The Haley Classical Journal, Volume II Issue II

The Haley Classical Journal The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

An Undergraduate Research Publication Affiliated with Hamilton College

Volume II | Issue II | June 2021 The Haley | Volume II | Issue II | June 2021

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

Hamilton College Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Deputy Managing Editor Head Copy Editor Layout Editor Deputy Layout Editor

Jacob Hane, Hamilton College, 2022 Madeleine Cavallino, Hamilton College, 2021 Philip Chivily, Hamilton College, 2023 Aidan Holmgren, Hamilton College, 2023 Kayley Boddy, Hamilton College, 2022 Madeleine Cavallino, Hamilton College, 2021

Peer Editors

Madeleine Cavallino, Hamilton College, 2021 Ava Witonsky, Hamilton College, 2021 Kayley Boddy, Hamilton College, 2022 Melanie Geller, Hamilton College, 2022 Jacob Hane, Hamilton College, 2022 Calyn Clare Liss, Hamilton College, 2022 Katherine Miller, Hamilton College, 2022 Molly Osinoff, Hamilton College, 2022 Angus Wilson, University of King’s College, 2022 Philip Chivily, Hamilton College, 2023 Lydia Davis, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, 2023 Tonwa Hauff, Hamilton College, 2023 Laura Hester, Hamilton College, 2023 Aidan Holmgren, Hamilton College, 2023 Sammy Smock, Hamilton College, 2023 Eileen Cohn, Hamilton College, 2024 Maeve Harrington, Hamilton College, 2024 Emily Ly, Hamilton College, 2024 Austin Manning, Hamilton College, 2024 Megan Mogauro, Hamilton College, 2024

Copy Editors

Kayley Boddy, Hamilton College, 2022 Jacob Hane, Hamilton College, 2022 Laura Hester, Hamilton College, 2023 Aidan Holmgren, Hamilton College, 2023 Sammy Smock, Hamilton College, 2023 Eileen Cohn, Hamilton College, 2024 Emily Ly, Hamilton College, 2024

Cover Art: Theo Golden, Hamilton College, 2020 | instagram, @tgoldenart Cover Image: Kasturi Roy | unsplash, @kasturiroy

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

Contents Senior Editors

iv

Chi-Raq and the Master’s Tools: Adaptation of Aristophanes’s Lysistrata

Madeleine Cavallino

1

From Tradition to Transcription: Outlining the Mos Maiorum in Horace’s Sermones

John Silva

6

nota bene

Comparing Gender Renegotiation in The Oresteia and The Odyssey Feminine Mediums: Contextualizing iconography in women’s tattoos from Deir el-Medina, Egypt Boudica: Celtic Warrior Queen and Roman Propaganda Victim The Portrayal of Proteas and Hyacinth in Eugenia: Eunuchs in the Byzantine Mind Hercules Becoming Moralized On Screen as a Biblical Hero Creating Responsibility: Cornelia and Julia’s Culpability in Lucan’s de Bello Civile

Rose H. Griesgraber 10 Kayley Boddy 14

Bryn Hudson 19 Tonwa A. J. Hauff 24

A. M. Davis 27 Christiane-Marie Cantwell 32

Bad Girls Gone Good: How (and Why) Roman Authors Reclaim Mulieres

Sydney Meve 37

Hidden Sophistication in Catullan Invective: “For it is necessary for a poet himself to be pious, but not at all for his verses to be!”

Madelyn Mauro 41

45

Call for Papers

Summer 2021 Issue Property of the Hamilton College Classics Club

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

nota bene Χαίρετε Salveteque, Our namesake, Dr. Shelley P. Haley, retired this year from Hamilton College. After over 30 years of teaching there, along with many more off the Hill, she has touched thousands of hearts and changed the courses of so many lives. Many of her advisees (including each member of the senior staff) work on The Haley.

Professor Haley has not only provided us with so much wisdom and guidance, but has helped many students emerge, grow, and change into better beings. Likewise, she has worked to make this field more open and accessible all while overcoming the very systemic barriers that challenged her, and that still remain, in classics.

If you have the chance, we encourage you to watch her lectures and read her publications. Her work is important, and as the President of the Society for Classical Studies, we know she will continue to pour rich depth into this field.

Each of us has fond memories from our time at Hamilton with her.

From helping us adjust to college Latin, to helping us adjust to college in general, and even to helping us navigate this complex field, Professor Haley has always been there for us. Her dedication to her students shines brighter than anything else.

To all of us, she is a hero. She is a mentor. She is our role model. She is the source of our inspiration, and the reason we work every day to continue shaping this field into something better. The amount of gratitude we have for her is immense, and we are forever grateful.

Thank you, Professor Haley — and happy retirement!

Sincerely, the Senior Editors, Jacob Hane, Madeleine Cavallino, and Kayley Boddy

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

Chi-Raq and the Master’s Tools Adaptation of Aristophanes’s Lysistrata

Madeleine Cavallino (she/her), Hamilton College, Class of 2021

Abstract

Using the framework of Audre Lorde’s “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” this paper examines the relationship between Aristophanes’s Lysistrata and its 2015 film adaptation, Spike Lee’s Chi-Raq. Due to the patriarchal characteristics of ancient Greek theatre as a whole and Lysistrata specifically, a director would have to consciously work against the attitudes of the original text to present a feminist adaptation. While Chi-Raq addresses many other issues, it fails to remove itself from the patriarchal canon and even reinforces those attitudes, reducing women’s protest movements to titillating comedy.

In “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” Audre Lorde asked, “What does it mean when the tools of a racist patriarchy are used to examine the fruits of that same patriarchy?”1 Lorde grappled with this question in 1979, prompted by the lack of intersectional representation at a conference held specifically for discussions about women and feminism. By Lorde’s correct assessment, discussion conducted only by members of the dominant group (in this case, straight white women) cannot work against oppression perpetuated by that same group.

A lack of perspectives from oppressed groups leads to their own continued marginalization and perpetuates the oppressors’ patriarchal, sexist, and homophobic notions. Lorde’s essay asks whether this sentiment is true within the patriarchal environment of other media; for example, ancient Greek theatre. On the surface, Aristophanes’s Lysistrata seems to deal with the lives of women, yet is placed firmly within the patriarchal canon of Old Comedy. Spike Lee directed a 2015 adaptation of the play, Chi-Raq, but instead of turning away from its casual and systemic sexism, the film leans into it as much as the original text does. Even though Lee brings Lysistrata into the twenty-first century in his cinematic adaptation, he retains Aristophanes’s traditional patriarchal lens of a women’s protest movement and proves the difficulty of creating a feminist adaptation of Lysistrata due to its theatrical origins and central patriarchal themes.

In ancient Athens, theatrical performances were inherently both civic and religious in nature. Comic and tragic performances were central elements to the City Dionysia, an annual festival celebrating the god Dionysus, and were also later incorporated into the Lenaia festival. These festivals were primarily religious, and included sacrifices and processions along with other performances, the typical trappings of religious celebration.2 The performances were “dialogic,” crafted to spark “social, political, and aesthetic debate.”3 The texts of both comedies and tragedies pushed the boundaries of social decorum within the world of the 1 Audre Lorde, “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House” in The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House (Penguin, 2018): 17.

2 Phillip B Zarrilli, “Dialogic drama in the city-state of Athens,” in Theatre Histories: An Introduction, ed. Gary Jay Williams (Routledge, 2010): 60.

3 Ibid., 58.

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play, prompting the audience to debate the morality of actions depicted on stage. Viewers could voice their opinions on the plays, and thus on broader-reaching themes which the plays addressed.

Therefore, theatre was an “official and organic feature of Athenian democracy.”4 At the time, there were no penalties for speaking out against the ruling class; in fact, such dialogue was encouraged by both full-community involvement in the festivals and the subject matter of the plays themselves. Old Comedy drew its subject matter from current political events and figures, enabling democratic discussion while also supporting Athenian ideals. The central hero (or heroine) gained sympathy through a series of comedic episodes and choral odes, spoken directly to the audience and often representative of the playwright’s views.5 The play ends when “Athens is recalled to a sense of her true (traditional) ideals.”6 Political criticisms were welcome, but any reversed social roles within the play returned to their “correct” and socially acceptable positions by its close. While Old Comedy was rife with phalloi and “ritual obscenity,” the themes and values it espoused made it a fundamentally conservative genre.7 Aristophanes (c. 447 – 386 BCE) was one of the preeminent comedic playwrights of fifth century Athens. His plays are the only surviving, complete examples of Old Comedy, and won several prizes at both the Dionysia and Lenaia festivals. In the tradition of Old Comedy, Lysistrata addresses contemporary socio-political issues, namely the protracted Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta. When Lysistrata was first performed at the Lenaia in 411 BCE, the war had already persisted for twenty years, with no end in sight.8 Public opinion was turning against the war, especially after the disastrous Sicilian Expedition of 413 BCE, in which the Athenian naval fleet was nearly destroyed.9 Lysistrata’s titular character calls upon all women in Athens and Sparta to withhold sex from their husbands until the men agree to end the war peacefully. Lysistrata and her fellow women succeed, in spite of the 4 Jeffrey Henderson, 3 Plays by Aristophanes: Staging Women (Routledge, 2010), 8.

5 Ibid., 12, 20.

6 Ibid., 12.

7 Ibid., 9.

8 Ibid., 35.

9 Ibid., 36.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College male characters’ constant desire (which they describe as a need) for sex. A modern audience may interpret this play as an example of women’s empowerment, or even proto-feminism. But despite the female protagonist, chorus, and their ultimate victory, Lysistrata deals with the “men’s issues” of war and peace and was never intended to empower Athenian women.

From the outset of the play, Aristophanes explicitly shows the male-oriented perspective through his portrayal of various female characters and their “correct” role in society. By their own admission, women’s proper place is within the oikos, or the domestic sphere. Kalonike, a friend, admonishes Lysistrata’s impatience at the other women’s tardiness, since every woman is saddled with the same domestic chores they are expected to complete each day: “we’ve got to look after the husband or wake up a slave or put the baby to bed, or give it a bath or feed it a snack.”10 She also remarks that leaving the house is “a lot of trouble” for a woman, since there was no sanctioned reason for women to leave the house alone.11 Kalonike additionally implies that “wives who go out are likely to cause mischief.”12 Women and men both understood and obeyed these social rules, and therefore any action Lysistrata takes within the course of the play is unsanctioned by definition since she is never in her home. Kalonike continues to say that even while women are confined to the oikos, they are lazy and will not take any initiative beyond what is absolutely required of them.

Learning that Lysistrata’s plan for peace is “in women’s hands” is “hardly reassuring,” assuming that they can barely complete their preexisting duties.13 The question “what can mere women do that’s intelligent or noble?” when they only “sit around the house looking pretty” further illustrates how ridiculous Lysistrata’s plan seems to be.14 For Aristophanes’s majority-male audience, the humor in this opening scene comes from the alleged truth in these stereotypical portrayals. In their opinion, it would be impossible for women to foster any social change, solely because they are women.

Spike Lee’s 2015 film Chi-Raq adapts Lysistrata into modern-day Chicago, but it cannot escape the original text’s patriarchal legacy. Lee trades the Athenians and Spartans for two gangs, the Spartans and the Trojans, whose constant violent clashes have led to the death of an innocent young girl. While the film does address issues of gun violence and white privilege, casual sexism still runs rampant throughout its most powerful moments. Lee even replicates the humor of women taking charge from the original text.

Lysistrata’s method to take over the armory sexualizes her (and by implication, all of her female collaborators): she seduces the cartoonish General King Kong, before tying him up and throwing him and the rest of the men out of the building.15 Every element, from Lysistrata’s towering height over General Kong to the general straddling the Whistling Dick cannon, is designed to provoke laughter, even though storming an armory and evicting a racist general would normally be a serious undertaking. The scene is 10 Aristophanes, Lysistrata, in 3 Plays by Aristophanes: Staging Women, edited

by Jeffrey Henderson, (Routledge, 2010), 14-16.

11 Ibid., 14.

12 Ibid., 215.

13 Aristophanes, 31. (Emphasis original).

14 Ibid., 41-42. (Emphasis original).

15 Chi-Raq, directed by Spike Lee (2015; 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks, Amazon Studios, 2015) 54:26-59:45.

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“funny, straightforwardly ridiculous, because it blatantly (and fantastically) defies the reality of the world of the audience.”16 The implication is that because women are storming the armory, they must use their only asset, i.e. their sensuality, in order to succeed.

It is also a scenario that the audience knows would never happen; the scene is made more funny because of its improbability.

The original play contains more blatant sexism through the explicit objectification of women’s bodies. Sexual objectification occurs throughout the play, even perpetrated by the women themselves, but the most explicit and egregious example is Reconciliation, the human map upon which the Athenian and Spartan ambassadors draw their peace lines. The Magistrate refuses to heed Lysistrata’s advice for long-lasting and far-reaching peace when she alone is speaking, using the women’s task of carding wool as an analogy.17 He dismisses her as he automatically dismisses any woman who would try to have her voice heard in a public forum; it is not her place since she does not share the same “burdens” as an Athenian man.18 Yet every man, Athenian and Spartan alike, pays attention when the naked Reconciliation enters the scene; they pay attention to Reconciliation’s body, but not to Lysistrata’s words. The Athenian and Spartan ambassadors barely respond to any of Lysistrata’s logical arguments for peace, namely that they each chose to fight “Greek men” instead of “barbarian armies.”19 Rather, the men lewdly admire Reconciliation’s “unspeakably fine ass” and quickly divvy up territories which parallel her physical features.20 This woman, who does not speak at all, is objectified in the most literal sense of the word: she is no more than a sexual map of the world. Both ambassadors further ignore Lysistrata’s original, practical advice for stable peace, which would have included “unity and goodwill” between all the city-states and their colonies.21 “Allies, dear lady? We’re too hard up for that! Won’t our allies, all of them, come to the same decision we have, namely, to fuck?” the Athenian ambassador asserts.22 For the men, it was never about fostering peace, but rather about regaining their sexual outlets. The men would have been willing to agree to any compromise as long as it included a cease to the women’s sexual boycott.

In Chi-Raq, Lysistrata is defined by her body and sensuality.

The narrator, Dolemedes, introduces her as “a gorgeous, Nubian sister,” “sexy,” and “finer than a motherfucker.”23 He emphasizes her “truly luscious behind” more than her “mind like Einstein.”24 Her primary descriptors are physical, whereas her strategizing and protest activism receive barely a single line. Lysistrata, her collaborators, and her mission to bring peace to Chicago’s South Side are reduced to a titillating, sexualized pursuit. This reduction of women does not just happen within the arc of Lysistrata’s mission.

An unnamed female character, seemingly uninvolved with the sex boycott, is only present as a sexual object for Demetrius, the lead16 Jade D. Petermon, “The Shadow Behind the Real: Spike Lee Does Chicago,” Film Quarterly 70, no. 2 (2016): 32.

17 Aristophanes, 584-594.

18 Ibid., 596.

19 Ibid., 1152. (Emphasis original).

20 Ibid., 1176.

21 Ibid., 588.

22 Ibid., 1199-1201. (Emphasis original).

23 Lee, 15:54-16:18.

24 Ibid., 16:26-31.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College er of the Spartans.25 She has no characterization other than as a receptacle for Demetrius’s tragic past and sexual frustration. The only roles women inhabit in Chi-Raq are wives, girlfriends, and mothers; the women are exclusively positioned according to their relationships with men. Not one of the female characters holds a place of social or societal authority, and thus any responsibility for the ultimate peace by definition falls upon the men in charge.

The male characters’ fury at their girlfriends’ and wives’ withdrawal of sex echoes the men in Lysistrata, as does their framing of society’s gender relations. By withholding sex, the women have “shut down the penis power grid.”26 One implication of this terminology is that the men only think with their “lower regions,” as Morris the strip-club owner accuses.27 Like Kinesias, these men are quickly growing desperate for any sexual source. Another interpretation is that the city of Chicago and its gangs are entirely controlled by men, and any disruption to that status quo brings destruction. As Lysistrata’s protest ripples across the country and even into the White House, the power dynamics established on a small scale within one Chicago gang are magnified to a global level. This world belongs to and is ruled by men, who expect sex with women whenever they demand it. If the ruling men have anything to say about it, the dynamics will continue this way; their strategy is never to actually listen to the women’s ideas or demands, but rather to determine the bare minimum they must do in order to have that same sexual freedom once more.

In the final scene of the play, as Old Comedy formula dictates, order is restored and nothing has fundamentally changed for the women. The play ends with calls for men to “reclaim these wives of yours” and for “husband [to] stand by wife and wife by husband.”28 Lysistrata enters, but in some manuscripts she does not speak throughout the entire final scene.29 All other women have returned to the oikos, leaving the men once again in charge of the Acropolis, and thus in command of the political and social situation. By returning control to the men, Lysistrata “affirm[s] rather than transform[s] or even permanently destabilize[s] the status quo.”30 Old Comedy, despite its bawdiness and outlandish plots, was a conservative genre. While Aristophanes would have willingly encouraged civil discourse and debate about current events, he would not have encouraged a complete upheaval of Athenian social structure. He also would have wanted women to remain in their acceptable sector of society. The humor throughout the entire play lands for the intended audience because it places “a woman into a position of political authority, control and power.”31 Lysistrata was not calling for women to take control of the Acropolis, but rather emphasized how ridiculous it was that no Athenian man could orchestrate peace and an end to the Peloponnesian War. Chi-Raq concludes on as conservative a note as Lysistrata, as Lee continues in the tradition of Old Comedy. Final calls for 25 Lee, 1:15:53.

26 Ibid., 32:02.

27 Ibid., 35:43.

28 Aristophanes, 1291-1292.

29 Henderson, 227.

30 Martin Revermann, “The Appeal of Dystopia: Latching onto Greek Drama in the Twentieth Century,” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 16, no.

1 (2008): 98.

31 Petermon, 32.

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peace come from the male leaders of the Trojans and the Spartans, Cyclops and Demetrius respectively. Cyclops ends the stand-off between Lysistrata’s women and Chicago’s men by publicly dropping his weapons and declaring a truce.32 His action receives the attention, instead of Lysistrata’s long-term protest. The final act of closure which ostensibly secures peace in this Chicago neighborhood also comes from a man, rather than from Lysistrata. Demetrius admits to Irene that he was the one who accidentally killed her daughter in a drive-by shooting, then calls upon all the other gang members present “to do the same” and take responsibility for their past crimes.33 His confession and call to action comprise the emotional climax of the movie. As the leader of the gang, he has the power to speak directly to the other male gang members as Lysistrata was never able to as a woman. In closing with Demetrius’s confession and pleas for peace, Lee presents him as the film’s real hero. It is not a coincidence that this adaptation is titled Chi-Raq, which is another name Demetrius goes by for the majority of the film, instead of “Lysistrata.”

The pervasive patriarchy of Lysistrata is not surprising, given the surrounding contexts of Greek theatre and larger Athenian society. The advent of Athenian democracy brought a gendered separation of civic and domestic life which had not existed previously.

When Athens was run by noble families, “women could play important social and symbolic roles as mothers, wives or daughters” within these powerful families.34 Conversely, democracy assigned civic duties to men and created a split between “‘civic’ (male/executive spheres) and ‘private’ (female/family spheres),” effectively removing women from any discussion concerning public aspects of the polis.35 They were explicitly excluded from public life, relegated to the oikos, and were forbidden from any public role other than a priestess position. Without a means of “public expression,” women were “largely unable to document their existence.”36 Any information modern historians have about women in ancient Athens comes from male-authored sources, including plays written by male playwrights.

Even in their works’ ostensible service to the entire polis in religious festivals, “poets were primarily interested in reaching the citizen males” with their plays.37 Since those citizen males were the only ones able to affect civic change, it makes sense that the playwrights would pinpoint them as the target audience for a politically-charged play. As Sue-Ellen Case describes, ancient Greek theatre was a media created entirely by and for Athenian men.

No women playwrights survive (or perhaps even existed) and all dramatic actors were men. “[T]he very invention of acting was gender-specific… The gender-specific quality of the actor in the satyr play was even further underscored by his wearing of a leather phallus. Thus, the actor/dramatic subject was male.”38 Theatre was a male sphere, just as politics and civic discourse were male spheres. These plays intentionally excluded women, not because 32 Lee, 1:47:18.

33 Ibid., 1:55:00-1:56:58.

34 Henderson, 7.

35 Ibid.

36 Ibid., 20.

37 Ibid., 18.

38 Sue-Ellen Case, Feminism and Theatre (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008) 11.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College men thought that women had no place in performance, but because of Athenian society’s strictly prescribed roles for women.39 Given the context of fifth century BCE Athens and theatre as a medium, it is hard to find feminist readings of ancient Athenian plays, even without examining the texts themselves.

Lysistrata is already situated within this patriarchal, sexist social and theatrical context. Further considering the text and its adaptations illustrates that removing it from the patriarchal system in order to present a feminist adaptation is incredibly difficult. The language used to describe and analyze the play and its adaptations, specifically that the women go on a “sex strike,” firmly places it within contemporary patriarchal systems. Calling this form of protest a sex strike “suggests that ordinarily sex is a kind of work, performed by a woman for a man.”40 The terminology establishes a parallel, “to withhold sex is a similar kind of political action to those of labor stoppages by unionized workers.”41 This language is not used within the original text itself, but rather by modern scholars who (intentionally or otherwise) assert that it is the default condition for women to have sex with men. This social context was present when Lysistrata was first performed and is still present today.

In applying the terms “sex strike” and “Lysistrata” to modern protests, scholars and journalists equate the real struggles of modern activists with a farcical and fantastical endeavor. Leymah Gbowee, a Liberian peace activist, employed a “sex strike,” along with many other tactics, to end the Liberian Civil War in 2003.42 While Gbowee herself was not inspired by and had not even read Lysistrata, US and UK reporters ascribed the name “Lysistrata” to her efforts. There are similarities: both involved activist women who succeed at brokering peace, in part due to their refusal to have sex with the men causing the violent conflict. However, “Glossing the action with the label ‘Lysistrata’ is likely to condition how the political events are interpreted: as comic, as titillating.”43 Any comparison of a modern movement to the original Lysistrata has a subliminal message of ridicule, humor, and sexualization. No matter what other types of protest occur, the media focuses on the women’s denial of sex. In an interview, Gbowee stated, “‘Sex Strike’ is the headline that sells, so when reporters interview me, they tend to ask about the sex strike first… But the truth is…

Nothing happened overnight. In fact it took three years of community awareness, sit-ins, and nonviolent demonstrations.”44 In a revealing parallel to the Magistrate and ambassadors in Lysistrata, modern reporters did not want to hear about the on-going and effective other means of activism and protest. They did not want to hear about Gbowee’s ideas for lasting peace and reconstruction, 39 Women performers did exist and were fairly common, but their performances were largely movement-based, as opposed to text-based, and so little recorded evidence of these performances survives. Thinking of “playwrights” as not just as writers but “makers” of plays opens the door of what is considered “theatre” to female mimes who performed in Greek and Roman marketplaces, using their bodies and physical movement as the source material instead of texts. Ibid., 29-30.

40 Helen Morales, “Aristophanes’ ‘Lysistrata’, the Liberian ‘Sex Strike’, and the Politics of Reception,” Greece & Rome 6, no. 2 (2013): 292.

41 Ibid., 292.

42 Ibid., 282.

43 Ibid., 287.

44 Ibid., 288.

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but about sex, which “reduce[s] the women’s resistence to the sex strike alone.”45 In order for an adaptation of Lysistrata to be feminist, the writer or director must break from the patriarchal themes (the master’s tools) which pervade the original text. Lee had the opportunity to do so in his modern adaptation; there are no societal “rules” (as there were in ancient Athens) in American society circa 2015 which would prevent a woman from holding a successful protest just because of her identity as a woman. He did not need to keep the subliminal and overt attitudes ridiculing a women’s movement which exist in the original text. In trying to make a statement theoretically in favor of women’s power and sexual liberation, Lee still used the master’s tools of sexism and patriarchy. Admittedly, given the contexts of the original text, it would be incredibly difficult to have a faithful adaptation of Lysistrata without those patriarchal elements.

It is not impossible, however, to adapt and reclaim a play or other medium from a patriarchal context and pivot it against the patriarchal system. Carmen Winant’s examination of female Instagram models is a perfect example of this reclamation. Previously taken by male photographers with the intent to sexualize the model and pander to the male gaze, these women’s portraits are now photographed by women in an expression of empowerment stemming from their sexuality and sensuality. These photographers “deliberately take control of the master’s tools… to dismantle the master’s house (patriarchal expectations of gender).”46 Rhodessa Jones’s The Medea Project works in a similar way, using Euripedes’s Medea as a springboard to address issues incarcerated women face.

Jones adapts the story of Medea to explore the feelings of incarcerated women “which arose in response to feelings of failure in the face of the community.”47 Through her classes and workshops, Jones has worked to reduce recidivism rates in women’s prisons; a story originally about the wickedness of one woman has become a lifeline for many women to grow and move beyond the same feelings of guilt. Each of these media originated in a patriarchal setting, made by and for men, but have now been reimagined as media by and for women.

