Hirundo XVII by hirundo.mcgill

hirundo vol. xvii

Hirundo

The McGill Journal of Classical Studies Volume XVII

Hirundo Editor-in-Chief Deputy Editor-in-Chief

Zoe Babad-Palmer

Outreach Editor

Michaela Drouillard

Editorial Board

Academic Advisor

hirundo.history@mcgill.ca No portion of this journal may be printed without the consent of the editorial board. ÂŠ McGill Hirundo 2019

Katie Duklas

Internal Officer

Design Editor

Founded in 2001, Hirundo accepts essay contributions from undergraduate students at McGill University that relate to the Ancient World. Hirundo is published once annually by the Classics Studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Association of McGill and uses a policy of blind review in selecting papers. It is journal policy that the copyright to the contents of each issue belongs to Hirundo. Essays in either French or English may be submitted to the Editor-in-Chief at:

Marina Martin

Rachel Sutherland Daisy Bonsall Emma Davidson Adam Eldred Michael Leger Sara Merker Lexie White Cindy Zeng Professor Darian Totten

Cover Artist

Elizabeth Poggie

Layout Designer

Geneva Gleason

Hirundo would like to thank the Dean of Arts Development Fund, the Arts Undergraduate Society, the Classics Students Association, and the Department of History and Classical Studies for their assistance and support in publishing this journal.

Contents Marina Martin

EDITOR’S PREFACE

Cédrik Michel

ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL TATTOOS

Catherine LaRivière

A SEDUCTIVE STAGE

Margaux Shraiman

FROM POETRY TO ICONOGRAPHY

Georgia Jones

ELISION IN THE GEORGICS

Meghan O’Donnell

THE MAGNA MATER

Willow Little BIRTH AND DEATH IN ANCIENT GREECE

Ben Kennedy

DRUIDISM AS MOTIVATION FOR THE REBELLION OF BOADICEA

Jeanne Savard-Déry UBI SUNT OVIDII METAMOPHOSEON LIBRI?

Leah Smith ON THE ANCIENT GREEK PRIMARY COLOURS

Nikolay Parvanov THE VARIOUS FIRES IN THE METAMORPHOSES

Matthew Alfred John Wannenburg

THE SPARTAN FLAW

Giulia Heinritzi WEAPONRY IN THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN Wenwei Jiang

ATHENIAN IMPERIALISM

Editor’s Preface It is with the utmost joy that I present to you the seventeenth edition of Hirundo, McGill’s undergraduate research journal for Classical Studies. This edition was an effort of many brilliant people, all of whom I am extremely grateful to have had the opportunity to work with. The executive board of editors, including Katie Duklas, Zoe Labad-Palmer, Michaela Drouillard, and Rachel Sutherland, deserve immense credit for making this volume as unique as it is. Further, it is the wonderful doing of the Editorial Board that this journal has been printed at all. I would be remiss if I did not recognize the excellent Department of History and Classics for both assigning and encouraging exceptional undergraduate work at McGill. Without the guidance and prompting of each professor, we would not have any papers to create our journal with. We are also grateful to Elizabeth Poggie, our cover artist, and Geneva Gleason, our layout designer, for bringing their creativity to this volume. I will leave you with a brief anecdote: Rachel, our design editor, and our cover artist, Elizabeth, thought up a unique idea for Hirundo XVII’s cover. Instead of depicting the bust of one of the great men of ancient times, they settled on a woman weaving. Indeed, you will find that much of the excellent work in this volume focuses on the female legacy of the classical world, because, although women aren’t always the primary focus in the narrative, they, from Penelope to Dido, weave stories all throughout. With this in mind, I hope you enjoy the stories woven up in Hirundo XVII. Marina Martin Editor-in-Chief

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Ancient & Medieval Tattoos The mark of a slave to god or to man? Cédrik Michel Before tattoos became a mainstream form of self-expression and art, they were often associated with organized crime, bikers, and rebellious individuals on the fringe of society, or with sailors and soldiers who travelled to remote areas of the globe. Similarly, in antiquity, the Romans and Greeks associated tattoos with criminality and servitude, but ‘barbarians’ also used them for decorative purposes. The clergy viewed tattoos negatively in the Middle Ages, but ironically, during the First Crusade, Christians started to get tattooed either in Europe before leaving for their pilgrimage, or in Jerusalem to show their permanent devotion to God. At first glance, there seems to be a continuation of the association of tattoos with servitude that permeated well into the Middle Ages. Indeed, some scholars, such as Purkis have hinted that medieval Europeans may have adapted the ancient tattoo, associated with (negative) servitude, to signify (positive) devotion.1 I entered my research with this hypothesis, but have found out that this does not seem to be the case. The symbolism of tattoos was reinvented just as stories were introduced into medieval literature after the first millennium without any recollection of what they had been in antiquity. I will first proceed with a description of the uses of tattoos in antiquity and will follow with an analysis of the uses of tattoos in the Middle Ages, up to and including the First Crusade. Tattoos in antiquity are denoted in Latin and Greek by the term stigma (singular) or stigmata (plural). The word stigmata was first used by the Greeks to denote the spots on a snake or some other mark which could be applied to human skin by painting or even branding. However, there is no ambiguity concerning tattoos in sources using the Greek verb στιζειν (to stick). In some rare occurrences, stigmata was also used for the branding of animals, but more often the Ancients 1 Purkis gave a conference on the publication of his article “Stigmata on the First Crusade” at the Museum of the Order of St. John. In this conference, he mentions, without proof, as an avenue for future research, that he believes that medieval tattoos to mark devotion to God were a continuation of the tattooing in antiquity to mark submission and servitude.

would use verbs related to burning or nouns relating to stamps.2 For the sake of this essay, I will be using the anachronistic term ‘tattoo,’ which was brought into the English language from the Tahitian tatau (to strike) by James Cook in 1769. Four main sources provide modern scholars with information on the extent and context of tattooing in antiquity: classical sources, traces of pigment found on preserved bodies, tattooing paraphernalia, and the portrayal of tattooed characters on coins. However, the classical authors provide the most background information on tattoos and their purpose, a trend that continues into the Middle Ages. Literary evidence also provides essential information on the symbolism and use of tattoos, the core of this essay. In antiquity, motivations for getting tattoos can be divided into three categories: punishment to reinforce submission and servitude, godly devotion, and ‘barbarian’ customs. The most prevalent uses of tattoos in ancient Greece and Rome were to punish criminals or to remind slaves of their devotion to their master. In ancient Greece, as well as being a permanent reminder of criminal activity, tattoos and branding were considered to be a form of torture, as they were bloody and painful.3 In addition, στιγματιας (stigmatias) was a Greek term used for a tattooed slave or criminal. Indeed, Herodas, in his fifth mime, writes about a slave, Gastron, who has been unfaithful to his lover and master Bitinna. His master orders him to be tattooed on his forehead to remind him of his obligations through the comments and jeers of others by a certain “Kosis the tattooer,” (Herodas, Mimiamboi V 1.32). This example illustrates that penal tattooing was preferred for its permanent mark of humiliation and reminder of the limitations of freedom, rather than because of the pain of its application. Aeschines gives another example of what kind of marking would be written on a runaway slave: “Stop me, I’m a runaway,” (Aeschin. 2.83). The mention of a man having the profession of a tattooist in Aeschines also implies a certain organization of the tattooing trade. This seems to indicate that tattooing was prevalent enough for someone to make a living from it. Suetonius, in his Lives of the Caesars, also mentions that Caligula had some unruly citizens defaced by tattoos before sending them to forced labor working in mines or building roads (27.3). However, this practice of tattooing the forehead for punishment seems to have declined in prevalence in 325 CE, when Constantine issued an edict declaring that those condemned to gladiatorial schools or to work in mines. The edict declared that criminals or slaves should only be tattooed on their hands or forearms, so that the face, which had been formed in the image of divine beauty, should be defiled as little as possible (Cod. Theod. 9.40.2). It is also important to understand that tattooing 2 C. P. Jones, “Stigma: Tattooing and Branding in Graeco-Roman Antiquity,” The Journal of Roman Studies 77 (1987): 140-1, 146. 3 Ibid., 143.

did not seem to be a source of pride for slaves, as they are often described as seeking methods to remove them (Aetius, Sixteen Books on Medicine 8.12). In addition, Pliny and Galen both prescribe batrachion (possibly crowsfoot) for its caustic properties to remove stigmata (Pliny. Nat. 25.109, Galen, De simplicium medicamentorum 6.2.5). These Roman and Greek tattoos were done similarly to today, with ink and needles. Several colors of tattoos were available, but black and blue remained the most popular. Charcoal would have been used to draw the design before the tattooing begun, similarly to the use of a stencil today.4 The Ancients’ conception of skin may also have played an important part in the ‘stigma’ associated with tattoos. Blemishes or visible trauma on the skin, particularly the face, were considered dishonorable and a disgrace. Even scars obtained in battle would have been considered shameful, and the Romans gave great esteem to physicians who were able to heal facial injuries without permanent disfigurement. For example, Tacitus and Gellius call General Sertorius’ “lost eye” dishonorable (dehonestamentum) (Tac. Hist. 4.13; Gel. 2.27). This conveys the importance given to visual perfection and illustrates a factor that would have contributed to tattoos being associated with crime and servitude. In addition to being a permanent reminder to others of the tattooed individual’s status, it would also be a punishment in a society in which any disfigurement was considered shameful. This attitude towards visible disfigurement continued into the Middle Ages.5 Indeed, the Alemannic Laws punish facial injury only if it could not be covered up by hair or beard (LA 60.22). In Ireland, blemishes on the face even had superstitious implications. A potential candidate for king would be rejected from contention even if the disfigurement had occurred during an accident or battle.6 Penal tattooing was also practised by the Persians to mark delinquent slaves and criminals. Herodotus mentions that the Persians tattooed the treacherous Thebans who had abandoned the Persians in battle with the “royal mark” (7.233.2). In one passage, he describes how Xerxes, enraged with the Hellespont for breaking one of his bridges in a storm, orders that the sea be punished by being whipped and tattooed (7.35). He sent a tattooist with the delegation sent to punish the sea. While it would obviously have been a challenge to whip or tattoo the sea, the symbolism behind these actions as penal is evident. Some scholars, such as Jones, believe that Persia introduced tattoos to Greece as a form of punishment. In fact, the first mention of a tattooed individual is in 510 BCE, just before the Persian War, on an amphora depicting a scene where Dike 4 Ibid., 141. 5 Patricia Skinner, “3 Visible Prowess?: Reading Men’s Head and Face Wounds in Early Medieval Europe to 1000 CE,” in Wounds and Wound Repair in Medieval Culture (Leiden: BRILL, 2015), 81. 6 Ibid., 83.

(justice) is slaying Adikia (injustice), who has tattoos on her body.7 On other rarer occasions, tattooing was voluntarily undertaken for religious reasons, mainly by people in the Eastern Mediterranean, such as the Persians or Egyptians. Herodotus mentions that servants of the shrine of Herakles in Egypt were tattooed, once again to mark their permanent devotion to the gods (2.113). He even writes that if runaway slaves received this divine marking, their masters could not reclaim them as their possession, as they were now in the service of a ‘higher’ master. While both reasons for being marked by tattoos are similar in their connotation of submission to a higher authority, tattoos on slaves were intended as marks of humiliation and servitude, whereas religious tattoos represented the highest form of freedom: being servant only to a divine being. Other instances of tattoos in antiquity are encountered in various descriptions of ‘barbarians,’ where tattoos are described as having mostly a decorative function. Many classical descriptions of barbarian body art are confusing, as there is much scholarly debate about whether the descriptions concern dye pricked into the skin or simply temporary body paint. In De bello gallico, Caesar mentions that “Omnes vero se Britanni vitro inficiunt, quod caeruleum efficit colorem, atque hoc horridiores sunt in pugna aspectu” (All the Britons dye their bodies with (woad or glass), which produces a blue colour, and this gives them a more terrifying appearance in battle) (Hirt. Gal. 5.14). In this context, the use of vitro causes confusion, as it could refer to either woad, a plant producing a blue pigment, implying body painting, or glass, implying a prickling of the skin. Archeological evidence seems to support an overwhelming use of bone or metal needles to tattoo, but it is possible that different tribes used a variety of methods.8 Greek classical sources describing body art are easier to decipher, as it is accepted that the Greek verb στιζειν (to poke with a stick) is associated with tattoos. One of the sources that uses this verb is Herodian, who mentions that the Britons tattooed their bodies with various patterns and pictures of all sorts of animals, hence the reason why they do not wear clothes, namely so as not to cover the pictures on their bodies (τὰ δὲ σώματα στίζονται γραφαῖς ποικίλαις καὶ ζῴων παντοδαπῶν εἰκόσιν· ὅθεν οὐδὲ ἀμφιέννυνται, ἵνα μὴ σκέπωσι τοῦ σώματος 8τὰς γραφάς) (Herodian, History of the Roman Empire since the Death of Marcus Aurelius 3.13.7). Other sources portraying tattoos include Gallic coins depicting tattooed faces from the second century BCE and the excavation of the frozen tattooed bodies of Scythian horsemen from the fifth century BCE.9 However, regardless of the permanence of the markings on barbarian skin, their appearance was a defining characteristic of barbarity used as a Roman marker 7 Jones, “Stigma,” 147. 8 Ibid., 144. 9 Charles Thomas, “The Interpretation of the Pictish Symbols,” Archaeological Journal 120, no. 1 (January 1, 1963): 32-34; S. I. Rudenko and M. W. Thompson, Frozen Tombs of Siberia: The Pazyryk Burials of Iron Age Horsemen (London: Deny, 1970), 45.

of otherness. It is important to understand that one of the plants used by the Britons to create the blue pigment, one of the most frequently mentioned pigments in ancient sources, was concocted from woad. The blue dye obtained from woad would have been liquid, mixed with water and a form of ammonia, possibly urine. According to Carr, the dye would have been created by boiling the woad and mixing it with ammonia, stirring for fifteen minutes. The mixture would then be left to settle, and the pigment would have been decanted. The unused particles would have been dried into a powder for further use. To be used as body paint or for tattoos, this pigment would have been mixed with fat, which also had the effect of insulation -a useful property for the Gauls, who allegedly went to war naked. Milk, egg whites, or even semen were also used to bind the pigment to the skin. The use of semen as a binding agent would have been symbolically associated with certain fertility rites. In addition to providing the blue pigment, woad was also a medicinal plant, often rubbed into wounds. This resulted in some descriptions of warriors harbouring blue scars, clues that perhaps decoration was not the only purpose of barbarian tattoos; they may also have been an unintentional side effect of medical treatments.10 In fact, it is even believed that barbarian warriors may have doused their bodies in blue woad before battle not only for decoration, but also for hygiene and prophylaxis, as any wounds would already be anointed with the medical paste. Some scholars have also proposed that tattoos on barbarians were over-represented in ancient sources, as they had become part of the literary tropes (topoi) associated with otherness.11 Another interesting portrayal of ‘barbarian’ tattoos appears in Phanocles’ Stobaeus, where he describes how Thracian women tattooed themselves to remember their crime of murdering Orpheus (an instance of the tattoo for crime) (1.25-29). Similarly, an Attic vase from 470 BCE presents Thracian Maenads with tattoos on their forearms depicting the killing of Orpheus.12 Clearchus also presents another punitive origin for Thracian decorative markings: the Thracians tattooed themselves to remind themselves of their humiliating defeat at the hands of the Scythians (Athenaeus 12). Thus, while some Greek and Roman sources portray tattoos as decorative, there was an attempt to give them connotations of submission and punishment. Whether foreign tribes considered tattoos to be more a mark of status and honor or submission is hard to tell, as all sources are written from a Roman or Greek point of view in which servitude was deeply ingrained in tattoo culture. 10 Gillian Carr, “Woad, Tattooing and Identity in Later Iron Age and Early Roman Britain,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 24, no. 3 (2005): 274-275. 11 P. C. N. Stewart, “Inventing Britain: The Roman Creation and Adaptation of an Image,” Brittania 26 (1995): 2-3. 12 Jones, “Stigma,” 145.

Dio Chrysostom, a Greek writer and historian of the Roman empire, presents an interesting view of Thracian tattoos. He mentions that both commoners and kings in Thrace are tattooed, but their quantity and themes vary; for example, a king may have tattoos of crowns or scepters. He then proceeds to compare this use of tattooing to branding cattle, as both are used as identifiers (Discourses 14.18-24). Despite some rare occurrences where ‘barbarian’ tattoos are described as decorative or religious, Greek and Roman sources perceived tattoos to be associated with crime, servitude, and submission.13 As Roman law and customs persisted long after the fall of Rome, these classical associations of tattoos are essential to understand for the purpose of this essay. However, at the end of antiquity, Christianity seems to have played an important role in modifying the Greek and Roman customs of penal tattooing, as evidenced by Constantine’s edict of 325 CE where he prohibited tattoos.14 In the Middle Ages, apart from some rare instances of tattoos being used as a form of punishment, the use of tattoos drastically changed. This was in part because biblical prohibitions deemed it inappropriate to tattoo criminals or slaves. Indeed, in the Old Testament, the Book of Leviticus 19:28 mentions that: “Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD.” While this may seem to limit the practice of self-tattooing, all forms of tattoos seem to have been forbidden, as previously mentioned in Constantine’s edict. In addition, in 787 CE, Pope Hadrian I forbade tattoos of all kinds.15 This being said, the few examples of punitive tattoos were done either in very specific circumstances or by Pagans to mock Christians. For example, Theophanes mentions that the iconophile monks Theodore and Theophanes were accused of idolatry by the iconoclast emperor Theophilos, and were tattooed with an account of their crimes in twelve lines on their forehead (Chronographia a.m. 6285). This is one of the rare instances where Christians used tattoos as punishments, but the symbolism of defacing a lover of images took precedence over the punitive aspect.16 Both monks were later sanctified by the Western Church and called the Graptoi (inscribed ones), a curious case of a member of the clergy being tattooed in the Early Middle Ages.17 However, the tattoos would have been understood as an acknowledgement of the distinctive form of 13 Ibid., 155. 14 Ibid., 148. 15 Kim Hewitt, Mutilating the Body: Identity in Blood and Ink (Popular Press, 1997), 69. 16 Leslie Brubaker and John Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era, c. 680-850: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 395. 17 Robert Ousterhout, “Permanent Ephemera: The ‘Honourable Stigmatisation’ of Jerusalem Pilgrims,” in Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel, ed. Bartal, Renana (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 100.

their suffering, rather than an instance of tolerance for stigmata. It is also worth noting that the use of tattoos as punishment was incredibly rare in Christian Europe, but was prevalent in the Byzantine Empire, which may explain how Christian Europeans learned the art of tattooing after its quasi-disappearance in the Early Middle Ages.18 Theodoret, in the Ecclesiastical History, also claims that the Arian emperor Valens had an Orthodox deacon punished by tattooing a cross on his forehead (Historia Ecclesiastica 4.22).

took advantage of the laymen’s fear of Hell. Indeed, there had been a constant preoccupation with the fate of dead relatives in the afterlife as well as the future of those living. To succeed in the aristocratic world, lords would have needed to sin and exert pride. The success of the First Crusade is thus heavily related to the Clergy’s ability to demonstrate where the behavior of laymen was not up to the standards of the Christian ideal. In his preaching, Urban II emphasized penance, both for the sins of the living and those of dead relatives.

Another aspect to be considered is highlighted in Cyprian’s description of Christians being sent to work in the mines of Numidia. He mentions that the tattoos on their forehead could be considered their second inscription, the first being baptism: “frontium notatarum secunda inscriptione signatos” (Pontius of Carthage, Vita Cypriani 7.1488). In fact, Ambrose, Augustine, and John Chrysostom, in their explanation of the meaning of baptism, compare the mark of baptism to a tattoo on a slave or soldier, marking their devotion to a higher entity.19 Thus, there were several parallels between baptism and tattooing that may have facilitated the reintroduction of tattoos in Christian Europe.

To some, like Guibert de Nogent, a Benedictine historian and theologian, the First Crusade was actually a movement started by the common people guided by God, because he does not mention the Council of Clermont or Urban II in his main work, Dei gesta per francos.22 It is also worth noting that although he is one of the main sources used by modern scholars to examine the First Crusade, he was simply an observer, not a participant. He is also known to have written the Treatise on Relics, in which he exposes the frauds and abuses relating to the adoration of relics. These opinions may be related to the apprehension that Guibert holds for tattoos, often believing their divine nature to be fraudulent (Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos 330). In fact, in that same passage, Guibert mentions that those who had tattoos were “men of the most extreme vulgarity” (extramae vulgaritatis homines) and “undignified women” (muliebris indignitas) (Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos 330).

The first sign of resurgence in tattooing seems to have occured right after the council of Clermont, where, according to the rendition of Robert the Monk, Pope Urban II said that all crusaders should have the mark of the cross on their back, forehead, or breast as a sign that they would give themselves up as a living sacrifice to God. While this rendition of the speech does not explicitly imply tattooing, it sounds surprisingly similar to the idea of tattoos marking negative devotion in the Middle Ages. Nonetheless, there seems to be little evidence that these devotional stigmata were inspired by the ancients’ use of tattooing to mark servitude. In his rendition of the Clermont speech, Robert the Monk also cites Matthew 10:38: “He that does not carry his cross and come after me is not worthy of me.” According to Guibert de Nogent, countless individuals tattooed, branded, cut, and painted images of the cross on their forearms, chests, and even foreheads following the speech of Urban II (Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos 330). The impact of the call to the crusade would have been so efficient and propagated through so many levels to remote areas that Marcus Bull compares it to a “wild tumor.”20 Pope Urban II and his clerical followers had toured southern and western French-speaking lands, attracting huge crowds and meeting with powerful laymen. Urban also met with prominent bishops around Europe to get them to spread his message.21 In his preaching of the crusades, Urban II 18 19 20 363. 21

Ibid., 100. Ibid., 102. Marcus Bull, “The Roots of Lay Enthusiasm for the First Crusade,” History 78, no. 254 (1993): Ibid., 364.

