34 401 – 2
1.464 379 7.851 – 4 399
1.464 – 5 376 7.858 – 91 399
1.480 380 9.950 – 99 190
2.644 388 9.962 – 3 190
 Index locorum 549

9.965 – 79 433 24.175 214

9.970 – 1 190 25.1 214
9.971 190 26.222 – 40 220
9.972 – 3 190 31.127 205
9.974 – 5 391
9.976 – 9 190 Ovidius
10.40 394 Amores
10.191 – 2 394 3.6.13 366
10.272 – 5 394 Ars amatoria
10.285 – 7 394 1.225 366
10.456 393 Epistulae ex Ponto
2.1 339
Lucianus 2.1.19 – 20 340
Dialogi deorum 2.1.22 340
6.2 189 4.4 340
Metamorphoses
Lydus (ed. Wünsch) 1.89 – 112 332
De mensibus 1.176 340
4.64, p. 119 205 1.199 339
1.205 – 6 339
Macrobius 1.206 339
Saturnalia 1.216 – 7 325
6.1.22 230 1.226 – 30 327
6.1.60 234 1.234 – 5 327
1.304 327
Nonnus 1.437 334
Dionysiaca 1.440 – 7 368
3.107 – 9 205 1.448 – 51 335
4.81 – 2 205 1.457 – 60 368
12.240 – 4 212 2.216 – 25 363
12.272 – 84 211 2.217 363
13.3 – 7 210 2.221 363
20.144 205 2.237 – 59 363
22.1 – 2 216 2.247 363
22.1 – 3 219 2.572 – 6 345
22.127 – 30 215 3.6 – 7 363, 364
22.133 – 5 215 3.10 – 13 363
22.384 – 9 216 3.26 – 130 353
23.105 – 12 217 3.28 372
23.123 – 4 219 3.28 – 49 363
23.134 219 3.29 – 31 369
23.148 – 50 214 3.31 – 49 369
23.196 – 214 217 3.32 353
23.215 217 3.35 364
23.221 – 4 216 – 17 3.38 369
24.82 – 5 218 – 19 3.41 – 2 369
24.113 – 16 218 3.48 369
550 Index locorum

3.48 – 9 369 7.101 353

3.73 – 6 369 7.106 – 10 354
3.90 – 4 369 7.110 – 11 353
3.129 364 7.118 – 19 354
3.146 370 7.120 – 1 355
3.146 – 7 365 7.232 331
3.155 – 6 370 7.443 – 7 366
3.225 – 7 371 7.702 – 4 358
3.232 – 5 371 8.6 – 151 366
3.287 353 8.310 364
3.412 372 11.205 – 13 356
3.701 – 7 361 12.39 339
4.176 – 89 329 12.39 – 40 338
4.189 329 12.39 – 63 338
4.190 – 2 329 12.49 339
4.192 329 12.53 339
4.223 – 5 329 12.61 339
4.236 – 7 330 12.63 339
4.420 – 511 360 12.64 – 6 342
4.481 360 12.102 – 4 343
4.481 – 8 360 12.159 – 60 346
4.525 – 42 362 12.169 – 75 344
4.535 362 12.169 – 535 343
4.545 353 12.177 – 81 344
4.567 – 8 364 12.190 345
4.569 353 12.191 344
4.572 364 12.193 – 5 345
4.576 – 9 364 12.196 345
4.607 – 11 365, 366 12.208 – 9 346
4.621 – 4 367 12.351 – 2 355
4.668 – 739 356 13.1 – 398 343
5.312 364 13.565 – 71 199
5.385 358 13.600 – 22 205
5.385 – 95 357 – 8 13.618 – 9 205
5.390 358 13.623 – 14.608 334
5.391 358 13.905 331
5.392 358, 359 14.1 – 7 331
5.394 358 14.1 – 10 334
5.395 358 14.5 – 6 333
6.412 – 21 363 14.5 – 7 333
7.1 355 14.443 – 4 297
7.7 – 8 352 15.12 – 57 334
7.74 – 7 359 15.290 – 2 333
7.74 – 95 356 15.429 370
7.75 359 15.622 – 745 334
7.84 – 5 353 15.803 – 4 330
7.100 – 6 353 15.855 – 70 350
 Index locorum 551