An adaptation of Lysistrata does not require a female director in order to break away from the patriarchal attitudes of its original text. Any creator of an adaptation, however, must consider the context of both the original and new versions and examine what their adaptation adds to or perpetuates from the source material.

Instead of reexamining the play and using it to work against sexist oppression, Lee retained its sexism and proved Lorde’s point: the master’s tools cannot dismantle the master’s house. It is possible that a woman director might have made different choices than Lee in adapting Lysistrata; it also would have been possible for Lee himself to make different choices and leverage the ancient text against modern sexist prejudices, in addition to the prejudices against gang members and gun violence which he addresses.

45 Morales, 288.

46 Carmen Winant, “Our Bodies, Online,” Aperture, no. 225 (2016): 143. (Emphasis original).

47 Rhodessa Jones, “About the Medea Project,” The Medea Project: Theatre for Incarcerated Women, accessed 30 November 2020, https://themedeaproject. weebly.com/.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College While the message of Chi-Raq is more concerned with gun violence than sexual empowerment, the two can coexist in one film.

Of course, the easy way to adapt Lysistrata is to remain “faithful” to the original version, patriarchal themes and all.

Works Cited Aristophanes. Lysistrata. In 3 Plays by Aristophanes: Staging Women, edited by Jeffrey Henderson. Routledge, 2010.

Case, Sue-Ellen. Feminism and Theatre. Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.

Henderson, Jeffrey. 3 Plays by Aristophanes: Staging Women.

Routledge, 2010.

Jones, Rhodessa. “About the Medea Project.” The Medea Project: Theatre for Incarcerated Women. Accessed 30 November 2020. https://themedeaproject.weebly.com/.

Lee, Spike, dir. Chi-Raq. 2015; 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks, Amazon Studios, 2015.

Lorde, Audre. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House.” In The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House, 16-21. Penguin, 2018.

Morales, Helen. “Aristophanes’ ‘Lysistrata’, the Liberian ‘Sex Strike’, and the Politics of Reception.” Greece & Rome 6, no. 2 (2013): 281-295.

Petermon, Jade D. “The Shadow Behind the Real: Spike Lee Does Chicago.” Film Quarterly 70, no. 2 (2016): 30-37.

Revermann, Martin. “The Appeal of Dystopia: Latching onto Greek Drama in the Twentieth Century.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 16, no. 1 (2008): 97118.

Winant, Carmen. “Our Bodies, Online.” Aperture, no. 225 (2016): 138-143.

Zarrilli, Phillip B. “Dialogic drama in the city-state of Athens.” In Theatre Histories: An Introduction, edited by Gary Jay Williams, 58-65. Routledge, 2010.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

From Tradition to Transcription Outlining the Mos Maiorum in Horace’s Sermones

John Silva (he/him), College of Charleston Honors College, Class of 2022

Abstract

Amidst the throes of civil war and political turmoil, morals become blurred as chaos reigns over people’s lives. This was certainly true during the fall of the Roman Republic in the first century BCE. While some leaders labored to restore order, others heightened the discord by murdering their rivals. Despite all of this, Quintus Horatius Flaccus was able to abstain from the anarchy’s corruption and flourish as a writer. His first compositions were two books consisting of a total of eighteen poems resulting in him becoming one of the greatest Roman poets of the Augustan Era. The satirical works of Horace found in Sermones I and II embodied the exact opposite of his environment at the time and were composed of a fresh new style of writing. Though his predecessor Gaius Lucilius criticized those around him, Lucilius focused on political figures while Horace directed his thoughts to the Roman people. His satires take on a fable-like appearance: beginning with a detailed metaphorical story that culminates with a lesson of morality. Horace guides the reader on a journey between the extremes of right and wrong with the intent of striking a balance between the two.

Instead of succumbing to the mayhem around him, Horace saw the opportunity to help lead Rome to a more stable reality. He did this through his satires, using them to criticize immoral behavior and point Rome’s moral compass back in the right direction.

This is where the mos maiorum, the core set of values that Romans lived by, played a role in serving as the basis for Horace’s writing. Although it was never written down, every Roman knew of it and strived to embody it. During the Republic’s collapse, Romans needed these mores (custom) more than ever, and Horace sought to provide them. His inclusion of the mos maiorum in his Sermones was not mere coincidence but a conscious decision. Not only was Horace motivated by his surroundings, but he was also inspired by the man trying to pull Rome into a new age — Caesar Augustus. Despite having once fought against each other, Augustus and Horace were united in their belief that the mos maiorum must be recentralized in Roman society.1 Thus, Horace wrote his Sermones not only for the benefit of the Roman people and the endorsement of Augustus’s campaign, but to be the first to transcribe the mos maiorum and to define himself as one of the most distinguished authors of his time.

The proof for this argument begins in the fourth poem of Horace’s first book. While there are many manifestations of the mos maiorum within this work, his first focuses on amicitia [friendship].2 Amicitia encompasses treating people kindly, being

helpful to fellow Romans, and sharing private matters. In Serm., I, IV, Horace goes on a tangent about a niger amicum [dishonorable friend] who belittles his friends and goes too far in his jokes.

His inclusion of amicitia in this sermo is two-fold: in his aside to Petillius Capitolinus and preemptive apology. At the center of his description, Horace references the crimes of Capitolinus as an example of what is off-limits for a friend to berate:

1 Joseph Ward Swain, The World Empires: Alexander and the Romans After 334 B.C. (New York, NY: Harper & Brothers, 1950), 457. As will be discussed further in this paper, Augustus’s actions during his numerous reformations and undertones in Horace’s compositions both strongly suggest their mutual belief and endorsement of the mos maiorum and the idea of being a ‘true Roman.’

2 There is no actual order to the mos maiorum as it is not a list but a compilation of values. They can (and will) be discussed in any order without ill effect to their meaning or significance.

3 Horace, The Works of Horace (I.IV.93-98), trans. C. Smart and Theodore Alois Buckley (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1863), Perseus Digital Library, http:// www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0063.1.4.

4 Catherine Schlegel, “Horace and His Fathers: Satires 1.4 and 1.6,” The American Journal of Philology 121, no. 1 (Spring 2000): 109, http://www.jstor.org. nuncio.cofc.edu/stable/1561648.

5 Additionally, this distinction is merely a grammatical one. Being an abstract noun, amicitia takes the feminine case by default while the common noun amicus

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… mentio si quae de Capitolini furtis iniecta Petilli te coram fuerit, defendas ut tuus est mos: ‘me Capitolinus convictore usus amicoque a puero est causaquae mea permulta rogatus fecit et incolumis laetor quod vivit in urbe … if mention of those thefts of Petillius Capitolinus were to crop up in your presence, it is your custom that you would defend him: ‘Capitolinus having enjoyed the friendship of his companion and friend from boyhood and having been asked, did many things for my sake and I am glad he lives unharmed in the city.3 The mores amicitiae maintains an expectation of personal respect as Horace is quick to defend the private accusations against Capitolinus and, like a good friend, defend him. Horace also mentions how good of a friend Capitolinus is and how he wishes him well.

This demonstrates the duality of amicitia, and the interpersonal reciprocation it assumes.

It is maintaining an amiable disposition towards others and the personal relationship among boni amici [good friends]. The intimate connections spawned from amicitia universally presented themselves between men of conflicting classes and backgrounds.4 Even the words amicus [friend] and amicitia separate themselves from any personal distinction save for gender and number.5 Horace

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College solidifies these ideals in Serm., I, VI with the perfect example: his relationship with his patron, Gaius Maecenas. Besides his overt references to Maecenas as amicus, his (auto)biographical descriptions of both his and Lucilius’s origins demonstrate their closeness: Non quia, Maecenas, Lydorum quidquid Etruscos incoluit fines nemo generosior est te, nec quod avus tibi maternus fuit atque paternus olim qui magnis legionibus imperitarent, ut plerique solent, naso suspendis adunco ignotos, ut me libertino patre natum.

Maecenas, though not because of any of the Lydians who dwelled within Etruscan borders, no one is more noble than you, and not because it was your maternal and paternal ancestors who once commanded great legions, just as many become accustomed, do you hang a crooked nose at the unknown, just as myself born of a freedman father.6 Horace contrasts Maecenas’s noble ancestry with his freedman beginnings in order to show the gap in social standing between the two. Despite this, their relationship retains its personal significance which is also demonstrated by the way Horace presents the information. He is speaking directly with Maecenas here as if they were having a real conversation. The fact that something as personal and as private as their lineage would be a topic of discussion between the two signifies the strength of their bond.7 Private matters were exactly that — private — and were only ever discussed among familia [family] and the closest amici.

While the emphasis on amicitia is conveyed throughout the Sermones, there is one virtue that Horace instead alludes to in several poems: disciplina, otherwise known as moderatio [moderation]. Self-control was one of the core values that Horace promoted, an integral part of Roman society and the foundation of the mos maiorum. Without moderatio, “realizing the other virtues [was] nearly impossible” as it laid the bricks upon which morals such as pietas [duty and loyalty to the Olympians], fides [faith and trust among family and comrades], and honestas [honesty and integrity] could be formed.8 These values, some of the most prominent in the mos maiorum, were unattainable without the acknowledgment and practice of moderatio. Horace was able to solidify and convey this message by using moderatio as the solution to the vices he was condemning. Examples of this are evident in multiple sermones: I. Resolving the extremes of the miser and Ummidius with the Golden Mean: est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines, quos ultra citraque nequit consistere rectum [there is a mean in everything, there are fixed ends and boundaries, which exist on both sides but cannot be takes the masculine case.

6 Horace, Sermones, I.VI.50-53; 1-6.

7 Schlegel, “Horace and His Fathers,” 109-110.

8 L. Curtius Philo, L. Hostilia Scaura, and P. Iunius Brutus, “Restoring the Ancient Roman Virtues,” unpublished manuscript, (n.d.): 12, http://romanrepublic. org/wip/virtues.pdf.

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right] (lines 106-107)9 II. Preaching sexual moderation and only satisfying one’s needs: at hic si. . . vellet bonus atque benignus esse, daret quantum satis esset [Yet if he wished to be good and kind, he would give just the right amount so that he would not be shameful or damnous to himself] (l. 50-54)10 III. Criticizing the lifestyle of performers having no consistency (e.g. no self-control): nil aequale homini fuit illi: saepe velut qui currebat fugiens hostem, persaepe velut qui Iunonis sacra ferret [there was no consistency for that man: often he would run just as if fleeing an enemy, and as often marching just as if he were carrying sacred Juno...] (l. 9-19)11 IV. Offering a balanced model of a writer; criticizing the lack of refinement and complexity in Lucilius’s work: et sermone opus est modo tristi, saepe iocoso, defendente vicem modo rhetoris atque poetae, interdum urbani, parcentis viribus atque extenuantis eas consulto [and in satire a style is needed (sometimes) sad, often funny, supporting the change from the role of rhetorician to poet, and sometimes an urbane man, being thrifty with strength and extending it prudently] (l. 12-14).12 In every example where Horace emphasizes the virtue of moderatio, there is never a direct reference to the mos [custom]. Horace teases the reader in Serm. II with modeste [modest, restrained], which not only has a similar meaning but seems to edge the reader with mode- and sidestepping at the last moment. This was not due to a lapse in vocabulary or an error, however, but an intentional circumvention of the term. The rationale behind this is to provide the reader with the steps to implicitly come to this conclusion rather than explicitly use moderatio. By supplying examples of how not to act and providing everything needed to come to a solution, Horace spurs this growth in his audience. The satisfaction from reaching a conclusion by oneself also serves as positive reinforcement to help further solidify its importance.

As has been established up to this point, the mos maiorum incorporated a variety of morals. While these stood individually and represented unique qualities for the ideal Roman, they ultimately culminated as the embodiment of the mos maiorum: virtus.

Despite being the pinnacle of Roman values, virtus followed along the same path as its corpus — by word of mouth and tradition.

9 Horace, Horace Satires: Book I, ed. Emily Gowers, (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 79. Horace provides Ummidius as the opposite of the miser. A man of such great wealth but shrouded by an impoverished appearance. Nicholas Rescher, “Aristotle’s Golden Mean,” in A Journey through Philosophy in 101 Anecdotes (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015), 54-58. Originating from Aristotle, the Golden Mean is the universal embodiment of moderatio. “In matters of conduct . . . it is possible to take a lot or a little or a middling amount” with the proper (amount) somewhere “between excess and insufficiency.”

10 Gowers, Horace Satires: Book I, 102-103.

11 Ibid., 123.

12 Ibid., 315.

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There was no dedicated work, official list, or formal definition of virtus in any (surviving) Latin texts.13 Virtus is the moral integrity of a Roman citizen and is removed from the alternate image of manliness and masculinity. Even though it was not characterized, however, Romans did have a clear image of what it was like to be a virtuous person. Horace’s own predecessor paints an image of how a man of virtue should behave: ... virtus scire homini rectum utile quid sit honestum, quae bona quae mala item, quid inutile turpe inhonestum; virtus quaerendae finem re scire modumque…

Antony’s obligation to his wife.16 Augustus sought to fix these tensions and build the Roman empire with the restoration of the mos maiorum and return to ‘Old Rome.’17 Directly complimenting Horace’s composition made the two an idyllic pair. Augustus could benefit from Horace’s Sermones as the latter identified, defined, and transcribed the mos maiorum, the very thing that he was trying to restore. Conversely Horace’s first works garnered more attention when they worked their way into the political community as an endorsement for Augustus’s goals. Not only were they vying for the same cause, but Augustus was the role model that the Sermones were lacking:

... virtue is for a man to know that which is right, useful, and honorable, likewise to know things that are good and things that are bad, to know what is useless, ugly, and shameful; virtue is to know the means and the limit of that thing which must be sought after… 14

[Octavian] was a person of high intelligence, great tact, and infinite patience, able to distinguish what was possible from what was not. He knew how to retain the loyalty of his friends, and he possessed an amazing skill at sensing public opinion.18

Considering Lucilius’s remark on the behavior of virtus in conjunction with the knowledge that virtus was the unification of the mos maiorum, it is no surprise that Horace took the opportunity to officially establish what virtus was.

Waiting until Serm. II, after he had established his credibility and capability as a writer in Serm. I, Horace strategically introduced the most important virtue. Additionally, virtus is the most abstruse of the mores; embodying more of an idea than an explicit action. Because of this, Horace first introduced the ideal with the notion that macte virtute esto [for to be virtuous is to be of the Gods].15 To be virtuous stretches beyond practicing and adhering to the mos maiorum. One must epitomize it: live their life in a way that these mores are imprinted onto those around them and in turn receive praise for being a romanus absolutus [perfect Roman]. Horace continues to build his idea of virtus not through direct speech but instead through his outline of the mos maiorum.

By establishing the elements of Roman virtue separately, Horace once again maintains the integrity of virtus by allowing the reader to form the connections themselves.

Throughout Serm. I, Horace successfully composes the first written version of the mos maiorum. He gives meaning to Roman virtues that had previously only been passed down. Although his work appears complete, there is a major part missing from Horace’s transcription: an example of someone who embodies the now defined mos maiorum. This is where Augustus becomes relevant and provides the final piece to clarifying the newly inscribed mores.

As previously mentioned, Horace was developing his Sermones during a time in which the sociopolitical structure was in a frenzied decline. The third decade BCE saw the embers of the Republic smoldering out of existence with the battle of Augustus (then Octavian) and Marcus Antonius coming to an end. Among other things, the battles had caused tension in Rome due to the battle being Roma se contra [Rome against itself] as a result of

Having established the proposed common goal between Horace and Augustus, two final mores can be noted within the Sermones — fides and pietas. While Augustus was not particularly successful in restoring these virtues among the Roman people, Horace’s goal was primarily to establish them. Though readers of the Sermones would ideally absorb and demonstrate the morals they had been given, Horace’s focus was cementing his satires as the first stated manifestation of the mos maiorum and thus providing definitions and examples for each moral.

Horace was able to use Augustus’s failed religious reforms and salvage the image of pietas because of how it could “be viewed as nationalistic rather than as religious in significance, or . . . as an energetic attempt to recapture religion [for] its prestige as a civil institution and thereby reinstate it . . . as a powerful instrument of social cohesion.”19 Horace was writing at a time when religion was on a decline due to the rise in cynical philosophical schools. Pietas is a constituent mos in the collection under the mos maiorum and it would have been objectionable if it had gone exclusus sermonibus [excluded from the Sermones]. By virtue of Augustus’s gradual and continuous restoration of temples and religious ceremonies, religio [religion] perpetually occupied Romans’ minds regardless of whether they practiced or not.20 Practically, the mos maiorum is a guide contrary to an absolute; it brings the reader on a journey through different lives and scenarios, images of moral virtues and injustices, and presents these for the reader to absorb and determine what is right and what is wrong from others actions. This is exactly the reason Horace was successful in including and establishing pietas and other mores as well.

Finally, Horace was able to solidify the mos fidei [custom of faith] — yet another vital component of the mos maiorum — by

13 Philo et al., “Restoring the Ancient Roman Virtues,” 2.

14 Lucilius, Lucilius: The Twelve Tables (1196-1208), ed. E. H. Warmington. vol.

3 of Remains of Old Latin, (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938), https://archive.org/stream/remainsofoldlati03warmuoft#page/n5/mode/1up.

15 Horace, Sermones, I.II.31-32.

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16 Swain, The World Empires, 364.

17 Old Rome refers to the image of a working class Rome and its humble beginnings: the farmer’s life and having an honest and true living.

18 Ibid., 412. Intellectual auctoritas, fides, dignitas—all virtues embodied by Rome’s new leader.

19 George K. Strodach, “Pietas: Horace and Augustan Nationalism,” The Classical Weekly 29, no. 18 (March 23, 1936): 142, https://doi.org/10.2307/4339697.

20 Swain, The World Empires, 422.

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Allowing Augustus to express the anger and disgust surrounding adultery, Horace takes a more implicit approach: ... utque illis multo corrupta dolore voluptas atque haec rara cadat dura inter saepe pericla.

Hic se praecipitem tecto dedit, ille flagellis ad mortem caesus, fugiens hic decidit acrem praedonum in turbam… ... and even for many of them (adulterers) with pleasure having been corrupted by pain moreover this pleasure is rare and would cease during frequently cruel dangers. This one might cast themselves and concede from the roof, that one might have been struck by whips to death, this one fleeing might fall into a violent crowd of thieves…22 Instead of candidly disparaging those committing adultery, Horace instead chose to educate them about the punishments that ensue following publicity of the transgression. Despite their failed attempts with aggressive and passive intimidation, Horace and Augustus successfully imprinted fides on the Roman people if only as a memory. If a Roman were on the verge of breaking their fides, they would flash back to the list of cruel punishments that might await them and deter them from being disloyal. The civil unrest and rejection of the State in private matters left an unpleasant taste on Romans’ palettes.23 This discontent waned, however, when considering the romanticized image of Rome and its people that motivated the reforms.24 As a result, the mos resided among the virtues of the rising Empire, serving as a reminder of whence they came.

Even amid a morally degenerative environment, Horace was still able to produce meaningful progress with his Sermones. He not only transcribed but defined and codified the mos maiorum for the first time in Roman history. Hidden under the guise of satire, his Sermones encouraged readers to engage with and reexamine the text — extracting the mores themselves. As their rises to prominence paralleled, Horace and Augustus were able to bolster each other through their mutual advocation of the mos maiorum. The Sermones, like any work of art, was rooted in a thought, an inspi-

ration to encourage Horace to put himself forth into the literary world. Observing the discernable evidence of the mos maiorum throughout his Sermones, it is evident that this was the true motive behind their composition.

Works Cited Horace. Horace Satires: Book I. Edited by Emily Gowers. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Lucilius. Lucilius: The Twelve Tables. Edited by E. H. Warmington. Vol. 3 of Remains of Old Latin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938. https://archive.org/ stream/remainsofoldlati03warmuoft#page/n5/mode/1up.

“Moral Reforms.” Ancient Roman History. Accessed December 10, 2020. https://ancientromanhistory31-14.com/augustus/reform-and-order-19-18/moral-reforms/.

Philo, L. Curtius, L. Hostilia Scaura, and P. Iunius Brutus. “Restoring the Ancient Roman Virtues.” Unpublished manuscript, n.d. Accessed December 5, 2020. http://romanrepublic.org/wip/virtues.pdf.

Rescher, Nicholas. “Aristotle’s Golden Mean.” In A Journey through Philosophy in 101 Anecdotes, 54-58. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015. https://doi. org/10.2307/j.ctt155jp5n.23.

Schlegel, Catherine. “Horace and His Fathers: Satires 1.4 and 1.6.”

The American Journal of Philology 121, no. 1 (Spring 2000): 93-119. http://www.jstor.org.nuncio.cofc.edu/stable/1561648.

Strodach, George K. “Pietas: Horace and Augustan Nationalism.”

The Classical Weekly 29, no. 18 (March 23, 1936): 13744. https://doi.org/10.2307/4339697.

Swain, Joseph Ward. The World Empires: Alexander and the Romans After 334 B.C. Vol. 2 of The Ancient World. Harper’s Historical Series. New York, NY: Harper & Brothers, 1950.

21 Once again there is no prescribed order to the mos maiorum. While there is an established hierarchy of significance among mores, any indication of order within this publication is merely coincidental.

22 Horace, Sermones, I.II.40-43.

23 “Moral Reforms,” Ancient Roman History, accessed December 10, 2020, https://ancientromanhistory31-14.com/augustus/reform-and-order-19-18/moral-reforms/.

24 Ibid.

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Comparing Gender Renegotiation in The Oresteia and The Odyssey Rose H. Griesgraber (she/her), Wellesley College, Class of 2022

Abstract

This paper examines how similar situations of gendered disorder are resolved differently in two fundamental pieces of ancient Greek literature. In the absence of their kings, Odysseus and Agamemnon respectively, the societies of both Ithaca and Argos are in dysfunction; this societal crisis is understood and mediated through the gender role renegotiation between the royal couples. The Odyssey implements a “one-sex-model,” posing Odysseus and Penelope within an ideal gender agreement and marriage. The Oresteia, on the other hand exhibits a “two-sex-model” that subordinates female, fails at a renegotiation on the individual level, and eventually turns to the state to resolve the linked gender and societal crises.

The main couples in The Oresteia and The Odyssey are the focus of a gender renegotiation that is key to the re-establishment of order within their upturned societies in the wake of the Trojan war. Despite surface-level similarities, such as the maintenance of male rule, the two texts come to strikingly different positions on the proper relationships between men and women and how those norms are authorized. This may not seem surprising to readers of The Odyssey in which Clytemnestra is repeatedly invoked as a negative Penelope to scare Odysseus with the possibility that his wife may have acted similarly.1 The conclusions drawn through gender renegotiation in The Odyssey look inside the narrative for significance; Penelope and Odysseus’ insecurities are resolved between them and within the scope of the Homeric universe. The Oresteia, however, must look outwards to democratic Athens and upwards to the gods to resolve the struggle. What results is a gender order that is inextricably tied to Athens’ political order. Part of this external focus is, of course, attributable to the genre of tragedy; if Aeschylus must look to the polis to reestablish a gender order, it is because he is also using the crisis of that order to examine other civic anxieties and concerns. Froma Zeitlin states that “the male-female conflict subsumes the other two... it provides too the sexual metaphor which ‘sexualizes’ the other issues and attracts them into its magnetic field.”2 For The Oresteia, the two spheres are mutually informative: the gender conflict informs the civic resolutions and the civic conflict informs the gender resolutions.

The democratic organization of the Athenian polis, specifically its courts and justice system, and the hierarchy of the sexes are portrayed as divinely negotiated and ordained. The Oresteia may work with characters featured in Homeric works, but Aeschylus drastically redefines how they view their sexual and social place in the world. Between Odysseus and Penelope, The Odyssey functions on a “one-sex-model” with two socially inscribed genders.

According to Thomas Laqueur, in a system like this “to be a man 1 Homer, The Odyssey, trans. Robert Fagles (New York: Viking Penguin, 1997), 11.457-492. In the underworld, Agamemnon recounts to Odysseus his death at the hands of Aegisthus, aided by his adulterous wife, and indicts all of womankind in the process.