It is likely that tattoos of crosses done in Europe during the call to the crusade and in the Holy Land would have been a gesture towards the imitation of the wounds of Christ (and later St. Francis’ stigmata) and the biblical mentions of stigmata.23 In the context of the crusades as a penitential pilgrimage, Christ, a figure who died for the sins of mankind, became an example to follow for his humility, humanity, poverty, and infirmity.24 Indeed, the idea of replicating the five wounds of Christ as an imitatio Christi was very prevalent.25 This idea of an imitation of Christ was particularly reinforced during the crusading movement, where, like Jesus, crusaders would sacrifice their body for God as penance for their sins. This imagery appears first in the sixteenth century, as Alexander von Pappenheim, a German nobleman, is mentioned as getting a cross tattooed on his left thigh in Jaffa, just like the Apocalyptic Christ.26 In addition, these tattoos were often done at Easter time to commemorate when Jesus was marked by his stigmata. There is little doubt that in his speech at Clermont, Urban II used Christ as an example for crusaders to follow. Furthermore, the anonymous 22 Ch. Thurot, “Guibert de Nogent,” Revue Historique 2, no. 1 (1876): 104-11. 23 Juliet Fleming, “The Renaissance Tattoo,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, no. 31 (1997): 48. 24 Miikaa Tamminen, “The Crusader’s Stigmata: True Crusading and the Wounds of Christ in the Crusade Ideology of the Thirteenth Century,” in Infirmity in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Christian Krötzl, Matariina Mustakallio, Jenni Kuuliala (London: Routledge, 2009), 103-117. 25 William J. Purkis, “Stigmata on the First Crusade,” Studies in Church History 41 (2005): 102. 26 Ousterhout, “Permanent Ephemera,” 103.

author of the Gesta Francorum cites Matthew 16:14 (“If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me”) to explain how “([they] really wanted to follow God and faithfully to bear the cross after him” (Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum I). Theologians, such as Guibert de Nogent and Jacques de Vitry, mention that crusaders should strive to be weak, so they they will rely more on the strength of their faith than on their physical strength.27 Getting a brand or tattoo of a cross emulated Christ and the values that he embodied for the crusaders, rather than weakness. Thus, while tattoos would have represented crosses rather than the wounds of Christ, they could be interpreted as an allusion to biblical stigmata adapted in the context of the Urban’s speech at Clermont.28 The Christian concept that the efficacy of penance was heavily reliant on the unpleasantness of an experience may have also played an important role in the surge of tattoos during the crusades.29 Following the sources in antiquity, tattoos were used as punishment not only because they brought permanent shame, but also because they were very painful and could even lead to death. Following this logic, tattoos could be perceived as both an imitation of the wounds of Christ and a form of self-harm, like flagellation. Renditions of the speech at Clermont are not the only mentions of crusaders bearing the mark of Christ. In addition, the idea of following Christ’s will to bear the mark of God is evident in crusader charters as well as in a letter to Urban II, in which a crusader wrote: “by your sermons…you taught us to take up crosses to follow Christ” (Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088-1100, 164).30 While most references to stigmata of the cross do not always refer to tattoos, they were usually put on the same people. Those who were tattooed tended to be the most zealous (or desperate) (Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos 197). However, not all tattoos seem to have been done out of religious zeal or limited to the ranks of crusaders. Tattoos applied in Europe were often used to secure donations or prominent roles in the crusades. During the crusades, funding an expedition to the Holy Land was an incredibly expensive endeavor. Riley-Smith estimates that sending a recruit to the Holy Land would have cost roughly four times the annual wage of a knight.31 In order to go to the Holy Land armed, some men even pledged valuable property or rented out their estates to monasteries in exchange for the 27 Tamminen, “Stigmata,” 104. 28 Ibid., 104. 29 Bull, “Lay Enthusiasm,” 366. 30 Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095-1131 (Cambridge, U.K.; New York, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 163. 31 J. Riley-Smith, “Early Crusaders to the East and the Cost of Crusading, 1095-1130,” in The Crusades: The Essential Readings, ed. Thomas F. Madden (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 163.

necessary funds. According to a Jewish chronicler, Emicho of Flonheim tattooed an intricate design of the cross to garner political and religious support for the crusade.32 In his Dei Gesta per francos, Guibert de Nogent mentions that the Abbott Baldwin claimed to have been branded by God, but was later revealed to be a fraud because the ‘brand’ was simply a tattoo (Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos 197). While the nature of the mark is controversial, it would have played the same role as a tattoo, as it was a permanent mark opposed by God, such as in the case of Emicho of Flonheim. In addition, there are even beggars in Europe who branded and tattooed themselves with crosses to emulate the recent surge in stigmata in the hope of receiving donations like those given to men embarking on the crusade (Guibert de Nogent, Gesta dei per francos 330). While these instances of zealous tattooing to garner support and raise money seem to explain themselves, they are also heavily rooted in the speech of Urban II at the Council of Clermont, which had established a precedent. In addition to being a mark of religious zeal, tattoos were also given to crusaders both to protect them and to ensure that the proper funerary rites would be given to their bodies. While there is little mention of specific names in the sources, Orderic Vitalis, in his Ecclesiastical History, mentions that the dead body of a man named Walter of Poissy was found to have been miraculously marked with a cross on his body; it was quickly taken into the city of Philippopolis for proper burial (Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica 5.30). In addition, biblical references reinforce the notion that a divine stigma could keep its owner out of harm’s way. Indeed, in the Epistle of St. Paul to the Galatians, St. Paul wrote: “let no-one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the stigmata of Jesus” (Gal. 6.17). While these instances of tattooing were miraculous, they would also have been voluntarily inflicted by crusaders to garner the same benefits.33 Bodies marked with the divine stigmata were considered to be protected by God. Raymond of Aguilers writes about a troop of Christians killed by Muslims. The crusaders’ bodies were all found to be marked with a cross on the right shoulder (Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem 102). However, it was only understood as a miracle after one of the men believed to have died returned to the crusaders with the same miraculously acquired tattooed cross and told them that he had survived without food or water for eight days. Prayers were then given to God, who had “remembered his paupers” (Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem 102). Another possible source for the resurgence of tattoos may be rooted in practices often associated with pilgrimages. As early as the fourth century CE, pilgrims brought home many types of souvenirs from these sites, ranging from 32 33

Purkis, “Stigmata on the First Crusade,” 101. Ibid., 101-102.

Following the statement that tattoos seem to have been ‘reinvented’ in the Middle Ages, this begs the question of how tattooists in the Middle Ages learned their methods. Tattooing almost entirely disappeared from European urban centers, but remained in remote communities, as mentioned above, and in the East. The sixth-century Byzantine physician Aetius gives a description of how a tattoo would be done: “Apply by pricking the places with needles, wiping away the blood, and rubbing in first juice of leek, and then the preparation,” ( Sixteen

Books on Medicine 8.12). Similarly, as the members of remote communities would never have abandoned tattooing, it could be suggested that the shift to tattooing Christian imagery, rather than pagan or markers of societal rank, would not have impacted the methodology of tattooing. Later ‘stencils’ of pilgrimage tattoos seem to have been modeled on the eulogiai, clay tokens impressed with an image of a Saint or a representation of an episode of the New Testament; they were often collected for good luck.40 These were marked with charcoal and their image was represented on the skin to give an outline for the tattooist. However, no evidence for this seems to be documented before the fourteenth century. The possibility of penal tattooing from antiquity having persisted seems slim, as there is no mention of tattooing in the Laws of the Salian Franks (Pactus Legis Salicae and Lex Salica Karolina), which could be considered a continuation of the Roman Law.41 Similarly, the Laws of the Visigoths (Lex Romana Visigothorum) explicitly mention that criminals who ignore the letters from a judge are not to be subjected to a “permanent mark of infamy.” In fact, this same appellation of a mark of infamy is used to describe the practice of scalping and branding that would have been performed, respectively, to unruly slaves and to witnesses lying under oath (Lex Romana Visigothorum 2.44, 2.55). While none of these codes of law explicitly mention tattooing, there is much in common between tattoos and disfigurement by branding or scalping. There is no real evidence of tattooing in medieval Europe from around 325 CE when the edict of Constantine forbidding tattoos was issued. This was also compounded by Hadrian I’s declaration in 787 CE forbidding all tattoos. Therefore, it seems that the craftsmanship of tattoos was introduced in Europe before the crusades from remote communities with a heavy tattooing tradition or through testimonies from classical authors. While ancient Greek authors such as Herodotus or Thucydides had not been translated into Latin at the time, there could have been mentions of their works by later authors. Latin texts were more accessible but were often used as examples of models to follow rather than praised for their content. Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars seems to have been relatively well known and is considered by scholars to have influenced Charlemagne’s actions.42 However, history and ethnography were not deemed to be important in the school curricula of the Middle Ages, heavily limiting exposure to classical texts. The only use of classical texts such as Ovid, Vergil and Seneca in schools seems to have been through Roman rhetoric exercises, which would have given glimpses into the content of some classical authors.43 After the crusades, tattooing methods could have been introduced to Europe through the Middle East. Indeed, Byzantium had continued the use of tattooing as a punishment

34 Ousterhout, “Permanent Ephemera,” 102. 35 Ibid., 103 36 Virginia Burns, “Macrina’s Tattoo,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33, no. 3 (September 1, 2003): 408. 37 Fleming, “Renaissance Tattoo,” 48. 38 Ousterhout, “Permanent Ephemera,”105. 39 Ibid., 109.

40 Ibid., 103. 41 Katherine Fischer Drew, The Laws of the Salian Franks (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991). I found no mention of laws concerning tattoos in the book. 42 Eva Matthews Sanford, “The Study of Ancient History in the Middle Ages,” Journal of the History of Ideas 5, no. 1 (1944): 28. 43 Ibid., 28.

vials of holy water to models of sacred buildings.34 During pilgrimages, tactile and sensory contact with relics and the Holy site was an essential part of the religious process. Possibly prompted by the success of the preaching of Urban II, this emphasis on sensory contact may have been a factor in pilgrims getting tattooed upon reaching the Holy Land, so that they could have a permanent, sensory reminder of their pilgrimage. There were several possible routes to validate the legitimacy of a relic. For example, it was said that the legitimacy of the True Cross could be determined by pouring holy oil from the Holy Sepulcher on it. If it boiled, it would be legitimate.35 Similarly, tattoos, which were allegedly given by God, could be deemed legitimate if they healed properly.36 One of the only areas where there seems to have been a continuation of the tattooing traditions was in remote areas of Europe, previously occupied by Pagans. While these areas had been converted to Christianity, they still maintained a tribal identity and valued the practices of their ancestors, such as tattooing to mark their identity and social status, as described by Dio Chrysostom. Indeed, in 796 CE, papal legates condemned tattooing in Northumbria if it was used as part of pagan rituals, but allowed it as a form of devotion to Christian faith.37 In addition, this legate does not present evidence of the adaptation of the ancient symbolism of servitude to devotion, as these remote people did not consider tattooing to be a mark of servitude, unlike Romans or Greeks. Religious tattoos in the Middle Ages mainly appeared on the arms and shoulders, but also sometimes on the legs.38 However, a unifying trait was that they nearly always faced inwards, most often on the inner forearm.39 This seems to imply that they were private. This marks a great shift from the forehead tattoos done in antiquity which had the explicit purpose of reminding others of the crime and servitude of the individual.

well into the Middle Ages. Prior to the crusades, there had been much contact between Europe and the Middle East in the form of pilgrimages.44 In addition, Byzantine workers had been hired for the construction of the Church of Monte Cassino in Italy, consecrated in 1071 CE.45 In conclusion, through this analysis, it seems possible to determine that religious tattoos in medieval Christendom had very little to do with tattooing as it is described in Roman and Greek sources. Tattoos in antiquity were done by Romans and Greeks to punish unruly slaves and criminals. Some tribes, as described by Caesar or Herodotus, seem to have used tattoos for decoration or to show their status in society. Other rare instances of tattooing in antiquity were for religious reasons, to show devotion to a ‘higher’ being. The methods of tattooing seem to have been varied, ranging from needles and ink to woad being put in wounds for medicinal purposes. However, there seems to be no conclusive link between ancient tattooing, associated with negative servitude, and medieval tattooing, which marks a positive devotion to God. Instead, religious tattooing in the Middle Ages seems to be heavily reliant on Urban II’s speech at the Council of Clermont where he used the biblical verse of Matthew 16:14, in which Jesus tells his followers to bear the sign of Christ. It would also have been heavily influenced by the penitential nature of the crusades, in which tattooing could both be perceived as an emulation of Christ, who sacrificed himself for the sins of mankind, and as a form of self-harm, like flagellation. The metaphor of imitating Christ, down to his stigmata, even goes so far as crusaders perceiving themselves to be martyrs in the Holy Land.46 However, not all instances of tattooing were solely motivated by religious zeal; fraudulent beggars, likely influenced by pious tattooed individuals, would get tattoos to garner donations. Getting tattooed in the Holy Land while crusading may stem from the practice of bringing back souvenirs from pilgrimages. The only use of tattooing in antiquity that seems to have permeated into the Middle Ages is that of tribal people who, despite not having written sources like the Greeks or Romans, seem to have been the most heavily influenced by their heritage. In fact, Christian tattoos on members of remote religious communities with a long history of tattooing seem to be the only form of tattoos truly accepted by the Church and exempt from an official prohibition. Therefore, there seems to be a great disconnect between the symbolism of tattoos in antiquity and in the Middle Ages. This may be explained by the Christian prohibitions imposed on tattooing of all kind by Constantine in 325 CE and by Pope Hadrian I in 787 CE. However, how these methods of tattooing were preserved from the end of antiquity to the eleventh century remains largely a mystery. 44 Ousterhout, “Permanent Ephemera,” 104. 45 Herbert Bloch, “Monte Cassino, Byzantium, and the West in the Earlier Middle Ages,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 3 (1946): 165. 46 Arnold I. Davidson, “Miracles of Bodily Transformation, or How St. Francis Received the Stigmata,” Critical Inquiry 35, no. 3 (2009): 458.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Aeschines, The Speech on the Embassy Aetius, Sixteen Books on Medicine Alemannic Laws Caesar, De bello gallico Clearchus, Athenaeus Codex Theodosianus Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088-1100 Dio Chrysostom, Discourses Galen, De simplicium medicamentorum Gellius, Attic Nights Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum Guibert de Nogent, Dei gesta per francos Herodas, Mimiamboi Herodotus, Histories Lex romana visigothorum Lex Salica Karolina Orderic Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiastica Pactus Legis Salicae Phanocles, Stobaeus Pliny, Natural Histories Pontius of Carthage, Vita cypriani Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars Tacitus, The Histories Theophanes, Chronographia

SECONDARY SOURCES

Bloch, Herbert. “Monte Cassino, Byzantium, and the West in the Earlier Middle Ages.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 3 (1946): 163–224. Bull, Marcus. “The Roots of Lay Enthusiasm for the First Crusade.” History 78, no. 254 (1993): 353–72. Burrus, Virginia. “Macrina’s Tattoo.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33, no. 3 (September 1, 2003): 403–17. Carr, Gillian. “Woad, Tattooing and Identity in Later Iron Age and Early Roman Britain.” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 24, no. 3 (2005): 273–92. Davidson, Arnold I. “Miracles of Bodily Transformation, or How St. Francis Received the Stigmata.” Critical Inquiry 35, no. 3 (2009): 451–80. Drew, Katherine Fischer. The Laws of the Salian Franks. University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991.

Fleming, Juliet. “The Renaissance Tattoo.” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, no. 31 (1997): 34–52. Jones, C. P. “Stigma: Tattooing and Branding in Graeco-Roman Antiquity.” The Journal of Roman Studies 77 (1987): 139–55. Ousterhout, Robert. “Permanent Ephemera: The ‘Honourable Stigmatisation’ of Jerusalem Pilgrims.” In Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel, edited by Bartal, Renana (Visualising the Middle Ages, 11), Xiii, 359 p., 94–111. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Purkis, William J. “Did Crusaders get Tattoos? Devotional Symbols and Practices in Medieval Europe and the Holy Land.” London: Museum of the Order of St. John (2017): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4aBqCC1YMQY Purkis, William J. “Stigmata on the First Crusade.” Studies in Church History 41 (2005): 99–108. Riley-Smith, J. “‘Early Crusaders to the East and the Cost of Crusading, 1095 1130.” In The Crusades: The Essential Readings, edited by Thomas F. Madden. Oxford: Blackwell, 2002. Riley-Smith, Jonathan. The First Crusaders, 1095-1131. Cambridge, U.K.; New York, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Rudenko, S. I., and M. W. Thompson. Frozen Tombs of Siberia: The Pazyryk Burials of Iron Age Horsemen. London: Dent, 1970. Sanford, Eva Matthews. “The Study of Ancient History in the Middle Ages.” Journal of the History of Ideas 5, no. 1 (1944): 21–43. Skinner, Patricia. “3 Visible Prowess?: Reading Men’s Head and Face Wounds in Early Medieval Europe to 1000 CE.” In Wounds and Wound Repair in Medieval Culture, 81–101. Leiden: BRILL, 2015. Stewart, P. C. N. “Inventing Britain: The Roman Creation and Adaptation of an Image.” Britannia 26 (1995): 1–10. Tamminen, Miikaa. “The Crusader’s Stigmata: True Crusading and the Wounds of Christ in the Crusade Ideology of the Thirteenth Century.” In Infirmity in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, edited by Christian Krötzl, Katariina Mustakallio, Jenni Kuuliala, 103-117. London: Routledge, 2009. Thomas, Charles. “The Interpretation of the Pictish Symbols.” Archaeological Journal 120, no. 1 (January 1, 1963): 31–97. Thurot, Ch. “Guibert de Nogent.” Revue Historique 2, no. 1 (1876): 104–11.

A Seductive Stage

Female skin in Bernini’s Ovidian Borghese sculptures and the spectacle of gendered violence Catherine LaRivière Bernini’s sculptures at the Villa Borghese are incredibly seductive. Their rippling fabric, plump flesh, defined muscles, cascading tendrils of hair, and luxuriously lustrous material have historically beckoned their viewers to reach out and touch the skin on display just as the sculpted figures are doing.1 The draw of the sculptures comes from a combination of haptics and optics; it combines the visual draw of verisimilitude with the haptic desire to prove or disprove it.2 Bernini drew inspiration for these sculptures from the poems of Ovid who documented the stories of the changing lives of various gods and goddesses in his Metamorphoses, a canonical source for Roman mythology that has been revisited innumerable times. When reading Bernini’s chosen stories–especially Apollo and Daphne and Pluto and Proserpina–the fleshy allure becomes evident as textually as it is sculpturally. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the flesh and skin of the women pursued are what renders them desirable, as though their outermost surfaces carry their allure. The author describes the acts of gendered violence that happen to these women through the ways it affects their outer selves, their skin and flesh serving as performative spaces of action for each myth. Bernini made visible this fixation on young female skin and flesh from antiquity by drawing attention to the haptic aspects of sculpture. Through the use of carving and polishing, he brought these myths centered on spectacle to life, later to become spectacles in their own right at in the Villa Borghese. Together, I will argue that these canonical figures and the space where the sculptures were displayed create a dialogue about female skin - and by extension their bodies as the site of multi-layered performance, one where men are the main actors in the sculpted women’s victimization and subsequent objectification. 1 Federico Baldinucci, Life of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, trans. Catherine Enggass (Philadelphia: Penn State Press, 1965), quoted in Andrea Bolland’s “Desiderio and Diletto: Vision, Touch, and the Poetics of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne,” The Art Bulletin 82, no. 2 (June 2000): 309. 2 Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 321.

Before delving into the discussion on skin and flesh in this context, the two terms need to be defined as they are not interchangeable. The focus of this essay will revolve around the skin of these sculpted women as their outermost surface, rather than their flesh, which is the substantiated and bodily counterpart of the skin. According to Nina Jablonski, skin is in and of itself a multi-faceted outer surface we as humans all possess; it is as flexible as it is durable, it serves as a defense and as a display, and it is a permeable boundary that places itself between us and the outside world.3 As such, the skin serves as both a port of entry and as an exterior place of display.4 This duality of impression and expression is crucial, I will argue, in understanding how the skin of these sculpted women becomes the site of performance and spectacle at the Villa Borghese. Just as their male antagonists impress their touch and gaze upon their bodies, so do the spectators of these sculptures and the sculptor himself in the act of their creation. Moreover, just as these women express their internal panic and strife in their body language and through the transformation of their skin, so does Bernini express his skill at depicting it so realistically. The Cardinal Borghese consequently flaunts his wealth in owning these opulent works, giving them an added dimension of not just creative, but also a social spectacle.

Bernini and the seductive potential of marble

Cardinal Scipione Borghese commissioned a series of sculptures from Bernini, which Apollo and Daphne (1622-25) [fig. 1] and Pluto and Proserpina (16211622) [fig. 2] are part of, joined by Aeneas and Anchises (1618-1619), and later, the Biblical David (1623-1624). Both were displayed within his villa in Rome, where there was frequently an audience of elites to view them.5 Apollo and Daphne is a marble sculpture of nearly 2.5 metres in height, featuring the named mythological characters. Apollo stands behind his pursued beloved, Daphne, who is frozen in her moment of flight and transformation, his right hand lying on her midriff which is transitioning into tree bark from her legs upward [detail, fig. 3]. He stands with his hand back and mouth agape, as the roots that grow out from her toenails rise under his sandaled feet and her fingernails flow into long leafy branches [detail, fig. 4 & 5]. She looks behind her with her mouth open, crying in fear that the god might trap her. An invisible gust of wind sweeps their hair up, Daphne’s long curls flowing off to the side as she turns to face her unwanted pursuer and Apollo’s flying back like the cloth billowing around his body. This sculpture stands like a scene frozen in time, the transformation of Daphne’s skin into a laurel tree is halted but for a moment, and their bodies are suspended in motion. Daphne’s changing human skin is a spectacle; it morphs 3 Nina G. Jablonski, “Introduction,” in Skin: A Natural History (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), 1-3. 4 Jablonski, “Introduction,” 3-4. 5 Genevieve Warwick, “Speaking Statues: Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne at the Villa Borghese,” Art History 27, no. 3 (June 2004): 356.

into the outer layers of a tree as a panicked response to her failed rejection of Apollo, as viewed immediately by the shocked god and by the audience from a distance. Pluto and Proserpina is equally skin-focussed as the god of the Underworld scoops up the panicked and defensive young woman. His divine strength makes his fingers press indents into the otherwise smooth skin of her thigh and the soft rolls of her midriff as he holds her midair [detail, fig. 6], her body twisting to face forward while crying for help, carved tears running down her cheek [detail, fig. 7]. She pushes the god’s face with her left arm, and his beard flows off to the side in response, his body leaning back as he grabs at his pursued while she struggles out of his grasp. His companion, the three-headed Cerberus, sits just below the composition and one of the heads opens its mouth seeming to bite Proserpina’s toes. Pluto’s muscles are flexed and strained, and the carved ripples of his marble body create small yet elongated shadows that darken his figure. His shadowed form stands in visual juxtaposition to the smooth white surface of the young goddess’ body, her pure flesh only visually interrupted where the god’s hands cling to her form [fig. 8]. The marble carvings of Pluto’s grasp cast shadows onto the body of Proserpina, slowly covering her form with darkness. The spectacle of kidnapping, physical and emotional resistance, and eventually rape, all play out simultaneously on Proserpina’s skin as this moment of motion stands frozen in time. These sculptures were marvels within the Villa Borghese and still are to this day, standing in the same place as they have historically been for centuries.6 The villa’s audience was some of Rome’s cultural elite, and the Cardinal’s collection was renowned for its fascinating pieces.7 Both of these sculptures are made of the highly illustrious material of Carrara marble, something preferred by Italian and Western European elite like Cardinal Borghese.8 While it was largely favoured for its minimal fracturing and tight grain by sculptors, viewers and collectors preferred it for its luminosity and clarity. This marble would have allowed the sculptor to render small facial details with ease. Its smoothened and nearly clear surface would have mesmerized its audience with its heightened luminosity, caused by the reflection of the granules of the stone’s interior layers.9 Bernini’s biographer Federico Baldinucci recounts the first time he saw the 6 Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 392. Although the statues were initially placed differently originally, they moved prior to 1650 according to Iacopo Manilli’s guidebook of the villa, and further, the statue had multiple entrances to approach it from. Daphne was facing the wall and thus viewers who would approach would slowly realize her form as they moved to the sides of the sculpture, according to Ann Thomas Wilkins, “Bernini and Ovid: Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis.” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 6, no. 3 (Winter 2000): 392. 7 Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 355. 8 Robert T. Petersson, “Scipione Borghese” in Bernini and the Excesses of Art (Florence: Maschietto & Ditore, 2002), 93. 9 Petersson, Bernini and Excesses, 93.

sculptures, referring to them as meraviglie (wonders) that “displayed in every part to the eyes of all.”10 The opulence of the materials certainly contributed to this wonderment, but it was Bernini’s sculpting technique and ability that ultimately drew audiences in. He first found inspiration for both sculptures from antique sources; for Apollo and Daphne, Bernini modeled the god’s body after that of the Apollo Belvedere [fig. 9], whereas, for Pluto and Proserpina, he took inspiration from Giambologna’s The Rape of the Sabine Woman [fig. 10].11 His understanding of Ovid’s texts informed how he sculpted and stylized the forms. His carving has been described as fluid, and lighting defined his sculptural technique. Bernini would forge intricate reliefs where projections caught highlights and hollow cast shadows, just as a painter would use varying tones to create light and dark on the canvas and like a poet such as Ovid would have used climactic moments and resolutions to create an engaging story.12 Maffeo Barberini was one of Bernini’s influential patrons that helped him access these classical texts.13 Barberini floated within the same Vatican circles as Borghese, who was then a favoured nephew of Pope Paul V and thus had access to the deep pontifical treasury.14 Ultimately, these sculptures in the Villa Borghese would have been quite the spectacle in terms of not only their glimmering material but also in their display of Borghese’s wealth, done by a visibly talented sculptor like Bernini no less. The textual inspiration will be explored further in the following part of this paper, but visually one thing is clear: Apollo is in contact with Daphne’s changing skin at that moment through touch and vision, as is Pluto with his hands indenting the skin of Proserpina. The haptic and visceral nature of these myths was thus clearly central to Bernini’s representation. Bernini’s chosen material and his capacity for depicting realistic and emotional scenes ultimately made the display of these sculptures a performance of his skill and patronage.15 His ability would have been complemented by the language of these myths and the overall artistic climate of the extended Cinquecento debate about paragone, the implications of which will be discussed later on.