15.877 339 1.294 – 306 193, 194, 195 – 6

15.878 – 9 339 1.295 196
Tristia 1.296 196
3.10.37 – 9 455 1.296 – 7 196
1.297 – 8 196
Parthenius 1.298 196
Metamorphoses 1.299 193, 195, 196, 199
SH 637 366 1.300 – 1 196
1.301 196
Pausanias 1.302 – 3 196
1.21.3 197 1.304 196
1.21.5 195 1.305 – 6 198
5.7.5 189 1.306 196
10.31.6 – 7 205 2.282 – 6 188
2.542 – 8 201
Plinius 2.550 204
Historia naturalis 2.550 – 66 201
5.29.103 205 2.553 204
6.1 456 2.556 – 8 204
6.96 – 106 463 2.556 – 66 193
10.37 205 2.558 193
2.560 203
Plutarchus 2.564 – 5 206
Alexander 2.565 – 6 206
15 190 2.567 203
60.4 215 2.570 – 3 202
2.574 – 82 202
Priscianus 2.582 – 5 202
2.210 230 2.585 – 92 201 – 2
2.588 – 90 205
Ptolemaeus (ed. Müller) 2.589 – 91 203
Geographia 2.634 – 45 202
5.14.3 205 2.646 193
2.646 – 55 193, 202
Quintus Smyrnaeus 4.5 204
Posthomerica 4.6 203
1.1 – 4 181 4.8 – 9 203, 204
1.270 – 5 187 4.9 – 10 203
1.276 187 4.10 193
1.276 – 7 187 4.10 – 11 203, 205
1.279 – 81 187 4.11 – 12 203
1.282 188 6.143 – 7 185
1.282 – 6 187 6.146 185
1.287 187 6.147 185
1.294 199 8.96 – 8 189
1.294 – 5 196 8.97 – 8 190
1.294 – 304 196 8.430 186
552 Index locorum

8.431 – 42 186 483 – 6 435

8.446 – 50 186 603 435
9.389 – 91 193 605 – 6 435
10.127 – 37 193 De tranquilitate
10.133 – 4 193 2.13 459
11.98 193
12.306 – 13 182 Seneca senior
12.311 – 13 182 Suasoriae
12.481 185 1 393
12.517 185 1.5 393
13.222 185 1.15 394
13.336 – 41 184
13.421 – 8 185 Servius
13.430 – 7 185 in Vergilii Aeneados libros
13.434 185 1.657 328
13.435 185 3.73 273
13.435 – 6 185 7.1 297
14.325 185 in Vergilii Georgicon libros
14.325 – 6 185 1.17 326
14.326 185
14.347 – 51 199 Sophocles
14.347 – 53 198 Antigone
14.349 199 822 – 33 195
14.349 – 50 200
14.350 – 1 199, 200 Statius
14.351 193, 199, 200 Siluae
14.352 – 3 200 1.12 – 13 464
14.630 – 1 181 Thebais
1.1 463
Sallustius 1.58 – 9 360
Historiae (ed. Maurenbrecher) 1.92 – 3 360
fr. 3.63 = fr. 3.44 McGushin 456 1.99 – 106 422
1.100 – 1 360
Scholia 1.101 – 2 361
in Apollonii Rhodii Argonautica 1.114 – 22 361
2.399 320 1.120 422
3.309 – 13 312 1.153 – 4 364
in Homeri Iliadem 1.312 – 14 364, 407
ΣAD ad 24.602 198 1.313 420
in Homeri Odysseam 1.324 366
4.1 300 1.324 – 6 407
1.324 – 8 415
Seneca iunior 1.324 – 35 364
Medea 1.328 – 31 415
332 – 4 435 1.330 – 1 420
361 – 4 435 1.333 415, 423
375 – 9 435 1.333 – 4 415, 420, 421
 Index locorum 553