2 Froma Zeitlin, “The Dynamics of Misogyny: Myth and Mythmaking in the Oresteia,” Arethusa 11, no. 1/2 (1978): 149.

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or a woman was to hold a social rank, a place in society, to assume a cultural role, not to be organically one or the other of two incommensurable sexes.”3 This is evident especially in the reverse similes that the couple uses to reassess their standing with one another and ultimately restore the gender and marriage roles that define their relationship. The divinely-run trial in The Eumenides, on the other hand, establishes a biological as well as a social hierarchy between men and women, endorsing a two-sex-model that underlies rigid social and political restrictions on the female.4 In the following paragraphs, I will briefly examine the similar strategies The Odyssey and The Oresteia used to illustrate how the women’s societal functions have been distorted in the absence of their husbands. This is in order to establish that each text is aware of the gender role confusion occurring in its respective kingdom. The descriptive conflation of male and female roles ultimately speaks to an overall societal dysfunction. In The Odyssey this is highlighted in book 19; Odysseus, dressed as the beggar, compliments Penelope by comparing her fame to that of “a flawless king’s.”5 This comparison, however, highlights that Penelope has not been able to function like a king and properly fulfill that masculine role; ironically, the fecundity of the land that Odysseus describes is notably absent under her stewardship and instead the kingdom is depleted by suitors.6 In her own response she demurs and, according to Helene Foley, “tacitly reaffirms the traditional relation of subordination between husband and wife, reaffirms the limits of her own power and the particular forms necessary for social reproduction on Ithaca.”7 The simile, through its clear illustration of a king’s proper role, shows the masculine force that Ithaca and its royal household lack in Odysseus’ absence, and therefore how the wife/woman’s role becomes senseless without its societal 3 Thomas Laqueur, “Of Language and the Flesh,” Essay. In Making Sex Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, 1–19. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 8.

4 Aeschylus, The Eumenides, trans. Sarah Ruden (New York: The Modern Library, 2017), 657-665. Apollo argues that women are merely nurses to the seed provided by the male, making the father the singular and true parent.

5 Homer, The Odyssey, 19.119.

6 Ibid., 19.116-125.

7 Helene P. Foley, “Reverse Similes” and Sex Roles in the Odyssey,” Arethusa 11, no. 1/2 (1978): 13.

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In contrast to this figurative comparison leveled at Penelope, Clytemnestra is compared quite literally to a male ruler. The chorus anxiously hints at Clytemnestra’s warped fulfillment of her husband’s role numerous times before Agamemnon arrives back in Argos. As a keeper of the house, she is a “fearsome and unforgetting, looming, wily Nemesis for her child’s sake” within an omen, yet the chorus knows that “respect is due the chieftain’s wife / As long as there’s a desolate, unmanned throne.”8 They stop one step short of placing her upon that throne until they hear her report of the beacons: “This is a woman in command, conceding / her thanks before she sees. / A woman’s belief goes grazing over the boundaries, / quick on its way”.9 Whereas Penelope stayed within the boundaries of femininity, even if stagnant and pointless at the time, Clytemnestra has usurped command in her husband’s absence and gained power over knowledge as well. In the same choral ode, her use of the beacons is connected to “ruthless Persuasion [storming] in, / the overpowering child of Ruin counseling ruin from the start.”10 The ode hints that Clytemnestra is making dangerous use of information and employing persuasion in a manner that leads to destruction. These linguistic abilities allow her to obscure the boundaries of gender that ought to confine her actions.

These examples from The Odyssey and The Oresteia display a weakening of gender delineations in the absence of the opposite counterpart; the selections also foreshadow the resolution of each spousal conflict, the passages of which I will proceed to examine. Penelope, who rejected even her figurative placement into the male role and thus quelled any suspicion on Odysseus’ behalf, levels her own corresponding test at her husband with the secret of the marriage bed, followed, of course, by another reverse simile.

Clytemnestra’s test of Agamemnon with the tapestries is without narrative precedent; he did not direct any like inspection of his wife and ultimately suffers the consequences. The gender and resulting societal crises of The Oresteia must then be solved in the subsequent plays The Libations Bearers and The Eumenides.

In book 23 of The Odyssey, Penelope’s test concerning the secret of the marriage bed fulfills the pattern begun by Odysseus in his interviews as the beggar. The spouses have been separated for twenty years and must reacquaint themselves with each other and with the other gender by degrees. The way Penelope and Odysseus go about it, however, reflects their similar dispositions and equal possession of metis. Their similarity also gives the passage potent dramatic irony. The audience knows their famous like-mindedness and therefore must expect a test from Penelope to the same effect as what Odysseus gave her. Furthermore, Homer narrates Penelope’s internal struggle and foreshadows her actions: “With that thought Penelope started down from her lofty room, her heart / in turmoil, torn… should she keep her distance, / probe her husband?”11 Odysseus is also expecting this test, saying with a knowing smile to Telemachus, “Leave your mother here in the hall to test me / as she 8 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, trans. Sarah Ruden (New York: The Modern Library, 2017), 154, 259-260.

9 Ibid., 483-486. Emphasis mine.

10 Ibid., 385-386.

11 Homer, The Odyssey, 23.96-98.

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will.”12 In light of Telemachus’ reproach of his mother, Odysseus’ anticipation of Penelope’s intentions adds to the particularity of their relationship. Parallel conduct continues linguistically as well, with the two exchanging “strange woman” and “strange man.”13 This emphasis on intention and anticipation evokes the idea of two actors that test each other with their lines; a certain performance, almost in the theatrical sense, is expected from one another. This expectation operates for the performance of the roles “husband” and “wife,” but also for the more private roles of “Odysseus” and “Penelope.” Penelope makes it clear that just the appearance of fulfilling those roles will not be enough, stating, “You look — how well I know — the way he looked.”14 As the beggar, Odysseus already charmed Penelope with his knowledge of her husband’s appearance; thus knowledge and performance of “Odysseus the king” will not be enough to prove him to Penelope.15 Eventually, Penelope famously urges Eurycleia to move the rooted marriage bed and watches to see if Odysseus will finally expose himself and drop all pretenses, be it disguise, social expectation, etc: Putting her husband to the proof — but Odysseus blazed up in fury, lashing out at his loyal wife: “Woman — your words, they cut me to the core!

Who could move my bed?16 His revelation of “the core” is what Penelope has been waiting for, the destruction of the facade and evidence of the individual within the role. Homer, through the previously mentioned foreshadowing and parallelism, shows that both Penelope and Odysseus are aware that this had to occur. The ordeal of being known must once more be endured or the roles of “husband” and “wife” and even the performance of the self could not be inhabited without suspicion. Moreover, it is this agreement between “naked” individuals and their faithful inhabitation of them that authorizes the existence of roles such as “husband/man” and “wife/woman.” This redelineation of gender relations also resolves the sexuality of the two; more relevant to this paper is that Penelope’s sexuality does not remain unresolved like Clytemnestra’s does in The Oresteia, as pointed out by David Porter.17 As the nexus for their sexual life and the key to their exposed selves, the secret of the marriage bed resolves any question of sexual commitment on Penelope’s behalf and integrates her sexuality within the broader performance of her role as woman and wife.

The reverse simile that follows is a second, vivid illustration of the complex developments that just took place; it clarifies, beyond a doubt, that Odysseus and Penelope have arrived at a mutual understanding.18 John Winkler’s description of the simile also points to the agreement or union of exposed individuals outlined in the previous section: “We go into the simile on his side and come 12 Homer, The Odyssey, 23.128-129.

13 Ibid., 23.186, 193.

14 Ibid., 23.195.

15 Ibid., 19.260-284.

16 Ibid., 23.203-206.

17 David H. Porter, “Some Inversions Not Righted: A Note on Aeschylus’ Eumenides.”The Classical Journal 101, no. 1 (2005): 1-10.

18 Homer, The Odyssey, 23.260–272.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College out (we do not know how) on hers. At this moment they embrace and feel the same feelings, think the same thoughts, as if they were the same person: for a moment we cannot tell which is which.”19 The simile conveys reciprocity in both its content and structure.

Penelope is exposed to the same journey Odysseus has undergone and figuratively gains the same understanding from his experiences. Additionally, the passage is perceived first to be from Odysseus’ perspective and then from Penelope’s. Thus, it illustrates the newfound awareness that each individual has for the other and their renewed agreement to their social roles.

In opposition to Penelope’s secret of the marriage bed is Clytemnestra’s test of the tapestries.20 Aeschylus was no doubt aware of The Odyssey and the traditional contrast drawn between the two women. The tapestry scene, then, is configured as a dark inversion of Penelope’s test in book 23 of The Odyssey. Similarly, the tapestry scene in The Oresteia is a critical juncture in the gender and spousal conflict within the narrative; the social order can either be restored or become more distorted. As I discussed previously, one thing that has allowed for social distortion to occur is Clytemnestra’s malicious and unfeminine appropriation of persuasion, a masculine coded form of language.21 Clytemnestra’s argument with Agamemnon puts this persuasion and the wide-reaching havoc it wreaks on display. She greets him and falsely describes her behavior as the perfect wife.22 Instead of working towards the destruction of the facade, as Penelope did, Clytemnestra is interested in convincing Agamemnon to don further layers of performance and indulge in a dangerous and excessive self-concept. In his initial response to her request that he walk over the cloth, Agamemnon states, “Proper praise / is a tribute other people ought to give.”23 This highlights that this is not language or behavior that he would expect from his wife, one who is within an intimate enough social sphere to not engage in such a ceremony; there ought to be something more than performance and convention between them.

From this reading, one catches a glimpse of a marriage ideal similar to that found in The Odyssey –– that marriage should involve some mutual understanding of the individual within the role.

From here, however, Agamemnon’s other arguments obscure this ideal and entangle the conflict with other issues that often occupy tragedy, tying the spousal/gender conflict to broader issues of the polis: Agamemnon: Furthermore, don’t indulge me — that’s just like a woman. I am no barbarian for you to gape and squeal at as you grovel — and don’t spread clothing in my path to lead me to resentment. Only gods should reap these honors, and I’m a mortal — I’d be terrified in setting foot on these embroidered splendors.

19 John J. Winkler, “Penelope’s Cunning and Homer’s,” Essay. In The Constraints of Desire: the Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece. (New York: Routledge, 1990), 161.

20 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 914-957.

21 Zeitlin, “The Dynamics of Misogyny: Myth and Mythmaking in the Oresteia,” 171. Zeitlin lists logos and intention as associated with the male, as well as the law courts where rhetoric (i.e. persuasion) would take place.

22 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 855-913.

23 Ibid., 916-917.

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Revere me merely as a man, I tell you.24 Here Agamemnon expresses concern for first his masculine identity which is closely tied to and encompasses his Hellenic identity and finally his mortal or theological identity. The “barbarian” is a figure of effeminacy and decadence, the conceived opposite of Greek ideals of manliness and austerity. This decadence in turn connects to propriety towards the gods, to whom such indulgence could be considered an affront. These aspects tie proper performance of masculinity to the success of the state; for the polis, correct military function precludes encroachment by outside nations while religious reverence ensures no ill consequences from the gods’ disfavor.25 As a result, the collapse of masculinity directly translates to societal collapse.

Agamemnon’s concerns for traditional propriety, however, quickly fall away when facing Clytemnestra’s persuasion. She frames her arguments civically, speculating on the citizens’ perception of Agamemnon and his barely concealed desire for public favor: Clytemnestra: Would you have vowed to do this, out of fear?

Agamemnon: Yes, as a rite an expert had prescribed.

Clytemnestra: Think: what would Priam, as victor, do?

Agamemnon: Step on embroidery, I really think.

Clytemnestra: Don’t be concerned, then, when people blame you.

Agamemnon: But there’s great power in the citizens’ voice.

Clytemnestra: To be unenvied is — unenviable.26 Her argument capitalizes upon how his Hellenic and theological identities intersect with his role as leader in the Trojan war.

Did he not commit horrible deeds to secure the conquest of Ilium when prescribed by a prophet, i.e., the sacrifice of Iphigenia?

Did he not conquer Priam, who as an inferior would have walked upon the embroidery? She convinces him that the ceremony is in fact not outside of the bounds of his role as a Greek man; it would therefore be an affront to the Gods and to his status as victor over the “barbarians” not to tread upon the tapestries. In her final, most convincing point, Clytemnestra actually manipulates Agamemnon himself into arguing it and asserting the “power of the citizens’ voice.” His Greek manhood and status as victor and pious ruler are ultimately a performance that depends upon the perception of his citizens. Clytemnestra draws upon his anxious desire for not only their approval but also that they acknowledge him to be superior to them, that they envy him.27 The remainder of the argument features military-coded language that frames 24 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 918-925.

25 Herodotus, Histories. Manliness of the Greeks is depicted as being the superior factor in the Persian war that allowed them to repel the “barbarian” Persians who were weakened and feminized by decadence and indulgence.

26 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 933-939.

27 This is the same character flaw that he displays in the Iliad. Agamemnon’s conflict with Achilles was caused by a pride and insecurity that would not allow him to acknowledge the other man as the superior on the battlefield and give him proper respect.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Clytemnestra’s victory with persuasion as a battlefield triumph; Agamemnon initiated such language and it reflects his heightened awareness for how his various roles connect to this conflict.28 Rather than resolution, as its narrative equivalent in The Odyssey heralds, Clytemnestra’s test of the tapestries represents the complete overthrow of the traditional gender order, as well as the other structures of the polis that were attracted into the conflict during the argument.

The crisis begun in Agamemnon and continued in Libation Bearers will be resolved in The Eumenides in a trial for Orestes staged by Athena and Apollo at Athens. Unlike The Odyssey, the previous order will not be reaffirmed, but a new one will be established. “The final portion of the Oresteia,” according to Porter, “offers a moving series of resolutions, but it fails to confront some of the trilogy’s most troubling inversions.”29 Athena “has certainly helped move humans closer to civilization” through her constructed resolution, but as an eternal virgin, was unable to help resolve the potent female sexuality displayed in the trilogy with the order of the polis.30 The resolution confirms an inherent incompatibility between women and the polis, as the renegotiation ends with the exclusion of female sexuality from democratic Athens.

Unlike Porter, however, I do not believe Aeschylus saw this failure to resolve the female’s sexuality into her new role as a troubling “trade-off.”31 Instead I posit that the sexuality and eros of the Eumenides and Clytemnestra has not been overlooked, but circumscribed socially, narratively, and linguistically. The woman’s domain is the household, but the oikos must be necessarily separated from public, political society. The story may have begun in Argos where the house of the king doubles as the ruling body, but it ends in Athens where the ruling body is purely public, male actors who must one and all constrain their private interests which are embodied in that steward of the oikos, the wife. Therefore, female sexuality and all aspects of the female that are dangerous to the social order are not “brushed aside” or “glossed over,” but contained and suppressed.32 Aeschylus’ careful avoidance of righting this inversion of sexuality, then, is linguistic suppression as well; to healthily incorporate female sexuality into a functioning Athenian conception of democratic society is not possible. To correct the speech of Clytemnestra is to silence her. It was her initial appropriation of language and persuasion to foment her desires that caused chaos. This follows the sentiment of Pericles’ funeral speech which gives valuable insight into Athenian self-image and public consciousness of the topic of women: “Great is your glory if you fall not below the standard which nature has set for your sex, and great also is hers of whom there is least talk among men whether in praise or in blame.”33 The Oresteia paints a very different ideal of femininity from The Odyssey, and one that supports a two sex and two gender system: female speech and sexuality is inherently damaging to the state and social order, therefore the

proper marriage and gender order confines the female so that certain necessary aspects of her can function within the male state.

In The Odyssey, the depiction of Penelope encourages a one-sex and two-gender order, one that acknowledges the equal capacity of each spouse and their mutual agreement to difference in their roles.

Works Cited Aeschylus. “The Oresteia: Agamemnon.” Essay. In The Greek Plays: Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, translated by Sarah Ruden. New York: The Modern Library, 2017.

Aeschylus. “The Oresteia: Eumenides.” Essay. In The Greek Plays: Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, translated by Sarah Ruden. New York: The Modern Library, 2017.

Foley, Helene P. “”REVERSE SIMILES” AND SEX ROLES IN THE ODYSSEY.” Arethusa 11, no. 1/2 (1978): 7-26.

Accessed December 7, 2020. http://www.jstor.org/stable/26308152.

Homer. Odyssey. Translated by Robert Fagles. New York: Viking Penguin, 1997.

Laqueur, Thomas. “Of Language and the Flesh.” Essay. In Making Sex Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, 1–19.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990.

Porter, David H. “Some Inversions Not Righted: A Note on Aeschylus’ Eumenides.” The Classical Journal 101, no.

1 (2005): 1-10. Accessed December 7, 2020. http://www. jstor.org/stable/30038627.

Thucydides. 2015. History of the Peloponnesian War. translated

by Charles Forster Smith. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. http://books.google.com/books?id=DJxZAAAAYAAJ. Winkler, John J. “Penelope’s Cunning and Homer’s.” Essay. In The Constraints of Desire: the Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece. New York: Routledge, 1990.

Zeitlin, Froma I. “The Dynamics of Misogyny: Myth and Mythmaking in the Oresteia.” Arethusa 11, no. 1/2 (1978): 149-84. Accessed December 7, 2020. http://www.jstor. org/stable/26308158.

28 Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 940-945.

29 Porter, “Some Inversions Not Righted: A Note on Aeschylus’ Eumenides,” 8.

30 Ibid., 8.

31 Ibid., 8.

32 Ibid., 8.

33 Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, trans. Charles Forster Smith (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2015), 2.45.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

Feminine Mediums

Contextualizing iconography in women’s tattoos from Deir el-Medina, Egypt Kayley Boddy (she/her), Hamilton College, Class of 2022

Abstract

Tattoos are relatively common body decorations in Egyptian art, but until recently, those appearing in mummified remains were difficult to see and to analyze. Recent infrared photography advancements have allowed archaeologists to better understand the role of tattoos in the daily lives of ancient Egyptians. These tattoos, primarily appearing on women, may have been used to symbolize one’s role within a community and charge the body with divine protection. In the case of a New Kingdom female mummy from the tomb chamber of TT 290 in Deir el-Medina, her tattoos utilize the iconography of Bes, Hathor, and Meretseger to offer her divine protection as a healer and midwife. By overviewing the appearance of iconography related to Bes, Hathor, and Meretseger in paintings, ostraca, and fertility figurines from Deir el-Medina and ancient Egypt more broadly, and by discussing how the form and placement of tattoos affects their meaning, I expand upon current hypotheses to connect her tattoos with childbirth and fertility protection.

The advancement of infrared photography has allowed archaeologists to better view and analyze ancient tattoos preserved in mummified remains. As these preserved body modifications become more accessible, we refine our conclusions about the perception and value of tattoos in ancient societies, especially with regard to their roles in daily life and their engagement in larger iconographic cultures. In this paper, I analyze how a selection of common ancient Egyptian iconographic symbols — particularly those of the gods Bes, Hathor, and Meretseger — appear on a tattooed female mummy found in the tomb chamber of TT 290 from Deir el-Medina dating to the New Kingdom (1550 – 1069 BCE). I expand upon current hypotheses concerning her role as a healer in the village to suggest that these tattoos indicate her involvement in childbirth specifically. To accomplish this, I will first discuss tattoos appearing in paintings, figured ostraca (limestone flakes used domestically for art and writing), and fertility figurines in Deir el-Medina. Then, by focusing on how the form, meaning, and usage of tattoos changes based on medium and placement, I will propose her tattoos to be symbolic protections for her roles in healing and childbirth.

Firstly, the number of tattooed individuals, figured ostraca, fertility figurines, and elaborate paintings found in Deir el-Medina is not reflective of those of a standard village, as Deir el-Medina possessed a unique culture of artistry and craftsmanship. The village of Deir el-Medina, with around sixty-eight homes at its peak, housed the community of quarrymen, craftsmen, draftsmen, sculptors, artists, and administrators who worked in the tombs of both Valleys of the Kings and Queens, as well as their families.1 Since the early twentieth century, excavations of the site have provided scholars the opportunity to better understand the “administrative and economic matters, art, literature, social relations, and domestic, religious, and funerary architecture” of a well-preserved, an1 A.G. McDowell, Village Life in Ancient Egypt: Laundry Lists and Love Songs (Oxford University Press, 2002), 9; Leonard H. Lesko, Pharaoh’s Workers: The Villagers of Deir el Medina (Cornell University Press, 1994), 11.

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cient Egyptian workmen’s village.2 This community was highly skilled, given their salaried occupations in administering and decorating royal and elite tombs, and thus enjoyed relatively comfortable working conditions and more leisure time than most Egyptian workers.3 It is thus little surprise that highly decorated works, as well as bodies, appear here in higher concentrations. Archaeologists are becoming aware of an expansive localized culture surrounding tattoos, the majority of which have been found either on female mummies or on depictions of women in the village’s tomb paintings, ostraca, and figurines.4 One common iconographic symbol found in the material culture of Deir el-Medina is that of Bes, protector of pregnancy, childbirth, and fertility, depicted as a dwarf with large ears. He appears frequently outside of birth houses, in domestic altars, and on birth wands, “which protected infants in life and were later placed in tombs to provide protection in the afterlife.”5 In a study of twenty-nine figured ostraca from Deir el-Medina depicting women on beds, sixteen featured Bes at the feet of these beds.6 This placement signals his expected role as protector of women during childbirth; whether this is reflective of how beds in Deir el-Medina actually looked, though, is unclear. In tomb paintings also dating to the New Kingdom, we see Bes in another context — as a tattooed 2 McDowell.

3 This is not to suggest, however, that tomb workers were highly paid. For example, many workers “moonlighted” as secondary occupations, which involved creating “furniture, stelae, or other funerary equipment for their neighbors” as well as themselves (Lesko, 12).

4 Anne Austin and Cédric Gobeil, “Embodying the Divine: A Tattooed Female Mummy from Deir el-Medina,” Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale 116 (2017): 23-46.

5 Charlotte Rose, “Childbirth Magic: Deciphering Bed Figurines from Ancient Egypt,” Expedition Magazine 58, no. 3 (2016): 38-45, http://www.penn.museum/ sites/expedition/?p=24055.

6 Joanne Backhouse, “Figured Ostraca from Deir El-Medina,” in Current Research in Egyptology 2011: Proceedings of the Twelfth Annual Symposium, ed. by Gawad Heba Abd El, Andrews Nathalie, Correas-Amador Maria, Tamorri Veronica, and Taylor James (Oakville: Oxbow Books, 2012), 28, https://doi. org/10.2307/j.ctvh1dk68.7.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College figure on depictions of musicians and dancers.7 Researchers have found “five examples of tattoos of Bes depicted on the thighs of women [in ostraca], several of which come from Deir el-Medina.”8 Since Bes is commonly depicted laughing, dancing, and singing, his connection with musicians and dancers is clear.9 However, this placement on the thigh more likely signals amuletic functions related to Bes’s role as protector of fertility and childbirth. Geoffrey Tassie explains: Because Bes is associated more strongly with protection during childbirth and new mothers, it would be most probable that women had a tattoo of Bes on their thigh to protect them from disease and complication in childbirth, as the death rate in childbirth proved very high for both mother and child… the rituals performed at the household altar decorated with scenes of Bes or Taweret were concerned with female fertility, protection during childbirth and the child itself, and continuity of the family (Robins 1996). This does not exclude the sexual nature of music and dance or of Bes, but the placement of the tattoo and Bes’ principal function would seem to indicate its primary symbolic role as being that of protection and secondarily of sexuality.10 Archaeologists have not yet found Bes tattooed on other parts of the body, neither in ostraca, tomb paintings, figurines, nor on mummies themselves. Egyptians likely hoped this particular placement of Bes would encourage fertility and safe child-bearing.11 Hathor, considered a protector of women’s mental and physical health, may also be connected to women’s tattoos in Deir el-Medina. Women of significant rank, usually those married to scribes and foremen, ofted acted as chantresses, singers, and priestesses of Hathor in Deir el-Medina’s temples.12 Hathor often appears with the head and ears of a cow or simply in cow form in a few of Deir el-Medina’s ostraca.13 For example, in his reconstruction of a painted wall in House S.E. I of Deir el-Medina, Bernard Bruyère argued that Hathor was depicted nursing a child.14 Though he later speculated that the painting may instead be of Meretseger, Hathor’s depiction as a nursing mother connects her to women’s health. This argument is further supported by fertility figurines, which are often stylized with “Hathor” hair (two tresses with curled ends) and serve as votive offerings to Hathor.15 Fer7 Joanne Backhouse, “Catalogue of Painted Wall Decoration Found in the Village,” in ‘Scènes De Gynécées’ Figured Ostraca from New Kingdom Egypt: Iconography and Intent (Summertown: Archaeopress, 2020), 6-16. https://doi. org/10.2307/j.ctvxrq1dt.8.

8 Austin and Gobeil, 5.

9 Geraldine Pinch, “Childbirth and Female Figurines at Deir El-Medina and El-‛Amarna,” Orientalia NOVA SERIES 52, no. 3 (1983): 405-14, www.jstor.org/ stable/43077567.

10 Geoffrey Tassie, “Identifying the Practice of Tattooing in Ancient Egypt and Nubia,” Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 14 (2003): 95-96.

11 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 6-16.

12 Barbara S. Lesko, “Rank, Roles, and Rights,” in Pharaoh’s Workers: The Villagers of Deir el Medina (Cornell University Press, 1994), 25.

13 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 6-16.