10 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 309. 11 �� Genevieve Warwick, “Pastorals,” in Bernini: art as theatre (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 85; Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 398. 12 �� Bernini described his technique as giving the effects of colour, emphasizing its painterly essence. Warwick, Art as Theatre, 108; Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 391. 13 �� Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 393; Warwick, Art as Theatre, 90. 14 �� Ibid. 15 �� Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 373.

Ovid and the centrality of skin in the Metamorphoses

“At the center of Ovid’s Metamorphoses lie violated bodies,” writes Lynn Enterline, aptly summarizing the prevailing theme of the stories that form the ancient text.16 Ovid’s goal, as described in the opening lines of his text, is to “tell of forms changed into new bodies,” with each change being a separate story.17 The stories of Apollo and Daphne and Pluto and Proserpina present this violation in the most literal sense, respectively recounting the tales of an unwanted and unreciprocated pursuit and an episode of kidnapping and rape. Bernini’s interpretation of these stories focuses on the tactility and physical nature of these acts of sexual violence, using the women’s skin as performative stages. Their outermost selves are what makes these young women desirable, and it is ultimately the sight of their skin that drives these male gods furious with lust. Ovid thus describes these events through the description of changing skin at various moments. The bodies of the Metamorphoses that are implicated in these stories are fractured and re-assembled, and Enterline argues that they are ultimately where aesthetics and violence converge, where rhetoric and the erotic meet. Bernini ultimately depicted this narrative on the outermost surface of these bodies.18 Apollo and Daphne’s story unravels in Book 1 of the Metamorphoses when Apollo is hit by Cupid’s arrow and becomes fixated on the woodland nymph Daphne, pursuing her endlessly. Daphne, however, was not interested in him. She had declared her perpetual virginity as a follower of Artemis, and Cupid had struck her with his lead arrow of flight. The fixation begins with sight as Apollo marvels at her beauty, the god staring at her flowing hair, her gleaming eyes, her parted lips, but videt oscula, quae non est vidisse satis (he gazes her pretty mouth, but to gaze on does not satisfy, 1.497-500).19 As he approaches the fleeing nymph, he crinem sparsum cervicibus adflat (breathed on the hair that streamed over her neck, 1.542) which makes her cry out to her father Peneus for help by destroying the beauty that has driven her pursuer mad.20 This is when she transforms into a tree, her soft skin and delicate features morphing into bark, leaves, and branches. Apollo would not stop, though Daphne was no longer her human self; he felt (sentit) the heart beating beneath and embraced (complexusque) her branches and pressed his lips upon the wood (oscula dat ligno) even as it shrunk underneath his touch.21 From the beginning, Ovid poses both Daphne and love as being possessions of Apollo through linguistic 16 �� Lynn Enterline, “Pursuing Daphne,” in The rhetoric of the body from Ovid to Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 1. 17 �� Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 385; Enterline, “Pursuing Daphne,” 1. 18 �� Enterline, “Pursuing Daphne,” 1. 19 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 312. 20 �� Ibid. 21 �� Ibid.

structure: Primus amor Phoebi Daphne (first love of Apollo, Daphne, 1.452).22 Judith P. Hallett argues that Ovid’s use of the genitive case in Phoebi – the case that indicates possession most directly – bookended by the two other nouns, sets the tone for the rest of the myth.23 Further, through Ovid’s focus on Daphne’s physical description, the outer layer of the nymph’s body becomes the object of Apollo’s desire, and this desire lingers even after her physical transformation. The dejected Apollo remains curious, as her desirable surface seems to imply a hidden beauty: sique latent, meliora putat (if anything else lays hidden, he suspects that it is more beautiful, 1.502). As such, the myth reduces Daphne’s existence to her skin, as owned and acted upon by Apollo through his gaze and touch, and as the site where his desire and her rejection of it are both made manifest. Ovid’s tale of Pluto and Proserpina has admittedly fewer direct references to Proserpina’s skin as a site of transformation. I would still argue that her transformation, as depicted by Bernini, nonetheless manifests on her skin her emotional trauma and that of the other women affected, notably her mother Ceres and the nymph Cyane. The story begins in Book 5 of the Metamorphoses with Venus’ request for Cupid to shoot his arrow at the Olympian Pluto, so that he may find himself a queen for the Underworld. Once struck, he falls for Ceres’ daughter Proserpina as she goes about a grove picking white lilies and violets, collecting them in her bosom. A follower of Artemis like Daphne, she is a sworn virgin, and so the white lilies can certainly be interpreted as a sign of virginal purity.24 As she goes about, she is seen (visa est), beloved (dilectaque), and carried away (raptaque) by Pluto in one fell swoop (5.395). The pacing of these verbs coming one after the other as well as their passive voice emphasizes the speed at which Pluto kidnaps the young goddess and her role as an object in this interaction; Ovid makes this evident by saying “usque adeo est properatus amor” (such is the haste of sudden love, 5.396). In her onset panic, Proserpina cries out to her mother for help, while her robe falls open and all her collected flowers fall from her bosom (et ut summa vestem laniarat ab ora, collecti flores tunicis cecidere remissis, 5.398-399). The act itself is a symbolic and literal deflowering, described through a change of Proserpina’s exterior.25

vulnus, 5.426), dissolving into tears (gerit tacita lacrimisque, 5.427), and every part of her body can be seen melting back into her pool in grievance (molliri membra videres (…) primaque de tota tenuissima quaeque liquescent, 5.429, 5.431). Ovid’s use of physical terms like “softening,” “liquefying,” “melting,” and “turning into tears” as the primary description of Cyane’s wounding is very haptic. The optic and haptic are then compacted through the verb of sight, just like in Daphne’s story. Moreover, Ovid depicts Proserpina’s Ceres by once again likening emotional and physical trauma with physical transformation. When she learns of it, she rips her hair out and pounds on her chest in rage (inornatos laniavit diva capillos et repetita suis percussit pectora palmis, 5.472473). Further, when Ceres discovers that Proserpina is now queen of the Underworld, she switches from her emotionally-charged frenzy that resulted in the barren crops of Sicily to being stunned and petrified (stupuit ceu saxea, 5.509) and standing still for a long time in bewilderment (attonitaeque diu simils fuit,. 5.510). This tale is not charged with the emotions of Proserpina, but rather those of the women around her, which Ovid displays through their physical transformations. Crucially, their exteriors both go through a similar conceptual change while being transformed in opposite ways; Ceres is frozen solid, and her exterior solidifies into an object, whereas Cyane melts out of her substance and into her pool. Paul Barolsky argues that Ceres’ petrified reaction to the news on her daughter likens her situation to a living death, a suspended animation in the face of trauma.26 Likewise, Cyane melting back into her pool is a transformation from living being to a sentient object, a similar fate to Ceres in its suspended animation of the body, as well as Proserpina, who has been reduced to a helpless object of Pluto’s desires.

The nymph Cyane tries to stop Pluto on his way back to the Underworld through her divine pool with his stolen bride, but the god punches right through her with his scepter and chariot, wounding her in the process emotionally and physically. Cyane, as the extension of her pool, is described as being torn (inconsolabile

Just as Ovid narrates the visual changes of his tales, the act of seeing is how we know these women and their stories. The male gaze pervades these myths; Daphne is seen by Apollo, just as Proserpina is by Pluto. The act of gazing and describing ultimately halts the narrative action, and Patricia Salzman-Mitchell notes that Ovid typically employs this pause to offer visual commentary about the image of women.27 Calling on Laura Mulvey, the author continues in her argument about the narrative role of women in Ovid’s tales. As is historically the case, these women serve as spectacles to the men in their stories and to the presumed male audience who would have been reading these works, reflecting the prevailing theme in Western culture that equates females with space and bringing stasis and men with time and instigating metamorphosis.28 In this sense, the men are the bearers of looks, while the women are the objects

22 �� Judith P. Hallett, “Omina Movet Amor: Love and Resistance, Art and Movement, in Ovid’s Daphne and Apollo Episode,” in Kinesis: the ancient depiction of gesture, motion, and emotion: essays for Donald Lateiner, ed. Judith P. Hallett, et al. (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015), 208. 23 �� Hallett, “Omnia Movet Amor,” 209. 24 �� Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 397-398. 25 �� Ibid.

26 �� Paul Barolsky, “Ovid, Bernini, and the Art of Petrification,” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and Classics, Third Series 13, no. 2 (Fall 2005): 152 27 �� Patricia Salzman-Mitchell, “The Fixing Gaze: Movement, Image, and Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” in Gendered dynamics in Latin love poetry (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 159. 28 �� Ibid.

being looked at, just as Ovid describes Apollo and Pluto, and Daphne and Persephone, respectively.29 Further, Salzman-Mitchell cites E. Ann Kaplan’s argument that women can receive and return the gaze, but cannot act on it, which means that the male gaze and male actions catalyze the changes that Daphne and Proserpina’s bodies endure.30 Their bodies thus serve as conduits, becoming the objectified performance site of male-instigated actions. What cannot be ignored in the understanding of these texts is the contexts in which they existed, and female passivity extends beyond a narrative function in this context. Though Proserpina and Daphne show their strength by fighting against their aggressors, they nonetheless exist purely to be loved by men.31 As Ovid describes their bodies and by extension their beauty and desirability, he encourages his primarily male audience to be attracted to them as well. The author implies that Pluto and Apollo’s possession of these respective women would be an agreeable conclusion.32 As such, these female characters are nothing but objects to their male counterparts, utilized as objects by these authors and by their aggressors to move forward a greater narrative via their victimization, as Salzman-Mitchell argues.33 Ovid’s Ars Amatoria gives a glimpse into his views on gender roles, existing symbiotically with the Metamorphoses to create a dialogue on the behaviors of “proper” women like Daphne and Proserpina and “improper” women like the sex workers of Ancient Rome. In Ovid’s world, Katharina Volk explains how women ultimately approve of sexual violence and feign distress, putting on a show to attract their partner further and follow their ascribed gender roles where men are meant to be active and women passive.34 Gender and sexual dynamics are a performance in this context, and these myths and their allegorical framework function as performative pieces of literature.35

Female skin as a site of performance

Bernini’s depictions of these myths were informed by the contemporary interpretations of various Italian poets, though he surely would have had access to the original from Ovid. For Apollo and Daphne, Giambattista Marino’s “Dafni” from his La sampogna of 1620 emphasizes Apollo’s emotionally wrecked state upon seeing his beloved transformed, con sospiri e pianti (with sighs and tears), covering her with thousands and thousands of kisses.36 He ends his rendition of 29 �� Ibid., 160. 30 �� Ibid., 160. 31 �� Katharina Volk, “Women,” in Ovid (Chichester, West Sussex, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 86. 32 �� Ibid. 33 �� Salzman-Mitchell, “The Fixing Gaze,” 159. 34 �� Volk, “Women,” 92. 35 �� Ibid. 36 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 314.

the myth by emphasizing the sad emotion of this tale of failed love, which Andrea Bolland argues combines the sweetness of art with the bitterness of loss. The poem itself is the istoria dolorosa, and Daphne’s once unkempt hair is now woven into the lyre that accompanies Apollo and his poems.37 Additionally, Bernini would have had access to Petrarch’s version from his Rime Sparse of 13031374, which centers on Petrarch’s love of Laura whose name is etymologically related to Daphne’s laurel tree. In his version, he replaces Apollo’s sense of touch and vision with a singular taste.38 After his lover flees, he comes upon a laurel tree whose “bitter fruit that, being tasted, afflicts the wounds of others more than it comforts them.”39A similar quote is inscribed on the base of the Apollo and Daphne sculpture, reading: “The lover, who would fleeting beauty clasp / Finds bitter fruit, dry leaves are all he’ll grasp.”40 Apollo and Daphne is thus the site of convergence; Bernini combines the original Ovidian haptic context with the emotive tone of Marino’s Apollo and its overall story and with Petrarch’s moralizing allegory referred to in the inscription. Further, Bernini’s moralizing message indicates a Catholic leaning, which he most likely factored in for his religious patrons.41 Unlike Apollo and Daphne, the myth of Pluto and Proserpina was best known in the 17th century through the Metamorphoses. Proserpina, however, has been subject to many changing interpretations, sometimes symbolizing Christ’s death and resurrection with her yearly trips to the Underworld and back, as well as fertility, lost innocence, consummation, and many other contradictory projections.42 However, the sculpture’s inscription gives some clue about Bernini’s textual intentionality: “You, whoever you are, bending to the ground to gather flowers, / Remember me, dragged cruelly to Pluto’s realm.”43 This text gives voice to the victimized Proserpina, animating her static form.44 Further, it situates this sculpture within a certain time frame, one where the violent act of her rape and forced marriage has already occurred. Ann Thomas Wilkins suggests that Proserpina’s lack of flowers and the presence of Cerberus indicate that the Metamorphoses was not the primary influence on Bernini’s sculpting, but I disagree.45 The voice given to Proserpina via the statue’s inscription indicates that she is speaking from a time point where Pluto has already made her queen of the Underworld, further emphasized by her lack of flowers (she has been deflowered), and thus the immediacy of the transformation taking place is not the same as Daphne’s. Pluto’s hands melt into her thigh through his sheer force, 37 �� Ibid. 38 �� Ibid., 315, 39 �� Petrarch in Ibid, 315. 40 �� Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 359. 41 �� Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 359. 42 �� Ibid., 365. 43 �� Ibid. 44 �� Ibid. 45 �� Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 397-398.

which echoes the Cyane’s transformation. While Proserpina’s marble figure and frozen expression speak to her mother Ceres’ reaction upon learning her daughter’s fate. Bernini’s Proserpina is thus Ovidian in nature, as its location textually is in the past while it simultaneously visually mimics the verbs used by Ovid to qualify the exteriors of the women affected by Proserpina’s fate. Bernini would have been performing his artistic ability just as he did with Apollo and Daphne by sculpting as such, demonstrating his attention to the text through a skillful rendition of its main female character as a composite representation of all those who were affected by her departure. Central in both the Ovidian and Berninian contexts of these myths is the role of sight and touch.46 Tactility was the hallmark of sculpture, and ultimately what set it apart from painting in the Cinquecento tradition, as Alberti detailed in his De statua, which Bernini would have read in its vernacular Italian translation as of 1568.47 The eyes were seen as being easy to fool, whereas touch proved what they saw, though it was easily maligned with sexual intentions.48 By utilizing a sculpting technique that understood carving as an act of colouring (associated with painting primarily), Bernini further merged the genres of art to prove sculpture’s poetic superiority.49 This was part of a greater cultural debate about paragone, which began in the Renaissance, and which Bernini was participating in by blending the arts of painting, sculpture, and poetry into one visibly superior form that concealed various arts within his art, defying the claim that painting was a superior art form because of its poetic abilities.50 Bernini’s participation in this greater debate about artistic endeavours played out on the skin of his Ovidian women, utilizing their outermost surface to perform his standing as an intellectual artist by collapsing a variety of textual and artistic sources into one body through his attention to detail. The skin of these sculpted women is thus a performative space in many ways. As previously mentioned, they would have been displays of Bernini’s intellectual and sculptural abilities, as well as of the wealth and worldliness of the Cardinal Borghese.51 However, these same skins are conceptually performative in other ways.52 For both Daphne and Proserpina, the permeable nature of their skin and the materiality of the marble allows for distance between the real and the crafted or illusory, the viewer and the sculpture. It invites desire through vision but suspends tactile satisfaction through illusion.53 From the outermost point 46 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 316. 47 �� Ibid., 317. 48 �� Ibid., 309. 49 �� Ibid., 320. 50 �� Barolsky, “The Art of Petrification,” 161; Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 320; Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 373. 51 �� Warwick, Art as theatre, 91. 52 �� Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 373. 53 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Dilletto,” 317, 320.

inwards, this distance plays itself out in the very act of viewing the sculpture. The sculptures elicit cultural responses in their blending of narratives and inspirations. The sculpted skins perform the dialogue that their viewers would engage in about the arts as they would walk around them, with the focal point being the rich textures of Daphne’s morphing skin and that infamous indentation on Proserpina’s.54 The viewer is thus able to take visual delight in Daphne and Proserpina’s plight; their bodies are not real bodies, and their skin is not real skin, as realistic as they may look. Thus, the conversations about them revolve around the sculptures’ cultural weight instead.55 The viewers can be entertained as they passively witness sexual violence, marvelling at the shiny, intricately carved surfaces of their bodies, while not having to absorb the shock of the trauma being witnessed. Just as the acts being committed are suspended in the present for Daphne and in the past for Proserpina, so too are the associated emotions. Moreover, the emotions are contained within this paused moment just like their actions. Daphne’s nervous glance back and Proserpina’s tears complement and emphasize their respective body language, rendering both of their physical presences expressions of their emotions as well as the action.56 This suspension of movement and the paused moment that these women are in contributes to their exterior performativity. Building on Salzman-Mitchell’s arguments about Ovid’s employment of the gaze as a narrative pause, Bernini’s sculpted versions can thus be seen as manifestations of these pauses; the women are indefinitely stuck in their solid state at the moment of their transformation.57 This moment of physical change is a crucial theme in the Metamorphoses, which Ovid describes in physical ways, while Bernini depicts it as playing out in marble on their skin.58 Further, the liveliness of these sculpted women contributes to their skin being used as a performative space. In discussing the nature of art and image as active and possessing a life of its own, Angela Rosenthal argues that blushing was understood not only as an indicator of purity but of liveliness, using the myth of Pygmalion as her example.59 As the cheeks of the marble Galatea become warm and rosy with life force, the whiteness of her skin stands in stark contrast to it.60 Daphne and Proserpina are both frozen in the white marble Bernini sculpted them into, suspending their ability to come to life through their inability to blush, while nonetheless 54 �� Warwick, “Speaking Statues,” 373. 55 �� Warwick, Art as theatre, 109. 56 �� Ibid., 106; Barolsky, “The Art of Petrification,” 158. 57 �� Salzman-Mitchell, “The Fixing Gaze,” 161. 58 �� Wilkins, “Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” 408; Hallett, “Omina Movet Amor,” 210211. 59 �� Angela Rosenthal, “Visceral Culture: Blushing and the Legibility of Whiteness in EighteenthCentury British Portraiture,” Art History 27, no. 4 (Sept. 2004): 566. 60 �� Rosenthal’s argument is primarily focussed on 18th century British portraiture and the visibility of whiteness through the use of blush, highlighted by the colonial context of the time. For these purposes, I’ll only be examining how she frames her argument in reference to the meaning of marble sculpture and animation of images as a historical precedent to her argument.

maintaining their purity through their soft polished surface of white and their potential for life through verisimilitude. They exist in a liminal state somewhere between life and death, purity and violation.61 Further, Rosenthal argues that the sculpted female body of Galatea became an example of the aesthetic tension between petrification and animation, which primarily played out on the female body.62 When considered with Enterline’s argument about violated bodies being the locus of this same tension in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the tension that ultimately moves the narrative forward, the changing skin and bodies of Daphne and Proserpina, which are suspended between reality and myth, ultimately push their narratives forward. The stage for these performances is thus the skin of these women. It is what is gazed at by the audience and the accompanying sculpted males, it is what Bernini chiselled and polished to perform his artistic abilities both intellectually and sculpturally, it is what expresses the emotion and motions of their stories, and it is the transformation of which Ovid describes to narrate his tales visually.

Figures 1 (Left) Apollo and Daphne, 1622-1625. Marble. Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy. 3 (Below) Detail, Apollo and Daphne.

Baldinucci described Bernini as nuovo Apollo e nuovo Michelangelo (the new Apollo and the new Michelangelo); the blending of poetic and sculptural ability is part of the artist’s legacy.63 Another Ovidian connection even arises with the link between the sculptor and Pygmalion, which has been historically made.64 The myth of Pygmalion from the Metamorphoses seems like an almost prophetic match to Bernini’s working process with marble, bringing the cold white of the material to life through an infusion of desire via mythological context and shimmering surface, just like Pygmalion did with his beloved sculptureturned-lover Galatea. In their time, these sculptures were marvels of the Cardinal Borghese and his court, and they stirred up lively cultural discussion. However, the polished white skins of Bernini’s female characters should not be understood as mere haptic seductions and treats for the eye, but rather as performative spaces by themselves, wherein male actors objectified their female counterparts to project their narratives. This performance is layered, hosting the narratives of their artist, owner, author, and pursuer simultaneously.

2 (Right) Pluto and Proserpina, 1621.22. Marble. Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy. 4 (Above) Detail, Apollo and Daphne. 61 �� Rosenthal, “Visceral Culture,” 567; Barolsky, “The Art of Petrification,” 152-153. 62 �� Rosenthal, “Visceral Culture,” 567. 63 �� Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 320. 64 �� Barolsky, “The Art of Petrification,” 162. Bernini also referred to the statues he sketched as his girlfriends (inamorate) according to Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 318.

5 (Below) Detail, Apollo and Daphne. 7 (Right) Detail, Apollo and Daphne.

9 (Left) Apollo Belvedere, ca. 120-140 AD, copy of bronze from 350-325 BC. Marble. Vatican Museum, Vatican City. 10 (Above) Giambologna, Ratto delle Sabine (Rape of the Sabine Woman), 1574-1580. Marble. Loggia dei Lanzi, Florence.

6 (Above) Detail, Pluto and Proserpina. 8 (Left) Detail, Pluto and Proserpina.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCE

Ovid. Metamorphoses. Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis. Edited by R.J. Tarrant. Oxonii: E Typographeo Clarendoniano, 2004.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Barolsky, Paul. “Ovid, Bernini, and the Art of Petrification.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and Classics, Third Series 13, no. 2 (Fall 2005): 149-162. Bolland, Andrea. “Desiderio and Diletto: Vision, Touch, and the Poetics of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne.” The Art Bulletin, Vol. 82 no. 2 (June 2000): 309-330. Enterline, Lynn. “Pursuing Daphne.” In The rhetoric of the body from Ovid to Shakespeare, 1-38. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Hallett, Judith P. “Omina Movet Amor: Love and Resistance, Art and Movement, in Ovid’s Daphne and Apollo Episode.” In Kinesis: the ancient depiction of gesture, motion, and emotion: essays for Donald Lateiner. Edited by Judith P. Hallett, Edith Foster, Christina A. Clark, and Donald Lateiner, 207-218. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015. Jablonski, Nina G. “Introduction.” In Skin: A Natural History, 1-8. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006. Petersson, Robert T. “Scipione Borghese.” In Bernini and the Excesses of Art, 93-109. Florence: Maschietto & Ditore, 2002. Rosenthal, Angela. “Visceral Culture: Blushing and the Legibility of Whiteness in Eighteenth-Century British Portraiture.” Art History 27, no. 4 (Sept. 2004): 563-59. Salzman-Mitchell, Patricia. “The Fixing Gaze: Movement, Image, and Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” In Gendered dynamics in Latin love poetry, 159-176. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005. Thomas Wilkins, Ann. “Bernini and Ovid: Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis.” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 6, no. 3 (Winter 2000): 383-408. Volk, Katharina. “Women.” In Ovid, 81-94. Chichester, West Sussex, UK: Wiley Blackwell, 2010. Warwick, Genevieve. “Pastorals.” In Bernini: art as theatre, 79-129. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012. Warwick, Genevieve. “Speaking Statues: Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne at the Villa Borghese.” Art History 27, no. 3 (June 2004): 353-381.