1.334 – 5 420, 421 3.324 416

1.336 – 41 415 3.324 – 5 416
1.336 – 89 416 3.326 – 36 416
1.346 – 69 415 3.328 416
1.355 421 3.336 – 8 416
1.356 420 3.337 414
1.359 – 60 421, 424 3.343 – 4 409
1.363 420 3.347 416
1.364 420 3.406 364
1.370 – 7 405 3.420 – 5 409
1.377 420 3.440 – 647 409
1.543 – 7 367 3.530 – 47 405
1.545 367 3.575 – 6 409
1.557 – 720 366 3.714 – 20 409
1.562 369 4.1 – 2 409
1.562 – 9 367 – 8 4.24 – 30 405
1.563 – 5 369 4.38 420
1.564 369 4.40 – 2 420
1.565 369 4.59 422
1.566 369 4.59 – 62 410
1.683 – 4 415 4.62 422
2.32 – 54 415 4.76 – 80 410
2.55 – 65 415 4.81 424
2.205 – 13 415 4.91 – 2 420
2.306 – 8 407 4.101 408
2.322 – 3 407 4.107 – 9 424
2.345 – 7 415 4.114 – 15 420
2.375 416 4.157 – 8 419
2.375 – 84 416 4.159 410
2.376 – 7 421 4.162 – 4 424
2.377 – 8 421, 424 4.175 – 6 421
2.379 – 81 421 4.187 – 213 420
2.380 – 1 422 4.198 420
2.382 421 4.256 – 9 421
2.496 – 505 369 4.342 – 3 419
2.498 370 4.344 409
2.498 – 9 370 4.356 – 7 411
2.519 – 23 424 4.370 – 1 414
2.523 – 6 369 4.406 – 9 371
2.527 – 8 416 4.409 – 18 371
2.527 – 703 409 4.419 – 21 371
2.527 – 742 416 4.425 – 6 372
2.726 – 7 419 4.434 – 5 371
3.155 – 6 372 4.553 – 78 372
3.175 – 6 424 4.645 409
3.229 – 39 409 4.646 – 7 424
3.263 – 316 409 4.646 – 5.753 410
554 Index locorum

4.646 – 7.144 421 6.238 – 42 410

4.647 411 6.242 424
4.650 413 6.243 424
4.680 – 1 409 6.244 – 8 424
4.687 413 6.249 – 53 410
4.690 – 1 409 6.249 – 946 410
4.724 413 6.368 424
4.726 412 6.945 – 6 419
4.740 – 2 412 7.1 410
4.744 412 7.14 410
4.747 413 7.15 – 16 421
4.793 – 4 413 7.17 – 18 410
4.800 413 7.90 – 1 410
4.804 412 7.91 – 104 410
4.805 412 7.100 410
4.823 – 7 424 7.105 – 7 415, 421
4.830 411 7.105 – 46 410
4.833 – 5 424 7.138 – 9 410
5.11 – 16 405 7.146 410
5.37 413 7.254 – 342 408
5.44 – 5 412 7.268 424
5.49 – 498 413 7.315 414
5.278 – 89 418 7.325 – 7 424
5.494 – 6 418 7.343 – 58 408
5.495 418 7.369 – 71 408
5.496 – 8 419 7.383 – 4 408
5.500 410 7.398 – 400 410
5.514 – 15 412 7.400 – 1 410
5.523 413 7.420 – 1 423
5.548 – 9 412 7.424 – 40 414
5.558 – 9 412 7.427 414
5.564 – 5 412 7.433 – 4 411
5.588 413 7.603 – 5 409
5.632 413 7.616 411
5.733 – 52 410 9.65 – 7 407
5.743 – 5 408 9.330 – 1 423
5.753 410 9.401 – 3 423
6.1 – 4 410 9.637 – 69 415
6.25 410 9.644 – 6 415
6.29 412 9.680 – 2 424
6.54 – 106 424 10.342 411
6.84 – 106 411 10.519 – 30 411
6.90 – 1 411 10.837 – 82 411
6.90 – 6 424 11.388 – 573 409
6.114 – 16 411 11.577 – 9 408
6.115 – 16 411 11.757 – 61 419
6.237 410 11.758 – 9 419
 Index locorum 555

11.759 419 12.809 405

11.760 419 12.816 – 17 372
12.105 416 12.817 405
12.105 – 10 420
12.105 – 28 420 Strabo
12.106 415 1.1.2 63
12.107 421 5.3.6 302
12.111 420 6.1.6 333
12.112 – 13 420 7.3.18 455
12.113 – 16 420 13.1.11 205
12.114 420 13.1.15 269
12.114 – 15 420 13.1.27 191
12.117 420 13.1.28 199
12.118 – 19 420 14.1.5 189
12.123 420 14.1.8 188
12.125 420 14.1.20 274
12.127 – 8 421 16.2.19 205
12.130 – 1 416, 420, 421, 423
12.132 416 Theognis
12.134 417 1283 – 94 140 – 1
12.141 – 66 416 1285 142
12.143 417 1287 – 90 144
12.143 – 4 419 1290 142, 143
12.163 – 5 416 1292 142
12.177 – 219 417 1293 142, 143, 146
12.206 417 1294 146
12.207 417
12.219 – 20 417, 420, 421 Valerius Flaccus
12.228 – 32 417 Argonautica
12.232 – 6 417 1.1 – 3 350
12.240 – 1 417 1.1 – 4 436, 464, 477, 483
12.241 420 1.2 350
12.243 – 4 420 1.3 – 4 438
12.244 417 1.5 – 21 350, 485
12.282 417 1.7 – 9 440
12.283 417 1.10 – 12 437
12.286 417 1.15 – 16 430
12.464 – 6 416 1.17 – 18 440
12.519 – 22 418 1.19 – 20 440
12.596 418 1.21 – 2 437
12.611 418 1.26 – 37 468
12.613 418 1.37 443
12.614 – 34 408 1.43 355
12.649 418 1.59b-63 468
12.661 418 1.66b-70 468
12.785 411 1.120 – 9 350
12.789 – 92 416 1.130 – 48 350
556 Index locorum