14 Ibid.

15 Pinch, 412; Thomas Redpath, “Object in Focus: A Female Figurine from Ancient Egypt,” Garstang Museum Of Archaeology (blog), August 29, 2018, https://

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tility figurines are particularly important in the study of ancient Egyptian tattooing, as many of them possess dotted and geometric decorations which ressemble and possibly represent tattoos.16 Though the dotted, geometric tattoos appearing across the torsos, backs, and arms of female musicians and dancers in ostraca and tomb scenes may be a symbol for belonging to the cult of Hathor, this association has not yet been proved.17 What can be assumed, however, is a connection between the geometric patterning of tattoos, the protection of health and fertility, and Hathor, particularly when examining fertility figurines and assemblages of tattoos on mummified women.

The workmen in the Deir el-Medina village also worshipped the local deity Meretseger, the goddess of the Valley of the Kings.

Like Bes and Hathor, she is connected to fertility and childbirth, as well as rebirth. She is commonly depicted as either a cobra, a cobra with a female head, or a female with a cobra head, and she appears in both ostraca and tattoos.18 Most serpent imagery in Deir el-Medina, unlike in other villages, relates to her worship; serpent imagery appears carved into the bedframes of eleven ostraca from Deir el-Medina.19 These depictions of Meretseger connect her with the “protection of the child,” and also suggest she may have been linked to the idea of rebirth for the men of the village.20 Analyzing the presence of Bes, Hathor, and Meretseger iconography in the tattoos of the female mummy from TT 290 enables us to better understand the role of tattoos in healing, fertility, and childbirth in ancient Deir el-Medina. In 2014, researchers Anne Austin and Cédric Gobeil identified over thirty tattoos “on the neck, shoulders, back, and arms of a mummified torso of a woman” (fig. 1).21 Many of her neck, lower back, and upper arm tattoos also appear symmetrically across her body, like two seated baboons and two Egyptian cobras, while tattoos “on the upper back and tattoos just above the elbow… are asymmetrical and show more complex designs.”22 In addition to baboons and cobras, her tattoos also include Wadjet eyes, nefers, uraeuses, a snake with a solar disc and one with a basket, khepri beetles, Hathor cows, a Hathor handle, lotus blossoms with a belt of dots connecting them, and other miscellaneous hieroglyphs.23 24 25 26 garstangmuseum.wordpress.com/2018/08/29/object-in-focus-a-female-figurinefrom-ancient-egypt/.

16 Redpath.

17 Austin and Gobeil, 6.

18 Meretseger, c. 1479–1400 BCE, or later. Sandstone, pigment, 14 x 4 5/8 x 8 7/8 in. (35.6 x 11.7 x 22.5 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Charles Edwin Wilbour Fund, 37.1749E. Creative Commons-BY (Photo: Brooklyn Museum (Gavin Ashworth,er), 37.1749E_Gavin_Ashworth_photograph.jpg).

19 Backhouse, “Figured Ostraca,” 28.

20 Ibid., 36.

21 Austin and Gobeil, 7. For more diagrams and photographs of these tattoos, refer to this source.

22 Ibid., 14.

23 Hieroglyph D-10, “human eye with the markings of a falcon’s head… the sound (uninjured) eye of Horus.” Phon. wdjt eye. Alan H. Gardiner, Egyptian Grammar: Being an Introduction to the Study of Hieroglyphs (Cambridge: University Press, 1927): 443.

24 Hieroglyph F-35, “heart and windpipe.” Phon. nfr, meaning ‘good’ and related words. Alan H. Gardiner, 456.

25 Hieroglyph I-12, “cobra (erect as on the forehead of the Pharaohs, Greek ουραιος)... Det. goddesses, especially those to whom the appearance of a snake was attributed.” Gardiner, 466.

26 Austin and Gobeil, 16.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Tattoos in ancient Egypt have been commonly assumed to indicate the role of a person within their community, charging their body with the protection offered to them by the iconography of the gods. We can develop a basic understanding of this woman’s role in Deir el-Medina by analyzing her tattoos under this assumption. The tattooing of baboons, Wadjet eyes, and nefers on her neck work together to suggest she may have held an important role in Deir el-Medina as a healer or magician; tattooed over the vocal cords, these symbols would “give magical powers to her speech.”27 Baboons were often the symbol of Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing, knowledge, magic, and the moon — the appearance of baboons with the Wadjet eye appears often in magical contexts, carved into wands and other objects to give them magical power.28 Tattooed baboons would have summoned the power of Thoth into her work. Moreover, the Wadjet eye was commonly used as an amulet in ancient Egypt. Tattooing the Wadjet eye over her neck, or “the act of fixing forever the image of an amulet[,] could therefore be interpreted as a way to permanently attach the magical power of an amulet on one person.”29 The nefer hieroglyph would have been used similarly, permanently casting her words as “beautiful” and “good.” While it is possible that these symbols were tattooed to heal her from an illness, as drawing symbols on the body was often considered a part of healing, it is more likely “she was someone actively involved in healing and protecting people” herself.30 Tattoos would have likely been proactive measures to prevent illness and misfortune, rather than reactive measures to heal them, given that they require more skill and equipment than paintings on the skin. If this is true, the placement of Wadjet eyes over her shoulders suggests “her arms were also empowered with this formula ‘to do good’ in their actions,” and that “her gestures were also involved in specific magical practices.”31 With this basic assumption of her role as a healer, we can now observe what the iconography (or lack thereof) of Bes, Hathor, and Meretseger further reveals about her role in Deir el-Medina.

Two symmetrical serpent tattoos lie on each shoulder below the Wadjet eyes. While Austin and Gobeil attribute this simply to the Egyptian cobra often appearing in medical and magical contexts, I believe these serpents likely signify the worship of Meretseger, or charge the healer with the divinity of Meretseger. Their placement could have symbolized the empowerment of her hands to heal the workmen of Deir el-Medina, and, as the wall painting of House S.E.I suggests, granted her the ability to guide men through their rebirths.32 These serpent tattoos may also charge her with the ability to protect both mothers and infants as she aided in village births.

Two of the serpents on her body may also be identified as part of a system of Hathoric tattoos, connecting her directly with the goddess of women’s health and further supporting the possibility of her role as a midwife. Above each of her armpits, there appears “a cobra (uraeus) hanging from a sun disk,” a symbol commonly

associated with Hathor.33 As the daughter of Ra, Hathor is “considered to be the daughter of the sun disk which she protects in the shape of a uraeus curled around it.”34 This depiction of Hathor’s protective nature could have symbolized the woman’s own protective nature over the workmen, women, and children in Deir el-Medina. The Hathor cows depicted on her left arm further support this assumed role as a nurturing figure.35 The pair of lotus blossoms adorning her hips can also be attributed to either Bes and Hathor and further connect her to healing and childbirth. In their research, Austin and Gobeil note:

27 Austin and Gobeil, 19.

28 Ibid., 19.

29 Ibid., 17.

30 Ibid., 18.

31 Ibid., 20.

32 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 6-16.

33 Austin and Gobeil, 29.

34 Ibid., 29.

35 Ibid., 28.

36 Ibid., 32.

37 Ibid., 8.

38 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 14.

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A lotus blossom tattoo also appears on the back of the neck of a female [fertility] figurine from Lisht, and graffiti on the floor of the Hathor temple at Deir el-Medina also feature lotus blossoms. These connections offer a means to link the tattoos on this mummy both with the previous tradition of tattooing documented in Middle Kingdom figurines, as well as the cult of Hathor, as noted previously.36 The form of the tattoo itself is important in building this connection to Hathor. A number of fertility figurines, such as the one in fig. 2 from the Middle Kingdom (1850 – 1750 BCE), are decorated with dotted girdles and cowrie shell shaped beads. These dotted, geometric patterns around the waists of fertility figurines appear similar to the dotted pattern connecting the lotus blossoms on her hips. If fertility figurine decoration is representative of actual tattooing, this signifies that the woman’s lotus blossom tattoos may have aided her in protecting fertility and childbirth, and were important enough to include on figurines in order to charge them with this same power. Alternatively, the lotus blossoms may connect to Bes. Despite the absence of definitive Bes iconography in her surviving tattoos, it is impossible to rule out their existence; if they existed, they would likely have been found on her thighs, and her thighs do not survive.37 Nevertheless, in a surviving wall painting from House N.E. X in Deir el-Medina, Bes is depicted “frontally with his wings outstretched, holding lotus flowers in his hands.”38 By placing lotus flowers on either side of her hips and connecting them with a belt of dots, the tattoo mirrors the frontal, outstretched shape of Bes depicted in this painting.

Not all of her tattoos can be directly attributed to healing, particularly the Hathor handle tattooed upside-down on her right arm and the serpents. Firstly, though I suggest the symmetrical serpents on her shoulders are related to the worship of Meretseger, not all serpents on her body should be attributed to Meretseger; some may act more broadly as indicators of her status within Deir el-Medina.

In their research, Austin and Gobeil identify symmetrical uraeuses, or upright Egyptian cobra hieroglyphs, on each of the woman’s arms. Uraeuses projected divine authority, and are often found on the headdresses of pharaohs and in the names of goddesses. This

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College woman was not herself a ruler in Deir el-Medina, but the uraeuses on her body suggest she was still an important figure in the community, possessing a considerable amount of skill and the divine respect of the gods. Moreover, the depiction of a Hathor handle on her right arm suggests she could have been a highly regarded musician or a dancer in Deir el-Medina rather than a healer or midwife. Austin and Gobeil argue that the handle is that of a sistrum, an Egyptian percussion instrument, placed upside down to “mimic its position when held during use.”39 If this tattoo has been correctly identified, it is worth questioning why a sistrum appears on such a highly regarded member of the ancient Deir el-Medina community. Yet these Hathor handles were not used only for sistrums; many mirrors had Hathor handles. Mirrors appear frequently in the figured ostraca previously mentioned, lying under or around beds or being presented to the women lying on the beds.40 Mirrors also appear painted or modelled on fertility figurines.41 It is plausible, then, that the Hathor handle tattooed on this mummy’s arm may be symbolic of mirrors and domestic toiletries in general, connecting her to her role as a healer or midwife rather than a dancer or musician.

Though I argue that this mummy’s tattoos indicate she was likely involved in healing and childbirth in Deir el-Medina, it is important to acknowledge our limitations when using tattoos to better understand the roles of people in ancient societies. As archaeologists, we possess “general limitations in our ability to interpret the symbolism and meaning of tattoos in Pharaonic contexts because of the lack of figural tattoos identified on human remains.”42 Because the canvas of skin is much different than ostraca, tombs, figurines, or wall paintings, iconographic symbols on the body may have possessed an entirely different function, even if we believe tattoos to be represented through these mediums.

Tattoos may not have been indicative of the roles of individuals within their societies at all. While our assumptions of the possible role of the mummified woman of the TT 290 assemblage are well supported, they are not conclusive and require further research. As we continue to discover tattooed human remains, our understanding of the role of tattoos in ancient Egypt only continues to evolve.

Appendix

39 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 27.

40 Pinch, 407.

41 Ibid.

42 Backhouse, “Catalogue,” 6.

Fig. 1: Torso of mummified woman with tattoos, by Anne Austin.

Anne Austin and Cédric Gobeil, “Embodying the Divine: A Tattooed Female Mummy from Deir el-Medina,” Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale 116 (2017): 23-46.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Works Cited

Fig. 2: Female fertility figure from the Middle Kingdom. Female figure, c. 1850 – 1750 BCE, faience, paint, H. 12.7 cm (5in). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 08.200.18. (https:// www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/544220)

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Austin, Anne and Gobeil, Cédric. “Embodying the Divine: A Tattooed Female Mummy from Deir el-Medina.” Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 116 (2017): 23-46.

Backhouse, Joanne. “Catalogue of Painted Wall Decoration Found in the Village.” In ‘Scènes De Gynécées’ Figured Ostraca from New Kingdom Egypt: Iconography and Intent.

Summertown: Archaeopress, 2020. 6-16. https://doi. org/10.2307/j.ctvxrq1dt.8. ⸻⸻⸻. “Figured Ostraca from Deir El-Medina.” In Current Research in Egyptology 2011: Proceedings of the Twelfth Annual Symposium. ed. Gawad Heba Abd El, Andrews Nathalie, Correas-Amador Maria, Tamorri Veronica, and Taylor James. Oakville: Oxbow Books, 2012. https://doi. org/10.2307/j.ctvh1dk68.7.

Female figure, c. 1850 – 1750 BCE. Faience, paint, H. 12.7 cm (5in). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 08.200.18. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/ search/544220 Gardiner, Alan H. Egyptian Grammar: Being an Introduction to the Study of Hieroglyphs. Cambridge: University Press, 1927. 443.

Lesko, Leonard H. Pharaoh’s Workers: The Villagers of Deir el Medina. Cornell University Press, 1994.

McDowell, A.G. Village Life in Ancient Egypt: Laundry Lists and Love Songs. Oxford University Press, 2002.

Meretseger, c. 1479–1400 BCE, or later. Sandstone, pigment, 14 x 4 5/8 x 8 7/8 in. (35.6 x 11.7 x 22.5 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Charles Edwin Wilbour Fund, 37.1749E. Creative Commons-BY (Photo: Brooklyn Museum (Gavin Ashworth,er), 37.1749E_Gavin_Ashworth_photograph.jpg).

Pinch, Geraldine. “Childbirth and Female Figurines at Deir El-Medina and El-‛Amarna.” Orientalia NOVA SERIES 52, no.

3 (1983): 405-14. www.jstor.org/stable/43077567.

Redpath, Thomas. “Object in Focus: A Female Figurine from Ancient Egypt.” Garstang Museum Of Archaeology (blog).

August 29, 2018. https://garstangmuseum.wordpress .com/2018/08/29/object-in-focus-a-female-figurinefrom-ancient-egypt/.

Rose, Charlotte. “Childbirth Magic: Deciphering Bed Figurines from Ancient Egypt.” Expedition Magazine 58, no. 3 (2016): 38-45. http://www.penn.museum/sites/expedition/?p=24055.

Tassie, Geoffrey. “Identifying the Practice of Tattooing in Ancient Egypt and Nubia.” Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 14 (2003): 85-101.

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Boudica

Celtic Warrior Queen and Roman Propaganda Victim Bryn Hudson (she/her), Trinity College, Class of 2021

Abstract

In the ancient Roman tradition, Queen Boudica of Britannia is either an avenging mother and tragic martyr or a “sadistic” priestess and catastrophic general. Although Tacitus and Cassius Dio’s accounts of Boudica and the Boudican Revolt in the Annals and Roman History are contradictory, the literary and material records reveal that they both invented the Celts’ destruction of Verulamium and exaggerated the torture and killing of Roman citizens.

In 60 CE, the Celtic Iceni and Trinovantes tribes of Britannia rebelled against the Roman Empire.1 In pursuit of revenge, wealth, or freedom, the Celts attacked and burned the Roman settlements of Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium to the ground, killing a reported 70,000 to 80,000 Roman citizens.2 Under the leadership of Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, Britannia’s military governor, the Roman legions defeated the Iceni and Trinovantes tribes in battle, killing an equal number of them.3 The queen of the Iceni tribe, Boudica, had inspired the Celts to revolt and led the army into battle. Because of her defiance as well as her status as a Celt, Druidic priestess, and female ruler, the ancient Roman historians, Tacitus and Cassius Dio, launched a propaganda campaign within the Annals and Roman History, tainting Boudica’s name and people. Yet they disagreed on what Boudica looked or acted like, why she began the revolt, and how involved she was in it. Recent archaeological excavations suggest, however, that they invented or exaggerated her “violent” and “barbaric” actions.

The only evidence of Boudica’s life and rebellion comes from Tacitus’ Annals and Cassius Dio’s Roman History. Cornelius Tacitus (55 – 120 CE) was a Roman aristocrat, historian, senator, and governor of Asia. In the Annals, he records the reigns of the Roman emperors Tiberius (r. 14-37 CE), Caligula (r. 37 – 41 CE), Claudius (r. 41 – 54 CE), and Nero (r. 54 – 68 CE). Tacitus focuses on recording the military campaigns and political projects of the Roman emperors, consuls, and generals rather than their personal lives or behavior.4 While narrating the Boudican Revolt in Book 14, for example, he only mentions the leadership, victories, and defeats of Boudica and Paulinus. Their domestic, political, or military careers before the revolt are absent. Since Tacitus also consulted with his father-in-law, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a member of Paulinus’ staff and a veteran of Britannia’s XXth legion, Annals is a more reliable source.5 1 Figure 1.

2 Cassius Dio, Roman History, trans. Earnest Cary (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1914), 62.1; Tacitus, Annals, trans. J. Jackson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1925), 14.33.

3 Ibid., 14.37.

4 “Tacitus,” Livius, 2021, http://www.livius.org/sources/content/tacitus.

5 Guy de la Bédoyère, Defying Rome: the Rebels of Roman Britain (Gloucestershire: Tempus, 2003), 66; Peter Berresford Ellis, Celtic Women: Women in Celtic Society and Literature (London: Trans-Atlantic, 1996), 86.

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Cassius Dio Cocceianus (164 – 235 CE), in comparison, was a Greek aristocrat, historian, senator, governor of Africa, and co-consul with Severus Alexander (r. 222 – 235 CE). His Roman History is broader and more dramatic than Tacitus’ Annals. It tracks the fate of Rome from its settlement by Aeneas through the Roman Monarchy, Republic, and Empire to Severus Alexander. Throughout the epic, Cassius Dio embellishes the appearances, personalities, and speeches of historical figures to entertain his readers.6 Boudica and Paulinus rarely speak in Tacitus’ Annals, but in Book 62 of Roman History they address their armies three times.

According to Tacitus and Cassius Dio, Boudica was the wife of Prasutagus, mother of two unidentified daughters, priestess of the Druids, and queen of the Iceni tribe. Although Tacitus referred to her as Boudica, Cassius Dio as Buduica, and the English Victorians as Boadicea, all variations of her name originate from the Welsh ‘buddugol’ and Irish ‘buach’ meaning ‘victorious.’7 Since neither Roman author records her birth, marriage, or childbirth dates, historians rely on ancient Celtic law to estimate that Boudica was 21 years old during Prasutagus’ coronation and her daughters’ birth in 46 CE.8 Thus Boudica was 35 and her daughters 14 when Prasutagus died, she became queen, and the Boudican Revolt began in 60 CE.9 As a Druidic priestess and royal widow, Boudica could not have inherited the throne unless she was also related by blood to Prasutagus.10 Tacitus and Cassius Dio agree on Boudica’s identity, but not her emotional or physical state. The former argues that Boudica was a vulnerable, but vengeful wife, mother, and queen. She confesses to her army that, “she was avenging, not, as a queen of glorious ancestry, her ravished realm and power, but, as a woman of the people, her liberty lost, her body tortured by the lash, the tarnished honor of her daughters.”11 The Romans had violated all parts of the Iceni women, “Roman cupidity had progressed so far that not their very persons, not age itself, nor maidenhood, were 6 “Cassius Dio,” Livius, 2020, https://www.livius.org/sources/content/cassius-dio/.

7 Ellis, Celtic Women, 85.

8 Ibid 85-86; Philip Matyszak, The Enemies of Rome: from Hannibal to Attila the Hun (London: Thames & Hudson, 2009), 181.

9 Ellis, Celtic Women, 85-86.

10 Ibid., 87.

11 Tacitus, Annals, 14.35.

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left unpolluted.”12 Boudica is a fragile survivor in Annals, but she’s a formidable Amazon in Roman History. Boudica was, “very tall, in appearance most terrifying, in the glance of her eye most fierce, and her voice was harsh.”13 Additionally, she “possessed of greater intelligence than often belongs to women.”14 It’s a description fitting of any Roman soldier or emperor and one which Cassius Dio wields to shame Nero for his femineity and incompetency.15 As a result of Nero’s singing and lyre playing, the Roman Empire was so unprotected that, “two cities were sacked, eighty thousand of the Romans and of their allies perished, and the island [Britannia] was lost to Rome.”16 He insults the emperor further by calling him Mistress Domitia-Nero.17 Cassius Dio also accused Nero’s legions of effeminate cowardice for hiding behind armor and forts instead of pursuing or fleeing the enemy.18 Still he emphasizes that Boudica worshipped Andraste, performed Druidic rituals of divination and sacrifice, and tortured Roman citizens. Cassius Dio is delighted that Boudica was more capable of fighting and ruling than Nero, but he objects that she was a “barbarian.”

Just as Tacitus and Cassius Dio contested the emotional, physical, and intellectual state of Boudica, so too did they argue about the cause of the Boudican Revolt. According to Tacitus’ Annals, the Romans’ material greed and assault of women was responsible. When the Roman Emperor Claudius invaded Britannia in 43 CE seeking furs, pearls, gold, or glory, Caractacus, the king of the Catuvellauni tribe, attempted to defend his territory, but lost, resulting in his exile and tribe’s dissolvement.19 Fearing a similar fate, Prasutagus swore allegiance to Claudius.20 When the emperor’s heir, Nero, considered removing the client kings and ruling Britannia directly, Prasutagus named Nero as his third heir to protect his daughters’ claims to the Iceni throne.21 The intention of his will, however, was inconsequential. As heirs, the Roman army considered the raiding and physical or sexual assault of the Iceni people legally justifiable: his kingdom was pillaged by centurions, his household by slaves; as though they had been prizes of war. As a beginning, his wife Boudicca was subjected to the lash and his daughters violated: all the chief men of the Icenians were stripped of their family estates, and the relatives of the king were treated as slaves.22 Like the Sabine women and Lucretia, the Iceni women were beaten and raped by Roman men.23 Tacitus intentionally compares the 12 Tacitus, Annals, 14.35.

13 Figure 2; Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.2.

14 Ibid., 62.2.

15 Eric Adler, “Boudica’s Speeches in Tacitus and Dio,” Classical World 101, no.

2 (2008): pp. 173-195, https://doi.org/10.1353/clw.2008.0006, 192-193.

16 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.1.

17 Ibid., 62.6.

18 Ibid., 62.5.

19 Ellis, Celtic Women, 83-84; Matyszak, The Enemies of Rome, 178-179.

20 Ellis, Celtic Women, 85.

21 Tacitus, Annals, 14.31; Ellis, Celtic Women, 86.

22 Tacitus, Annals, 14.31.

23 Adler, “Boudica’s Speeches in Tacitus and Dio,” 181.

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mythical Roman and historical foreign women to question the ethics of Roman imperialism and justify Boudica’s desire for revenge.24 The origin of the Boudican Revolt in Cassius Dio’s Annals has no gendered suffering or sympathy. Instead, Cassius Dio claims that the debt and poverty of the Celtic tribes led them to revolt against the Roman Empire. The procurator of Britannia, Dedianus Catus, had quickly and violently recalled the money that Claudius and Nero’s tutor, Seneca, had “loaned” the Celtic tribes.25 Since Seneca only loaned the Iceni tribe 10,000 denarii, the annual income of 44 legionaries, it’s possible that other Roman politicians or merchants offered or forced loans with high interest rates upon the Iceni tribe.26 Either way, the Iceni tribe likely, “had little idea of what their obligations would be when it came to interest and repayment.”27 As a result, Boudica compares their debt and poverty to slavery while addressing the Iceni and Trinovantes tribes: You have learned by actual experience how different freedom is from slavery. … For what treatment is there of the most shameful or grievous sort that we have not suffered ever since these men made their appearance in Britain?

Have we not been robbed entirely of most of our possessions, and those the greatest, while for those that remain we pay taxes? Besides pasturing and tilling for them all our other possessions, do we not pay a yearly tribute for our very bodies?28 Boudica argues that they should fight to regain their economic and spiritual freedom, “how much better it would be to have been sold to masters once for all than, possessing empty titles of freedom, to have to ransom ourselves every year! How much better to have been slain and to have perished than to go about with a tax on our heads!”29 By 60 CE, there were four Roman legions stationed in Britannia: XIV Germania, XX Valeria Victrix, IX Hispania, and II Augusta, approximately 30,000 soldiers plus an additional 20,000 auxiliaries.30 Such numbers pale in comparison to Boudica’s army of 230,000 Celtic warriors.31 When the Iceni and Trinovantes tribes attacked Camulodunum, the former Trinovantes’ capital, none of the Roman legions or auxiliaries defended it.32 Since Paulinus was busy commanding the XIV Germania and XX Valeria Victrix legions against the Druids in Wales, he was unable to return in time.33 Boudica’s army quickly killed the inhabitants of Camulodunum and burned the veteran colony to the ground before defeating the delayed IX Hispania.34 From there, they marched west towards Londinium, Britannia’s provincial capital, but it was also 24 Adler, “Boudica’s Speeches in Tacitus and Dio,” 181.

25 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.2.

26 Bédoyère, Defying Rome, 55.

27 Ibid., 55.

28 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.3.

29 Ibid., 62.3.

30 Figure 3; Bédoyère, Defying Rome, 44.

31 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.8.

32 Tacitus, Annals, 14.32.

33 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.7; Tacitus, Annals, 14.29-30.