From Poetry to Iconography The Lions of Archaic Greece Margaux Shraiman “Now as soon as Menelaos the warlike caught sight of him Making his way with long strides out in front of the army, He was glad, like a lion who comes on a mighty carcass, In his hunger chancing upon the body of a horned stag or wild goat; who eats it eagerly although against him are hastening the hounds in their speed and the stalwart young men” (Hom. Il. 3.21-26)1 Representations of European Lions were an important aspect of Archaic Greek symbolic iconography. Depictions of lions can be found in buildings, statues, coins, and artifacts across the Mediterranean, as well as the period’s burgeoning literary tradition. In both contexts, lions symbolized divine power and triumph, as well as military prowess and valor.2 Lions were also featured prominently in the form of mythical composite animals, whose anthropomorphic forms are a persistent trope throughout art and culture as a “fecund site for the imagining of the human model through the animal index.”3 It is important to note that the presence of European lions in ancient Greek cultic, visual, and literary traditions has long perplexed scholars due to the skepticism surrounding the existence of lions in Greece. Evidence has been mounting supporting their presence in the Aegean during the Bronze Age, with bones found at Mycenaean sites dating as the late as the fifth century.4 Nevertheless, their presence is not central to this discussion because whether Archaic artists such as the Chigi vase painter had seen a real lion or not, the lions represented were based on 1 Homer, The Iliad of Homer, trans. Richard P. Martin (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011), 3.21-26. 2 Josho Brouwers, “Lions in Ancient Greece,” Ancient World Magazine, December 20, 2014, https://www.ancientworldmagazine.com/articles/lions-ancient-greece/. 3 Ann-Marie Tully, “The Rhetorical Animal: Considering the Urban Animal Exhibition and the Anthropocentric Reception of Animal and Amalgamated Animal/Human Representations,” De Arte 45, no. 82 (2010): 47. 4 Jeffrey M. Hurwit, “Lizards, Lions, and the Uncanny in Early Greek Art,” Hesperia 75, no. 1 (2006): 132.

foreign (for example, Neo-Assyrian) models.5 Greek lion statuary was based on another artistic tradition, and for the purposes of this discussion, this artistic influence and exchange is more significant than the physical presence of lions in ancient Greece.6 Considering the abundance of references to lions and their deviant forms, it is crucial to look at both art historical monuments and the imagery associated with religion, ritual, myth, and legend. What follows will be a discussion of the debt owed by the Greek lion motif to the context established in Homeric literature. In the Archaic period—from approximately 800 to 500 BCE— we see the emergence and application of imagery rooted in contemporary epic poetry. 7 How do we account for this? What evidence may be offered for interest in epic poetry during the Archaic period? This discussion is relevant to the study of not only ancient Greek literary and visual culture, but all of Western cultural development, which has inherited an interest in Greek culture starting in Roman antiquity, through to the Renaissance, the enlightenment, and beyond. Lions played an important role in Archaic Greek literary tradition, most significantly in mythology and in epic literature. While mythology is full of actual lions—of which the Nemean lion and the lion of Cithaeron are the most famous—they are also prominently featured as attributes of gods and other creatures.8 Associated with a number of heroic and divine figures in Greek religion, the lion can be found among the “Persian” Artemis’ retinue, and, although the panther is more frequently employed, is one of the animals in service to, or whose form is taken by, Dionysus.9 The foremost heroic figure associated with lions is Heracles, whose most famous exploit, the slaying of the Nemean lion, is celebrated in literature and art alike. Heracles is a strange figure in Greek thought: curiously bestial, struggling with all the mass of his brute strength, and pursued by the implacable hatred of Hera even before his birth.10 The Nemean lion, famously slayed by Heracles during the first labour of his quest, had gold fur impervious to attacks and claws sharper than mortal swords which could cut through armour. Heracles was able to defeat the lion by strangling it and wore its skin as a sign of victory. Beyond the mythic, lions also appeared in song. Archaic Greece was a “song culture”; performance figured into every aspect of social life. Song and poetry appeared in many different contexts, including marriage, harvests, wars, and children’s games.11 This culture extended into the

realms of theater and epic poetry––the literary tradition records that “the Homeric poems were introduced as part of rhapsodic competitions instituted in sixthcentury Athens.”12 Homeric literature reveals an important clue to interpreting the religious symbolism of lion iconography in the Greek artistic context when the “image of an attacking lion who invades a herd of cows or a sheepfold is repeatedly employed as an extended simile for the aggressive onslaught of heroes, both Achaean and Trojan, in battle.”13 In nearly every instance, this leonine aggression is both motivated and orchestrated by a god, although the perpetrator of divine intervention (Zeus, Athena, Apollo, Ares) varies according to the side of the conflict and the hero involved. Invariably, the warrior described as a “leonine aggressor” is successful is vanquishing his opponent.14 Granted, there are instances in which the image of a lion can be used to describe the heroic triumph or defeat of a particular hero. For example, the image of a leonine aggressor and its hapless prey is used in both the description of Agamemnon’s triumphant advance on the Trojans (Hom. Il. 11.113-129) and the Achaeans’ flight from the Trojan prince Hector (15.630).15 The image of leonine aggression is the most common simile in the Iliad––it is used on more than twenty-five occasions to describe the onslaught of Homeric warriors.16 The lions’ victims are varied, including cattle, sheep, goats, boars, and deer; however, the bull was held in the highest regard among similes due to its strength and valiance. In Homeric similes featuring lion attack imagery, the feline attacker is usually described as gulping down the blood and flesh of his victim or drenched in the blood of his prey, employing similar blood imagery as is used to describe the god Ares as the bringer of death in battle.17 The direct involvement of the gods as instigators of heroic leonine aggression is of primary importance in understanding the significance and the iconographic importance of the lion motif: in nearly every scenario, the success of the hero can be directly ascribed to the machinations of his patron god.18 In a passage of the Iliad, it is clearly stated that the act of the lion attack itself was divinely inspired: it is the gods that direct the beast to its prey (11.480).19 The message conveyed by the lion attack in Greek epic literature is thus “one of divinely conceived heroic triumph.”20 As in mythic and Homeric traditions, lion imagery is a common feature of Archaic visual culture. One of the most renowned examples of lion iconography in Ancient Greece is the Lion Gate (fig. 1) at Mycenae. The impressive Bronze

5 Ibid., 133. 6 East Asian art history has an analogous case: the motif of lions has a large presence and significance in China and Japan in particular, despite the lack of indigenous lion species in those geographic regions. The exchange of artistic traditions and iconographies with other cultures is responsible for the presence of lions in art from a very early point in time. 7 Thomas R. Martin, Ancient Greece: from Prehistoric to Hellenistic Times (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 65-90. 8 Eleanor Ferguson Rambo, “Lions in Greek Art,” (PhD Diss., Bryn Mawr College, 1920), vi. 9 Ibid., 6. 10 �� Ibid., 1. 11 � H. A. Shapiro, Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 147.

12 � Edith Hall, Introducing the Ancient Greeks: From Bronze Age Seafarers to Navigators of the Western Mind (New York City: W.W. Norton & Company, 2014), 692; Glenn E. Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art: Heroic Triumph,” Classical Antiquity 8, no. 1 (1989): 102. 13 �� Ibid., 88. 14 �� Ibid., 88. 15 �� Homer, Iliad, 11.113-129, 15.630. 16 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 89. 17 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 111. 18 �� Irene De Jong, “Homer and Greek Epic,” Greece: Cradle of Civilization? (class lecture, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, February 19, 2018). 19 �� Homer, Iliad, 11.480. 20 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 89.

Age citadel of Mycenae is perched on the slopes of a hill, framed by snowtipped mountains, overlooking the valley of Argos all the way to the Aegean sea. Legend has it that the Cyclops—a mythical giant from Homer’s Odyssey— built the walls of the citadel, as the stones are much too large to have been carried by mortal men.21 Mycenae is also the site of six important Bronze Age tombs of Greek warriors believed to have fought in the legendary battle of Troy immortalized in Homer’s epic, the Iliad. As you approach the city gates, you are enclosed on three sides by the imposing cyclopean masonry, and above the entrance is a triangular sculpture of two lionesses in relief—the earliest example of monumental sculpture found in mainland Greece. The two animals are facing each other, with their front paws placed on two altars, separated by a Minoan style column. The heads of the two lionesses have been lost, but it is thought that they were made of a different material and attached to the rest of the work due to the presence of dowel holes. The Lion Gate at the city of Mycenae dates to approximately the same time as the Protomes from Ḫattuša (around the 13th century BCE). As with the Hittite capital, the lions at Mycenae are thought to be closely tied to the Mycenaean royal family. Art historian Trevor Bryce goes further, asserting that they might be considered “the royal coat-of-arms of the House of Agamemnon, the first coat-of-arms in the Western world.”22 Bryce argues that the association between lions and royalty is an ancient one that dates as far back as the Mycenaean Greeks of the Late Bronze Age (c. 1550 to 1200 BCE). The Lion Gate of Mycenae clearly illustrates that the lion played a significant symbolic role in Greek art and architecture starting in the Bronze Age, laying the foundation for an iconographic tradition which influenced the art of the Archaic era.

and obvious victor in nearly every instance. A great deal of scholastic attention has centered on the symbolic significance of the motif of the lion attack, and one view that has gained widespread acceptance in recent years supports a protective function for the motif as a whole. According to this theory, “the animal attack composition would have served as an apotropaic emblem in much the same way as that supposed for a Gorgoneion” (an amulet depicting the Gorgon head predominantly worn by Zeus and Athena).26 Scholarly opinions on the chronology and location of the lion pediments on the Acropolis differ widely. Today, the pediment is fractured into several pieces, but one can still see the symbolic programme when considered as a whole: two lions tearing apart a bull in the centre, flanked by on the left by Heracles fighting Triton, and a TripleBodied Daemon holding the elemental symbols of nature––a wave, a flame and a bird. The attacking lions are a clear parallel to the warring heroes––noble, valiant, and fearsome. Although the meaning of the pediment is ambiguous and controversial, it reflects the Homeric convention of creating a vivid comparison between warrior heroes and lions.

Greek architects and sculptors were influenced by the traditional use of lions as guardian figures at the gateways and entrances of palaces and temples in the Near East.23 The prominence accorded to the recurrent and widespread motif of the lion attack in Archaic Greek art in architectural sculpture from Athens alone demonstrates its importance: “the remains of no fewer than six pedimental compositions have been preserved, four of them from the Acropolis.”24 The theme is one prominently featured in architectural sculpture at Delphi and, to a lesser degree, at other sites in mainland and Eastern Greece.25 The compositions consist of one or two attacking lions overpowering their prey, most often a bull or calf, and less frequently a deer, goat, or boar. Compositional details vary considerably from one example to the next. The common denominator, however, is the focus on the lion itself—clearly articulated as the aggressor

One of the most interesting uses of the lion in post-Mycenaean Greek art is the Chigi Vase.29 A polychromatic work, the vase’s decorative programme includes four friezes of genre and mythological scenes and four ornamental bands. The decoration on the Chigi Vase forms a consistent whole: both the bottom and the middle friezes depict hunting scenes—wherein men fight a lion above young boys hunting hares—which are paralleled by the scene of human warfare in the top frieze. The inclusion of scenes from the Iliad, specifically of the Judgement of Paris, leaves no doubt as to the artist’s familiarity with epic poetry, and the Homeric connotations of the hunting scene.

21 � Hall, Introducing the Ancient Greeks, 869. 22 �� Trevor Bryce, Life and Society in the Hittite World (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 239. 23 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 87. 24 � Ibid., 86. 25 �� Ibid., 86.

In addition to their prominence in sculpture, lions were also often used as an iconographic motif in the painting tradition of Archaic Greece. Painted lions are among the oldest Greek representations of animals, their depictions feature a great variety of specimens and a wide diversity of poses.27 Archaic paintings of lions are identifiable by several distinctive characteristics such as a spiral shaped tail, a reverted head shown in profile with open jaws reminiscent of the Mycenaean compositions, a proportionally small mane relative to the body, and a lifted front paw that can be traced to Hittite depictions of lions.28

Another example of the use of lions as a motif in Archaic Greek painting can be seen on the Black-figured calyx krater by the painter Exekias (c. 525 BCE) which was discovered on the north slope of the Acropolis (fig. 2). The motif of a bull overpowered by two lions is shown twice on the vase’s lower frieze, subsidiary 26 �� Ibid., 87. 27 �� Rambo, “Lions in Greek Art,” 11. 28 �� Ibid. 29 � Brouwers, “Lions in Ancient Greece.”

to two scenes of heroic endeavors: the struggle between the Greeks and the Trojans led by Hektor over the body of Patroclus, and the induction of Heracles into Olympus. The two lion attacks, nearly identically composed, convey a sense of monumentality. In their scale, detail, and composition, these two scenes strikingly––and probably intentionally––resemble the lion-and-lioness pedimental group on the Acropolis. This krater’s juxtaposition of lion attacks with scenes from Homeric epics and mythological subjects further substantiates the similarities between the iconographic programmes featuring lions in Greek literary and visual culture. Exekias thus creates a visual equivalence to the poetic similes of Homeric warriors as fierce lions.

Figures

The perseverance of the lion attack image as both a literary and visual device— starting in the Bronze Age, moving through Greek antiquity and beyond— illustrates how deeply rooted this image was in the vocabulary of Greek iconography.30 As a symbol of divinely inspired heroic triumph, representations of lions or lion attacks would have carried the primary meaning of godly authority and divine power for a Greek observer. On a mundane level, the motif was also a venerable symbol of kingly power long associated with Eastern monarchies.31 The adoption of lions in architectural sculpture and vase painting as symbols of divine triumph is deeply rooted in epic literature. Analysis of the imagery in Homeric and later Greek literature as well as that in Greek funerary epigrams suggests that the lion was a symbol of military prowess and valor in battle.32 Although the impact of Homeric imagery on early Greek art is a highly debated subject, due to small percentage of “identifiable mythological narrative in Late Geometric and early Orientalizing art…classified as specifically Homeric,” a case can be made for Homeric influence on the lion motif.33 The extended simile describing the attack of a lion on a weaker prey is a characteristically Homeric convention, and the basic concept of the lion attack as a heroic image was almost certainly rooted in an earlier vernacular tradition.34 The coinciding dates of the creation of such pictorial imagery in Greek art and the composition of the Homeric poems is not accidental––ostensibly, the visual depictions of lions were directly inspired by the poetic language of the Homeric epics.

30 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 89. 31 �� Ibid., 109. 32 �� Rambo, “Lions in Greek Art,” v. 33 �� Markoe, “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art,” 92. 34 �� Ibid.

1 (Above) Lion Gate. c. 13th century BCE. Limestone. Mycenae, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. 2 (Left) Exekias. Attic Black-figured Calyx Krater. c. 530 BCE. Clay. Agora Museum, Athens, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Homer and Richard P. Martin. The Iliad of Homer. Translated by Richmond Lattimore. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Brouwers, Josho. “Lions in Ancient Greece.” Ancient World Magazine. December 20, 2014. www.ancientworldmagazine.com/articles/lions-ancient-greece/. Bryce, Trevor. Life and Society in the Hittite World. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Dana, John Cotton. Stories of the Statues. Newark, N.J: Newark Museum Association, 1913. De Jong, Irene. “Homer and Greek Epic.” Greece: Cradle of Civilization?. Class Lecture at the University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, February 19, 2018. Giuliani, Luca, and Joseph O’Donnell. Image and Myth a History of Pictorial Narration in Greek Art. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013. Hall, Edith. Introducing the Ancient Greeks. From Bronze Age Seafarers to Navigators of the Western Mind. New York City: W.W. Norton & Company, 2014. Hurwit, Jeffrey M. “Lizards, Lions, and the Uncanny in Early Greek Art.” Hesperia 75, no. 1 (2006): 121–136. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25067977. Lethaby, W. R. “Greek Lion Monuments.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 38 (1918): 37–44. https://www.jstor.org/stable/625674. Lonsdale, Steven. Creatures of Speech: Lion, Herding, and Hunting Similes in the Iliad. Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1990. Markoe, Glenn E. “The “Lion Attack” in Archaic Greek Art: Heroic Triumph.” Classical Antiquity 8, no. 1 (1989): 86–115. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25010897. Martin, Thomas R. Ancient Greece: from Prehistoric to Hellenistic Times. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013. Palagia, Olga. Greek Sculpture: Function, Materials, and Techniques in the Archaic and Classical Periods. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Rambo, Eleanor Ferguson. “Lions in Greek Art.” PhD Diss., Bryn Mawr College, 1920. Shapiro, H. A. Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Strubakos, Christos. “Iliadic Lion Similes: Rethinking Heroic Greatness.” PhD Diss., Center for Hellenic Studies, Harvard University, 2011. Tully, Ann-Marie. “The Rhetorical Animal: Considering the Urban Animal Exhibition and the Anthropocentric Reception of Animal and Amalgamated Animal/Human Representations.” De Arte 45, no. 82 (2010): 47–58. https://doi.org/10.1080/00043389.2010.11877129.

Elision in the Georgics Georgia Jones John Dryden’s description of the Georgics as the “most Compleat, Elaborate, and finisht Piece of all Antiquity” and the poem’s gravity as a whole are both caused and corroborated more by Virgil’s syntactic choices throughout the poem than by his lexical choices, exemplified by his use of elision throughout the work.1 While it is easy, when one is simply reading classical poetry, for the meter and elision to go unnoticed in the translation process, it is imperative to remember that these poems were written to be performed. To the ears of the intended audience of the Georgics, meter and elision were entirely unavoidable. Ronald G. Kent’s “Likes and Dislikes in Elision, and the Vergilian Appendix” places all elisions into one of five categories.2 Ordered from most to least common in the Georgics, these categories are the elision of the “e” in “-que,” the elison of a short vowel, the elision of a vowel followed by a final “m”, the elision of a long vowel or diphthong, and finally the “enclisis” of “est” or “es.” Where Virgil’s most common type of elision is that with “-que,” Lucretius’ is by far that with a short vowel, Horace favours elision of a vowel followed by a final “m,” and Ovid’s Elegiacs features more elisions of “est” or “es” than any other type. This variability amongst the four authors proves that elision is used very carefully and deliberately in order to add another level of depth and beauty to a text. These types of elisions and their additions to the poem will be expanded upon in this paper. I will then analyze both elisions that take place over the end of a line, and the lack of an elision where one would be expected. Following the categories set out by Kent, the most common type of elision in the Georgics is that of the “e” in the enclitic “-que.” This type makes up 26 percent of the elisions in the poem, occurring a total of 282 times. Virgil introduces us to this category in the second line of Book One. In this line, “Vḗrtĕrĕ, Mǣ́cēnā́s, ūlmī́sque‿ādiū́ngĕrĕ uī́tis,” in which he is writing about wedding vines to elms, the words for “wed” and “elm” are themselves being wed to one another. This is the first instance of elision in the text and it shows the audience from the very 1 John Dryden, The Works of Virgil: Containing His Pastorals, Georgics, and Aeneid (Printed by Jacob Tonson, 1716), 91-2. 2 Ronald Kent,“Likes and Dislikes in Elision, and the Vergilian Appendix,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, vol. 54 (1923): 86–97.