1.168 – 73 442 2.451 – 549 356

1.188 – 204 468 2.493 – 6 356
1.196 – 7 438 2.579 – 84 470
1.211 – 17a 468 2.584 – 5 443
1.242 437 2.584 – 626 470
1.245 – 6 437 2.585 – 6 470
1.245b-7 468 2.592 443
1.247 437 2.596 – 7 443, 470
1.249 437 2.597 476
1.345 – 6 440 2.598 – 607 470
1.512 – 13 441 2.613 – 20 471
1.515 – 16 441 2.613 – 36a 471
1.517 – 18 452 2.627 443
1.523 – 4 451 2.627 – 8 472
1.525 441 2.629 – 36a 472
1.526 441 2.639 – 48 473
1.531 – 60 437, 467, 468, 474, 480 2.641 – 2 443
1.544 – 6a 478 2.645 452
1.556b-7 437, 478 2.911 – 22 453
1.558 – 9 437 2.955 – 7 453
1.560 437 3.1 – 13 473
1.574 – 685 468, 469 3.39 – 42 473
1.579 – 96 471 3.43 – 5 473
1.587b-90 472 3.46 – 256 473
1.600 440 3.74 – 86 444
1.604 – 5 439 3.307 – 8 440
1.606 – 7 439 3.398 – 405 447
1.628 438 3.470 – 85a 474
1.644 440 3.617 440
1.672 439 4.114 – 32 474
2.6 – 33 469 4.199 – 343 474
2.16 469 4.209 – 21 474
2.16 – 33 454, 469 4.220 – 1 474
2.23b-33 471 4.318 452, 474
2.34 – 71 469 4.344 – 421 475
2.38 – 47 443 4.346 – 7 475
2.47 444 4.349 475
2.47 – 68 444 4.370 – 3 475
2.78 – 100 454 4.371 451
2.108 450 4.401b-8 475
2.201 – 2 446 4.416b-18 475
2.227 – 8 438 4.419 – 20a 475
2.285 – 7 450 4.419 – 21 451
2.300 – 3 450 4.420b-1 475
2.423 440 4.422 – 4a 475
2.432 – 42 454 4.422 – 636 476
2.451 – 2 356 4.424 475, 476
 Index locorum 557

4.460 – 4 476 5.121 – 7 481

4.553 480 5.140 – 3 447
4.553 – 625 476 5.140 – 6 481
4.557 – 8 476 5.154 481
4.561 – 2a 476 5.154 – 76 481
4.562b-86 476 5.177 – 82a 481
4.586 – 617 454 5.184 – 9 452
4.587 – 8 476 5.184 – 91 481
4.588 443 5.190 452
4.589 – 93 476 5.255 461
4.601 – 9 476 5.299 440
4.610 – 12 477 5.314 – 15 439
4.613 – 14 452, 477 5.329 – 35 356
4.616 350 5.333 – 51 356
4.616 – 17 477 5.341 – 9 356
4.623b-5 476 5.342 358
4.637 – 40 477 5.343 358
4.641 – 2 445 5.343 – 9 356
4.641 – 6 477 5.344 358
4.647 – 702 477 5.345 358
4.657 445 5.347 358
4.659 – 66 445 5.352 – 3 452
4.686 – 8 445 5.362 452
4.697b-8 477 5.442 – 54 435
4.700 – 2 445 5.472 435, 438
4.704 446 5.508 – 10 451
4.707 – 9 446 5.511 440
4.707b-10 477 5.578 – 80 456
4.709 446 5.591 – 2 456
4.711 461 5.603 456
4.711 – 32 478 5.632 441
4.712 – 13 446 5.646 441
4.714 – 15 446 5.660 439, 452
4.717 – 20 446 6.60 – 4 448
4.723 446 6.99 – 100 455
4.724 – 30 446 6.147 455
4.725 – 6 455, 456 6.324 – 39 457
4.733 480 6.326 – 9a 480
4.733 – 5.72 480 6.490 – 502 358
5.73 – 183 480 6.495 359
5.74 – 81 454 6.495 – 502 356
5.82 – 5a 481 6.611 – 12 459
5.82 – 100 481 7.35 – 6 441
5.84 – 5 453 7.35 – 44a 480
5.89 – 94 453 7.40 – 1 441
5.108 – 10 447 7.43 442
5.113 – 17 453 7.46 – 7 442
558 Index locorum