34 Ibid., 14.32.

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In contrast, Cassius Dio is appalled at the actions of Boudica’s army. While Tacitus describes the attacks on Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium with neutral verbs like ‘enveloped,’ ‘fired,’ ‘carried,’ ‘routed,’ or ‘fell,’ Cassius Dio utilizes emotive words like ‘sack,’ ‘plunder,’ and ‘wreak’ to portray Boudica and her army as monstrous “barbarians.’’44 Additionally, he accuses Boudica’s army of torturing Roman women: The worst and most bestial atrocity committed by their captors was the following. They hung up naked the noblest and most distinguished [Roman] women and then cut off their breasts and sewed them to their mouths in order to make the victims appear to be eating them; afterwards they impaled the women on sharp sticks run lengthwise through the entire body. All this they did to the accompaniment of sacrifices, banquets, and wanton 35 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 14.33.

36 Ibid., 14.33.

37 Ibid 14.33.

38 Matyszak, The Enemies of Rome, 186.

39 Ibid., 186.

40 Ibid., 189.

41 Tacitus, Annals, 14.37.

42 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.12; Tacitus, Annals, 14.37.

43 Tacitus, Annals, 14.33.

44 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.7; Tacitus, Annals, 14.32-33.

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behavior, not only in their sacred places, but particularly in the grove of Andraste.45 Druidism was a foreign and threatening religion to the Romans.

Because the Druids practiced human sacrifice and resisted Roman conquest, the Roman Empire slaughtered them, destroyed their sacred sites, and exaggerated their religious practices.46 As a result, Cassius Dio argued that Boudica’s army hanged, tortured, and impaled Roman women to honor the Celtic goddess of battle and victory, Andraste.

Archaeological excavations of the ancient Roman Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium, reveal that Tacitus and Cassius Dio’s claims are ahistorical. Tacitus was the first author to argue that Boudica’s army attacked the Roman settlements, killing the inhabitants and burning Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium to the ground. Recent excavations of the ancient cities’ have uncovered distinct layers of burned material, primarily ash, scorched pottery, tile roofs, and clay walls.47 The burned material at the Roman colony of Camulodunum in modern-day Colchester is so thick that it accounts for one half of the Roman period deposits, ranging from a few centimeters to half a meter in thickness.48 Although the destruction layers at Camulodunum and Londinium suggest the settlements were extensively burned around 60 to 61 CE, the material at Verulamium dates to 80 CE, twenty years after Boudica’s Revolt, exonerating Boudica’s army from its destruction.49 Since the burned material is only present in the center of Verulamium near the ancient Roman forum and workshops, the fire was likely accidental and quickly contained.50 Tacitus may have misunderstood when and how Verulamium burnt or exaggerated its destruction to create tension.

Similarly, Cassius Dio inflates the method and number of casualties during the Boudican Revolt. According to Cassius Dio, Boudica’s army tortured Roman captives from Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium during Druidic rituals. However, no bodies have been found which indicate that the Roman inhabitants were even killed.51 The Druids did sacrifice people for important religious ceremonies and offer the sacrificial victims’ heads to their gods, but no mass graves have ever been found at a sacred Druidic site.52 If Boudica’s army took Romans as captives, it’s unlikely they were tortured or sacrificed.

Based on literary analysis of the Annals and Roman History as well as the excavations of Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium, it’s apparent that Tacitus and Cassius Dio exaggerated Boudica’s personality, desires, and actions. Tacitus compares Boudica to a wronged Roman matron, one who survived the whipping, raping, and pillaging of her tribe and understandably attacks the Roman Empire in a quest for vengeance. Cassius Dio’s Boudica is 45 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 62.7.

46 Bédoyère, Defying Rome, 55-56.

47 Richard Hingley and Christina Unwin, “The Archaeological Evidence,” in Boudica: Iron Age Warrior Queen (London and New York: Hambledon Continuum, 2006), pp. 63-107, 69 and 74.

48 Figure 4; Ibid., 74.

49 Ibid., 69-70.

50 Ibid., 95-96.

51 Ibid., 77 and 80.

52 Ibid., 80.

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an awe-inspiring warrior and queen, worthy of ruling the Roman Empire if she was not a Celtic woman or “sadistic” Druidic priestess. After years of debt and poverty in Roman History, Boudica instigates the Boudican Revolt to liberate the Celtic tribes. Whereas Tacitus denies that Boudica commanded or fought in the attacks on the three Roman settlements, Cassius Dio holds the “barbaric” Druid responsible for the killing and torturing of Roman soldiers and citizens. However, material evidence from Camulodunum, Londinium, and Verulamium disproves Tacitus’ and Cassius Dio’s accounts of the Boudican Revolt. Although Boudica’s army attacked and burned Camulodunum and Londinium, they did not destroy Verulamium and it’s unlikely that they captured, tortured, or killed Roman inhabitants. As a result, Annals and Roman History should be considered examples of Roman propaganda against the Druidic Celts, especially Boudica, the Celtic Warrior Queen.

Appendix

Figure 2: Thomas Thornycroft, Boudicea and Her Daughters, 1902, bronze sculpture, London, England. https://www.livescience.com/37061-boudicca.html.

Figure 3: Map of the Boudican Revolt. Guy de la Bédoyère, Defying Rome: the Rebels of Roman Britain (Gloucestershire: Tempus, 2003), 45.

Figure 1: Map of the Celtic tribes’ territories during the Roman period in Britannia. David J. Mattingly, An Imperial Possession: Britain in the Roman Empire 54 BC-AD 409 (London: Allen Lane, 2006), 49.

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Figure 4: Map of the excavation results of Camulodunum. Richard Hingley and Christina Unwin, “The Archaeological Evidence,” in Boudica: Iron Age Warrior Queen (London and New York: Hambledon Continuum, 2006), 72.

Works Cited

Adler, Eric. “Boudica's Speeches in Tacitus and Dio.” Classical World 101, no. 2 (2008): 173–95. https://doi.org/10.1353/ clw.2008.0006.

Bédoyère, Guy de la. Defying Rome: the Rebels of Roman Britain.

Gloucestershire: Tempus, 2003.

Cary, Earnest, trans. “Introduction.” In Roman History. Cambridge: Harvard University, 1914.

“Cassius Dio.” Livius, 2020. https://www.livius.org/sources/content/cassius-dio/.

Cassius Dio. Roman History. Translated by Earnest Cary. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1914.

Ellis, Peter Berresford. Celtic Women: Women in Celtic Society and Literature. London: Trans-Atlantic, 1996.

Hingley, Richard, and Christina Unwin. “The Archaeological Evidence.” In Boudica: Iron Age Warrior Queen, 63–107.

London and New York: Hambledon Continuum, 2006.

Jackson, J., trans. “Introduction.” In Annals. Cambridge: Harvard University, 1925.

Jarus, Owen. “Boudicca: Warrior Queen of the Iceni.” Live Science, May 31, 2013. https://www.livescience.com/37061-boudicca.html.

Mattingly, David J. An Imperial Possession: Britain in the Roman Empire 54 BC-AD 409. London: Allen Lane, 2006.

Matyszak, Philip. The Enemies of Rome: from Hannibal to Attila the Hun. London: Thames & Hudson, 2009.

Tacitus. Annals. Translated by J. Jackson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1925.

“Tacitus.” Livius, 2021. http://www.livius.org/sources/content/ tacitus.

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The Portrayal of Protas and Hyacinth in Eugenia Eunuchs in the Byzantine Mind

Tonwa A. J. Hauff (he/him), Hamilton College, Class of 2023

Abstract

In Byzantium between the ninth and twelfth centuries, changing attitudes towards Byzantine eunuchs allowed them to achieve sanctity where they had not been able to before. Scholars such as Katharyn Ringrose point to portrayals of eunuchs within contemporary hagiographies as representative of this shift in attitude. In this paper, I contextualize the preexisting attitudes towards eunuchs before arguing that the portrayal of eunuchs within Saint Symeon Metaphrastes’ version of Eugenia is one example of the change in the potential sanctity of eunuchs as conveyed within hagiography.

On December 25th, life dawned as the sun blossomed upon the manger of Jesus Christ. But on a much later December 25th, life was stolen as the sun set upon the life of St. Eugenia, felled by the Roman sword for keeping to her belief in Christ, whom she had found in youth through the gospel of Paul.1 Indeed, so emboldened by his words was she, that in life, she ventured outside of an Alexandria governed by her father to seek the presence and teaching of the Christians exiled beyond the walls.2 Accompanying her were her attendant eunuchs, Protas and Hyacinth.3 This is the story of Eugenia, Protas, and Hyacinth as told by Symeon Metaphrastes in his Menologion, the version that would have been widely disseminated throughout Byzantium by the late eleventh century CE.4 Metaphrastes’s portrayal of eunuchs in hagiography, the “television of the Middle Ages,” would have become well known in the collective consciousness of the Byzantine people.5 Indeed, scholars such as Katheryn Ringrose claim that such representations in hagiography between the ninth and twelfth century were emblematic of shifting attitudes towards Byzantine eunuchs that allowed them to achieve sanctity where they had not been able to before.6 I claim that the portrayal of the eunuchs Protas and Hyacinth as venerable saints unambiguously achieving sanctity is yet another emblem of this shift in the Byzantine attitude towards eunuchs.

This sanctified view of eunuchs directly contrasts early clerical views toward eunuchs. For example, St. Basil of Caesarea, a prominent member of the early clergy once remarked that eunuchs 1 Symeon Metaphrastes, Life, Conduct, and Passion of the Holy Martyr of Christ Saint Eugenia and Her Passions, in Christian Novels from the Menologion, ed. and trans. Stratis Papaioannou (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017), par.

7, 82-83.

2 Ibid., par. 8.

3 Ibid., par. 9.

4 Stratis Papaioannou, Christian Novels from the Menologion (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017), xxi.

5 Claudia Rapp, “Figures of Female Sanctity: Byzantine Edifying Manuscripts and Their Audience”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 50, (1997), 313.

6 Katheryn Ringrose, The Perfect Servant: Eunuchs and the Social Construction of Gender in Byzantium (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 124. “But in the context of a variety of hagiographical writings, which offer several avenues to sanctity and recognize numerous eunuch saints, it seems safe to conclude that by the ninth through twelfth centuries Byzantine culture had redefined sanctity.

By expanding the signs of sanctity, it became possible for eunuchs, once associated with very negative spiritual forces, to achieve the highest levels of reverence in the world of the Byzantine church.”

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were “a race, neither feminine nor masculine, woman-mad, envious, of evil wage, quick to anger, effeminate, slaves to the belly, money-mad, coarse, grumbling about their dinner, fickle, stingy, ready to accept anything, disgusting, crazed, [and] jealous.” He also noted that “[eunuchs] are chaste without reward — thanks to the knife.”7 From St. Basil’s point of view, eunuchs were unable to attain sanctity for their chastity, as they were unable to participate in the struggle against temptations.8 Additionally, these writings were not simply the anomalous writings of one man; they were “widely cited by later commentators as the definitive ‘word’ on eunuchs, and they became a standard part of the repertoire used by authors critical of eunuchs.”9 Indeed, these arguments that St. Basil promoted are represented in Theophylact of Ohrid’s eleventh century treatise, In Defense of Eunuchs, as dialogue from the point of view of a detractor of eunuchs.10 However, in this same dialogue, an advocate for eunuchs mentions the existence of exemplary eunuch saints, such as Protas and Hyacinth.11 While the advocate lists many eunuch saints from within the Menologion, it is noteworthy that he neglects to mention more recent influential eunuch saints.12 Theophylact’s lack of awareness of these eunuchs but familiarity with the eunuchs of the Menologion is representative of the book’s popularity and widespread dissemination.

The portrayal of Protas and Hyacinth with Eugenia in the Menologion is indeed a portrayal of exemplary eunuch saints. Two earlier forms of these texts exist today in the form of an Armenian text and a Latin version which was compiled in the Vitae Patrum.13 The way Symeon Metaphrastes portrays these saints provides a window into the shifting attitudes towards eunuchs, as he is so named because of the way he “metaphrased” earlier copies of Byzantine hagiography and adapted them to the tastes of his day.14 7 Saint Basil, Saint Basil, The Letters, vol. 2, ed. and trans. Roy Deferrari (London: William Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1928), 231.

8 Ringrose, The Perfect Servant, 113.

9 Ibid., 116.

10 Margaret Mullett, “Theophylact of Ochrid’s In Defense of Eunuchs”, in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Shaun Tougher (Wales: The Classical Press of Wales and Duckworth).

11 Papaioannou, Christian Novels, 307.

12 Mullett, “Theophylact of Ochrid’s In Defense of Eunuchs,” 185.

13 Campbell Bonner, “The Trial of Saint Eugenia,” The American Journal of Philology 41, no. 3 (1920), 254-255, https://www.jstor.org/stable/289010.

14 Papaioannou, Christian Novels, xii.

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In Symeon’s text, Eugenia, Protas, and Hyacinth all achieve brotherhood under God. When Eugenia ventures outside of Alexandria to hear Christian teachings; she is deeply moved and understands her pagan teachings to be wrong.15 She expresses this sentiment to her companions and maintains that their differing status is irrelevant, as under the eyes of God they are the same: “I will no longer behave toward you as a mistress, but rather I will be a fellow slave and sister.”16 As followers of Christ, they will “breathe as one like brothers.”17 This theme of Eugenia in brotherhood with Protas and Hyacinth continues throughout the majority of the story and conveys the potential sanctity of eunuchs. In the Armenian text and Latin texts, brotherhood is mentioned, but is not as emphasized as in Metaphrastes’ version.18 In addition to being brothers under God, the three must become brothers in appearance. Eugenia is not allowed to enter the monastery in the guise of a woman, and so she tells her attendant eunuchs to “cut the hair from [her] head and remove [her] plaits” so that they may all enter.19 When the three finally reach the monastery, they ask a man by the name of Eutropios to introduce them to the bishop.20 When Eutropios introduces Helenos to the three companions, he describes them as: ... three men… brothers in soul, brothers in the flesh…

Being young and exceedingly attached to each other, they also ask this: that they never be separated, neither in work nor in living space nor in any other activity, but that they be bound together without separation in the name of Christ. They told me these things with tears streaming down their faces, and they fervently beseeched me to explain to you.21 These three unlikely companions, a woman and her eunuch attendants, are already brothers under Christ, just as Eugenia has promised. This brotherhood is confirmed further when Eugenia introduces herself and her attendants to Helenos, saying, “[We] are brothers.”22 However, Helenos sees through Eugenia’s deception with God’s help, but still tells her that he admires her determination and that she is a welcome and worthy vessel for God.23 To Pro15 Metaphrastes, Eugenia, par. 9-10.

16 Ibid., par. 9-10.

17 Ibid.

18 The Acts of Saint Eugenia, in The Apology and Acts of Apollonius and Other Monuments of Early Christianity, ed.and trans. Frederick Conybeare (London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co, 1894), 160-161; Vitas Patrum (London: Wynkyn de Worde, 1495), 161, https://www-proquest-com.ez.hamilton.edu/books/vitas-patrum/docview/2264204025/se-2?accountid=11264.

19 Ibid., 12.

20 Ibid., 21.

21 Ibid., par. 23.

22 Ibid., par. 25.

23 Ibid., par. 25-26. Helenos says the following to Eugenia, which will be of interest to the historian of gender: Looking upon her sweetly, the blessed Helenos said: “O Eugenia, with good reason you have changed your name to Eugenios, so that your name matches your spirit, since you have a manly soul and show great manliness in all respects. May you defeat your nature even more with your will; and may you prevail in Christ, for who, also now, while a

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tas and Hyacinth, Helenos says that although they are “slaves by fortune,” they are “free in… mind,” and that by “exalting… [their] virtue… Christ says… [they are] slaves no more, but friends.”24 Here, Helenos explicitly states that the eunuchs have achieved sanctity by following Christ, and that by their virtue alone, they are able to become free. What is more, Helenos tells them that upon their death, they will receive “crowns and rewards equal to [Eugenia].”25 Then, the three brethren, “not [allowing] Helenos to leave until they were dignified with the holy baptism from his own hands,” became monks.26 Again, Symeon’s version, when compared to earlier versions, accentuates the aspects of brotherhood as well as the freedom achieved by the eunuchs through their virtue.27 What follows is a demonstration of shared virtue by all under Christ; “though [Eugenia] lived in the monastery for no more than two years, she surpassed everyone” in her studies and faith.28 In an address directed towards the reader Symeon says, “a woman, I mean, surpassed the men; hence virtue is common to all, and gender poses no hindrance to one wishing to achieve virtue.”29 Symeon is explicit; everyone can achieve virtue, even women and eunuchs. This declaration of potential equality for women and eunuchs is an addition to the earlier versions and provides a clear image of the story that Symeon Metaphrastes wanted to tell: he wrote of a world where everyone, regardless of their background, was able to become pious under God.30 In fact, Eugenia, still disguised as a man, is so much more accomplished than her peers that she is chosen to become the Abbot of the monastery and performs many miracles.31 Protas and Hyacinth also achieved levels of holiness that allowed them to accomplish miracles. When Christians were persecuted by Pompey and the Romans, Protas and Hyacinth were arrested, taken to a temple of Zeus, and “forced to sacrifice to that abomination.”32 However, simply by praying, “the idol fell at their feet; it miraculously began to diminish in size and dissolved into dirt and dust.”33 So sanctified are the eunuchs that God will answer woman, you pretend to be a man and, because of your intense desire for Him, you changed both your dress and your name. And I am saying these things, neither to disgrace your female gender, nor wishing to make a spectacle of your affairs, but so that you may learn God’s great concern for you and how He did not conceal anything about you from me, but showed me who you are, how you came here, who your attendants are, and what sort of glory and lineage you were allotted in life.

“Now you should hasten, Eugenia, to prove that the nobility of your soul is no less than that of your body. For God made this known to me no less than the other things, namely, that you prepared yourself for Him as a pure vessel: preserving your virginity immaculate and your heart blameless; considering the honor of this life as dishonor, wealth as poverty, pleasure as pain; setting at naught the nobility highly prized by men; and desiring only that nobility from which we were banished on account of the first Adam, and which we have inherited on account of the second Adam.”

24 Ibid., par. 27.

25 Ibid., par. 27.

26 Ibid., par. 28.

27 The Acts of St. Eugenia, 166-167; Vitas Patrum, 162.

28 Ibid., par. 34.

29 Ibid.

30 The Acts of St. Eugenia, 168-169; Vitas Patrum, 163.

31 Metaphrastes, Eugenia, par. 36-37.

32 Ibid., par 76.

33 Ibid.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College their prayers and collapse the monument towards Zeus.

Symeon Metaphrastes’s Eugenia portrays eunuchs as unmistakably able to achieve sanctity and become servants of the Lord.

Symeon repeatedly mentions their piousness and emphasizes the role that virtue plays for Eugenia, Protas, and Hyacinth. Τhe fact that Symeon, who would adapt preexisting texts for his contemporary readers, chose to portray eunuchs as equal brothers under Christ is a shining example of the increasing sanctity of eunuchs in Byzantium between the ninth and twelfth centuries.

Works Cited Anonymous. The Acts of Saint Eugenia, in The Apology and Acts of Apollonius and Other Monuments of Early Christianity, edited and translated by Frederick Conybeare, 157189. London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., 1894.

Anonymous. Vitas Patrum. London: Wynkyn de Worde, 1495. https://www-proquest-com.ez.hamilton.edu/books/vitas-patrum/docview/2264204025/se-2?accountid=11264.

Basil, Saint. Saint Basil, The Letters. Vol. 2. London: William Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1928.

Bonner, Campbell. “The Trial of Saint Eugenia,” The American Journal of Philology 41, no. 3 (1920): 254-255. https:// www.jstor.org/stable/289010.

Conybeare, Frederick. The Apology and Acts of Apollonius and Other Monuments of Early Christianity. London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., 1894.

Metaphrastes, Symeon. Life, Conduct, and Passion of the Holy Martyr of Christ Saint Eugenia and Her Passions in Christian Novels from the Menologion, edited and translated by Stratis Papaioannou, 184-261. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017.

Mullett, Margaret. “Theophylact of Orchid’s In Defense of Eunuchs,” in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, edited by Shaun Tougher. Wales: The Classical Press of Wales and Duckworth.

Papaioannou, Stratis. Christian Novels from the Menologion of Symeon Metaphrastes. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017.

Rapp, Claudia. “Figures of Female Sanctity: Byzantine Edifying Manuscripts and Their Audience,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 50, (1997): 313. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1291749.

Ringrose, Katheryn. The Perfect Servant: Eunuchs and the Social Construction of Gender in Byzantium. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003.

Stevenson, Walter. “Eunuchs and Early Christianity,” in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, edited by Shaun Tougher. Wales: The Classical Press of Wales and Duckworth.

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Hercules Becoming Moralized on Screen as a Biblical Hero A. M. Davis (they/them), Skidmore College, Class of 2022

Abstract

Hercules, a legend of Greek antiquity, has developed into a Biblical hero despite his antiheroic qualities. In many filmtexts, Hercules is a morally outstanding and righteous hero for humanity. His labors evolve on screen into a heroic redemption arc that presents him as a savior. Many Biblical stories like Samson and Delilah and Jesus suffering on the cross also further moralize Hercules’ character. Though these Biblical and moralizing qualities seem to glorify the hero in a newfound positive light, the on-screen versions of Hercules tend to only be inclusive of white audiences. Therefore, the moralization of Hercules as a Biblical hero is an addition to white power and the white-washing of history from antiquity.

Greek mythological heroes like Hercules have become moralized on screen. In ancient mythology, Hercules was not the illustrious hero we see portrayed in films today like Disney’s Hercules (1997); he was mad and filled with rage.1 2 Hercules’ canon and heroic journey of completing the 12 labors were assigned to him because of his murderous rampage, killing his wife and children.3 The labors of Hercules represent a journey of redemption. Many films focus on capturing Hercules’ arc of redemption because they can model him into a Biblical hero from his anti-heroic qualities.4 Hercules is not a typical hero who fights for justice, especially in antiquity, so presenting him with anti-heroic qualities creates an opportunity for Hercules to become redeemed as a Biblical hero.

There are numerous similarities and references to Biblical figures in screen versions of Hercules. The film adaptations of Hercules all include references and allusions to the Immaculate Conception, the story of Samson and Delilah, the themes of morality and suffering, and the journey of his apotheosis. Hercules’ character has become glorified into a Biblical hero from these references, but the hero on-screen only addresses a white audience. By including these Biblical references, among others, and re-framing him as a Biblical hero, many film-texts have not only moralized but also white-washed the ancient Greek myth of Hercules.

Hercules began his life at a semi-heroic status because he inherited god-like strength from his father Zeus, giving him the power to accomplish his assigned tasks and labors.5 However, the birth of Hercules is more complicated than the simplicity of Zeus bestowing strength upon his son; it is a story about Zeus’ lust for beautiful women. Hercules’ mother was a mortal woman named Alcmene, who was already married to Amphitryon, King of Argos.6 While Amphitryon was fighting in Thebes, Zeus disguised 1 My thanks to Professor Daniel Curley at Skidmore College and the Haley editing team for their assistance in publishing this paper.

2 Apollodorus, “Heracles,” translated by Keith Aldrich, in The Library of Greek Mythology, (Lawrence, Kansas: Coronado Press, 1975), Book II, line 72.

3 Ibid., line 73.

4 Dan Curley, “The Hero in a Thousand Pieces: Antiheroes in Recent Classical Cinema,” in Augoustakis, Antony and Stacie Raucci, ed. Epic Heroes on Screen, (University of Edinburgh Press: 2018), 173.

5 Apollodorus, Book II, line 61.

6 John Roberts, “Alcmene,” in The Oxford Dictionary of the Classical World, (Oxford University Press, 2007).

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himself as the mortal form of Amphitryon to trick Alcmene into sleeping with him.7 As a result, Amphitryon was outraged, and Zeus’ wife Hera was upset as well. Hera tormented Hercules for his entire life.8 Hercules, the son of Zeus and born with immense strength, was born a child out of wedlock, deceit, and was cursed

by Hera. Therefore, even as the son of Zeus, beginning his life at a semi-heroic status, Hercules’ birth does not present a pure, moral origin story because of Zeus’ lust.

In order to distance themselves from the moral challenges of his birth in antiquity, filmmakers often reconstruct Hercules’ birth similar to the Biblical story of Jesus’ Immaculate Conception.

Therefore, Hercules’ birth becomes more honorable since Zeus no longer deceives Alcmene. In the Bible, the angel Gabriel said to Mary she would carry the Son of God, and He would be a savior for humanity. Gabriel tells Mary, “the power of the Most High will overshadow you,” and the Holy Spirit then impregnates her.9 In Renny Harlin’s The Legend of Hercules, Hercules was born because Alcmene prayed to Hera to end her husband’s tyranny and violence.10 Hercules receives a purpose and legacy at his birth; he will be a bearer of peace and a leader for the people.11 And instead of Hera cursing the child, she permits her husband Zeus to sleep with Alcmene so she can bear a son who will bring peace.12 However, the wind and lightning impregnate Alcmene instead of Zeus disguising himself in a mortal form.13 By changing Hercules’ birth to resemble the Immaculate Conception, his origin story and character begin in an entirely pure state.14 This change also introduces the idea of Hercules performing miracles and achieving the impossible.