first sentence what deliberation and artistry to expect as the poem unfolds. Not all instances of this elision are as literal as the one just mentioned. In Book Two, line 56, Virgil writes “Crḗscēntī́que‿ădĭmū́nt fētū́s ūrū́ntquĕ fĕrḗntem.” The elision here, joining the word meaning “growing” or “springing into life” with that meaning “to deprive” highlights not only the juxtaposition between the ideas expressed by these two words, but also, in doing so, the feeling of injustice evoked in this sentence, that the small budding stock-root should be barred from continuing its life by the branches of its mother-tree. Following this, the second most common type of elision is that of a short vowel, occurring 276 times to make up 25 percent of all elisions in the poem. An example of such an elision is found in “Ḗt nītrṓ prĭŭs ḗt nīgrā́ pērfū́ndĕre‿ămū́rca” (1.194). This line, describing seeds being drenched in nitre and black oil-dregs, is incredibly effective syntactically. Not only is the verb “drench” nestled in the middle of the adjective-noun pairing of “black” and “oil-dregs,” but it is also elided with the latter term. These two aspects of the sentences emulate the immersion and subsequent marriage of the constituents described in the sentence. A short vowel is also elided in the line, “Pṓtnĭădḗs mālī́s mēmbra‿ā́bsūmpsḗrĕ quădrī́gæ,” (3.268), which very emotional and frenzied, speaking about the “furor equarum.” In this description of four Pontian horses tearing Glaucus’ limbs with their jaws, having been spurred on by Venus, the word meaning “limb” is elided with that meaning “tear,” juxtaposing in a dark and sinister manner the literal workings of the text, with two words coming together, and what the text is describing, which is quite the opposite. The subsequent category of elision, also making up 25 percent of elisions, occurring 274 times, is that of a vowel followed by a final “m”. There are two instances of this type of elision found in “Sī́n āutem‿ā́d pūgnam‿ḗxĭĕrī́ntnām sǣ́pĕ dŭṓbus,” (4.67). The first joins the conjunction of “however” to the preposition “ad” case meaning “to” or “for.” The second joins the noun “battle,” which is under the command of “ad”, to the verb “go forth.” The first instance is interesting as the elision of “-em” makes this word indistinguishable to the listener from “aut”: the exclusive “or.” One can safely assume that, as the written text does have “autem” that Virgil intended for the meaning to be “if, however,” inviting his audience to contrast this with the preceding paragraph. However his choice to elide the word such that someone only hearing the poem, which was the way in which this poem was intended to be experienced, could confuse the word with “aut,” which misses the notion of contrast and instead introduces a notion of mutual exclusivity. I believe that this choice was made in order to highlight the contradictory feelings evoked by this paragraph, which are feelings of turmoil, frenzy, and eventually victory with the feelings of peace and comfort which are evoked by the preceding paragraph. The latter elision highlights not only that they are going in the direction of battle but also the purpose of the

battle. The going forth and the battle have become one word and one idea. The notion of the direction and purpose of the journey is emphasized by being made inseparable from that of the motion itself. The penultimate category is that of long vowels, which makes up 21 percent of the elisions with 232 occurrences. Two such elisions are found in line 172 of Book One, “Bī́nae‿āurḗs, dŭplĭci‿ā́ptāntū́r dēntā́lĭă dṓrso,” which clearly emulates the fitting of various components to the temp of the plough. Two of things being fitted are the “binae aures,” which, in this line, have been fitted to themselves, and the “duplici dentalia dorso,” which is elided with the word meaning “to fit.” Virgil’s motivations for causing various constituents to become one with others are clear in this context of this line, which is speaking about exactly that. The same type of elision is also found in line 201 of Book One, “Nṓn ălĭtḗr quām qui‿ā́duērsṓ uīx flū́mĭnĕ lḗmbum.” This line, which speaks to the fate of human beings to toil ceaselessly, opens the simile of a man in a rowing boat scarcely able to move upstream, who, should he slacken his arm for one moment, will be swept away. The elision here joins the relative pronoun, the subject of the sentence, to the word for “opposite” or “turned towards,” which is modifying the river. This elision gives the sense that the unnamed subject of this sentence is already becoming one with the river, and the raging of it has taken control, as the word modifying river literally takes over the word “qui” and joins it with itself. The elision pushes the emotion of this moment further as each audience member relates this sentence to their own life and endless toil. Finally, the most rarely used elision in the Georgics is that of “est” or “es.” It is found only 27 times throughout all four books, making up two percent of all elisions in the poem. The penultimate category has 232 occurrences, where this final category has only 27. This type of elision is found most often in instances with participles or adjectives ending in -um or such as in Book One line 25: “Cṓncĭlĭa‿ī́ncērtū́m‿est, ūrbī́sne‿īnuī́sĕrĕ, Cǣ́sar.” It also is found in the line “Scī́s, Prōtḗu, scīs ī́psĕ; nĕque‿ḗst tē fā́llĕrĕ quī́cquam,” (4.446). These instances are very clear grammatically, in that the links between the two words are very strong, however, they do not appear to have a strong bearing on the poetic aspect of the text. There are many instances of each type of elision throughout the Georgics, all of which have a distinct purpose and importance to the text. For many, such as the members of the final category, the purpose is a technical one, and the elision serves to connect two words which are linked grammatically, such as an adjective and the noun which it modifies, or a verb and its subject. Many others, however, serve a poetic purpose to the text, by strengthening an idea of union set forth in the line, or by juxtaposing two different ideas, putting them in the closest possible proximity to one another. Each of these various functions

of elision add to the gravity of the poem by subtly yet effectively deepening the experience of its audience. Following this overview of the standard forms of elision, we will now examine some exceptional forms. In addition to the instances of elision found within a line, the Georgics also contains rare occasions of the final word of a line being elided with the first word of the following line, in cases of synaphea. This occurs five times throughout the poem. In this section I will first address these instances, all of which elide either “que” or “et”. Finally there are two controversial lines, which Benjamin Anthorp Gould the Elder, among others, would have us believe also belong in this category of synapheic elision, however, I intend to demonstrate why such a classification is unfounded and incorrect.3 The most frequent type of elision between lines follows a pattern of “...que ...que‿”. The first such instance is found in Book Two at lines 344-345: “Sī́ nōn tā́ntă quĭḗs īrḗt frīgū́squĕ călṓrēmque‿Ī́ntĕr, ĕt ḗxcĭpĕrḗt cǣli‿ī́ndūlgḗntĭă tḗrras.” The elision here guides the audience to understand from “frigus” to “inter” as one phrase and make it clear that the two nouns are governed by “inter”. A similar elision is found in the Aeneid :“Cṓntrā iū́ssă mŏnḗnt Hĕlĕnī́, Scȳllā́mquĕ Chărȳ́bdīnque‿Ī́ntĕr ŭtrā́mquĕ uĭā́m lētī́ dīscrī́mĭnĕ pā́ruo” (3.684685). In this case it seems that the same interpretation holds, that Virgil is inviting the audience to understand “Scyllamque Charybdinque inter” as one concept. This form of elision is found next in “Nā́uĭgĭī́s pīnṓs, dŏmĭbū́s cēdrū́mquĕ cŭprḗssōsque.‿Hī́nc rădĭṓs trīuḗrĕ rŏtī́s, hīnc tȳ́mpănă plā́ustris” (2.443444) in which the elision occurs not only over two lines, but also over a period. The elision here serves to strengthen the function of the “hinc” in connecting the two sentences and to underline that, although they are separated into two grammatically separate structures, the subject matter is essentially unchanged, and the latter sentence is semantically a continuation of the former. The third elision following this formula is found in Book Three on lines 242-243: “Ṓmne‿ădĕṓ gĕnŭs ī́n tērrī́s hŏmĭnū́mquĕ fĕrā́rūmque‿Ḗt gĕnŭs ǣ́quŏrĕū́m, pĕcŭdḗs pīctǣ́quĕ uŏlū́cres.” This line expresses an incredibly strong message of the unity of all God’s creatures when it comes to “Amor,” and Virgil deftly avoids any sensation that the separation of the mammals into the first line and the creatures of the sea into the second represent any difference between the two groups. He does so by use of the elision between the two lines and thus reinforces the sense of unity and togetherness. The final elision of this type differs slightly from those previously mentioned, in that the two words which are suffixed with “que” are separated by one word: “Ṓtĭa‿ăgū́nt tērrā́, cōngḗstăquĕ rṓbŏră tṓtāsque‿Aduōluḗrĕ fŏcī́s ūlmṓs 3 Gould, Benjamin Anthorp. “Metrical Key.” In P. V. M. Bucolica, Georgica, et Æneis. Accedunt clavis metrica, notulæ Anglicæ, et quæstiones. Boston, 1840, 311,313.

īgnī́quĕ dĕdḗre,” (3.377-378). These lines parallel 2.344-345 and, to an extent, 2.443-444, in that the first word of the latter line governs the two words which are suffixed by “-que.” This line is different from 2.344-345 and 2.443-444 in that the two words suffixed by “-que” are not the nouns governed by the first word of the following line, but instead the adjectives which modify those two nouns. In this case, the nouns, with their corresponding adjectives, function as the direct objects of “aduōluēre.” Despite this difference, these two lines emulate the others in the text, which follow the same pattern of elision. It is also possible that this elision is one of a descriptive nature, in that, as the logs are being rolled into the hearth, listeners concurrently hear the line being rolled into the next. The final instance of synapheic elision is “Aut dūlcī́s mūstī́ Vūlcā́nō dḗcŏquĭt ū́mōrem‿Ḗt fŏlĭī́s ūndā́m trĕpĭdī́ dēspū́măt ăhḗni,” (1.295-296), in which the latter line begins with “et,” which bears the same semantic properties as the enclitic “que” found in all other occurrences. More so than lines 2.443-444 just mentioned, this elision is likely intended to be descriptive. The lines describe a bubbling, boiling cauldron and the elision causes the line itself to brim over the edge of its holding place, further strengthening the description.4 The use of “trepidi” meaning boiling or foaming successfully furthers this image and pulls the properties of “decoquit,” the verb to boil, from the first line into the second. A similarly descriptive synapheic elision is found in Book 6 of the Aeneid: “Quṓs sŭpĕr ā́tră sĭlḗx iām iā́m lāpsū́ră cădḗntique‿Ī́mmĭnĕt ā́dsĭmĭlī́s; lūcḗnt gĕnĭā́lĭbŭs ā́ltis,” (602-603). Austin describes this elision as “clearly pictorial” due to the fact that “cadenti adsimilis” describes the rocks mentioned in the first line as resembling falling, or appearing to fall.5 As with the standard forms of elision which are found within lines, the elisions between lines serve a variety of functions. Some simply connect two grammatically linked terms, some reinforce a sense of unity, and some perform the “clearly pictorial” role referred to by Austin. Although specifying the importance of each case individually may seem frivolous, the rarity with which Virgil employs synaphea suggests that these lines ought to be noticed (and in the poem’s intended medium, performance, the peculiarity of these lines certainly would be noticed). It seems remiss, therefore, to overlook any one of these occurrences in reading the poem. I will now address the two additional pairs of lines which Gould, among others, believes to belong to the same category, but which I believe instead to be hypermetric lines which break the standard rules of dactylic hexameter and end in a dactyl.6 4 Samuel Edward Winbolt, Latin Hexameter Verse: an Aid to Composition (Cambridge University Press, 2011), 150. 5 Publio Virgilio Marón and Roland Gregory Austin, P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos, Liber Sextus (Clarendon Press, 1986), 192. 6 Benjamin Anthorp Gould, “Metrical Key,” In P. V. M. Bucolica, Georgica, et Æneis. Accedunt clavis metrica, notulæ Anglicæ, et quæstiones (Boston, 1840), 311,313.

The first is the lines “Ī́nsĕrĭtū́r uēro‿ḗt fētū́ nŭcĭs ā́rbŭtŭs hṓrrĭda,‿Ḗt stĕrĭlḗs plătănī́ mālṓs gēssḗrĕ uălḗntis,” (2.69-70). The elision suggested could emulate the first elision in the poem, line 1.2, which is that of vines being wed to elms. In the first of these two lines, Virgil is once more speaking about grafting plants and therefore may choose to graft this line on the next. The latter line, while it does not specifically use vocabulary related to grafting, and instead uses the verb “gessere,” it is clearly a continuation of the previous line and refers to some prior grafting having taken place.

tĭbĭ pā́mpĭnĕṓ grăuĭdū́s āutū́mno” (2.4), “Sā́xă pĕr ḗt scŏpŭlṓs ēt dḗprēssā́s cōnuā́llis” (3.276), and “Cḗcrŏpĭū́mquĕ thy̆mum‿ḗt grăue‿ŏlḗntĭă cḗntāurḗa” (4.463). The combination of these four lines of spondaic fifth feet and the indisputable dactyl final line of the Aeneid make a strong case that these two supposed synapheic pairs of lines of the Georgics are instead unelided and hypermetric. Although Virgil’s election to break the conventions of dactylic hexameter in these lines are beyond the scope of this paper, it gestures to another example of moving an audience through syntactic choices.

The second is “Ḗt spūmā́s mīscḗnt ārgḗntī uī́uăquĕ sū́lpŭra‿Ī́dǣā́squĕ pĭcḗs ēt pī́nguīs ū́nguĭnĕ cḗras,” (3.449-350). Once again the elision could be a replication of the idea of joining, which is expressed in the lines. In this case, it is not grafting but instead mixing of ingredients. The notion of mixing first expressed in the first line by “miscent” would be emulated if Virgil were indeed mixing not only the two lines, but the words which represent two ingredients being combined in “sulprura” and “Idæasque pices.”

The final type of elision that I will address is the lack of elision where it is expected, also known as hiatus or diaeresis, from the Ancient Greek διαίρεσις, meaning division. Virgil uses hiatus very sparingly throughout the Georgics, with only 16 occurrences, all of which fit into one of two categories. The first category is a metrical one, containing both hiatus with a syllable in arsis and also those which retain a strong principal caesura in the line. I have combined these two slightly different subcategories both because of the immense overlap between them and because the reasoning behind each is the same, namely the creation or retention of metrical emphasis. The second category is related not to meter but instead to content, and contains instances in which Virgil uses hiatus to emphasise the Hellenistic content of the line by hearkening to Greek poetry, in which the use of hiatus is far more common and accepted. Of the fourteen total lines which include one or more hiatus, many fit into both of these categories.

However, the first five elisions were all cases in which the final three syllables of the line made up a spondee and then were left with one hypermetric syllable which had no other choice but to elide into the following line. Yet, lines 2.69 and 3.449 do not fit the same pattern. Instead, their final three syllables make up a perfect dactyl, and therefore do not require that the final syllable to be elided. It is understandable that editors and commentators find such a metrical pattern bizarre and do their best to explain it away by eliding it or by rearranging the word order so as to avoid it. Pomonio Leto did so with line 2.69, reading it instead as “Inseritur vero nucis arbutus horrida fetu” (Mynors), and many manuscripts have 3.449 as “et spumas miscent argenti et sulfura viva”. These reconfigurations “correct” their respective lines by causing them to end instead with a spondee. I find these methods of dismissing the dactylic final feet of these lines to be unfounded based on two pieces of evidence. The first is found not in the Georgics, but in the Aeneid book 6, line 33, “Bī́s pătrĭǣ́ cĕcĭdḗrĕ mănū́s. quīn prṓtĭnŭs ṓmnia,” which too ends in a dactyl. In this case, the following line begins with a consonant, meaning that the method of eliding the troublesome hypermetric syllable is not an option. This means that, without rearranging the order of the line, there is no explanation other than that of the line ending with a dactyl. One may be tempted to treat “ia” as a diphthong, however, the countless instances in Virgil of “omnia” as a dactyl are a strong refutation to such a treatment. The other evidence for these lines not being elided is found in the form of four lines throughout the Georgics, one in each book, which have a spondee as their fifth foot, an equal departure from the standards of dactylic hexameter. These lines are: “Antĕ tĭbi‿Ḗōǣ́⁔Atlā́ntĭdĕs ā́bscōndā́ntur” (1.221), “Mū́nĕrĭbū́s,

I will first address the metrical category, of which the first member occurs in only the fourth line of the poem and is perhaps the only instance of hiatus which includes no reference at all to Greek culture nor a lexical borrowing. The line “Sī́t pĕcŏrī́,⁔ăpĭbū́s quānta‿ḗxpĕrĭḗntĭă pā́rcis” (1.4) is an instance of hiatus where the syllable is in arsis, which T. L. Papillon and A. E. Haigh describe as “metrically emphatic.”7 In addition to this, it occurs at a caesura which coincides with a comma, therefore it is natural that Virgil would want to retain this natural sense break. Another very similar instance comes in Book Three at line 155: “Arcēbī́s grăuĭdṓ pĕcŏrī́,⁔ārmḗntăquĕ pā́sces.” Once again the syllable is in arsis, the hiatus coincides with a comma and a caesura and the final, most obvious similarity lies in the word “pecori.” Virgil’s motivations are more clear in the first of these examples, as he is separating the respective notions of caring for cattle and caring for bees, however, in the second example he is separating two clauses, which each refer to the care of cattle. By choosing to not elide “pecori” with “armenta,” Virgil is retaining the dative ending of “pecori,” which is necessary for the grammatical structure of the phrase. Thus, it is possible that his motivations here are simply to emphasise the instructions which he is providing, making them as clear and explicit as possible. 7 Virgil, T.L. Papillon, and A.E. Haigh, Bucolics and Georgics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1891), Print, 18.

A final example with a syllable in arsis is also the first of the following category of hiatus as a means of emphasizing Hellenistic themes. Unlike many of the other lines in this category, “Ǣ́tās Lū́cīnā́m iūstṓsquĕ pătī́⁔hy̆mĕnǣ́os” (3.60) does not reference a figure of Greek mythology, nor a geographical landmark, but rather a lexical borrowing. The Latin “hymenaeos” is a borrowing of the Greek “ὑμέναιος”, and it is this word which Virgil is preventing from being elided. “Hymanaeos” also yields a quadrisyllabic ending to the line, which, taken with the hiatus, the trochaic caesura in the fourth foot, and the Greek word itself, yield an incredibly Greek line.8 This serves as an interesting juxtaposition to the mention of the goddess of childbirth, to whom Virgil chooses to refer by Lucina, her Roman name, instead of by the Greek Εἰλείθυια, despite the many other Greek aspects of the line. This proximity of Roman and Hellenistic repetition may serve to highlight both the differences and similarities between the two cultures, both the union and the separation. The remainder of the Greek references include direct references to Greek culture, including both figures and geographical landmarks. One example of the former is the line “Glā́ucō⁔ḗt Pănŏpḗæ̆⁔ĕt Ī́nōṓ Mĕlĭcḗrtæ” (1.437). In this case, Virgil is speaking of Greek mythological figures Glaucus (Γλαῦκος), Panopea (Πανόπεια), Ino (Ἰνώ), and Melicerta (Μελικέρτης). Not only is hiatus on the whole more common in Greek, but the latter hiatus in this line, namely the retention and subsequent shortening of “æ,” is a very particular type which is taken directly from Greek, making this reference to Greek poetry stronger and clearer.9 The first hiatus in the line is the only occasion upon which Virgil allows a word-final, thetic vowel to retain its length in hiatus, which leads some to write Glaucoque, however this retention of length is found in such an environment in Book Fourteen, line 40 of Homer’s Iliad: “Πάνθῳ ἐν χείρεσσι βάλω καὶ Φρόντιδι δίῃ.” This indicates that the length of the vowel was a purposeful decision on Virgil’s part.10 Further, Papillon and Haigh write that this line is copied from “Γλαυκῷ καὶ Νηρεῖ καὶ Ἰνώῳ Μελικέρτῃ” written by Parthenius, who taught Virgil Greek, however the source for this information is not clear and I have been unable to find any evidence for this assertion.11 This is not the only line which has been claimed to be imitating Greek passages, with Charles Anthon listing many examples which he believes to be doing so. One such example is the line “Antĕ tĭbi‿Ḗōǣ́⁔Atlā́ntĭdĕs ā́bscōndā́ntur” (1.221), which Anthon cites as an imitation of “πληιάδων Ἀτλαγενέων ἐπιτελλομενάων ἄρχεσθ᾽ ἀμήτου, ἀρότοιο δὲ δυσομενάων.” (Hesiod, Opera et Dies, 381).12 8 Virgil and R.D. Williams, The Eclogues & Georgics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 97. 9 Gould, “Metrical Key,” 311. 10 Virgil. Virgil: Georgics, ed. Roger Aubrey Baskerville Mynors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), https://dx.doi.org/10.1093/oseo/instance.00077953. 11 Virgil et al., Bucolics and Georgics, 155. 12 Virgil and Charles Anthon, The Eclogues and Georgics of Virgil (New-York: Harper & Bros, 1850). Print, xxix.

In addition to the apparent imitation of a Greek text, this line includes the names of two Greek figures: “Ἠώς”, referring to the dawn, and “Άτλας”, the focus here not on the titan himself but on his daughters. Finally, we see the Ancient Greek short “ες” ending applied to “Ἀτλαντίς” instead of the Latin long “ēs”, a difference which would have made this line sound yet more foreign to its audience as a short “es” ending is present nowhere in Latin morphology. Virgil’s use of unfamiliar or unexpected vowel lengths are also evident in reference to Greek geographical landmarks in “Āut Ăthŏ⁔ā́ut Rhŏdŏpḗn āut ā́ltă Cĕrā́unĭă tḗlo” (1.332). In this case, Virgil is likely modelling the quality of his vowels from Theocratus’ “ἢ Ἄθω ἢ Ῥοδόπαν ἢ Καύκασον ἐσχατόωντα‎” (7.77), in which the “ω” of “Ἄθω” is a long vowel shortened in this context by its placement before another vowel.13 This explains why Athon is found with a long “o” in the Aeneid “Quā́ntŭs Ăthṓs āut quā́ntŭs Ĕrȳ́x āut ī́psĕ cŏrū́scis” (12.701), but with a shortened “o” in this line of the Georgics when followed by a vowel. Some consider the scansion here to be “Āut Ātho‿ā́ut Rhŏdŏpḗn āut ā́ltă Cĕrā́unĭă tḗlo,” however to consider “th” to be a consonant pairing which would yield a long vowel would be to disregard the traditional rules of scansion. Taking these four lines of Hellenistic content together, it is clear that Virgil often combines multiple aspects of Greek language and poetry into one line. In the case of the lexical borrowing of “ὑμέναιος”, he uses not only the hiatus but also a quadrisyllabic ending and trochaic caesura, yielding a line which would likely have jarred the ears of its listeners. In the cases of direct references to Greek figures or landmarks he has combined the hiatus with unconventional vowel qualities and, in two of the three examples just explored, a quadrisyllabic ending. It seems that Virgil was eager to jolt his audiences with these lines, and prevent these references from going unnoticed. As we have now seen, Virgil uses hiatuses with Greek references to effectively highlight the βάρβαρος feeling of these terms, and contrast them with the Roman ideals found in the remainder of the Georgics. Two lines, however, serve as an interesting deviation from this pattern. The first is found in Book Four, line 343, “Atque‿Ĕphy̆rḗ⁔ātque‿Ṓpĭs ĕt Asĭă Dḗĭŏpḗa”. Here the Greek Ephyre (from φυρω) is not elided to the following “atque”, however it is elided to the atque preceding it.14 Similarly, Opis (from ωψ), which is no more or less Greek than Ephyre, is elided with “atque” and has no hiatus attached to it. This perhaps reflects that, whilst Greek in etymology, these names and the figures to whom they refer were largely accepted into the Latin language and into Roman culture and therefore not worthy of the same treatment which the previously mentioned Greek terms received. This choice to elide yields a line which is beautifully paralleled later in Book four in line 463: “Atquĕ Gĕtǣ́⁔ātque‿Hḗbrŭs ĕt 13 Virgil and Mynors, Virgil: Georgics, https://dx.doi.org/10.1093/oseo/instance.00077953. 14 John Martyn, “Notes,” in Publii Virgilii Maronis Georgicorum libri quator, 3rd ed., (Gray’s Inn, 1755), 461-62.

Actĭăs Ṓrīthȳ́ia”. The parallel is found both in the basic syntactic structure of the sentence, but also the meter (with the exception of the fifth foot), and finally in the unformulaic nature of the elision. Once again in this line, Getae (Γέται), which one would expect not to be elided due to its relation to Greece (Thessalian but in contact with the Greeks) is in fact not elided. However, Hebrus (Ἕβρος), which has an equivalent relation to Greece, is elided. I would venture that Virgil is expressing the same thing in each of these lines, and indeed through their similarities; these etymologically Greek terms do not represent truly Greek ideas. Certainly the Getae were not synonymous with the Greeks as they were a Thracian tribe, as was the Hebrus a Thracian river. Thus, they, along with Ephyre and Opis, are foreign enough that Virgil wanted to use foreign sounding syntax and rules of elision in describing them, yet not Greek enough to employ the Greek hiatus to its full extent. Once more it is clear that Virgil’s employment of elision, or purposeful lack thereof, may serve either an intuitive, technical purpose, such as to retain a natural pause in the line, or a poetic one, as the remainder of the examples have demonstrated. His reservation of full hiatus for lines containing clearly Greek references, and his combination of this with other aspects of the Greek language will have made these lines particularly impactful. Whether the audience was consciously aware of the impact or not, these choices create very foreign sounding lines, and serve to amplify their semantic content and the feelings which they evoke. Throughout the Georgics, elision plays a very important role in deepening the emotion of each line in which it occurs. Even the most commonplace types of elision, with “-que,” are not dismissable, but have been demonstrated to be vital to the image conjured by a line and can do a great deal to further that image. Conversely, in this paper I have also examined the rarest forms of elision, namely those which join two lines. Beyond this, we have seen an elision which joins two lines containing two distinct sentences, fundamentally altering the rhythm of the work. Finally, this paper has examined the impact which the lack of an elision, or hiatus, has on a line and the two categories into which almost all of these occurrences fall; to retain a caesura, and to highlight a reference to Greek culture. In both of these cases, the lack of the expected elision would have jarred the ears of the audience members, making them fully aware that Virgil is deliberately highlighting the material of these lines, and urging them to reflect on their content.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Maro, Publius Vergilius, and Roland Gregory. Austin. Aeneidos. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991. Mynors, Roger Aubrey Baskerville. Virgils Georgics: A Commentary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Homer, and T. W. Allen. Iliad, Books 13-24 (Oxford Classical Texts: Homeri Opera, Vol. 2) (v. 2). Edited by D. B. Monroe. 3rd ed. Vol. 2. Oxford University Press, 1920.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Carey, John. “Synapheia.” In Latin Prosody Made Easy, 4th ed. London, 1830. Blumenfeld, Lev. “Generative Metrics: An Overview.” In Language and Linguistics Compass, (Wiley/Blackwell (10.1111), 27 Sept. 2016), onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/lnc3.12204/full. Dryden, John. The Works of Virgil: Containing His Pastorals, Georgics, and Aeneid. Printed by Jacob Tonson, 1716. Duckworth, George E. “Hexameter Patterns in Vergil.” In The Digital Repository for the Proceedings of the Virgil Society. digitalvirgil.co.uk/2013/10/08/g-e-duckworth-hexameter-patterns-in-vergil/. Gould, Benjamin Anthorp. “Metrical Key.” In P. V. M. Bucolica, Georgica, et Æneis. Accedunt clavis metrica, notulæ Anglicæ, et quæstiones. Boston, 1840. Kent, Roland G. “Likes and Dislikes in Elision, and the Vergilian Appendix.” In Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, vol. 54, (1923): 86–97. JSTOR. Martyn, John. “Notes.” In Publii Virgilii Maronis Georgicorum libri quator, 3rd ed. Gray’s Inn, 1755. Marón, Publio Virgilio, and Roland Gregory Austin. P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos, Liber Sextus. Clarendon Press, 1986. Virgil and Charles Anthon. The Eclogues and Georgics of Virgil. New-York: Harper & Bros, 1850. Print. Virgil and R. D. Williams. The Eclogues & Georgics. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979. Print. Virgil and Richard F. Thomas. Georgics. (England: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Print. Virgil and T E. Page. Bucolica Et Georgica. London: Macmillan, 1903. Print. Virgil, T L. Papillon, and A E. Haigh. Bucolics and Georgics. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1891. Print. Winbolt, Samuel Edward. Latin Hexameter Verse: an Aid to Composition. Cambridge University Press, 2011.