7.50 441 2.294 – 5 267

7.59 – 60 442 2.776 – 89 267
7.62 – 3 353 2.781 268
7.62 – 77 352 2.781 – 2 269, 276
7.71 – 2 442 3.14 – 72 265
7.76 353 3.44 265
7.254 – 5 431 3.73 285
7.539 – 45 353 3.73 – 4 286
7.544 – 5 353 3.73 – 7 265
7.547 – 9 354 3.73 – 124 265
7.553 – 5 354 3.74 281, 286
7.556 – 8 355 3.75 266
7.559 – 63 355 3.76 266, 284, 285, 286
7.562 – 3 455 3.77 266, 285
7.607 – 43 469 3.78 265, 267
8.151 441 3.79 279
8.175 – 6 482 3.80 279
8.177 – 99 482 3.82 279
8.195 446 3.85 266, 269
8.200 – 1 456, 482 3.85 – 7 267
8.201 – 2 446 3.88 267
8.202 – 16 482 3.89 281
8.208 450 3.90 – 2 281
8.217 – 19 482 3.91 281, 282
8.220 – 3 482 3.91 – 2 282
8.247 – 51 482 – 3 3.94 270
8.259 – 63 483 3.94 – 8 267
8.265 – 7 441 3.96 276
8.275b-6 483 3.96 – 8 270
8.312 – 17 483 3.97 – 8 268
8.318 – 84 483 3.101 286
8.393b-9 483 3.124 266, 286, 287
3.124 – 7 286 – 7
Varro 3.125 287
De lingua Latina 3.126 287
7.21 234 3.154 269
3.157 – 61 270
Vergilius 3.161 – 2 270
Aeneis 3.162 273
1.1 463 3.163 269
1.6 267, 268 3.166 269, 270
1.205 268, 271, 276, 283 3.167 270
1.254 – 96 467 3.167 – 8 270
1.257 – 96 437 3.171 271
1.260 283 3.181 284
1.263 – 6 272 3.184 – 5 270
1.749 367 3.185 270
 Index locorum 559

3.379 – 80 271 7.45 – 57 314

3.386 313 7.48 314
3.397 448 7.178 315
3.414 – 19 333, 471 7.189 – 91 314
3.479 271 7.294 – 6 233
3.500 – 1 269 7.643 – 4 400
4.58 – 81 448 7.647 – 817 379
4.275 271 7.705 – 9 400
4.301 – 4 362 7.706 376
4.449 284, 285 7.750 376
5.154 448 7.803 376
5.155 448 8.321 – 3 273
5.157 448 8.322 272
5.173 – 6 449 9.603 – 13 457
6.61 271 9.616 236
6.66 – 8 272 11.522 – 31 370
6.829 – 31 373 11.523 370
6.900 297 Eclogae
6.900 – 1 295 6.74 – 7 366
6.901 296 8.21 – 4 328
7.1 306, 315 10.15 – 16 328
7.1 – 7 291, 295 – 6 Georgica
7.3 315 1.16 – 18 326
7.4 306, 321 1.162 354
7.5 299, 316 1.240 355
7.6 299 1.491 – 7 398
7.7 297, 315 1.494 398
7.8 – 9 306 3.3 – 8 273
7.8 – 24 291 3.4 273
7.10 313, 315, 321 3.6 273
7.10 – 14 306 3.10 – 11 337
7.11 306, 307, 321 3.354 – 62 455
7.13 316 3.404 – 8 328
7.15 – 8 314 4.315 – 558 413
7.21 316 4.425 – 8 413
7.22 315 4.459 414
7.25 – 6 306
7.25 – 36 291 Vitruvius
7.29 – 32 320 De architectura
7.30 – 2 320 6.1.10 – 11 336, 338
7.37 – 45 291, 314 6.1.11 336
7.43 – 4 314