Hercules performs miracles through the completion of his la7 Apollodorus, Book II, line 61.

8 John Roberts, “Hēraclēs,” in The Oxford Dictionary of the Classical World, (Oxford University Press, 2007).

9 Luke 1:26-38, in The New International Version (Biblica, Inc., 2011).

10 The Legend of Hercules, directed by Renny Harlin, (Summit Entertainment and Millennium Films, 2014), 06:15-06:41.

11 Meredith Safran, “Re-conceiving Hercules: Divine Paternity and Christian Anxiety in Hercules (2005),” in Cyrino and Safran, ed. Classical Myth on Screen, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 134.

12 The Legend of Hercules, 06:41-07:48.

13 Ibid., 08:12-08:52.

14 Safran, 135.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College bors, distinguishing him from any mortal man. However, in ancient texts like Euripides’ Heracles, Hercules was not portrayed as a miraculous man filled with great strength, he was portrayed as a defeated man. In Euripides’ play, Hercules awakens from a state of madness to find himself tied in ropes by Amphtitryon because he had murdered his wife and children.15 Eventually, Amphitryon unties the rope holding Hercules because he is too weak to break free and clearly does not remember committing this horrible act.

Soon Theseus, a friend of Hercules, arrives attempting to comfort him, but Hercules is in an inconsolable state of grief.16 Hercules then tells Theseus about the labors he accomplished, fighting beasts and slaying lions, and “triple-bodied Typhons, giants, and four-legged Centaur horses.”17 But Hercules tells Theseus that his life is not worth living because all of his accomplishments and miraculous labors were futile against Hera’s curse; Hercules felt utterly defeated.18 The Hercules in Euripides’ play uses his labors, journeys which are supposed to honor and strengthen his character, to portray the hero as weak and overpowered. Therefore, many film-texts must change Euripides’ weak and defeated version of Hercules to a glorified and strong hero, further adapting him to be a Biblical hero.

The Hercules in Euripides’ play could not break free from the ropes that held him, but film-texts adapt this scene to portray a triumphant, moralized version of Hercules that echoes the Biblical story of Samson and Delilah. Pietro Francisci’s Hercules (1958), starring American bodybuilder Steve Reeves as Hercules, similarly shows Hercules restrained by chains, but this time, the hero can break free. At the end of the film, King Pelias traps Hercules so he would not help Jason present the Golden Fleece they found to prove that Jason was the true heir to the throne of Jolco.19 However, Hercules breaks free from his chains, uses them as weapons, and knocks down the pillars of King Pelias’ palace onto his soldiers.20 Knowing the truth about Jason being the true heir to the throne of Jolco empowered Hercules to break free from his chains with miraculous strength. Even though Hercules did not die in the film, he was ready to sacrifice his life for the people of Jolco. Instead of being tied back by rope, Francisci depicted Hercules being restrained by chains. This adaptation of Hercules in chains parallels the Biblical story of Samson and Delilah because Delilah captured Samson and bound him in chains attached to pillars. But with the strength of God, Samson crushed the oppressive government building (of the Philistines) by toppling the pillars he was chained to, sacrificing himself but saving his people.21 In this way, Hercules shows the same selflessness as Samson and uses his god-like strength to triumph over the wicked King Pelias. Therefore, Hercules can be seen as a Biblical hero, using truth and moral power to overthrow 15 Euripides, “Heracles,” translated by William Arrowsmith, in The Complete Greek Tragedies, Euripides · II, David Grene and Richmond Lattimore ed., (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press and Phoenix Books, 1969), 100-103.

16 Ibid., 104.

17 Ibid., 109.

18 Ibid., 110.

19 Hercules, directed by Pietro Francisci, (O.S.C.A.R. Film Galatea Production, 1958), 01:28:54-01:29:54.

20 Ibid., 01:32:25-01:36:45.

21 Judges 16:25-31.

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the evil forces working against the people.

In Pietro Francisci’s Hercules, Hercules is associated with the Biblical story of Samson and Delilah because of the parallel scenes of the heroes being in chains, but Reeves’ performance also relates to the theme of bodily suffering in the Bible. When Jesus is shown on the cross, His body represents a ‘perfection’ from the culmination of human suffering; He is the ideal man.22 Therefore, it is understandable why bodybuilders like Steve Reeves would be cast in the Greek heroic films, since they too have sculpted ‘perfect’ bodies from their suffering. Bodybuilding itself is a painful process; the exercise “draw[s] on Christian imagery. The activity itself involves pain, bodily suffering, and with it the idea of the value of pain.”23 Bodybuilders like Steve Reeves display their bodies the same way to show the physical ideal for men. In this way, bodybuilders separate themselves from the rest of humanity, and they set the example or standard of perfection with their bodies.24 Bodybuilders, as Greek heroes, embody the same strength that Jesus had on the cross, being the only forces capable of conquering evil.

Hercules qualifies as a Biblical hero from his impressive physical acts, but the actions from his heart further define his heroism. In Disney’s Hercules (1997), directed by Ron Clements and John Musker, the film emphasizes that true heroism comes from the heart. That idea is expressed in Phil’s song, “One Last Hope,” where he explains to Hercules that “to be a true hero, kid, is a dying art, like paintin’ a masterpiece, it’s a work of heart, it takes more than sinew, comes down to what’s in you, you have to continue to grow!”25 Phil acknowledges the physical strength one needs to be a hero, but emphasizes that those are not the essential qualities of heroism. In the film, Hercules truly embodies heroism when he goes down to the Underworld to save his friend Meg. He dives into the pool of lost souls, where he rapidly begins to age and lose his strength, but he keeps pushing forward to save her.26 Just before Hercules is about to die, his body becomes golden, and his muscles contain god-like power once again.27 Hercules saves Meg and emerges as both hero and god. Once more, we can place Christ and Hercules into an intertextual dialogue. Like Jesus, Hercules, when saving Meg, recognizes that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for the life of one’s friend.28 Hercules acts in the same self-sacrificing way as Jesus did when He died on the cross, laying down His life for His disciples. Disney’s Hercules (1997) moralizes Hercules’ character by labeling heroism as ‘a work of heart,’ further establishing a connection between himself and Christ.

Another theme from the Bible that connects Hercules’ moral character to Christ is how light and brightness directly correlate with divinity.29 The Bible makes this clear in Genesis 1:1-5, with 22 Hebrews 2:9-10.

23 Richard Dyer, “The white man’s muscles,” in White, (Routledge, 1997), 150.

24 Ibid., 153.

25 Hercules, directed by Ron Clements and John Musker, (Disney, 1997), 30:2930:47.

26 Ibid., 01:19:07-01:20:50.

27 Ibid., 01:21:28-01:22:20.

28 Romans 5:8, John 15:13, respectively.

29 Richard Dyer, “The light of the world,” in White, (Routledge, 1997), 108.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College the creation of the world: “3 And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. 4 God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.” The ‘holiness’ of light can be seen in the same way by how many filmmakers depict Hercules’ journey to apotheosis. In Disney’s Hercules (1997), Hercules is trying to find his way back home to his birth parents, Zeus and Hera, by becoming a true hero. Only then will he be worthy enough to become a god. The film depicts the Greek gods as colorful beings of light whose bodies glow surrounded by a bright hue.30 Finally, when Hercules physically beats the embodiment of ‘evil’ — in this case, represented by Hades — his radiant body carries Megs’ soul back to earth.31 The concept of lighting has been rooted in religious metaphors, “[giving] them a distinctive and decisive twist. The intense interest in literal light became associated with the human possibilities of knowing and spreading knowledge.”32 Mythological stories in film have adopted the Biblical significance of light to equal divinity, knowledge, and miraculous capabilities.

Hercules’ apotheosis appears through the presence of light and his acceptance of his birth father, Zeus. Hercules’ divine paternity is usually not clear to him at the beginning of many films. Still, he is “both physically and ontologically superior to fellow mortals,” because of the great deeds he accomplishes.33 Hercules is mortal because he is not yet divine. If he were, his apotheosis would be futile. Yet, not only is he ‘superior to fellow mortals,’ Hercules’ character must “insist on the humanness of a figure” to provide an evident transformation to his divine status.34 If Hercules has to accept Zeus as his father to reach apotheosis, then his journey can be read as a spiritual one.35 Hercules’ connection to Zeus is very similar to Jesus’ connection to God: as children of deities, their power comes from their divine heritage. In the Bible, there is a verse that speaks to how God teaches Jesus and how He will show Him the way to great powers: “For the Father loves the Son and shows him all He does. Yes, and He will show Him even greater works than these, so that you will be amazed.”36 Jesus can only exist as a savior because of the Father, just as Hercules’ powers and divinity can only derive from Zeus.

In The Legend of Hercules (2014), the success of Hercules’ apotheosis also requires Hercules to accept Zeus as his divine father. After Amphitryon (Scott Adkins) enchains Hercules (Kellan Lutz), he looks up to the sky, saying, “Father! I believe in you!

Grant me strength!”37 The clouds separate in the sky, and a tunnel light shines down upon Hercules’ face, and there is the faint sound of an eagle chirping to represent Zeus. Hercules then cries out like the sound of thunder, embodying the son of Zeus, and he can break free from his chains, save the people of Tiryns, and defeat Amphitryon.38 When Hercules is in chains, he is being whipped and is bleeding from his wounds because he believes himself to be mortal. But after accepting Zeus, the presence of light signals the 30 Hercules (1997), 03:10-03:18.

31 See Figure B. 32 Dyer, 109.

33 Safran, 135.

34 Ibid., 136.

35 Ibid., 143.

36 John 5:20.

37 The Legend of Hercules, 01:14:02-01:14:16. See Figures C and D. 38 Ibid., 01:14:20-01:15:26.

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divine acceptance of Hercules, and his apotheosis becomes validated. This scene showcases not only Hercules’ apotheosis but also the power of the gods. Like God, Zeus has great and unknown powers over the people who do not have faith. In John 8:28, Jesus acknowledges that He “is the Son of Man … I do nothing on my own but speak just what the Father has taught me.”39 Similar to Hercules, Jesus had to accept the will and faith of His father in order to be recognized as the ‘true’ Son of God. Therefore, Hercules’ character on screen becomes further moralized and associated with Jesus because both of their successes rests in the faith each has for their fathers.

In every aspect of Hercules’ life, filmmakers have taken the opportunity to transform his moral character into a Biblical hero.

These films have been extremely popular to the point that in 2014 “there were four different issues – Hercules, The Legend of Hercules, Hercules Reborn, and Hercules: Hero, God, Warrior – as well as an American reissue of Hercules: An Animated Classic, and even an Indian Hercules about a contemporary man whom people ironically called ‘Hercules.’”40 Throughout the numerous films about Hercules. there does not seem to be any single “unified characterization of Hercules.”41 However, he is always “prospering as a religious and artistic figure in antiquity.”42 These Biblical influences originated during the first half of the twentieth century when over 91 percent of the population in America identified as Christian (Protestant or Catholic), and religious values connected society.43 Though it may be difficult to find any correlation between Hercules’ characterizations, one consistency is that filmmakers often portray him as a religious icon. Producers reintroduce Hercules not as the mad pagan demi-god but as the ideal Christian role model.

Presenting Hercules as a Biblical hero from antiquity presents issues with the accuracy of the mythology and how films portray the character. The Hercules from antiquity who murdered his family and fell into a state of madness does not appeal to filmmakers, even if it better represents the ancient mythological texts of authors like Apollodorus and Euripides. However, each Herculean film does include some iconography to honor the ancient myth, usually through incorporating his labors. Though there is no need to be nit-picky about the scholarship of these films because it is essential to know that they are not striving for historical accuracy.

The more significant problem with presenting Hercules as a Biblical hero is the association of whiteness linked with his character. As previously noted, Biblical stories and motifs influence how light and brightness are associated with divinity and holiness in these films. Additionally, the majority of the actors cast as Hercules are white men. There are a few exceptions, like Dwayne Johnson playing the hero in Brett Ratner’s Hercules (2014), a film made in order to produce a “‘grittier’ [version of] Hercules instead 39 John 8:28.

40 Jon Solomon, “Hercules and the Millennial Generation,” in Augoustakis, Antony and Stacie Raucci, ed. Epic Heroes on Screen, (University of Edinburgh Press, 2018), 24.

41 Ibid., 26.

42 Ibid., 26.

43 Lisa Maurice, “Postscript: Some Closing Observations,” in Screening Divinity, (Edinburgh University Press, 2019), 200.

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The majority of museums showcasing art from antiquity like statues of the gods, emperors, and people, in general, are sculpted from white marble. However, marble sculptures were typically painted with color; the white marble now only exists due to the erosion of paint.46 Because thousands of the sculptures existing in museums make it appear that the Greeks were entirely white, white is the default skin tone now understood for the Greeks. However, skin color and the idea of race and ethnicity being completely biological were not of major significance to the Greeks; people were identifiable primarily by what they wore.47 The absence of accuracy in these sculptures (and about race in ancient Greece as a whole) causes a lack of diverse representation in museums, films, and the media, continuing to uphold whiteness as the ideal. Additionally, the ideology of whiteness being the ideal also extends to Christian artworks. Jesus, like Hercules, is primarily depicted as white.

If we consider powerful figures like Hercules and Jesus as being white, it therefore feeds into a broader claim that whiteness equals authority.48 So, instead of authority deriving from historical and cultural accuracy, skin tone and biology has replaced research as the ‘factual’ evidence. Though ‘factual’ evidence really means the most compelling evidence for a white, Western audience. Therefore, when producing a film thousands of people will see, casting Dwayne Johnson as a ‘darker’ version of Hercules as a Biblical hero, one who resembles more of a mercenary and a murderer, continues to feed the notion that whiteness and white people are morally superior through the Christian and ancient lense.

The portrayal of Hercules as a Biblical hero stems from a very white and Western interpretation of the Bible. It creates this narrative of Greek mythology that only associates these heroes with having white bodies. In these film-texts, a moralized and sane version of Hercules is portrayed by white men, separating whiteness from the dark immorality of his ancient character. Unsurprisingly, the only Hercules film that shows the destruction of his madness is Hercules (2014) featuring Dwayne Johnson.49 Depicting heroes like Hercules and Jesus as white men come from the Western mindset of wanting these great figures to look similar to them.50 There has always been “a ‘whitening’ of the Greeks” and

Christ because it appropriates history to benefit Western culture.51 Hercules’ character has been moralized in film-texts by including Biblical references based upon Western interpretations of the Bible, including ideals rooted in whiteness. Hercules has become a character who has been moralized to be a role model and Biblical hero, but he is only reaching, speaking to, addressing, and being inclusive to a white Western audience.

51 Ling, 2018.

Appendix

Figure A: Hercules (Steeve Reeves) replicating the scene from the Story of Samson when he is enchained. Hercules, directed by Pietro Francisci, 01:36:06 (O.S.C.A.R. Film Galatea Production), Amazon Prime Video.

Figure B: Hercules saves Meg and becomes a god. Hercules, directed by Ron Clements and John Musker, 03:10-03:18 (1997; Burbank, CA: Walt Disney Pictures), Disney +.

44 Solomon, 25.

45 See Figure D. 46 Thomas Ling, “No, the BBC is not ‘blackwashing’ Troy: Fall of a City,” (RadioTimes, 2018).

47 S. Rebecca Martin, “Ethnicity and Greek Art History in Theory and Practice,” in Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Ancient Greece: Manipulating Material Culture, edited by Nevett Lisa C., (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2017), 145.

48 Emily McFarlan, “How an iconic painting of Jesus as a white man was distributed around the world,” (The Washington Post, 2020).

49 Solomon, 25.

50 Ling, 2018.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Works Cited

Figure C and D: Hercules (Kellan Lutz) receives the strength of his father Zeus. The Legend of Hercules, directed by Renny Harlin, 01:14:02-01:14:16 (2014; Summit Entertainment and Millennium Films), Swank Digital Campus.

Figure E: Dwayne Johnson as Hercules. Hercules, directed by Brett Ratner, 04:53 (Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM) and Paramount Pictures), Swank Digital Campus.

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Apollodorus. “Heracles.” The Library of Greek Mythology, Book II. Translated by Keith Aldrich. Lawrence, Kansas: Coronado Press, 1975.

Clements, Ron and John Musker. Hercules. 1997; Burbank, CA: Walt Disney Pictures, 1997. Disney+.

Curley, Dan. “The Hero in a Thousand Pieces: Antiheroes in Recent Classical Cinema.” In Epic Heroes on Screen, 173– 190. Edited by Antony Augoustakis and Stacie Raucci.

University of Edinburgh Press, 2018.

Davis, Desmond. Clash of the Titans. 1981; Beverly Hills, CA: Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM), 1981. Swank Digital Campus.

Dyer, Richard. White. Routledge, 1975.

Euripides. “Heracles.” In The Complete Greek Tragedies, Euripides · II. Translated by William Arrowsmith. Edited by David Grene and Richmond Lattimore. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press and Phoenix Books, 1969.

Francisci, Pietro. Hercules. 1958; O.S.C.A.R. Galatea Film. Amazon Prime Video.

Harlin, Renny. The Legend of Hercules. 2014; Santa Monica, CA: Summit Entertainment and Millennium Films, 2014.

Swank Digital Campus.

Ling, Thomas. “No, the BBC is not ‘blackwashing’ Troy: Fall of a City.” RadioTimes, 2018.

Martin, S. Rebecca. "Ethnicity and Greek Art History in Theory and Practice." In Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Ancient Greece: Manipulating Material Culture.

Edited by Nevett Lisa C., 143-63. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2017.

Maurice, Lisa. Screening Divinity. Edinburgh University Press, 2019.

McFarlan, Emily. “How an iconic painting of Jesus as a white man was distributed around the world.” The Washington Post, 2020.

Ratner, Brett. Hercules. 2014; Beverly Hills, CA: Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM) and Paramount Pictures. Swank Digital Campus.

Reid, Jane D. “Perseus and Medusa,” “Perseus and Andromeda,” in The Oxford Guide To Classical Mythology in the Arts, 1300-1990s. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.

Roberts, John. “Alcmene,” “Hēraclēs.” The Oxford Dictionary of the Classical World. Oxford University Press, 2007.

Safran, Meredith. “Re-conceiving Hercules: Divine Paternity and Christian Anxiety in Hercules (2005).” In Classical Myth on Screen, 133-145. Edited by Cyrino and Safran. Palgrave Macmillan, 2015.

Solomon, Jon. “Hercules and the Millennial Generation.” In Epic Heroes on Screen, 13-27. Edited by Antony Augoustakis and Stacie Raucci. University of Edinburgh Press, 2018.

The New International Version. Biblica, Inc., 2011.

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Creating Responsibility Cornelia and Julia’s culpability in Lucan’s de Bello Civile

Christiane-Marie Cantwell (she/her), McGill University, Class of 2021

Abstract

In de Bello Civile, Lucan uses literary tropes, such as lament and conflict over a dead woman’s body, syntactic structure, and familial vocabulary to make Julia and Cornelia, the wives of Pompey, guilty for the actions of their husband. By focusing on three passages from de Bello Civile, I.111-120, III.9-35, about Julia, and VIII.636-662, about Cornelia, this paper demonstrates that Lucan uses these techniques to comment on the personal nature of the civil war, turning the political into the personal, and vice-versa. Studying these passages reveals the complex role of women in this epic poem, though they barely feature in it and scholars often overlook them.

Lucan’s epic poem, de Bello Civile, is primarily a work about men — their relationships, their motivations, their wars. Female characters are secondary and have been characterized as “unsubstantial and grotesque.”1 Yet despite this assessment, this epic often makes women responsible for the conflict. Lucan blames the wives of Pompey, Julia and Cornelia, respectively, for the start of the war and the general’s subsequent death. How does Lucan accuse these women of causing certain events of the war? And what do these characterizations reveal about the themes of the poem?

In this paper, I suggest that Lucan, by making Julia and Cornelia guilty for the actions of their husband, through the use of literary tropes, structure, and a multitude of familial words, is commenting on the personal nature of the civil war. To this end, I will focus on three passages from de Bello Civile: two featuring Julia, I.111-120 and III.9-35, and one Cornelia, VIII.636-662. Firstly, this paper will explore the ways these sections make the wives of Pompey responsible for the war. A short discussion on the frequent usage of family vocabulary in all three passages will follow.

Due to the scope of this paper, it is impossible to investigate every mention of the wives in de Bello Civile.2 The passages presented here all explicitly state that these women are guilty. I specifically chose them to capture the ways in which Lucan reinforces this sense. Furthermore, sections I.111-120 and III.9-35 are of interest for they are the only ones in the text which deal with Julia at any length, and they differ in their treatment of her. In the first, Julia is a typical matrona [matron], while in the second, she is a Fury.3 These two disparate sections agree about Julia’s guilt 1 Richard Bruère, “Lucan’s Cornelia,” Classical Philology 46, no. 4 (1951): 221.

Bruère insists on two exceptions to this definition — Cleopatra and Cornelia. I disagree with this assessment. Recent work on the women of de Bello Civile have proved the subtleties of Lucan’s characterization of women such as Chiu and Mulhern. In this paper, I will be focusing only on one of Bruère’s “exceptions,” Cornelia. This discussion will cover Julia’s role in the epic, though she is summarily dismissed by Bruère.

2 Some absent excerpts of note are VIII.38-108, when Pompey and Cornelia reunite on Lesbos after Pharsalia, and IX.51-116, when Cornelia sees Pompey’s funeral pyre and gives instructions to Sextus Pompey. These offer important insights into the relationship between Pompey and Cornelia. Bruère covers both of these at length.

3 Angeline Chiu, “The Importance of Being Julia: Civil War, Historical Revisions and Lucan’s Pharsalia,” The Classical Journal 4, no. 105 (201): 343–60. & E. V. Mulhern, “Roma(Na) Matrona,” Classical Journal 112, no. 4 (2017): 432–59.

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and taken together provide a comprehensive view of how Lucan blames her. Then, this paper will discuss section VIII.636-662 as it is a transitional moment in Cornelia’s characterization. Though Lucan alludes to Cornelia leading Pompey to his end before this passage, it is only here, when she becomes aware of his death, that the poet can solidify her role.4 Thus, it is worth investigating in the frame of this paper.

Julia is not the first person, other than Pompey or Caesar, whom the text blames for their civil war. For example, in I.99106 Lucan also blames Crassus for the conflict. He is seen as a physical barrier, qualiter [...] Isthmos [...] ubi [...] Crassus [so [...] the Isthmos, [...] as [...] Crassus], and thus only ever a mora, a surmountable barrier.5 On the other hand, the poet presents Julia as a personal barrier, much more powerful in Roman society.6 Indeed, the first portrayal of Julia explicitly blames her for triggering the conflict. Lucan singularly emphasizes her culpability. By placing the blame on Julia last before launching into Caesar and Pompey’s motivations, Lucan is emphasizing her role in triggering the conflict over Crassus.7 In I.111-120, the poet discusses Julia’s death and its consequences just after blaming Crassus:

[...] Nam pignora iuncti Sanguinis et diro ferales omine taedas Abstulit ad manes Parcarum Iulia saeva Intercepta manu. Quod si tibi fata dedissent Maiores in luce moras, tu sola furentem Inde virum poteras atque hinc retinere parentem Armatasque manus excusso iungere ferro, Ut generos soceris mediae iunxere Sabinae.

Morte tua discussa fides, bellumque movere Permissum ducibus.

For Julia, having been stolen by the savage hand of the Parcai, bore towards the shades the proof of the joined blood and the savage wedding torches in dire omen. What

4 See III.21-23 in Appendix A, and XIII.90-97 in Appendix B. All translations in this work are my own.

5 Lucan, De Bello Civile. I.100-4 6 Chiu, “The Importance of Being Julia: Civil War, Historical Revisions and Lucan’s Pharsalia.”

7 Lucan, I.120-27.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College if the fates had given to you greater delays in the light, you alone would have been able to hold back thence the raging husband and hence the father and you would have been able to join the armed hands when the blade was discarded, as the Sabines, intermediaries, had joined the sons-in-law with the fathers-in-law. The loyalty was shattered by your death, and it was permitted for the leaders to wage war.8 By using the second person singular adjective tua in the ablative morta tua [your death], the poet blames Pompey’s wife as if speaking to her, heightening the sense of personal responsibility.9 Further, though this clause could be temporal, setting the action as occurring after Julia’s death with her having no actual role in it, it is more accurate to take it causally, since the passives discussa [was shattered] and permissum [was allowed] lack another possible agent.10 From her death, Julia is the agent of war. Indeed, the passage begins and ends with Julia’s death, structurally couching the discussion of her ability to stop the war with her failure to do so.11 The text reinforces this sense by a contrary to fact conditional (dedissent [...] poteras) which implies that Julia could have kept Pompey and Caesar from war but that it was indeed an impossibility.12 Her failure to keep the generals apart makes her responsible for the war. Through this structure, Lucan furthers the sense of Julia’s guilt, implicating her personal role in triggering the conflict at a syntactic and structural level.