The Magna Mater

Great Mother of the Phrygians (and the Romans)? Meghan O’Donnell The Romans were very religious people, but what constituted ‘Roman’ as opposed to ‘foreign’ religion is hard to pin down. As Eric Orlin has suggested, the difficulty modern scholars have faced in defining Roman and foreign cults in Rome “suggests that the Romans never formalized the distinction.”1 Cults originating outside Rome were treated on an individual basis, but were generally accepted into the city in the Republican and Imperial periods. The Magna Mater was one such foreign cult introduced to Rome, and the reasons for her arrival are contested to this day. Catullus, writing in the late Republic, described the Magna Mater cult as such: “where sounds the cymbal’s voice, where the tambour resounds, where the Phrygian flutist pipes deep notes on the curved reed, where the ivy-clad Maenades furiously toss their heads, where they enact their sacred orgies with shrill-sounding ululations, where that wandering band of the Goddess flits about: there it is meet to hasten with hurried mystic dance.”2 Catullus’ description of the Magna Mater invokes some of the same imagery that would make Rome suspicious of the cult of Bacchus in 186 BCE — drums, dancing Maenads, orgies, and perhaps most importantly, a sense of mystery and secrecy. Yet, the treatment Cybele received upon her arrival to Rome and her journey there was exceptional. Roman envoys sought out the sacred stone of the Magna Mater Idaea from either Pessinus, Mt. Ida, or Pergamum and brought it back to Rome in 205 BCE. A temple for her was voted in 204 and completed in 191, and an annual festival called the Megalensian Games declared upon her arrival to the Temple of Victory.3 This paper will focus specifically on her arrival to Rome in terms of her perceived foreignness — that is, it will argue that the Romans did not view the cult of the Magna Mater as entirely foreign. This is due to her link with the origin story of Rome from Troy, 1 Eric M. Orlin, “Foreign Cults in Republican Rome: Rethinking the Pomerial Rule,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 47 (2002): 1-18. 2 Catullus, Carmina 63, trans. Leonard C. Smithers. (London, 1894). 3 Erich S. Gruen, “The Advent of the Magna Mater,” in Studies of Greek Culture and Roman Policy, 5-33 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 5.

and is evidenced by the location of her temple on the Palatine Hill in Rome. The sources we rely on for the introduction of the Magna Mater to Rome are neither contemporary nor consistent. Cicero and Diodorus wrote in the first century BCE, and the more detailed sources, Livy and Ovid, in the Augustan period. They agree that in 205 BCE, the Sibylline Books were consulted and it was decreed that the cult of Cybele be brought into Rome. The legates (M. Valerius Larvinus, M. Caecilius Metellus, Ser. Sulpicius Galba, Cn. Tremellius Flaccus, and M. Valerius Falto) were to be sent to king Attalus of Pergamum for his aid in obtaining the sacred stone of the goddess to bring back to Rome.4 Their stories differ with respect to where the Magna Mater’s stone was held, as well as the reasons for her arrival in Rome. According to Livy, the decemviri were prompted by many showers of stones to consult the Sibylline Books. They interpreted the following: “Whensoever a foreign enemy should bring war into the land of Italy, he may be driven out of Italy and conquered, if the Idaean Mother should be brought from Pessinus to Rome,” (Livy 29.10).5 The oracle at Delphi was consulted, who relayed that the Romans should go to Attalus, king of Pergamum (Livy 29.11). Furthermore, the most virtuous man in Rome was to receive the Magna Mater to the city, for which the Senate held a debate, noting the following: “Every one doubtless would wish for himself the victory in this contest, rather than any office of command, or any honours, which could be conferred by the suffrages either of the senate or the people,” (Livy 29.14). Upon arrival to Rome, the Goddess was received into the Temple of Victory in the Palatium, and “the people in crowds carried presents to the goddess in the Palatium; a lectisternium was celebrated, with games called the Megalesian,” (Livy 29.14). In Livy’s narrative, the cult of Cybele came from Pessinus, and the Roman people appear eager to receive the goddess and worship her, seen both in the importance placed upon the man chosen as the “most virtuous man in Rome” as well as in the declaration of annual games to commemorate her arrival. It is also worth noting that Cicero, like Livy, places the Magna Mater in Pessinus (Har. resp. 28).6 Ovid, however, writes that the Magna Mater’s home was on Mt. Ida, in the Troad (Fast. 4.247-291).7 His narrative of Cybele’s arrival stresses the Trojan roots of the Romans: “The Mother Goddess ever loved Dindymus, and Cybele, and Ida, with its delightful springs, and the realm of Ilium. When Aeneas carried Troy to the Italian fields, the goddess almost followed the ships that bore the 4 T. Broughton, S. Robert, and Marcia L. Patterson, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, Vol I. (New York: American Philological Association, 1951), 304. 5 Livy, The History of Rome, trans. Rev. Canon Roberts. E. P. Dutton et. al. 6 Cicero, De Haruspicum Responsis, trans N. H. Watts (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923). Loeb Classical Library 158. 7 Ovid, Fasti, trans. James G. Frazer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1931). Loeb Classical Library 253. I rely exclusively on Frazer’s English translation of Ovid’s Fasti.

sacred things; but she felt that fate did not yet call for the intervention of her divinity in Latium, and she remained behind in her accustomed place,” (4.247291). In addition, King Attalus explicitly says “Rome traces its origins to our Phrygian ancestors,” (4.247-291). Varro, in a third tradition, places the home of the Magna Mater in Pergamum itself, tracing the name “Megalesia” to the temple of the goddess in Pergamum (6.15).8

some indications that she came from Mt. Ida, or possibly even Pergamum. It is impossible to draw a clear answer from the ancient sources or modern scholarship. While this debate is important for fully understanding the Magna Mater’s origin story, it is not the sole factor determining whether the cult of Cybele was linked to Rome’s foundation story, and thus whether or not it was perceived of as entirely foreign.

The Romans traced their origins back to Troy through Aeneas, and this connection had probably been acknowledged by Rome before the mid-third century BCE, and was widely accepted by the end of the third century.9 As Paul Burton notes, the poet Naevius firmly established this myth before the Hannibalic War.10 When T. Quinctius Flamininus made dedications at Delphi in 194, he proclaimed himself as a descendent of Aeneas. The Romans and Illians acknowledged their mutual heritage to Troy formally in 190, with sacrifices offered to Athena at Ilium.11

All of the places the Magna Mater is cited as hailing from — Pessinus, Pergamum, and Mt. Ida — are in Phrygia. The priests are Phrygian eunuchs, and the Magna Mater is the Mother Goddess of the Phrygians. Edith Hall has argued that Greek identification of Trojans with Phrygians probably dates back to at least the fifth century BCE.17 With the increased contact between the Romans and the Greeks from the fifth century to the late third century BCE, it is likely that this idea was transmitted to the Romans. Thus, if the Romans identified Phrygia with having Trojan connections, it may be of little importance whether or not the Magna Mater came from Mt. Ida or Pergamum. The Romans may have identified all of Phrygia with having a connection to Troy. It must be said that it is not at all clear that there is any legitimacy to the Roman-Trojan origin story, but that is separate from the fact that Romans believed there to be one.

The debate over the location of the Magna Mater continues in modern scholarship - whether or not she came to Rome from the Troad, and thus whether or not the Romans may have associated her with their Trojan origin story. Gruen argues that Ovid’s narrative, while different from those of other ancient authors, is the most probable.12 He argues that Pessinus is an unlikely location for the stone of the goddess, as it was outside the influence of the King of Pergamum.13 Burton, however, objects to his arguments, citing a lack of evidence for the extent of Attalid influence in Asia Minor in 205 BCE.14 He writes that it is not possible to conclude that Attalus would not have had any control over Pessinus, and that perhaps Pessinine authorities would have handed the stone over willingly even without Attalid influence.15 This last point seems unlikely, though, as the removal of the cult object from its centre could not have been taken lightly. Why, then, would Pessinine authorities hand over the stone, and thus the goddess herself, to Attalus or the Romans without a reason to? Roller argues that the cult at Pessinus was merely of local importance at the time that it was introduced to Rome, indicating that perhaps the cult was found elsewhere, as Ovid and Varro write.16 There is no clear answer as to where the Romans brought the Magna Mater from. Most ancient sources point to Pessinus, but there are are 8 Varro, De Lingua Latina, trans. Roland G. Kent (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938). Loeb Classical Library 333. 9 Gruen, “The Advent,” 11-13; Paul J. Burton, “The Summoning of the Magna Mater to Rome (205 B.C.)” 36-63 in Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 45 (1996), 42. 10 Ibid., 43. 11 Gruen, “The Advent,” 15. 12 With the notable but later exception of Herodian, writing in the third century CE. 13 Gruen, “The Advent,” 16-17. 14 Burton, “The Summoning of the Magna Mater to Rome (205 B.C.),” 45-46. 15 Ibid., 51. 16 Lynn E. Roller, “The Arrival of the Magna Mater in Rome,” in In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of the Anatolian Cybele, 263-86 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 269.

The location of the cult of Cybele in Phrygia is not the only indication that the Romans thought of her as having Trojan associations. The placement of her temple on the Palatine Hill in Rome is significant. Livy writes that “The Palatine was the quarter of the original Romans...The Aventine was therefore assigned to the newcomers” (Livy 1.33.2).18 The Aventine Hill was the most popular location in Rome for foreign cults, unique in that it lay within the physical wall of the city but outside the pomerium.19 It is known for its connection with the plebeian class; it was where the first two Secessions of the Plebs were held in 494 and 449 BCE, and was later used strategically by the Gracchi brothers in the unrest of the late second century. As Orlin details, Dionysios wrote that Ancus Marcius settled citizens recruited from captured towns on the Aventine.20 Varro offers an etymological origin of “Aventine,” deriving it from the phrase adventus hominum (5.43). Its role as a locale for integrating plebeian Romans into the political and economic systems of Rome foreshadow its role as the place for welcoming foreigners into Rome. The temple of Diana was founded on the Aventine Hill as either a feudal sanctuary for the Latin League, or as an asylum for immigrants that later became 17 Edith Hall, “When Did the Trojans Turn into Phrygians? Alcaeus 42.15,” in Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik (1988), 15-18. 18 Livy, The History of Rome, trans. Rev. Canon Roberts (New York, New York: E. P. Dutton and Co, 1912). 19 Orlin, “Foreign Cults,” 9-11. 20 Ibid., 11.

a feudal shrine.21 Vortumnus, brought to Rome after the defeat of the Volsinii, had a temple on the Aventine Hill as well. It provided a place to incorporate both the new religion and the people connected with it into the Roman system.22 Summanus, an Etruscan god, had a place here as well, his temple built after lightning struck the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, knocking its head off. Haruspices were integrated into the Roman religious system after this — as Orlin explains, “at the exact moment when Rome was attempting to integrate the cities of Etruria politically, it integrated both an Etruscan divinity and Etruscan priests into its religious system.”23 The Aventine Hill, then, was a liminal space for the introduction and integration of foreign cults into Rome. Foreign cults were not found solely on the Aventine Hill, however — if there was a more appropriate location for them elsewhere in the city, they would be placed there. For example, the temple to Venus Erycina from Mt. Eryx in Sicily was dedicated in 215 BCE on the Capitoline Hill. Orlin suggested that perhaps the Romans considered Venus Erycina an incarnation of the mother of Aeneas, in which case the Trojan origin story would explain its place on the Capitoline Hill rather than the Aventine.24 He also posited that “the desire to emphasize the importance of this cult in order to solidify Roman links with western Sicily in the wake of Hannibal’s invasion may well have led the Roman elite to place that temple on the Capitoline, the religious heart of republican Rome.”25 The cult of Feronia found its temple in the Campus Martius, in an association with groves found throughout Italy.26 It is clear that foreign cults were not strictly designated to the Aventine Hill, but were placed in other areas of the city if there was reason to do so. It was, however, a locus amoenus for foreign cults to be welcomed into Rome.

Underneath Cybele’s temple an interesting array of figures were buried, one example being evergreen cones found nowhere in the Greek world in relation to her worship.29 Ovid writes that the ship built to carry the Magna Mater to Rome from Mt. Ida was made of the same pines Aeneas used when leaving Troy: “Straightway unnumbered axes fell those pinewoods which had supplied the pious Phrygian timber in his flight,” ( Fast. 4.251-54). Thus, the presence of evergreen cones as a symbol on the Palatine Hill demonstrate the RomanTrojan connection. The cones date to the early second century BCE, indicating that the cult was associated with Trojan origins by then at least.30 In conclusion, the narrative connecting Roman origins to the Trojans, specifically Aeneas, was widely accepted by the time the Magna Mater was introduced to Rome. It is not possible to conclude decisively where the cult of Cybele was brought in from due to conflicting evidence. However, if Romans associated all of Phrygia with Trojans, she may have carried these associations with her regardless of whether she came from Pessinus, Mt. Ida, or Pergamum. Her temple’s placement on the Palatine Hill as opposed to the Aventine or elsewhere in Rome designates her importance as a Roman origin figure. Lastly, the evergreen cones buried underneath her temple further demonstrate the connection the Romans perceived they had to Aeneas.

Cybele, despite being a Phrygian goddess, did not find her temple constructed on the Aventine Hill. Rather, her place on the Palatine Hill denotes her importance as a goddess associated with Roman ancestry. As previously mentioned, the Palatine Hill is associated with the “original Romans,” the supposed home of Romulus and the location of his hut (Livy 1.33.2).27 In addition to being linked with Rome’s Trojan ancestry, the Magna Mater was associated with patricians, and the Palatine Hill was recognized as the most patrician place in the city.28 Her placement on the Palatine rather than the Aventine shows that the Romans did not think of her as entirely foreign, despite the actual cult practices appearing so, and even connected her to their own origins. 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Ibid. Ibid., 11-12. Ibid., 12. Ibid., 7. Ibid., 14. Ibid. Roller, “The Arrival,” 273. Orlin, “Foreign Cults,” 14.

29 30

Roller, “The Arrival,” 279. Ibid.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Catullus. Carmina. Translated by Leonard C. Smithers. London, 1894. Cicero. De Haruspicum Responsis. Trans. by N. H. Watts. Loeb Classical Library 158. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923. Livy. The History of Rome. Translated by Rev. Canon Roberts. New York, New York: E. P. Dutton and Co, 1912. Ovid. Fasti. Translated by James G. Frazer. Revised by G. P. Goold. Loeb Classical Library 253. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1931. Varro. De Lingua Latina. Trans. by Roland G. Kent. Loeb Classical Library 333. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Broughton, T. Robert S., and Marcia L. Patterson. The Magistrates of the Roman Republic. Vol. I. New York: American Philological Association, 1951-1960. Burton, Paul J. “The Summoning of the Magna Mater to Rome (205 B.C.).” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 45 (1996): 36-63. Elwyn, Sue. “Interstate Kinship and Roman Foreign Policy.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 123 (1993): 261-86. Erskine, Andrew. Troy between Greece and Rome: Local Tradition and Imperial Power. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2007. Gruen, Erich S. “The Advent of the Magna Mater.” In Studies of Greek Culture and Roman Policy, 5-33. University of California Press, 1996. Hall, Edith. “When Did the Trojans Turn into Phrygians? Alcaeus 42.15.” Zeitschrift Für Papyrologie Und Epigraphik 73 (1988): 15-18. Orlin, Eric M. “Foreign Cults in Republican Rome: Rethinking the Pomerial Rule.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 47 (2002): 1-18. Roller, Lynn E. “The Arrival of the Magna Mater in Rome.” In In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of the Anatolian Cybele, 263-86. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1999.

Birth and Death in Ancient Greece Gorgoneion as a Feature of Underworld Willow Little The Gorgon head baffles categorization. Interpreted various ways—from etiological explanations of storm clouds, the sound of wild animals, and even representations of cephalopods—there is no consensus on its function within an ancient Hellenic framework. To say it was a significant element of Greek culture and religion is stating the obvious. Despite the prevalence of the gorgoneion in literature and art, it remains an enigma. This paper offers another perspective beyond the mere identification of the Gorgon head as a snake-haired, monstrous woman who turns her victims into stone. I argue that the Gorgon head functions as a symbol of the fear of the unknown through its connection to death, female genitalia, and apotropaic magic. The structural similarities of the PerseusMedusa myth to the Gilgamesh-Humbaba one buttress the argument that the gorgoneion ties into underworld mythos. Additionally, the penetrating gaze of the Gorgon, both in iconography and in the Perseus-Medusa myth perhaps suggest a fear of fear itself, alleviated only through exposure to the emotion and through the gorgoneion’s metamorphosis into a weapon. The Gorgon myth and the structural resemblance of the gorgoneion iconography to the Humbaba myth tie it to the underworld. Both monsters are vanquished by heroes—Medusa by Perseus and Humbaba by Gilgamesh—and both events take place in otherworldly locations. Homer’s Odyssey establishes the underworld as a space existing beyond the realm of mortal existence. Circe’s instructions to Odysseus counsel the hero on his journey to the House of Hades: Let no need for a guide on your ship trouble you; only/ set up your mast pole and spread the white sails upon it,/ and sit still, and let the blast of the North Wind carry you./ But when you have crossed with your ship the stream of the Ocean, you will/ find there a thickly wooded shore, and the groves of Persephone,/ and tall black poplars growing, and fruit-perishing willows (505-511).1

1 Homer, The Odyssey, trans. Richmond Lattimore (New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2007), 505-511.

Rather than indicating a route, Circe’s words make it clear that the underworld is a place only reached if the voyager in question is destined to find it—whether this occurs at the will of the gods, the natural world, or the Winds. A common person sitting in a boat would not get far on this quest, but a seasoned hero such as Odysseus, whose activity is the talk of the gods, is another story. The idea that by sitting still in his ship, the wind will bear his expedition there, when paired with the distinction that the underworld exists beyond the “stream of the Ocean,” situate the underworld in an otherworldly space. Furthermore, in the Theogony, Hesiod introduces “the Gorgons, who dwell beyond glorious Okeanos/ at earth’s end, toward night,” (274-276).2 Although this statement does not pin down an exact location of the Gorgons’ residence, it is one of many examples which associate them with a realm other than the mortal world. Aristophanes is more specific than Hesiod. In his play, Frogs, the protagonists are warned about a slew of monsters populating the underworld; they are told that “[their] kidneys [will] bleed/ from entrails Tithrasian Gorgons rip apart,” (Ran. 475477).3 The Gorgon is, therefore, a recognized resident of the underworld.

the similarities between the two myths, given the possibility that one may have influenced the other. However, the similarities are not limited to the narrative framework; Humbaba masks bear comparable features to those of the gorgoneion in art. In iconography, the gorgoneion emerges during the Geometric period, around the invention of the alphabet, and is originally depicted as a head; likewise, Humbaba is portrayed as a disembodied head when found on masks.7 Both are shown full-face, with large eyes, a wide mouth, and a grotesque, yawning leer. A set of grimacing hag and Gorgon type masks found at the temple of Artemis Orthia in Sparta reinforce the connection between these two characters as “masks.”8 These items bear exaggerated wrinkles and lines, just like the Humbaba masks, which emulate the intestines of animals used for extispicy.9 Extispicy— prophecy through the inspection of entrails— was a means of interpreting the wills of gods, i.e., the unknown. To show the mask as viscera invite the viewer to witness the inside-out, perhaps forbidden knowledge itself on display.

The Epic of Gilgamesh parallels this trope. Humbaba is the guardian of the cedar forest, an otherworldly space sacred to the gods.4 In comparison to the Gorgon, Humbaba inhabits this land, a place which he guards against mortals. Just as the quote from Frogs features the Gorgon as a monster that will rend anyone who comes to the underworld, so too does Humbaba kill anyone who trespasses into the forest. Hopkins argues that Humbaba’s “voice like a hurricane” is like that of the Gorgon, whose name possibly derives from the Sanskrit garg, denoting a moaning sound.5 Both were embodiments of natural forces, in some sense. Humbaba was originally a demonic deity known as a sedu but later became Pazuzu, a subdued demon who protects an individual during a journey to the underworld.6 The Gorgon head too functions as a psychopomp, at least partially. Medusa is a dreadful monster until decapitated by Perseus, after which she becomes an apotropaic tool that empowers him as he returns from his katabasis, and helps him vanquish his enemies. However, these are merely structural similarities which propose that somewhere along the line there was an overlap of influence between the Greek and the Assyrian worlds; it is not enough to firmly state the origin of the Gorgon myth. The point is merely to highlight the connection of the Gorgon to the underworld through

But if there is a connection between the Humbaba masks and the Spartan hags, why the difference in their respective cultural mythoi? Bachvarova raises a possible reason for this shift; Humbaba’s mythos changed when it came to Greece because the audience was different. Instead of representing the tensions of man versus wild, “the fears inspired by jealous women unable to attain motherhood who blighted other women’s fertility” was a prominent psychological concern.10 While we must be careful not to apply an anachronistic worldview to the thinking of peoples living thousands of years ago, the similarities of these masks, along with the discovery of the hags, perhaps link the gorgoneion with feelings of barrenness, infertility, and death. As Howe asserts, while the Humbaba mask and the gorgoneion look similar, they differ significantly in terms of purpose.11 Nevertheless, their commonalities hint at a converging history featuring otherworldly spaces, death, and the unknown.

2 Hesiod, Theogony; Works and Days, trans. Shield (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins U Press, 2004), 274-276. 3 Aristophanes, Frogs. Plays: II, trans. J. Michael Walton and Kenneth McLeish (Great Britain: Methuen Drama, 1993), 475-477. 4 Nancy K. Sanders, The epic of Gilgamesh; an English version with an intro. by N.K. Sanders (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1964), 7. 5 Clark Hopkins, “Assyrian Elements in the Perseus-Gorgon Story,” American Journal of Archaeology 38, no. 3 (1934): 346. 6 Ibid.

7 Ibid., 341-343, 356. 8 Jane Burr Carter, “The Masks of Ortheia,” American Journal of Archaeology 91, no. 3, (1987): 355. 9 Robert K. G. Temple, “An Anatomical Verification of the Reading of a Term in Extispicy,” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 34, no. ½ (1982): 21. 10 Mary R. Bachvarova, “Io and the Gorgon: Ancient Greek Medical and Mythical Constructions of the Interaction between Women’s Experiences of Sex and Birth,” Arethusa 46, no. 3 (2013): 433. 11 Thalia Phillies Howe, “The Origin and Function of the Gorgon-Head,” American Journal of Archaeology 58, no. 3 (1954): 217.

Evidence in literature connects the gorgoneion with the underworld and female power as part of its apotropaic function. In the Phaedo, Socrates describes a particular ancient Greek understanding of the afterlife: “We recall an ancient theory that souls arriving [in the underworld] come from here and then again that

they arrive here and are born here from the dead,” (Pl. 70c).12 The significant element of Plato’s description of the process of life and death is the return to an otherworldly space. People come from that unknown place when they are born, and when they die, they return there. Nonetheless, Plato’s theory of the afterlife, particularly the theory of reincarnation and the transmigration of souls, is philosophical in nature and thus not likely to have been held amongst the common ancient Greek population, who would have believed in an afterlife more akin to that of the underworld of Homer’s Odyssey. Although theories of reincarnation may have circulated amongst educated philosophers and iconoclasts, it is difficult to ascertain its acceptance amongst the so-called hoi polloi. However, the Gorgon’s connection to rebirth and death through its link to reincarnation may still be maintained when considering its eastern counterpart, the Humbaba. It is widely accepted in Platonic scholarship that Plato derived his theory of reincarnation from the Greek philosopher Pythagoras, who may have derived his theory from eastern societies, particularly India.13 In fact, the two central interlocutors of the Phaedo, in which the theory of reincarnation is espoused, are Pythagoreans, Simmias, and Cebes. Since the Greek Gorgon shares structural similarities to the Mesopotamian Humbaba in its iconography and mythology, and reincarnation was a belief which likely came to the Greek world from the east, it is arguable that the Gorgon would have been linked to a process of death and rebirth. This understanding of an underworld which one is born from and returns to connects to the gorgoneion through the latter’s significance in literature. In one version of the Perseus-Medusa myth, Apollodorus states that Medusa’s offspring, Chrysaor, and Pegasus, jump from her throat as she dies, an act distinguishing her as a “mother who dies in labour.”14 At this moment, she embodies liminality. Medusa loses her life as she gives life to her children. Interestingly, the ancient Greek peoples believed that the vagina and the throat were connected by one long tube.15 Following this logic, Medusa is a figure who personifies a paradoxical moment between life and death. She is killed by Perseus as her mouth—acting as a womb—expels her children; she gives birth while dying. Since dying in labour was a common occurrence for women, Medusa’s violent coexistence as an embodiment of these extremes of life supports her connection to the underworld. Euripides reiterates this theme in Ion when Kreousa contemplates using the blood of the Gorgon: “when [Erichtonios] was newborn Athena gave him [...] two drops of blood from the Gorgon [...] One kills, the other cures,” (975-979).16 Of the two drops she has, one heals while the other poisons. This polarity 12 Plato, Phaedo, trans. G. M.A. Grube (Indianopolis: Hackett, 1997), 70c. 13 A. Berriedale Keith, “Pythagoras and the Doctrine of Transmigration,” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (1909). 14 Bachvarova, “Io and the Gorgon,” 434. 15 Ibid., 428. 16 Euripides, Ion, trans. W.S. Di Piero, ed. Peter Burian (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 98.

highlights “the bivalent Gorgon whose deadly powers could be used apotropaically.”17 Examples such as this one demonstrate the sense of duality of the gorgoneion in connection with the underworld. Even heroic Odysseus avoids the monster during the necromancy scene in Homer’s Odyssey: The hordes of the dead men gathered about me/ with inhuman clamour, and green fear took hold of me/ with the thought that proud Persephone might send up against me/ some gorgonish head of a terrible monster up out of Hades (632-636).18 In particular, the Gorgon head evokes extreme fear and anxiety, as in this quote when Odysseus feels encroaching “gorgonic” dread so strong it impels him to hasten to the mortal world. For Odysseus, the Gorgon head represents a dark, sinister something— perhaps a knowledge not to be known— where souls come from before they are born and return to when they die. Odysseus is a character driven by his wit and craftiness, capable of finagling his way out of many difficult situations. However, the mere thought of the gorgoneion is enough to send him swiftly on his way. Following my argument, his drastic reaction is understandable— even someone who is extremely clever and watched over by the gods is powerless when it comes to those two unknowns of life: birth and death. The gorgoneion bears iconographic similarities to female genitalia which link it to both birth and death, and by extension, the underworld. As Hopkins argues, “The protruding tongue and the female sex are almost universal in the Greek types” of gorgoneia, which means these features were important to the meaning of the Gorgon.19 Although grotesque, these images look like female genitalia. A group of terracotta statues found in a priestess’ grave in the Taman peninsula look like pregnant hags, with round bellies and similarly distorted faces.20 Once again, we have a duality here—life and death. An old woman’s wrinkles indicate her proximity to the end of a lifetime, whereas pregnancy announces the arrival of a new life. Bakhtin describes these figures as “pregnant death, a death that gives birth.”21 This idea of female power through women’s connection to the unknown—the vessels that give birth and frequently die while doing so— reinforces the image of Medusa as a dying mother. Similarly, Foster notes that Medusa typifies binary oppositions such as “young and old, beautiful and ugly, mortal and immortal.”22 There is discomfort in 17 Bachvarova, “Io and the Gorgon,” 437. 18 Homer, The Odyssey, 632-636. 19 Clark Hopkins, “Assyrian Elements in the Perseus-Gorgon Story,” American Journal of Archaeology 38, no. 3 (1934): 354. 20 D.M. O’Higgins,“Women’s Cultic Joking and Mockery,” in Making Silence Speak : Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 153. 21 Ibid., 154. 22 Hal Foster, “Medusa and the Real,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, no. 44 (2003): 182.

paradox, in the incomprehensible, but in these, there is also power. The sense of fear and anxiety which the gorgoneia harness as an apotropaic image was resonant for women because childbirth was a dangerous, yet fundamental rite-of-passage in a woman’s life. Even the fearsome Medea in Euripides’ eponymous play exclaims that she would “rather stand three times behind a shield than bear a child once,” due to the violence, pain, and risks of childbirth in the ancient world (248-251).23 For this same reason, it would be relevant for men because through its connection to female genitalia, “the head as vulva can be terrifying to a male, evoking both the fear of decapitation and castration and the fear of overpowering female sexuality,” something beyond a person’s control to the point of death.24 Perseus’ use of Medusa’s head during his katabasis reinforces that this was a distinctly female power being harnessed by a man. His appropriation of the Gorgon shielded him through his underworld expedition, suggesting the deployment of an otherwise unknown and female power to apotropaic purposes. Furthermore, the concept of miasma must not be overlooked. Notions of miasma and purification were cultural facets. All the grotesque details of giving birth— especially possible death while doing so—create pollution in the community, the thought of which generates fear. A great deal of ancient textual evidence supports the notion of childbirth and pregnancy as pollution. A sacred law from a Greek colony of Cyrene in the fourth century BCE indicates that “[a] woman in childbed pollutes the house; she pollutes anyone inside the house, but she does not pollute anyone outside the house, unless he comes inside.”25 The Gorgon head, through its iconographic similarities to genitalia, is a reminder of and a talisman against fear of death. The Gorgon head connects to death and the underworld in ancient Greek worldview. This argument is evident through the similarities between the Medusa-Perseus myth and that of Humbaba and Gilgamesh, and through the resemblance the masks bear to one another. Through its presence in iconography and literature, the gorgoneia are interpretable as embodiments of paradoxical elements like death and birth, which tie them and their function as apotropaia to the underworld. The grotesque, mask-like face is portrayed similarly in art. Because it is such a prominent reference in ancient Greek culture, it is important to understand its function to contextualize the Gorgon within ancient Hellenic culture, and to comprehend the ancient Greek worldview better as a whole. 23 Euripides, “Medea,” trans. Emily Kearns, in Ancient Greek Religion: A Sourcebook (United Kingdom: Blackwell Publishing, 2010), 248-251. 24 Miriam Robbins Dexter, “The Ferocious and the Erotic: ‘Beautiful’ Medusa and the Neolithic Bird and Snake,” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 26, no. 1 (2010): 61, 39. 25 RO no.97 Inscription, trans. Emily Kearns, in Ancient Greek Religion: A Sourcebook (United Kingdom: Blackwell Publishing, 2010), side A 16-20.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Aristophanes. Frogs. Plays: II, edited by J. Michael Walton and Kenneth McLeish. London: Methuen Drama, 1993. 323. Aristophanes. Βάτραχοι Frogs. Translated by Ian Johnston. Faenum Publishing, 2015. 61. Euripides. Ion, edited by Peter Burian. Translated by W.S. Di Piero. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. Hesiod, and Apostolos N. Athanassakis. Theogony; Works and Days; Shield. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004. Homer. The Iliad. Translated by Robert Fagles. London: Penguin Books Ltd, 1991. Homer. The Odyssey of Homer. Translated by Richmond Lattimore. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2007. Kearns, Emily. Ancient Greek Religion: A Sourcebook. Hoboken: Blackwell Publishing, 2010. Plato. “Phaedo.” In Plato: Complete Works, edited by John M. Cooper. Translated by G. M.A. Grube. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997.

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Bachvarova, Mary R. “Io and the Gorgon: Ancient Greek Medical and Mythical Constructions of the Interaction between Women’s Experiences of Sex and Birth.” Arethusa 46, no.3 (2013): 415-446. WorldCat. Carter, Jane Burr. “The Masks of Ortheia.” American Journal of Archaeology 91, no. 3 (1987): 355–383. www.jstor.org/stable/505359. Croon, J. H. “The Mask of the Underworld Daemon-Some Remarks on the Perseus gorgon Story.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 75 (1955): 9–16. www.jstor.org/stable/629162. Dexter, Miriam Robbins. “The Ferocious and the Erotic: ‘Beautiful’ Medusa and the Neolithic Bird and Snake.” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 26, no. 1 (2010): 25–41. www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/fsr.2010.26.1.25. Feldman, Thalia. “Gorgo and the Origins of Fear.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 4, no. 3 (1965): 484–494. www.jstor.org/stable/20162978. Foster, Hal. “Medusa and the Real.” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, no. 44 (2003): 181–190. www.jstor.org/stable/20167613. Hopkins, Clark. “Assyrian Elements in the Perseus-Gorgon Story.” American Journal of Archaeology 38, no. 3 (1934): 341–358. www.jstor.org/stable/498901. Howe, Thalia Phillies. “The Origin and Function of the Gorgon-Head.” American Journal of Archaeology 58, no. 3 (1954): 209–221. www.jstor.org/stable/500901.

Keith, A. Berriedale. “Pythagoras and the Doctrine of Transmigration.” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (1909): 569–606. O’Higgins, D.M.“Women’s Cultic Joking and Mockery.” In Making Silence Speak: Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society, edited by André Pierre M. H. Lardinois and Laura K. McClure. Princeton University Press, 2001. Ross, Lesie D. “Clay Mask of the Demon Humbaba, ca 1800-1600 BCE.” In Art and Architecture of the World’s Religions. Santa Barbara: ABC Clio, 2009. 40–42. Sanders, Nancy K. The epic of Gilgamesh; an English version with an intro. by N.K. Sanders. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1964. Temple, Robert K. G. “An Anatomical Verification of the Reading of a Term in Extispicy.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 34, no. 1/2, (1982): 19–27. www.jstor.org/stable/1359990. Topper, Kathryn. “Perseus, the Maiden Medusa, and the Imagery of Abduction.” Hesperia: The Journal of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens 76, no. 1 (2007): 73–105. Wilk, Stephen R. “What the Gorgon Really Was.” In Medusa: Solving the Mystery of the Gorgon. Cary: Oxford University Press, 2000. ProQuest.

Druidism as Motivation for the Rebellion of Boadicea Ben Kennedy Much of the scholarship surrounding the brief episode of British rebellion described in Tacitus’ Annals and Dio’s Roman Histories focuses on the seizure of the Iceni nobles’ wealth.1 Both the primary and secondary sources tend to neglect any discussion of the religious significance of this episode. References to druidic religions in ancient sources are widespread; Jane Webster points to no fewer than twenty classical authors giving some mention of them.2 Despite this, neither Tacitus nor Dio make any overt mention of religious motivations for the rebellion, even when referencing the purpose of Paulinus, then governor of Britain, setting forth to conquer Anglesey directly before the revolt (Tac. Ann. 14.29). Tacitus’ other description of the events in his Agricola also omits the religious aspects of the affair. The Agricola shall not be dealt with here, however, since, as John Overbeck points out, it is an account with different aims and purposes than either the Annals or the Roman Histories, which serve well for any comparison of events described in both and will be the primary sources used herein.3 An examination of religious motivations is important because there is little other reason for Paulinus to wish to capture Anglesey (Mona). The island itself is of little significance to the provincial functioning of Britain, and to the fabric of the empire as a whole, it is utterly insignificant. Therefore, Paulinus’ aims must lie elsewhere than simple territorial acquisition. This paper will suggest that his aims fell along religious lines, seeking to disrupt and destroy local cultural and religious practices centred on Mona. If this is the 1 Cornelius Tacitus, The Annals, trans. A. J. Woodman, (Cambridge: Hackett Publishing, 2004), 289; Cassius Dio, The Roman Histories, trans. Earnest Cary, (Harvard: Harvard University publishing, 1927). 2 Jane Webster, “At the End of the World: Druidic and Other Revitalization Movements in PostConquest Gaul and Britain,” Britannia 30: 2 (1999): 1-20. 3 John C. Overbeck, “Tacitus and Dio on Boudicca’s Rebellion,” The American Journal of Philology 90, no. 2 (1969): 130.

case, the rebellion of Boadicea must take on a more nuanced interpretation as a religiously motivated event rather than one simply fueled by vengeance.4 The reasons given for the rebellion are detailed in both Tacitus and Dio’s accounts, yet they conflict to a great degree (Cass. Dio, 62.2). Given the stemma for the sources proposed by Reed, namely Paulinus’ memoirs, this disagreement seems odd. If Paulinus’ memoirs serve as one of the primary sources for the account of the rebellion for both ancient authors, why should there be any conflict?5 Of course, there is the possibility of intermediate interpretations obscuring the true reasons behind the revolt in their respective texts, but why should the sources differ as to some of the most relevant details? Perhaps these details were not overly clear in Paulinus’ original account. Certainly, some of the reasons they give are plausible, but these reasons are the ones which contradict each other most, such as the account of Seneca lending money and recalling it at short notice from the Iceni nobles which is provided by Dio but is absent from Tacitus (Cass. Dio, 62.2). Given this apparent disagreement in the attribution of the motivations behind the rebellion, aside from the distance of Paulinus from the area and the repossession of monetary gifts, the inference of an additional religious motivation cannot be ruled out (Tac. Ann. 14.31; Cass. Dio, 62.2.). The description of the rebellion itself, as outlined by the commonalities of the two ancient sources, is terse and to the point: Boadicea revolted when Paulinus was in Anglesey as a result of seizures of property by the legate left in charge. The revolt was successful, destroying several Roman settlements and market centres. Paulinus returned as quickly as possible from Anglesey with his legion and halted the revolt in a single decisive battle (Tac. Ann. 14.31; Cass. Dio, 62.2.). The veracity of the details of both sources seems highly suspect since, as mentioned before, they differ dramatically in many regards. Based upon Nicolas Reed’s proposed stemma, it seems clear that intermediate interpretations may have significantly obscured the details of the actual events.6 The most important commonality in the accounts is that of Paulinus’ destination (Tac. Ann. 14.29; Cass. Dio, 62.2.). It was, without a doubt, Anglesey, also known as Mona. As briefly outlined above, the island should have been of little importance, and yet Paulinus had a whole legion with him. Roman colonial and military practices often included the destruction of sacred spaces which they viewed as ‘other.’ As Steven Rutledge points out, in this specific case “the sites of barbarian Germans or Britons, as well as the 4 Steven H. Rutledge, “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites,” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 56, no. 2 (2007): 180. 5 Nicholas Reed, “The Sources of Tacitus and Dio for the Boudiccan Revolt,” Latomus 33 no. 4 (1974): 933. 6 Nicholas Reed, “The Sources of Tacitus and Dio for the Boudiccan Revolt,” 933.

problematic temple in Jerusalem, were meant to be destroyed and then deleted from the political map so as not to be used again as centres from which to challenge Roman power.”7 Rutledge pushes this even further, referencing the passage where Tacitus states “their groves were extirpated, consecrated as they were to savage superstition” as an example of the destruction of sacred space which serves a political purpose (Ann. 14.30).8 This is the crux: given the references both ancient historians make to the sacrifices performed by the rebels under Boadicea in the groves of Andate, the destruction of the sacred groves upon an island [Mona] made “formidable owing to its inhabitants and a retreat for fugitives,” may have led to a religiously motivated revolt. Rutledge suggests an additional destruction of those groves after the suppression of the rebellion (Tac. Ann. 14.29).9 Tacitus briefly mentions druidae casting spells and chanting upon the beaches of the island, but that is all that the ancient historians tell us about a religious presence at Mona (Ann. 14.30). It is important to note the use of the plural. The translated quote is given as “Druids around about, pouring forth ominous prayers with their hands raised to the sky,” (14.30). Tacitus also briefly mentions “females running in between: in funereal clothing and with tumbling hair,” (14.30). Dio confirms an intimate link between women, Celtic warfare, and druidic religion before the final battle with Paulinus: “When [Boadicea] had finished speaking, she employed a species of divination” (62.6). Dio’s reference to Boadicea performing a religious ritual of sorts before entering into battle demonstrates a tie between her and the religion of the land. Furthermore, such a link between Boadicea and the religion of the Britons potentially suggests her as linked to a religious authority of some sort. If W.F. Tamblyn’s analysis of Gaulish druids as members of the Celtic aristocracy is accepted, there is certainly a contextual basis for a similar connection between the ruling classes of the British tribes and the druids.10 While Tacitus provides no parallel in his account, his gesture to the connection between women and druidic religion is enough to allow for the possibility of Boadicea in a religious role. Thus, we are already met with an emphasis on the importance of the druids within Celtic Britain and their direct role in warfare as well as a firm link to both royalty and women in connection to the rebellion. Druids in the Celtic world, or what we know of them, had a variety of roles to play in organizing the cultural and political lives of the various tribes.11 W.F. Tamblyn points to a variety of sources which make it clear “that in Gaul, at 7 Steven H. Rutledge, “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites,” 191. 8 Steven H. Rutledge, “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites,” 185. 9 Steven H. Rutledge, “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites,” 190-191. 10 W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” The American Historical Review 15 no. 1 (1909): 22. 11 Ibid. 21-36.

any rate, the Celts had in their progress towards civilization evolved a distinct learned aristocracy of bards, priests, and philosopher-magicians called druids […] who exercised considerable power among the people”.12 Mommsen and Paul have even argued for the existence of pan-Celtic druidism.13 This seems highly unlikely for such separated peoples, and indeed there is no mention of it outside of a brief passage in Caesar’s De Bello Gallico.14 Even the suggestion of such a pan-Gallic order seems to allow for the existence of druidic networks at a smaller scale. That such networks existed in Gaul is almost indisputable, but there is little evidence as to whether there was any significant druidic organization in Britain.15 However, simply because there is a lack of evidence it does not completely negate the possibility. Given the extent of the organization of druids in Gaul, some similar order may have evolved in parallel at this time in Britain. This political elite would have had strong motivations for stirring up discontent with Roman rule among client kingdoms and within the province as a whole. The Britons may have rebelled against what they perceived to be a Roman attack on their centre of political and religious authority. Why should not this particular rebellion have been a reaction against an attack on what could be seen as the centre of political and religious authority in Britain? This would explain both why Paulinus marched upon Anglesey as well as the sudden rise of Boadicea and the incitement of peoples who had been relatively quiet under Roman rule until that point.16 Thus, the rebellion of Boadicea can be viewed as more related to broader social and political ties than it at first appears. Druids occasioned more problems for Roman conquest than any other religion in Gaul and Germany.17 Stephen Dyson describes a parallel event in the revolution of Vercingetorix which began in the centre of druidic activities in Gaul.18 While Dyson believes there to have been little visible interference by the druids in the Gallic revolution, the parallel is striking.19 Viewed through this religious lens, Boadicea’s revolt, if it was truly ‘her’ revolt rather than one motivated partially by external religious influences, exhibits more nuanced motivations than are at first apparent. As previously mentioned, Dio attributes certain religious or seer-like qualities to Boadicea (62.2). Tacitus, however, remains scornful of the Queen, seeing her as an upset of the natural order. Yet, even he refers to her “religious fervour.”20 The narrative in both primary sources thus becomes 12 W.F. Tamblyn “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 22. 13 Mommsen and Paul as quoted in W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 21. 14 Ibid, 23. 15 Ibid, 21-36, 26. 16 Stephen L. Dyson, “Native Revolts in the Roman Empire,” 259. 17 W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 185. 18 Stephen L Dyson, “Native Revolts in the Roman Empire,” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 20 no. ⅔ (1971): 248. 19 Stephen L Dyson, “Native Revolts in the Roman Empire,” 248. 20 Francesca Santoro L’hoir, “Tacitus and Women’s Usurpation of Power,” The Classical World 88 no. 1 (1994): 9.

coloured with alternate readings that suggest religious motivations. While it is likely that religious motivations were not the most important factor leading up to the revolt, it seems probable that they contributed in some way to the fomentation of Britannic resentment towards the Roman colonizers. From Tacitus, then, we have the destruction of the sacred groves upon Mona. From Dio, we have a glimpse of Boadicea performing a religious ritual (62.6). From both, we have a mention of sacrifices celebrated in the groves of Andate. With Rutledge asserting that “only on the rare occasion did the Romans genuinely try to “stamp out” entirely the religious life of a people, as was the case with the Druids,” a more nuanced picture of the rebellion begins to appear.21 If the interpretation Rutledge espouses is assumed to be correct, and it is certain that the destruction of sacred spaces was common Roman military policy, Boadicea appearing in conjunction with the invasion of Mona is not merely the result of Paulinus’ distance from the Iceni. Rather, it is a combination of factors among which striking at the heart of druidic networks in Celtic Britain plays no small role. The destruction, and when the word destruction is used it is used in the sense of complete annihilation, of what Tacitus presents as a well-defended religious and rebellious centre of the Britons, pushed the indignities outlined by both ancient sources too far, resulting in the rebellion of several tribes. While many may have been dissatisfied with Roman rule, there must have been some catalyst to draw the tribes together into a cohesive force. This catalyst is suggested in the invasion of Mona and the destruction of its groves. It is additionally reinforced by mentions of druidic practices during the revolt. There are a variety of objections against this interpretation of the revolt. Tamblyn professes disbelief in the existence of any druidic order within Britain, while Christopher Bulst cites the recalling of gifts from the nobles as a primary cause.22 Other historians attribute the causes of the rebellion to the brutality experienced by those who lived near Roman veterans’ colonies.23 Tamblyn even questions whether “the mere coincidence that the word “druid” used by both insular and continental Celts, and which was applied to wise men and magi in both Britain and Gaul, prove the magi of Britain and Gaul were of the same organization or alike organized,” and ultimately concludes that it does not.24 Tamblyn’s evaluation of this seems almost ludicrously dismissive. Casting aside a piece of evidence by simply stating it to be a coincidence does not invalidate the original supposition. There is a strong possibility that this was no coincidence and that parallel organizations existed in Britain and Gaul. To examine the occurrence of similar linguistic patterns, and then to dismiss them out of hand as being a 21 Steven H. Rutledge, “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites,” 191. 22 W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 26; Christoph M. Bulst, “The Revolt of Queen Boudicca in A.D. 60,” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 10, no. 4 (1961): 497. 23 John C. Overbeck, “Tacitus and Dio on Boudicca’s Rebellion,” 140. 24 W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 26.

coincidence rather than rooted in some historical reality, obscures the possibility of alternative interpretations. While Mommsen, Paul, and Jung may go too far in the other direction by suggesting that powerful druidic figures dominated Britain, religious motivations and practices undoubtedly played a powerful role in Celtic life.25 It is odd that neither set of scholars examines an alternative: the possibility of closely linked regional networks of druids tied to a common religious practice and locus of power. Tacitus’ description of Mona strongly suggests it was a locus of druidic power. Given the various gestures and references to druidic religion made by the ancient authors, there appears to be a high likelihood of Boadicea having some association with broader Celtic religious networks. Historians such as Bulst may be correct in their assumption that other motives lay at the root of the rebellion, but it is almost impossible, given the epigraphical evidence, to dismiss religious motivations out of hand as being, at the minimum, a secondary factor.

to the dominant narrative surrounding the rebellion adds both plausibility and complexity. It is unlikely that a rebellion at such a scale, involving such a degree of inter-tribal cooperation, was not connected to broader cultural currents in Celtic Britain. The existence of a rebellion motivated in part by the ability of a network of druids to give voice to the dissatisfactions of the people, much like that in Gaul, is highly plausible. Boadicea embodied all of those dissatisfactions, while serving as a religious figurehead. It was no accident that the rebellion occurred in conjunction with the invasion of Mona.