In addition, the image of a Roman woman dying and causing societal change, like Julia in de Bello Civile who causes civil war by her death, is typical in Roman literature. Examples of this trope include Book IV of Virgil’s Aeneid where Dido’s death is necessary for Aeneas to found Rome and create a new order.13 Even though the Sabines did not die, their suffering also led to societal change.14 As Alison Keith says, “the death of a beautiful woman repeatedly serves as the catalyst in Latin epic for the epic hero’s assertion of political agency.”15 By Julia’s death, bellum movere / permissum ducibus [the war was granted to the leaders to wage].16 Her passing gives power to Caesar and Pompey, the protagonists of de Bello Civile. Lucan plays into this trope in this passage, making use of the audience’s knowledge of it to strengthen the feeling of Julia’s responsibility. The symbolism of her death is rife 8 Lucan, I.111-20. Translation is my own. Bolded text states Julia’s role.

9 Ibid., I.119.

10 Ibid., I.119-20.

11 Ibid., I.111-14. Nam pignora iuncti / Sanguinis et diro ferales omine taedas / Abstulit ad manes Parcarum Iulia saeva / Intercepta manu [For Julia, having been stolen by the savage hand of the Parcai, bore towards the shades the proof of the joined blood and the savage wedding torches in dire omen]. Ibid., I.119-20. Morte tua discussa fides, bellumque movere / Permissum ducibus [The loyalty was shattered by your death, and it was permitted for the leaders to wage war].

12 Ibid., I.114-5.

13 Alison Keith, “Over Her Dead Body,” in Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). Further examples of this trope are Lucretia’s suicide in Livy’s ab Urbe Condita I.57-59. Her death urges her family to overthrow the monarchy. Similarly, Verginia’s murder by her own father to protect her virtue in Livy III.44-58 triggers governmental upheaval in Rome.

14 Livy, I.9-13.

15 Keith, 130.

16 Lucan, I.119-20.

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with the meaning of societal change, amplifying her culpability for the audience. Lucan even makes his usage of the trope explicit by linking Julia to the Sabine women in a simile: Ut generos soceris mediae iunxere Sabinae [as the Sabines, intermediaries, had joined the sons-in-law with the fathers-in-law].17 This device solidifies the conception of Julia’s responsibility by placing her in a tradition of women responsible for change with their suffering.18 It is a somewhat heavy-handed but effective device, for the poet leaves no room for the audience to doubt Julia’s role. Just like the Sabines, she changed the outcome of the conflict. Of course, the Sabines ended their conflict, while Julia caused hers. Yet it is this similarity in role, but dissimilarity in outcome, that further inculpates Julia, highlighting her personal fault in causing civil war, for she had the tools to stop it, just like the Sabines, and yet did not.

Through the simile, trope, and semantic and syntactic structure of the passage, Lucan makes Julia responsible for Pompey’s war.

The second description of Julia in III.9-35 differs from the first. At the start of Book III, while Pompey sleeps on a boat leaving Italy, he dreams of the plena horroris imago, “apparition full of horror” of Julia.19 She provides him with a vision of the underworld preparing itself to welcome the dead from the war and subsequently flies into a jealous rage against Cornelia.20 This episode is relevant as Lucan inculpates both Julia and Cornelia. Firstly, the poet extends the trope of conflict beginning over a dead woman’s body, present in Book 1, which assigns blame to Julia, by reproducing images of her recent death. As Pompey flees Italy, the reminders of her recent passing call back to her role in causing all these events. Visually, Julia appears to Pompey as accenso furialis stare sepulchro, “furious, she stands, on the burning grave.”21 In Julia’s indictment of Cornelia, she says innupsit tepido paelex Cornelia busto, “Cornelia, the mistress, married (Pompey) on the still warm funeral pyre.”22 Notice in both excerpts the placement of the words pertaining to the pyre, not even extinguished, near the edge of the clauses, with the subjects placed between them.

This structure acts as a reminder that the actions described are occurring “over her dead body,” as Keith names the trope, since the subjects are placed structurally on her recent grave.23 It recalls that her death triggered the war and exposes that the societal changes that were expected to occur with her passing are happening. Using images of her death, Lucan reinforces her role at the start of the conflict.

Secondly, Julia blames Cornelia for the upcoming fall of Pompey. She says Coniuge me laetos duxisti, Magne, triumphos: / Fortuna est mutata toris, semperque potentes / Detrahere in cladem fato damnata maritos / Innupsit tepido paelex Cornelia busto [When I was your wife, Magnus, you led happy triumphs: Fortune was changed by the marriage bed, and Cornelia, the mistress, always having been damned by fate to drag the powerful husbands into disaster, married (Pompey) on the still warm funeral 17 Lucan, I.118.

18 Mulhern, “Roma(Na) Matrona.”

19 Lucan, III.9.

20 Ibid., III.11-34.

21 Ibid., III.11.

22 Ibid., III.23.

23 Keith, “Over Her Dead Body.”

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pyre].24 The indictment of Cornelia as fato damnata, “having been damned by fate,” carries power as it seems to come not simply from a wife, but from a Fury.25 Classicist Angeline Chiu argues that Julia becomes increasingly vindictive throughout this section, acting on revenge like a Fury.26 Lucan solidifies this sense by describing Julia as furialis, literally “Fury-like.”27 Thus, coming from Julia, who is transformed into a mythic creature of revenge, it seems certain that Cornelia will cause Pompey’s downfall — it is the will of the gods. Lucan further characterizes Julia as a Fury in this section to represent her culpability. She caused the war and now must pay for it through this transformation.28 While the poet explicitly blames Cornelia for her future role in the war by enlisting Julia’s transformed voice, the shape of the indictment itself is a representation of the first wife’s responsibility in the conflict.

Thus, Lucan continues to use the same literary trope, as well as structure, to reinforce the guilt of Julia and Cornelia.

Finally, the third passage under study occurs right after Pompey is murdered in Egypt while Cornelia is on a boat looking on. Here, Lucan relies on the conventions of lament to make Cornelia responsible for this event. She says O coniunx, ego te scelerata peremi: / Liteferae tibi causa morae fuit avia Lesbos [Oh husband, I, wicked, killed you: the cause of your deadly delay was far away Lesbos].29 Pompey leaves Cornelia on Lesbos before Pharsalia to ensure her safety.30 By blaming Lesbos, she is actively blaming herself for Pompey’s death.31 Further, she states that Haud ego culpa / Libera bellorum, quae matrum sola per undas / Et per castra comes nullis absterrita fatis / Victum, quod reges etiam timuere, recepi [By no means I am free from the guilt of war, alone of the matrons who through the waves and through the camps, I received as an attendant having been terrified by no fates, the conquered one what thing even the kings feared].32 These types of self-recriminations are a common theme in lament.33 Lucan employs this cultural convention to blame Cornelia, without it seeming misplaced. Further, the usage of an implicit ego, in lines VIII.639 and 647, highlights her personal responsibility. Though Cornelia’s self-blame in this passage might be dismissed as a mere convention of her public grief, thus making her not actually guilty for Pompey’s death, the text embeds her culpability within its very characterization of her. Indeed, if we consider this excerpt in conjunction with Julia’s statement that Cornelia is semper potentes / Detrahere in cladem fato damnata maritos [always having been damned by fate to drag the powerful husbands into disaster], we see that the idea of Cornelia’s culpability extends much farther than this lamentation.34 Her role as an instrument of Pompey’s ruin 24 Lucan, III.20-3.

25 Mulhern, “Roma(Na) Matrona.”

26 Chiu, “The Importance of Being Julia: Civil War, Historical Revisions and Lucan’s Pharsalia.

27 Lucan, III.11.

28 Chiu, “The Importance of Being Julia: Civil War, Historical Revisions and Lucan’s Pharsalia.”

29 Lucan, VIII.639-640.

30 Ibid., V.727-801.

31 Bruère, “Lucan’s Cornelia.”

32 Lucan, VIII.647-650.

33 Keith, “Over Her Dead Body.”

34 Lucan, III.21-22.

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is a constant presence in every instance in every mention of her.35 Using the conventions of lamentation and with Cornelia fully realizing her guilt, Lucan effectively conveys Cornelia’s responsibility in the war.

Thus, Lucan uses tropes, conventions, and various structural and semantic devices to convey the responsibility of Julia and Cornelia in triggering events of the civil war. This emphasis on blaming the wives of Pompey is revealing of Lucan’s conception of the war as a personal conflict. Placing the fault for the events not on Pompey and Caesar, the chief perpetrators of the civil war, but on the wives of Pompey injects the motivations for the conflict with a personal element, instead of being purely political.36 Cornelia and Julia have no stakes in the conflict except through their relationships with Pompey and Caesar. Their actions in triggering the war stem from a personal position. Julia causes it by severing the ties between her husband and father, and Cornelia by following her husband into war and making him come get her in Lesbos.37 Making the women responsible removes the political aspect of the war and focuses on the personal relationships implicated in it.

The author furthers this notion with the extended use of familial vocabulary in these passages. In all three sections under study, Lucan employs words that make explicit the relationships between Pompey and his wives, again highlighting the private aspects of the civil war. For example, Julia and Cornelia both refer to Pompey as coniunx [husband].38 Indeed, Cornelia refers more often to her husband as coniunx than Pompeus or Magnus.39 She repeats the word about once every 10 lines. Their marital relationship is clearly accentuated. Similarly, though Julia in III.9-35 does not use coniunx for Pompey as much as Cornelia, she does use it to speak about herself.40 Further, in her speech, she names Pompey as genero [son-in-law] and maritos [husbands].41 Lucan, therefore, asserts the marital relationships between Pompey and his wives. It is telling that in excerpts of the text that seek to assign blame, Lucan insists on using marital vocabulary. It allows him to unify the responsibility for the conflict with the personal, since he defines the causes of the war, Julia and Cornelia, as related to familial relationships. Lucan bolsters this by the usage of genero [son-in-law] to indicate Pompey, highlighting the familial, and again marital,

35 Bruère, “Lucan’s Cornelia.”

36 Lisa Sannicandro, “Ut Generos Soceris Mediae Iunxere Sabinae: Die Gestalt Julias in Der Pharsalia Lukans,” in Lucan’s Bellum Civile: Between Epic Tradition and Aesthetic Innovation, ed. Nicole Hömke and Christiane Reitz (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 39–52.

37 Lucan, I.111-14, VIII.640, 647-650.

38 Ibid., III.28-29. Me non Lethaeae, coniunx, oblivia ripae / Inmemorem fecere tui [Not even the forgetful shores of Lethe were able to make me forgetful of you, husband]. Lucan, VIII.639. O coniunx. [Oh husband]. Lucan, VIII.651.

Hoc merui, coniunx, in tuta puppe relinqui? [Did I deserve this, husband, to be abandoned in the safe ship?] Lucan, VIII.659. Vivis adhuc, coniunx [You live still, husband].

39 In VIII.636-662, Cornelia refers to her husband as coniunx three times (as seen in footnote 10). She refers to him as Magnus twice (VIII.656 and 660), and Pompeius once (VIII.657).

40 Coniuge me laetos duxisti, Magne, triumphos: (III.20) 41 Lucan, III.31, III.21. Maritos is in the plural because it refers to Cornelia’s two husbands, both Pompey and Crassus, the son of the triumvir Crassus.

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bond between Pompey and Caesar.42 The mingling of personal relationships and causes for the war comes to a head in Lucan’s use of pignora [pledge].43 In both instances, the word refers to the familial bond that existed between Caesar and Pompey through Julia which was broken, in the first instance by Julia’s death, and in the second by Pompey’s marriage to Cornelia. Interestingly, pignus is not chiefly a familial word: it is a pledge or guarantee, a political tool.44 It can be taken as children or relatives, but this usage is less common.45 Lucan employs this word specifically to refer to the marriage bond between Pompey and Caesar. Yet, since it has this double political meaning, through its use, the poet is able to equate the private relationships with the public causes for the war.

With this word choice, Lucan is communicating the importance of personal relationships in the conflict.

Indeed, perhaps we may say that the entire reason Lucan blames the wives of Pompey for certain events in the conflict is because they serve as stand-ins for family relationships that, once degraded, caused the civil war. The women act from a personal place — their ties to other individuals — yet they influence the political sphere. This type of convergence of the public and the private is central to Lucan’s poem.46 In this case, the public aspect is the civil war itself, and the private is the responsibility of Cornelia and Julia. Lucan utilizes the wives of Pompey and a family-based vocabulary within the passages as conduits to focus the narrative on the personal nature of the civil war. He employs tropes and conventions, such as conflict starting over a dead woman’s body, and the lament, as well as syntactical elements to reinforce the sense of Julia and Cornelia’s guilt. Then, by way of the vocabulary, he strengthens the personal relationships that are intrinsically linked with their responsibility. Though Lucan gives Cornelia and Julia agency in creating the civil war, it is not because of who they are, but who they are married to. It acts as a reminder that a conflict tied to two men and their relationships ended up implicating all of Rome with disastrous consequences. The civil war was the personal made political.

Appendix A: III.21-23: Fortuna est mutata toris, semperque potentes Detrahere in cladem fato damnata maritos Innupsit tepido paelex Cornelia busto.

Fortune was changed by the marriage bed, and Cornelia, the mistress, always having been damned by fate to drag the powerful husbands into disaster, married (Pompey) on the still warm funeral pyre.

B: XIII.90-97: Bis nocui mundo: me pronuba ducit Erinys Crassorumque umbrae, devotaque manibus illis Assyrios in castra tuli civilia casus, Praecipitesque dedi populos cunctosque fugavi A causa meliore deos. O maxime coniunx, O thalamis indigne meis, hoc iuris habebat In tantum fortuna caput? cur inpia nupsi, Si miserum factura fui?

Twice I [Julia] harmed the world: Erinys, the maid of honour, and the shades of Crassus, led me, and I having been devoted to those shades, bore the Assyrian disasters into the camps of civil war, I brought the people rushing headlong down and drove away the gods all together from the greater cause. Oh greatest husband, oh unworthy of my marriage beds, was fortune holding this thing of power against such a head? Why did I, damned, marry, if I was about to make you miserable?

42 Lucan, III.32. A further example of this, though less directly relevant is the Sabines simile in I.118 : ut generos soceris media inxere Sabinae. We are to understand that Julia is the Sabina, holding the socer, Ceasar, and the gener, Pompey, away from one another. This simile reinforces the bonds between Caesar and Pompey, further commentating on the personal nature of the war.

43 Ibid., I.111, III.33. Sannicandro “Ut Generos Soceris Mediae Iunxere Sabinae: Die Gestalt Julias in Der Pharsalia Lukans.” 39-52.

44 Oxford Latin Dictionary, 2nd ed, (2012), s.v. “pignus.”

45 Ibid., s.v. “pignus.”

46 Sannicandro, “Ut Generos Soceris Mediae Iunxere Sabinae: Die Gestalt Julias in Der Pharsalia Lukans,” 39-52.

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Works Cited Bruère, Richard. “Lucan’s Cornelia.” Classical Philology 46, no.

4 (1951): 221–36. https://www-jstor-org.proxy3.library. mcgill.ca/stable/265724?seq=12#metadata_info_tab_ contents.

Chiu, Angeline. “The Importance of Being Julia: Civil War, Historical Revisions and Lucan’s Pharsalia.” The Classical Journal 4, no. 105 (2010): 343–60. https://www-jstororg.proxy3.library.mcgill.ca/stable/pdf/10.5184/classicalj.105.4.343.pdf?refreqid=excelsior%3A0848791b3d3a11eeb9bf7ccbf20afc92.

Keith, Alison. “Over Her Dead Body.” In Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/mcgill/reader.action?docID=164765&ppg=115.

———. “Lament in Lucan’s Bellum Civile.” In Lament :Studies in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond, edited by Ann Suter. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. http://hdl. handle.net/2027/uc1.32106019513354.

Livy. Ab Urbe Condita. I.9-13, I.57-59, ed. by B. O. Foster, Loeb Classical Library 114. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1919.

Livy. Ab Urbe Condita. III.44-58, ed. by B. O. Foster, Loeb Classical Library 133. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1922.

Lucan. De Bello Civile. ed. by J. D. Duff, Loeb Classical Library 220. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1928.

Mulhern, E. V. “Roma(Na) Matrona.” Classical Journal 112, no. 4 (2017): 432–59. https://doi.org/10.5184/classicalj.112.4.0432.

Sannicandro, Lisa. “Ut Generos Soceris Mediae Iunxere Sabinae: Die Gestalt Julias in Der Pharsalia Lukans.” In Lucan’s Bellum Civile : Between Epic Tradition and Aesthetic Innovation, edited by Nicole Hömke and Christiane Reitz, 39–52. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010. https://ebookcentral. proquest.com/lib/mcgill/detail.action?docID=570566.

Vergil. Aeneid. IV. ed. by H. Rushton Fairclough and G. P. Goold.

Loeb Classical Library 63. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1999.

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Bad Girls Gone Good How (and Why) Roman Authors Reclaim Mulieres Sydney Meve (she/her), Wellesley College, Class of 2021

Abstract

Many scholars argue that epigraphy is a genre devoid of individual expression. The Allia Potestas epitaph, notorious among Roman epitaphs for its sexual detail, manipulates gendered language and social norms to make commentary about the Roman “appreciation” of women. Though this appreciation is often depicted as chaste and virtuous, the author of the Allia Potestas epitaph uncovers the erotic nature of this appreciation and publicizes it in an epigraphic format. This publicization of the private, sexual life echoes Ovid, who often mocks Roman social norms and conventions. Lower class women, in particular, facilitate this type of commentary across genres. An analysis of Livy’s Bacchanalia narrative will elucidate the dynamism of lower class women, or mulieres, and the way in which their status allows Roman authors, even authors of epigraphs, to deliver political and social commentary to audiences.

Latin literature often relies on topoi, and few characters are more formulaic than the women of Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita. This text’s Bacchanalia narrative, however, introduces us to a more multidimensional woman. Enter Hispala, an ex-courtesan and a freedwoman. Hispala stretches the bounds of Livy’s femina-mulier framework, in which women are deemed either femina [woman] or mulier [woman, derogatory]. Hispala’s redemption arc mirrors those of other mulieres; the epitaph of Allia Potestas, for example, also employs gendered language. Instead of adhering to epigraphy’s conventions, however, the author praises Allia Potestas for the sexual nature of her body and even her polyandrous relationship. In this paper I demonstrate why authors use mulieres and gendered language to deliver political and social commentary, and prove that this commentary also exists within epigraphy, a genre thought to be as formulaic as Livy’s female figures.

Hispala appears amidst Livy’s dramaticized account of the Bacchanalia Affair in 186 BCE. After playing up the lasciviousness of its participants and the threat it posed to the Roman state, Livy ends this account with the consul’s drastic reformation of the rites, elaborating on the Bacchanalia’s participants: “a great part of them are women, and they are the source of this mischief; then there are men very like the women, debauched and debauchers, fanatical.”1 These women are the trouble-makers, and the men are only trouble-makers in that they are like the women. Livy refers to these women as mulieres, a label he associates with low-born and foreign women. Their opposites are feminae, who exemplify the standards and ideals of upper class Roman women.

Livy dubs Hispala a mulier. Yet, she falls in love with the noble Aebutius. When she realizes his family’s plans to initiate him in the Bacchic rites, she begs him to reconsider. He complies, resulting in his eviction from the rites and a trip to the consul’s house.

Hispala then becomes the consul’s key witness of the Bacchanalia, having attended the rites as a servant for her past mistress. After her testimony, the consul limits the scope of the Bacchanalia and generously rewards Hispala as well as Aebutius.2 1 Livy, and B. O. Foster. Livy (Cambridge, Mass: William Heinemann Ltd, 1919), 39.9.15. Translation is my own.

2 Ibid., 39.9-19.

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Livy’s attention to these rewards signals to readers that this narrative belongs to his positive exempla, or moral lessons. Few mulieres occupy this favorable position in Livy’s text. Hispala, unlike the noble and high-born feminae Lucretia and Verginia, is a prostitute. A careful study of Livy’s language yields the complexities of her role. Livy introduces Hispala as a scortum nobile [noble prostitute].3 Though he opts for the term scortum, more derogatory than meretrix [prostitute], he still deems her nobile.4 This oxymoron disrupts Livian standards; Hispala does not fit into Livy’s black-and-white femina-mulier categorization of women.

Livy also emphasizes her devotion to Aebutius: suis meretriculae munificentia sustinebatur [he was being supported by the generosity of the courtesan] and unum Aebutium institueret heredem [she instituted Aebutius as her one heir].5 Livy’s introduction of Hispala drives home her dynamism compared to his other female characters. Though a mulier and scortum in title, Hispala exhibits positive qualities by virtue of her loyalty to Aebutius, a noble Roman man, soshe resembles a femina in character.

Livy then introduces Sulpicia, a femina married to the consul, and the staticness of Sulpicia’s character stands in sharp contrast to the dynamism of Hispala. As Hispala panics over the plan to initiate Aebutius at the Bacchanalia, Livy refers to her as a mulier.6 Just a few lines later we meet Sulpiciam gravem feminam [Sulpicia, an eminent woman].7 Although these two characters stand in contrast to each other by virtue of their femina-mulier assignments, they share certain characteristics. For example, Livy refers to Sulpicia as tam nobilem et gravem feminam [so noble and eminent a woman].8 Yet he also introduced Hispala as nobile, even if she is a scortum and a mulier. Hispala contains all these dichotomies at once, whereas Sulpicia’s character is less complex. She represents the ideal Roman woman, a patrician matrona [mother] who has done her duties to the state and her husband. As Hispala is devoted 3 Livy, Livy, 39.9.5.

4 Francesca Santoro L’Hoir, “Livian Ladies: Cardboard Characters in Feminine Attire,” The Rhetoric of Gender Terms, (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 91-2.

5 Livy, Livy, Line 39.9.6-7.

6 Ibid., 39.10.2.

7 Ibid., 39.11.4.

8 Ibid., 39.12.2.

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to Aebutius, so is Sulpicia devoted to her husband the consul.

Together they aid the Roman state in its reformation of the Bacchanalia. Hispala testifies before the consul and Sulpicia regarding her experiences with the rites. As Hispala helps the Roman state with her knowledge, Sulpicia helps and encourages Hispala to deliver that knowledge: et Sulpicia attollere paventem, simul illam adhortari, simul iram generi lenire [Sulpicia raises her, being afraid, at the same time encouraging this one, and soothing the anger of her son-in-law].9 This line emphasizes her gentleness, as the focus shifts to Hispala’s fear (paventem) rather than her status as a mulier or a scortum. The verb lenire also expresses the delicacy with which she approaches a citizen man’s ira. Hispala, trembling and frantic, stands in contrast to Sulpicia and her stoic mannerisms. Sulpicia uses her power to guide Hispala in her deliverance of insider information about the Bacchanalia and its deviant participants, and together they serve the state.

Once the consuls settle the matter of the Bacchanalia, they reward Aebutius and Hispala for their cooperation. Hispala, as a freedwoman, receives a number of unique privileges, among them the ability to marry Aebutius. Even after her dedication to the Roman state and the deliverance of these rights, however, Hispala remains a mulier in Livy’s language.10 She can never possess the title femina, due to her past status and profession. This narrative proves that one can be a mulier and still receive favorable titles and addresses (and even serve as a positive exempla). But Hispala only receives these rewards due to her service to the Roman state and, more specifically, her insider information on other lascivious women and lower class peoples in Rome. Livy positions her in the middle of his femina-mulier framework via his language. This language, in turn, mirrors Hispala’s position in between the lower and upper classes of Rome, and more specifically lower and upper class women (i.e. the bacchants and Sulpicia). Her status gives her greater insight into the mulieres responsible for the Bacchanalia.

Indeed Livy has created another perfect exempla: As L’Hoir states, “women figure prominently in Livy’s religious anecdotes, which are seen to be not only warnings of impending ruin but also lessons specifically intended for feminine moral edification.”11 Livy has utilized the character of Hispala to demonstrate Rome’s leniency for mulieres who expose and control other mulieres. Like so often in Ab Urbe Condita, women deliver messages rather than exist as characters.

So while Livy might deny many (if not all) his women any real interiority, we can turn to an arguably more intimate form of writing: epigraphy. Scholars debate the personalization of inscriptions. Consider Reiss’ perspective: “Epigraphy had to reach out beyond the individual. It could not express individual sentiments.”12 He claims that this formulaic praise subjects women to male rule through its gendered language.13 Inscriptions certainly absorbed the gendered language that existed within their time;

however, one would be remiss to ignore their important role in the grieving process. Consider the Laudatio Turiae, an epitaph unlike any others by virtue of its impassioned language and keen attention to the public deeds of a woman named Turia. Most epitaphs exclusively praise women for their private, domestic virtues rather than their public contributions to the state. Reiss remains unconvinced by the epitaph’s feeling and unusual portrayal of Turia, reminding us that “hyper-positive images of women were also used to increase the reputation of their whole household and especially the men living in it.”14 While the Laudatio Turiae may begin with the typical exemplary and ultimately feminine attributes of Turia, the inscription ends with a highly personal and unique narrative about the couple’s fertility struggle.15 The Allia Potestas inscription, too, forgoes tradition. Sexual imagery litters the inscription, even after the typical catalogue of feminine virtues that so often appears in epitaphs. The inscription also references her polyandrous relationship and the tragic unraveling of her two lovers’ bond following her death. Just as Livy utilizes the gendered language of his femina-mulier framework to deliver messages to readers, the epitaph’s suspected author, Allius, manipulates the gendered language and conventions of epigraphy to make his own commentary.

The author initially characterizes Allia as sedula [diligent], a safe and common description in epitaphs about women. The author frequently reinforces her industriousness. A few lines later, an expansive list of her attributes appears: fortis, sancta, tenax, insons, fidissima custos, / munda domi, sat munda foras, notissima volgo [strong, venerable, sparing, innocent, most faithful guardian, clean in the house as outside, most well known to the public].16 Nothing in this list should take us, or contemporary Roman readers, by surprise. Like many other inscriptions, this one highlights the private and domestic virtues of Allia Potestas. Indeed, even more details follow, praising her diligence in the home and her humble nature.17 A surprising shift, however, derails the author’s appreciation of these stereotypical virtues. After the speaker states that haec sibi non placuit, numquam sibi libera visa [she did not please herself, and was never seen to herself as free], he waxes poetic on how much he admired her body.18 A much different list follows:

9 Livy, Livy, 39.13.3.

10 Ibid., 39.19.6.

11 L’Hoir, “Livian Ladies,” 79.

12 Reiss Werner, “Rari exempli femina : Female Virtues on Roman Funerary Inscriptions,” A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, edited by Sharon L. James, and Sheila Dillon, (John Wiley & Sons, Incorporated, 2012), 499.

13 Ibid., 499-501.

14 Werner, 497.

15 Erik Wistrand, The So-Called Laudatio Turiae: Introduction, Text, Translation, Commentary, (Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1976), 31-47.

16 Allia Potestas, 8-9.

17 Ibid., 10-16.

18 Ibid., 16.

19 Ibid., 17-20.

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candida, luminibus pulchris, aurata capillis et nitor in facie permansit eburneus illa, qualem mortalem nullam habuisse ferunt; pectore et in niveo brevis illi forma papillae She was fair, with beautiful eyes and golden hair, and an ivory brightness remained on her face, the sort which they say that no other mortal had. On her white chest slight was the shape of her breasts.19

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In a mockery of her earlier chaste and domestic virtues, the author unveils personal details about the body of Allia Potestas.

This intense focus on and obsession with the female body echoes many Ovidian works, as scholars have pointed out. For example, only Ovid applies the adjective eburneus to the body.20 The text is littered with countless references to Ovidian works, which are known for their sharp commentary on the Roman state.21 These allusions hint at the author’s source of inspiration and even his motive in constructing this epitaph.

The speaker then compares Allia’s legs to those of Atalanta, whose own legs are a popular sexual innuendo in the ancient world. He then remarks that anxia non mansit, sed corpore pulchra benigno / levia membra tulit; pilus illi quaesitus ubique [she did not remain anxious, but she, beautiful, with a bounteous body, carried her limbs lightly; she lacked hair everywhere].22 Her corpore benigno contrasts with her tenax [sparing, stingy] nature. The author draws attention to the contrast between her body and the virtues of a proper Roman woman. Like Hispala, Allia Potestas can possess both mulier-like and femina-like qualities.

The author then shifts back to the more standard qualities of an upright Roman woman, but his return to more standard inscription is quickly subverted. Even more shocking details emerge from the inscription: haec duo dum vixit iuvenes ita rexit amantes, / exemplo ut fierent similes Pyladisque et Orestae [while she lived, she thus ruled two young lovers so that they became similar to the example of Pylades and Orestes].23 This unusual, polyandrous relationship certainly strays from Roman tradition. He praises her ability to bring the two men together, but laments their estrangement following her death: femina quod struxit tales, nunc puncta lacessunt. / aspicite ad Troiam, quid femina fecerit olim! / Sit precor hoc iustum, exemplis in parvo grandibus uti [what such a woman built, now pricks destroy. Look to Troy, what a woman did once. I beg that this may be right, to use grand examples in regard to the little].24 These epic and mythic callbacks also evoke Ovid, and the author seems aware of his own playfulness. The contradiction of what Allia struxit [built] with what now puncta lacessunt [pricks destroy], mirrors the transition from domestic, chaste virtues to sexualized attributes. The two men have ruined the pure “thing” (the relationship between the two men) which she fostered with their puncta, or pricks. Similarly, the author has ruined the inscription’s list of chaste virtues with his eroticized descriptions of the female body. In other words, the author’s sexual obsession with Allia Potestas disrupts the expected conventions of epigraphy.

The author purposefully plays with this gendered and sexualized language. He begins with the typical traits of a virtuous Roman woman and shocks us as he divulges sexualized qualities of Allia Potestas. He frames these within her domestic virtues, so as to make them appear otherwise normal. Her polyandrous relationship also obliterates the Roman ideal of the univira [one-husband 20 Nicholas Horsfall, “CIL VI 37965 = CLE 1988 (Epitaph of Allia Potestas): A Commentary,” Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik, vol. 61, 1985: 262.

21 Ella Bourne, “The Epitaph of Allia Potestas,” The Classical Weekly, vol. 9, no.

15, 1916: 115.

22 Allia Potestas, 22-23.

23 Ibid., 29-30.

24 Ibid., 32-34.

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woman], as the author instead actively praises Allia Potestas’ commitment to not one man, but two. The author’s linguistic references to Ovid then begin to make more sense; like Ovid, the author plays with the conventions of gender and creates a text that openly challenges Roman stereotypes. His commentary is made possible by the lower class status of Allia Potestas. Like Hispala, she can demonstrate both private, chaste virtues and public, sexualized qualities. A high-born character like Sulpicia, for example, cannot.

Like Livy, the author utilizes a freedwoman of the lower class and gendered language to deliver a message. Their messages, however, have little in common. Recall Reiss’ claim: The formulaic praise of women (and men) not only subjected women to male rule and dominance but also stabilized Roman social relations and thus Roman power in general by making the gender hierarchy permanent.25 We can apply this theory to Livy. He certainly praises women, Hispala specifically, through a gendered lens in order to confirm male dominance and thus stabilize Roman social relations. The inscription author, too, manipulates gendered language, but not to the same end as Livy or other epigraphic authors. His approach more closely resembles that of Ovid, as he seemingly critiques the gendered system of epigraphy and Roman society as a whole.

Though men publicly praise women for their domestic, chaste virtues, they privately obsess over the sexual qualities of women and their bodies. Like Ovid in the Ars Amatoria, this author uncomfortably brings the male private perspective directly into public life. In fact, he goes one step further by displaying his text on a public monument.

The author of the Allia Potestas inscription gets away with using this eroticized language because Allia Potestas is a freedwoman, and no Roman matrona. Freedwomen are inherently inferior by status and their sexuality can be used as a tool for commentary.

In the same way, Livy can use the complexities of Hispala’s characters to write impactful exempla about the Roman state. Consider the straightforwardness of Sulpicia’s character; Livy cannot obliterate gender norms when it comes to the character of a Roman matrona. Their chastity is a symbol of the livelihood of the Roman state. To take away the chastity of noble feminae is to threaten the sanctity of Rome itself.

Within these limits, the inscription author still manages to expose (and perhaps revel in) the irony of gendered language in an Ovidian fashion. While men may publicly praise a woman’s domestic virtues, they privately obsess and lust after her body.

Epigraphy, then, does have room for expression. In the case of the Laudatio Turiae, the speaker showcases a genuine affection for his wife outside of narrow Roman stereotypes. The Allia Potestas inscription, though, does not seem to be a genuine expression of grief or a stock inscription meant to legitimize the speaker’s social power. Instead, the speaker uses the public platform of a monument to expose the private, sexual life. He characterizes the freedwoman Allia Potestas as a noble femina only in language, but not in actuality, to make his critique of Roman societal values and 25 Reiss, “Rari Exempli Femina,” 501.

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norms. Livy’s Bacchanalia narrative, featuring the forever mulier Hispala, presents us with a helpful framework to understand how Roman authors utilize the gendered language of lower class women to deliver political and social messages to readers.

Works Cited Bourne, Ella. “The Epitaph of Allia Potestas.” The Classical Weekly, 9, no. 15, 1916, pp. 114–116. www.jstor.org/stable/4387223.

Horsfall, Nicholas. “CIL VI 37965 = CLE 1988 (Epitaph of Allia Potestas): A Commentary.” Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik 61, 1985, pp. 251–272. www.jstor.org/ stable/20184373.

L’Hoir, Francesca Santoro. “Livian Ladies: Cardboard Characters in Feminine Attire.” The Rhetoric of Gender Terms.

Leiden: Brill, 1992.

Livy, and B. O. Foster. Livy, Cambridge, Mass: William Heinemann Ltd, 1919.

Werner, Reiss. “Rari exempli femina : Female Virtues on Roman Funerary Inscriptions.” A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, edited by Sharon L. James, and Sheila Dillon, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2012. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/well/detail. action?docID=837573.

Wistrand, Erik. The So-Called Laudatio Turiae: Introduction, Text, Translation, Commentary. Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1976.

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Hidden Sophistication in Catullan Invective “For it is necessary for a poet himself to be pious, but not at all for his verses to be!”

Madelyn Mauro (she/her), Harvard College, Class of 2023

Abstract

Gaius Valerius Catullus, known for his love of expletives and crude jokes, is likely the most provocative staple of Latin curricula. While entertaining in its own right, however, Catullus’ propensity for profanity may have a more refined meaning and purpose. I argue that Catullus’ invectives — some of the most strongly-worded poems in his collection — often disguise witty literary criticism, and point out that readers of Catullus should not interpret his shallow, crass words as the sign of a shallow, crass poet. In fact, I end by suggesting that Catullus may have hinted at this conclusion himself.

It is difficult to turn to one of Catullus’ polymetrics or epigrams without landing on some vulgar metaphor or another. The poet is notorious for the many invectives which he directed at lovers, sexual rivals, and political figures alike, and for the obscene language and imagery which he regularly employed within them.

Oftentimes, Catullus himself clearly revealed within his invectives the circumstances or behavior which provoked him to write them.

The sexual transgressions of Gellius, for example, undeniably fuel the vitriolic lines of poems 88 through 91, which paint in no vague terms exaggerated scenes of Gellius’ acts of incest and excessive sexual desire. Political corruption, irresponsible wealth management, and lapses in social decorum are among the many other catalysts which litter Catullus’ corpus with such poems.1 Some of Catullus’ sourest insults, however, escape straightforward categorization, and are so studded with profanity that readers are often left with the impression of a stunningly rude Catullus whose poetic purpose they struggle to understand. Yet careful analysis of some such invectives reveals them to be laced with a purpose far more mature than simply abusing his subjects and inducing shock in his audience. As this essay will uncover, the invective poems 41, 43, 36, and 23, along with the renowned poem 16, actually convey subtle but potent literary criticism, and so point to a fascinatingly sophisticated yet fairly under-addressed role for invective in the Catullan corpus as a vehicle for poetic critique.

In doing so, these poems establish Catullus not as a volatile man prone to “dirty jokes,” but as a poet keen to enforce high literary standards.

Poems 41 and 43, for example, brutally vilify the appearance of a woman called Ameana. At the same time, however, they accuse her of no other crime than mere association with Mamurra, a military officer under Caesar whose prodigality and political misconduct are the subject of several other biting invectives.2 At first glance, these cruel and repetitive jabs at Ameana’s looks seem to be little more than simply rude. A little attention to metapoetics, however, suggests that they may have a much deeper purpose.

In the later poem 105, Catullus constructs a vivid image of Mamurra unsuccessfully climbing the mountain of the Muses; this 1 On political corruption, see Catullus 47, 52, 57, and 93. On irresponsible wealth management, see Catullus 114 and 115. On lapses in social decorum, see Catullus 12, 25, 33, and 84.

2 See Catullus 29, 57, 94, 114, and 115.

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scene hints that these poems may sport a meaning beyond the literal.3 Perhaps the ugly and clumsy Ameana represents an unsatisfying poem or collection of poems by Mamurra, and Catullus has written poems 41 and 43 to pick apart Mamurra’s poetic failures.

In fact, many of the insults Catullus employs within these poems support this alternate reading, as they can refer to poetic anatomy as plausibly as they can to physical anatomy. Ameana’s nec bello pede… nec longis digitis [her not-beautiful feet and not-long fingers] seem especially likely to represent metrical criticism given that the very words pedem and digitus are metrical terms.4 Catullus is no stranger to this fact, since he employs this metonymic pedem in several other poems.5 Such an interpretation transforms Ameana’s ugly feet and short fingers into metrical units with too many or too few syllables to keep Mamurra’s poetry flowing as smoothly as good-quality meter should. Even the description of her nec minimo naso [not-small nose], depicting Ameana as a woman of wonky proportions, can conceivably be reenvisioned as a comment on Mamurra’s glaringly off-kilter meter, or on the broader unseemliness of his poems as a whole.6 This alternate interpretation of these two poems promotes a unique reading of the last two lines of 43, in which Catullus bemoans that the countryside considers Ameana to be more beautiful than his Lesbia. An urban elitist who makes his disapproval of rural dwellers painfully clear throughout his corpus, Catullus is throwing his last heckle at Mamurra’s poetry: of course it is preferred by the unrefined and undereducated provincia [rural towns].

Poem 36 also begins with a near-perfect example of surprising profanity which carries a more mature meaning upon closer look.

“Annales Volusi, cacata carta,” [the Annals of Volusius, shat-out sheets] spits Catullus, taking readers straight from the pages of Volusius’ works to the outhouse in just the first line.7 The characterization is painfully and unavoidably scatalogical, and thus tempting to pass off as delivered for laughs rather than for serious 3 Catullus 105.1-2: “Mentula the Prick tries to climb the Parnassian mountain: the Muses toss him off headlong with pitchforks.” Translation is my own.

4 Catullus 43.2-3. As Hendren remarks in “Catullus’ Ameana Cycle as Literary Criticism,” “digitus” hails from the Greek δάκτυλος, meaning finger but also metrical foot. “Pedem,” meaning “foot,” is its Latin equivalent.

5 For some of the most vivid, see poems 14 and 71.

6 Catullus 41.3: “large nose.”

7 Catullus 36.1.

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contemplation. However, Lindsay Watson notes in his 2005 “Catullan Recycling?” that it runs in a strikingly similar vein as a trend begun by Callimachus and carried forward by several of Catullus’ contemporaries, in which poor-quality literature is likened to mud and waste. Callimachus sparked the trend in his Hymn to Apollo, in which he spurns a prolific yet untalented writer by likening hastily-produced poems to “much filth of earth and much refuse.”8 It remains intact in Horace’s Satire IV, when Horace criticizes a wordy poet by suggesting that cum flueret lutulentus, erat quod tollere velles [when his muddy stream flows, there is much which you would like to remove].9 Perhaps Catullus has carefully and cleverly planted his cacata carta within this poem, then, as a slight riff on a storied trope whose roots lie in sophisticated literary criticism. With this possibility in mind, the phrase fades from a mark of immature humor into one of literary savviness, and lends significantly more credibility to Catullus’ denunciation of Volusius’ writings.

Yet it is in the poems leveled against Furius’ near-abject poverty that exploring literary criticism as a possible motivation for invective composition most dramatically disrupts a particularly poor impression of Catullus. A surface-level interpretation of these poems as digs at Furius’ financial poverty only paints Catullus as snooty and petty, liable to savagely lash out against even the smallest loan request. In poem 23, for example, Furius’ alleged request for merely one hundred sesterces launches Catullus into almost 30 lines of vitriol. Close attention to some of Catullus’ other poems, however, reveals that hostility towards poverty and money-borrowing is actually quite uncharacteristic of him — the man who identifies his own wallet as plenus aranearum [full of spiders] and requests that his friend Fabullus completely subsidize a decadent feast for them to share would not likely hold the penury of others in such strong contempt.10 Reimagine Furius’ literal poverty as literary poverty, however, and these poems transform from puzzlingly aggressive insults into calculated critiques, perhaps of Catullus’ contemporary Furius Bibaculus.11 In her 1988 article, “Systems of Food Imagery in Catullus,” Amy Richlin astutely notes that Catullus often associates unnatural digestion with poorly-composed poetry. In 14, for example, Catullus likens the horrible collection of poems which he threatens to send Calvus to poison, while in 44, Sestius’ poems are so nefaria [abominable] that they bring on an indigestive cough quam mihi meus venter… dedit [that my stomach gave to me].12 In turn, disturbed digestion makes up a considerable portion of the subject matter of poem 23. According to Catullus, Furius’ culus 8 Callimachus, “To Apollo,” in Hymns and Epigrams. Lycophron: Alexandra.

Aratus: Phaenomena, trans. A. W. Mair, G. R. Mair, Loeb Classical Library 129 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921), lines 108-9.

9 Horace, “Satire IV,” in Satires. Epistles. The Art of Poetry, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926), line 11.

10 plenus aranearum: Catullus 13.8. Catullus 13.1-4: “You will dine well with me, my Fabullus… if you bring with you a good and large dinner.”

11 Scholars often claim that the Furius of Catullus’ poetry is likely the neoteric poet Marcus Furius Bibaculus, who wrote at the same time and within the same social circles as Catullus, but whose works unfortunately now only exist in scattered fragments.

12 Catullus 14.19: “I will gather up all poisons.” In contrast to the Muses’ “sweet fruits” (Catullus 65.3), Catullus will send poisonous verses to Calvus.

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[anus] is cleaner than a salt cellar, and his defecations, which occur less than ten times per year, are durius… faba et lapillis [harder than a bean or stone].13 If these characterizations do indeed play into this uniquely Catullan trend of analogizing poorly-written poetry to poor digestion, they suggest a few negative things about Furius’ poetic aspirations. The first, which stems from the image of Furius’ shockingly infrequent cacas [bowel movements], is that they are painfully unprolific; the second, given that Catullus declares Furius’ feces too dry and dense to even dirty Furius’ fingers, is that they are exceedingly dull and uninteresting.

In fact, much like those he directed towards Ameana, many of Catullus’ physical descriptions of Furius and the conditions of his poverty actually deliver the same critical interpretation of Furius’ scant and stale poetry. In poem 23, for example, Catullus harps upon Furius’ dryness, calling his and his parents’ bodies sicciora cornu aut siquid magis aridum est [drier than horn, or whatever there is that is more dry] and describing Furius as free from nearly all bodily secretions.14 Although Catullus claims to offer up such dryness as an example of Furius’ pristine health, it is also strongly suggestive of a lack of complexity and intrigue in Furius’ poems.15 The remark that a te sudor abest [sweat is absent from you] may similarly be more a criticism of lazy or scarce poetic composition than a statement of physical cleanliness.16 But most notably, as Maria Marsilio and Kate Podlesney point out in “Poverty and Poetic Rivalry in Catullus,” the munditiem [cleanliness] which Catullus assigns to Furius harbors a potential sarcastic second meaning, as its entry in the Oxford Latin Dictionary makes it clear that the word may denote not just excessively clean appearance, but over-refined language and taste.17 It is impossible to completely address the potential role of Catullan invective as a harbinger of literary criticism and indicator of Catullus’ literary standards without confronting the beast of poem 16. Known for being one of, if not the most vulgar of Catullus’ poems, it is stuffed so full of obscenity that when Dr. Mary Beard delivered its first two lines in a 2009 NPR interview, both the original Latin and her English translation were completely censored.18 The poem threatens severe acts of sexual violation against Furius and Aurelius, who have called Catullus immodest on account of the sexual language that stains many of his poems. In doing so, they have failed to separate the nature of the poet from the nature of his words. By vigorously berating them for their inability to properly comprehend this distinction, Catullus reveals a dramatic and serious intolerance of literary ignorance. Thus, poem 16 may not deliver direct criticism of poetry, but it is one of the most cogent 13 Catullus 23.19 and Catullus 23.21.

14 sicciora cornu aut siquid magis aridum est comes from Catullus 23.12-13.

Catullus 23.16-17: abest saliva, mucusve, et mala pituita nasi [saliva and ugly drippings of the nose are absent from you].

15 Especially since the Oxford Latin Dictionary offers up the following as a possible definition of “siccus”: “(of speech and style) lacking luxuriance, unadorned, dry (whether as a virtue or carried to excess).”

16 a te sudor abest comes from Catullus 23.16.

17 Catullus 23.18: hanc ad munditiem adde mundiorem [to this cleanliness add more cleanliness]. Oxford Latin Dictionary, s.v. “mundus”, for which “mundiorem” is the comparative: “elegant or refined in appearance, manners, or taste.”

18 Mary Beard, interview by Guy Raz, All Things Considered, NPR, December 13, 2009.

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In fact, the poem itself seems to subtly reveal the implications of the more polished interpretation of Catullan invective that this paper has offered. To critics who gripe that he is profane and immature, Catullus and I respond that even his most sordid language and phrasing should not be immediately taken as a poor reflection on his own writing style or character. Often, there is a deeper and more sophisticated purpose that drives Catullus to adopt such a style. To overlook it would be to falsely represent the poet, and thereby commit as heinous a mischaracterization as Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi [sodomite Aurelius and Furius the effeminate pervert].19 19 Catullus 16.2.

Works Cited

Beard, Mary. All Things Considered. By Guy Raz. NPR, December 13, 2009.

Callimachus, “To Apollo.” In Hymns and Epigrams. Lycophron: Alexandra. Aratus: Phaenomena. Translated by A. W. Mair, G. R. Mair, 48-59. Loeb Classical Library 129.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921.

Catullus, 13, 14, 16, 23, 36, 41, 43, 105.

Garrison, Daniel H. The Student’s Catullus, 4th ed. Oxon: Routledge, 2013.

Glare, P. G. W. Oxford Latin Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon P., 1968.

Hendren, George T. “Catullus’ Ameana Cycle as Literary Criticism” in Mnemosyne 69 (2016): p.262-275.

Horace. “Satire IV.” In Satires. Epistles. The Art of Poetry. Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough, 46-61. Loeb Classical Library 194. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926.

Macaulay, Thomas Babington. Life and Letters. London: Longmans, 1875.

Magill, Frank N. Critical Survey of Poetry: Foreign Language Series. Hackensack: Salem Press, 1984.

Platts, John. A New Universal Biography. Charleston: BiblioBazaar, 1825.

Richlin, Amy. “Systems of Food Imagery in Catullus” in The Classical World 81 (1988): p.355-363.

Watson, Lindsay. “Catullan Recycling? ‘Cacata carta’” in Mnemosyne 58 (2005): p.270-277.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

CALL FOR PAPERS Dear students, professors, and departments, The Haley Classical Journal is excited to announce that we are opening our call for papers for our Fall Semester 2021/Winter 2022 issue! We hope that the decision to extend our submission windows will help us better strive towards our mission of increasing undergraduate access to publishing and creating a more inclusive classics.

We want to ensure that all students interested in submitting have ample time to do so.

Submissions should be between 1000 and 4000 words. We strongly encourage submissions from students of color, LGBTQ+ students, first-generation students, disabled students, economically disadvantaged students, and other students underrepresented in the classics. We also encourage submissions from outside the traditional focus of “the classics,” including but not limited to: anthropological archaeology; gender and sexuality studies; reception; Egyptian, Assyrian, and Near Eastern studies; and Late Antique studies. The deadline for submissions is October 1 at 11:59 PM EDT. If you would like to submit a paper, you can access our portal here: https://forms.gle/S47dGvT8BxGbA5mo6 Please reach out to us via email at haleyclassical@gmail.com or on Twitter @HaleyJournal if you have any questions, concerns, or comments. We look forward to reading your submissions!

Sincerely, The Haley Editorial Board

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College

gratias

The Haley Classical Journal is a peer-reviewed, undergraduate research journal affiliated with the Hamilton College Classics Department and operated through the Hamilton College Classics Club.

The journal’s mission is to amplify often unheard or underrepresented voices in the classics, and to publicize growing fields and disciplines within and around the classics. The Haley publishes articles from across the world, and does not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, sexuality, religion, creed, socioeconomic background, or any other identifying factors.

The Haley Classical Journal

Jacob Hane Madeleine Cavallino Philip Chivily Aidan Holmgren Kayley Boddy Madeleine Cavallino

Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Deputy Managing Editor Head Copy Editor Layout Editor Deputy Layout Editor

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Shelley Haley Anne Feltovich Jesse Weiner Amy Koenig James Taylor

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