It is not necessary to attempt to extricate the practical motivations of the rebellion from its more vaguely referenced religious motivations. Rather, it is logical to consider both as coming together to create a social atmosphere within an area of Britain that was relatively peaceful and which was conducive to the revolt of several tribes. While there is no outright declaration of religious motivations from Tacitus and Dio, gathering up the various clues presented by them allows for the formation of a relatively large body of evidence. Furthermore, the extent to which ancient sources discuss or mention druidism demonstrates the power it had upon the ancient imagination.26 It is no great stretch then to connect Roman imperial practices such as the destruction of sacred sites to the invasion of the small island of Mona, which was regarded by Paulinus as worthy of a large military force and even the construction of boats. The epigraphical evidence presented by the ancient sources suggests a link between Mona and religious power in Celtic Britain. As a result of Roman imperialistic practices, such as temple destruction, this link becomes ever more apparent. There is no point in diminishing the importance of the other factors involved in stirring up the discontent of the Iceni and neighbouring tribes. The possibility of a religious element to the revolt adds to the overall plausibility of inter-tribal cooperation. Boadicea thus appears as more than a simply political figure: Dio imbues her with spiritual characteristics, while Tacitus presents some evidence of the connection between druidism and women. The final picture that this then presents to us is one of many varied and complex motives. There is no way of determining whether or not Mona truly was a centre of druidism in Britain, nor can we know with any level of certainty whether Paulinus set out with the intent to destroy this religious centre. However, the addition of a religious motive 25 Mommsen, Paul, Jung as quoted in W. F. Tamblyn, “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy,” 21. 26 Jane Webster, “At the End of the World: Druidic and Other Revitalization Movements in PostConquest Gaul and Britain,” 2.

Bibliography Primary Sources

Dio, Cassius. The Roman Histories, translated by Earnest Cary. Harvard: Harvard University Publishing, 1927. Tacitus, Cornelius. The Annals, translated by A. J. Woodman. Cambridge: Hackett Publishing, 2004.

Secondary Sources

Bulst, Christoph M. “The Revolt of Queen Boudicca in A.D. 60.” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 10, no. 4 (1961): 496-509. Dyson, Stephen L. “Native Revolts in the Roman Empire.” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 20, no. 2/3 (1971): 239-74. L’Hoir, Francesca Santoro. “Tacitus and Women’s Usurpation of Power.” The Classical World 88, no. 1 (1994): 5-25. Overbeck, John C. “Tacitus and Dio on Boudicca’s Rebellion.” The American Journal of Philology 90, no. 2 (1969): 129-145. Reed, Nicholas.”The Sources of Tacitus and Dio for the Boudiccan Revolt.” Latomus. 33, no. 4 (1974): 926-933. Rutledge, Steven H. “The Roman Destruction of Sacred Sites.” Historia: Zeitschrift Für Alte Geschichte 56, no. 2 (2007): 179-195. Tamblyn, W. F. “British Druidism and the Roman War Policy.” The American Historical Review 15, no. 1 (1909): 21-36. Webster, Jane. “At the End of the World: Druidic and Other Revitalization Movements in Post-Conquest Gaul and Britain.” Britannia 30 (1999): 1-20.

Ubi sunt Ovidii Metamophoseon Libri ? Du Narcisse antique à sa réécriture romanesque au XIIe siècle Jeanne Savard-Déry « […] quoque magis tegitur, tectus magis aestuat ignis. » Ovide, Métamorphoses, IV, v. 64 Illustre poète antique, Ovide écrit les Métamorphoses dans un esprit de création à la fois fort divergent de ses contemporains et en même temps bien ancré dans la société dans laquelle il évolue. De l’origine de Chaos aux amours maudits de Pyrame et Thisbé en passant par l’horreur infâme déployée dans l’histoire de Philomela, l’auteur n’hésite pas à allier le beau et l’effroyable, dans une narration limpide, et où les principaux motifs se répètent. Ses récits regorgent de références culturelles, faisant de l’auteur un agent actif de son temps. Au fil des siècles, et plus particulièrement aux alentours du XIIe siècle, certaines métamorphoses d’Ovide regagnent en popularité et font l’objet d’une mise en roman : par exemple, l’histoire de Narcisse se voit translatée en un lai resté anonyme. Le reflet médiéval présente plusieurs caractéristiques de la version antique, mais se dégage tout de même de cette dernière par des idées plus contemporaines et résonnantes pour le public de l’époque. De cette thèse découle la question suivante : comment l’auteur anonyme du XIIe siècle, par la lecture de l’épisode de Narcisse dans les Métamorphoses, se réfère-t-il à Ovide au niveau du fond et de la forme ? Elle se défendra sur la base de trois arguments, à savoir : l’apport des sens physiques de la vue et du toucher lors de certaines descriptions ; l’illusion paradoxale, créée à maintes reprises par les deux auteurs ; enfin, l’allusion, simple, double ou triple, usitée par le moyen de procédés stylistiques et les échos oraux, qui retracent le style engagé des auteurs par nombre de références culturelles, c’est-à-dire représentant leur époque ou une période antérieure.

Le premier volet de l’argumentation porte sur l’apport de la vue et du toucher qui se retrouvent dans l’écriture même des auteurs au fil du récit, en particulier lors de la description physique de Narcisse : […] haeret, ut e Pario formatum marmore signum. Nature i mist toute s’entente spectat humi positus geminum, sua lumina, sidus Au deviser et au portraire […] et dignos Baccho, dignos et Apolline crines Les dens fist blances conme nois, impubesque genas et eburnea colla decusque Puis les aorne trois a trois. […] oris et in niueo mixtum candore ruborem Après li forma le menton, cunctaque miratur, quibus est mirabilis ipse.1 Et de totes pars environ Li vait polissant a sa main […] Quant tot a fait a son creant, Par le vïaire li espant Et par la face qu’il ot tainte Une color qui pas n’est fainte […] Ne se desfait en nule fin […] Par tel entente et par tel cure Et par tel sens le fist Nature.2

Dans les deux extraits, la description physique fait appel au sens créatif de l’œuvre statuaire, notamment par le champ lexical d’une telle entreprise (tableau 1).

Tableau 1: Champ lexical de Narcisse, XIIesiècle Latin

Ancien français

Verbes

formatum, spectat, mixtum, miratur

mist, deviser, portraire, fist, aorne, forma, polissant, espant, tainte, desfait

Substantifs

Pario, marmore, signum, lumina, sidus, Baccho, Apolline, crines, genas colla, oris, niueo, candore, ruborem

s’ententew, dens, nois, menton, main, creant, vïaire, face, color, cure, sens

Adjectifs

dignos, impubes, eburnea, decus, mirabilis

blances, fainte

Le lexique regorge d’allusions en lien avec la fabrication d’une statue, notamment par la couleur « blanche comme neige », qui revient dans les deux passages, et 1 Ovide, Métamorphoses III, v. 419-423. 2 Anonyme, « Lai de Narcisse », v. 64-112. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « […] Nature déploya tous ses efforts pour dessiner ses traits et les façonner […] Les dents, qu’elle ordonne à la perfection, elle les fit blanches comme neige. […] Ensuite, elle façonne le menton et le polit tout autour de sa main […]Lorsqu’elle a tout fait à son idée, elle répand sur tout le visage et sur la face encore pâle une couleur qui n’a rien d’artificiel […] elle ne se modifie jamais. […] Tels furent les soins, tels furent le souci et le savoir que Nature dispensa pour créer cet être. »

par le teint inébranlable, pour ne pas dire figé de l’adolescent. En ce qui a trait à la mention de Bacchus et d’Apollon dans la version latine, Narcisse est comparé tout simplement à ces dieux mythologiques réputés pour leur beauté ou, du moins pour leurs cheveux frisés - « dignos Baccho, dignos et Apolline crines. » Bien que non explicité dans l’exemple ci-haut, la version médiévale comporte également cette référence : « Caviaus crespés, recercelés / Qui plus luisent c’ors esmerés. »3 Finalement, la contemplation chez Ovide, « spectat », qui met en scène un effet de miroir, se voit complétée par l’admiration, « miratur » du jeune homme envers lui-même. Comme de fait, l’auteur médiéval utilise également des verbes de même type, tels que « s’en merveille », « esgarde » ou encore « voit ».4 Par cette description sculpturale, les auteurs jouent avec le personnage de Narcisse en faisant un renvoi à eux-mêmes, donc de leur propre rétrospection : ils sont, après tout, les « créateurs » du récit, soit par la transmission de celui-ci dans leur langue ou par le remaniement d’une littérature préexistante. En bref, l’auteur médiéval puise certainement, entre autres choses, à la source latine afin d’y employer un vocabulaire regroupant les sens physiques de la vision et du toucher, ce qui n’est pas sans rappeler le récit troublant de Pygmalion et de sa statue qui prend vie dans les Métamorphoses d’Ovide. Le deuxième volet de l’argumentation sera consacré au thème de l’illusion paradoxale, plus particulièrement lors de la scène clé où Narcisse prend conscience de soi-même : iste ego sum : sensi, nec me mea fallit imago ; uror amore mei : flammas moueoque feroque. quid faciam ? roger anne rogem ? quid deinde rogabo ? quod cupio mecum est : inopem me copia fecit. o utinam a nostro secedere corpore possem! 5

Ensi li fuit, si le deçoit, Et quide que fantosmes soit. Un poi est en son sen venus ; Lors counoist qu’il est deceüs, Et voit que c’est unbres qu’il aime. Mout par se blasme et fol se clainme, Et neporquant ne set que faire : […] Et quant plus est desesperans, Tant est l’angoisce assés plus grans.6

3 Anonyme, « Lai de Narcisse », v. 64-112. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « […] les cheveux tout frisés, tout bouclés, plus brillants que l’or pur. » 4 Anonyme, « Lai de Narcisse », v. 106-109. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « […] est émerveillé […] regarder […] voit […]. » 5 Ovide, Métamorphoses III, v. 464-7. Et Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 130. 6 Anonyme, « Lai de Narcisse », v. 833-846. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « […]- c’est ainsi qu’elle le fuit et qu’elle l’abuse - et il se persuade que c’est une illusion. Puis il reprend un peu ses esprits ; il comprend alors qu’il s’est abusé et, il le voit, c’est son ombre qu’il aime. Il s’accable de reproches, il se traite de fou, mais il ne sait que faire : […] Et plus il se désespère, plus l’angoisse grandit. »

Les deux extraits présentent un jeu de déceptions et de détournements pour mieux dévoiler ultérieurement le véritable reflet envers lequel se passionne Narcisse. Chez Ovide, il semble s’intéresser à l’examen de « l’illusion et de la situation paradoxale qui en résulte »7, notamment par l’amalgame volontaire des voix actives et passives, un procédé stylistique très en vogue à l’époque.8 En ce qui concerne sa contrepartie médiévale, le narrateur se fait omniscient le temps d’expliquer la méprise afin de reprendre, un peu plus loin, le dialogue de Narcisse, entamé précédemment et qui fait d’ailleurs écho à celui de Dané.9Son intention semble donc plus focalisée sur les jeux de paroles entre les deux protagonistes. Néanmoins, le champ lexical de l’illusion rejoint les deux versions, qui explicitent le malheur et la double entente de l’adolescent (tableau 2) :

Tableau 2

Latin

Ancien français

Verbes

sum, fallit, uror, moveo, fero, faciam, roger, rogem, rogabo, est, fecit, possem, secedere

fuit, deçoit, soit (verbe prédicat), est,deceüs, deseperans

Substantifs

imago, amore, flammas, cupio, inopem, copia, corpore

fantosmes, sen, unbres, angoisce

Déterminants et pronoms

iste, ego, me, mea, mei, mecum, me, nostro

Dans les deux cas, les écrivains démontrent bien l’état de désespoir et de méprise en alternant l’actif et le passif dans les constructions verbales : en latin, la question « roger anne rogem ? » ; en ancien français, « il comprend alors qu’il s’est abusé et, il le voit ». Narcisse doit à la fois agir et subir, d’une manière enchevêtrée, un reflet bien rendu par Ovide, qui s’inscrit dans la tradition antique du miroir et qui est reprise plus tard par son répondant médiéval.10 De surcroît, l’illusion amenée par l’expression « iste ego sum » en latin « n’offre qu’une illusion d’auto-référentialité, de prédicats informatifs et utiles, et en 7 Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 130. 8 Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 130. 9 Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 136. 10 Shadi Bartsch, « Ovid’s Narcissus », dans The Mirror of the Self : Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2006), 88.

même temps, elle offre un catalyseur pour la destruction de l’amour pour soi rendu déchaîné. »11 En parallèle, le mot « fantosmes » en ancien français « fantômes » - retient ses sens littéral et figuré, c’est-à-dire qu’il peut signifier à la fois un fantôme et un fantasme.12 Cette illusion rejoint au vers suivant le verbe counoist, « comprendre », qui réfère à la prophétie de Tiresias sur la connaissance de soi chez Ovide, relatée au début de la version médiévale voir v. 41 – et qui se concrétise à l’apothéose du récit. En résumé, le thème de l’illusion est bien ancré dans ce moment décisif de l’épisode de Narcisse et du Lai de Narcisse, jouant ainsi avec le miroir d’une situation paradoxale. Enfin, pour le poète médiéval autant que pour Ovide, le récit de Narcisse leur permet d’employer toutes sortes de techniques stylistiques afin de reproduire, sous forme de dialogue, les doubles échos oraux et, outre mesure, d’intégrer des références culturelles propres à leur culture et à leur société:13 Quae tamen ut uidit, quamuis irata memorque, indoluit, quotiensque puer miserabilis « eheu ! » dixerat, haec resonis iterabat uocibus « eheu ! » ; cumque suos manibus percusserat ille lacertos, haec quoque reddebat sonitum plangoris eundem. ultima uox solitam fuit haec spectantis in undam : « heu frustra dilecte puer ! » totidemque remisit uerba locus, dictoque « uale » « uale » inquit et Echo.14

Quoi qu’il parole et il se blasme, Li cuers li faut, .III. fois se pasme Et la parole a ja perdue. Ovre les ex, s’a ja veüe Dané, qui vient tote esgaree […] Il le regarde, ne dist mot, Car parler veut, mais il ne pot. […] Les bras li tent, les levres muet […].15

Dans les deux versions, la perte de la parole du personnage principal caractérise cette scène apothéotique du récit, tout en faisant allusion à l’incapacité parolière d’Écho en une forme de miroir double.16 L’auteur latin insère d’abord une tentative de dialogue, ultimement échouée, d’Écho par le moyen de courtes exclamations, telles que « eheu ! » aux vers 495-6, « heu frustra dilecte puer ! » au vers 500 et « uale » répété deux fois de suite au vers 501. De telles interjections supportent et élèvent la mort pressentie, pour ne pas dire ressentie par Narcisse. La répétition des groupes exclamatifs met l’accent sur le jeune homme lui-même, puis sur Écho, à travers qui l’auteur fait un renvoi à Virgile dans ses Éclogues -« […]uale, 11 Shadi Bartsch, « Ovid’s Narcissus », dans The Mirror of the Self : Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2006), 88-89. 12 Emmanuèle Baumgartner, « Le Lai de Narcisse », 141. 13 Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 131. 14 Ovide, « Métamorphoses III », v. 494-501. 15 Anonyme, « Lai de Narcisse », v. 969-82. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « […] Tandis qu’il s’adresse ces reproches, le cœur lui manque, il se pâme à trois reprises et perd l’usage de la parole. Mais, ouvrant les yeux, il a vu Dané qui vient toute éperdue. […] Il la regarde sans dire un mot : il veut parler, mais il ne peut. […] Il lui tend les bras il remue les lèvres. » 16 Albert Gier, « L’Amour, les monologues : le Lai de Narcisse », dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, dir. Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 133.

uale […] »17 : il s’agit donc d’une allusion triple, dont le dernier est qualifié d’« écho intertextuel », comme l’explique Stephen Hinds. Chez le romancier médiéval, alors que le personnage d’Écho se voit transformé en fille de roi tout à fait autonome, la tentative de dialogue de la première devient un dialogue du regard entre Narcisse, privé de parole, et la dernière. L’auteur joue avec l’idée latine d’un écho autoréférent, mais il le réorganise en y rajoutant le motif du miroir narcissique. Prisonniers de leur vision, les deux jeunes gens s’unissent ainsi dans la mort par un mutisme tragique, écho probable de la version antique.18 Dans les deux cas, il y a présence d’un champ lexical relié à la douleur, au chant, à la voix exprimée fortement et tristement, qui renvoie à l’idée de plainte : pour le latin, « irata », « memor », « miserabilis », « eheu », « dixerat », « resonis », « vocibus », « sonitum », « vox », « remisit », « verba », « dicto », « uale », « inquit » ; pour l’ancien français, « parole » (verbe), « blasme », « cuers », « faut », « pasme », « parole » (substantif), « esgaree », « dist », « mot », « parler », « muet ». Du verbe de parole au substantif résonant sans oublier les exclamatifs d’adieux, ce passage regroupe tous les éléments propices et concrets des lamentations reliées au deuil, encadrées dans un récit d’allusion et d’autoréférence. La digression entre les deux versions se joue au niveau du message porté : là où il y avait une mort vengeresse chez Ovide, elle devient tragiquement amoureuse chez l’auteur médiéval. L’épisode de Narcisse, dans les Métamorphoses d’Ovide, a été translaté et traduit à de nombreuses reprises au fil des siècles suivants, y compris au XIIe siècle lors d’une réécriture médiévale romanesque. L’étude du, et la comparaison avec le, texte originel permettent définitivement une meilleure compréhension de la version postérieure, notamment par : l’apport des sens physiques de la vue et du toucher lors de certaines descriptions ; l’illusion paradoxale, créée à maintes reprises par les deux auteurs ; enfin, l’allusion, simple, double ou triple, usitée par le moyen de procédés stylistiques et les échos oraux, qui retracent le style engagé des auteurs par nombre de références culturelles, c’est-à-dire représentant leur époque ou une période antérieure. Ainsi, le poète médiéval puise abondamment à sa source latine, tout en donnant à l’auditeur-lecteur son entendement : « Narcisus, qui fu mors d’amer / Nous doit essample demostrer »,19 afin que tous les présents et les futurs affligés de l’Amour se défient des miroirs mortels.

17 Stephen Hinds, « Allusion and Self-Annotation”, 5-6. 18 Emmanuèle Baumgartner, « Le lai de Narcisse », 150. 19 �� Anonyme, « Narcisse », v. 35-6. Trad. Emmanuèle Baumgartner : « Narcisse, mort pour avoir aimé, doit ici nous servir d’exemple. »

Bibliographie Aumercier, Sandrine. « Narcisse : une histoire de cas ». Revue Le Coq-héron 1, no 196 (2009) : 85 - 89. Bartsch, Shadi. « Ovid’s Narcissus. » Dans The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire, 84 - 103. Chicago: University of Chicago, 2006. Baumgartner, Emmanuèle, dir. « Narcisse. » Dans Pyrame et Thisbé, Narcisse, Philomena : Trois contes du XIIe siècle français imités d’Ovide, 83 - 153. Traduit par Emmanuèle Baumgartner. Paris: Gallimard, coll. « Folio classique », 2000. Baumgartner, Emmanuèle. « Narcisse à la fontaine : du « conte » à « l’exemple » ». Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistes, no 9 (2002): 1 - 11. Gier, Albert. « L’amour, les monologues : Le Lai de Narcisse. » Dans Conjunctures, Medieval Studies in Honor of Douglas Kelly, sous la direction de Keith Busby et Norris J. Lacey, 129 - 137. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994. Hinds, Stephen. « Reflexivity: Allusion and Self-Annotation. » Dans Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of appropriation in Roman Poetry, 1 - 16. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Jappé, Françoise. «Adaptation et création dans le conte de Narcisse. » Dans Traduction, transposition, adaptation II, Bien dire et bien aprandre, XIV, 155 - 167. 1996. Lucken, Christopher. « L’Écho du poème (« ki sert de recorder che k’autres dist »). » Dans Par la vue et par l’ouïe, sous la direction de Michèle Gally et Michel Jourde, 25 - 58. Fontenay/Saint-Cloud: ENS Éditions, 1999. Ovid, Nasonis P. « Narcissus. » Dans Metamorphoses, 76 - 83. Sous la direction de Richard J. Tarrant. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004.

On the Ancient Greek Primary Colours: Black & White Leah Smith In the fifth-century BCE, Empedocles introduced the concept that black and white are the foundation for all other colours. Many texts that depict the beginning of the universe also detail the origin of colours and human perception. While scientific theories of the eye and vision now exist, there are many ways in which modern readers can interpret what these ancient philosophers meant when they referred to the concept of colour. This paper will explore some of the earliest accounts of colour, subsequent stories that focus on black and white, and scholarly sources that will reveal how we can understand this focus on these two particular shades. Black and white were considered elementary colours for most of the ancient Greek philosophers; this paper will outline why this was the case, and how this can broaden our historical and contemporary understandings of colour. Empedocles’ poem, On Nature, is one of the earliest texts on colour theory and is explained in terms of his own understanding of the origin of the world and human experience. He references Pythagorean ideas, such as the notions of harmonia and opposites. In particular, Empedocles’ view of “love and strife” as forces of creation and destruction in the world enhances Pythagorean concepts in his discussion of colour (17/109, line 3).1 Love and strife are different – if not opposite – concepts in nature, yet both have very important roles in the story of the universe. Pythagoras’ harmonia of the cosmos influenced Empedocles’ notion of the opposed, yet cohesive forces that yield a whole and harmonious universe made from unique elements. Love allows the four elemental bodies, (fire, water, earth, and air), to “come together… into one,” create new things, 1 Empedocles, The Poem of Empedocles: A Texts and Translation with an Introduction, trans. Brad Inwood (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006), 17/109, line 3. I rely exclusively on Brad Inwood’s English translations of Empedocles.

and pair similar things, by the notion that “like recognizes like” (25/17, line 7). However, things are “all borne apart separately by the hostility of strife,” which separates or destroys (25/17, line 8). All physical objects are created from different combinations of the four elements, while love and strife govern the mixing of them. Love and strife function simultaneously to create living things and differentiate species, such that nothing can exist without the two working together. These dichotomies of physical characteristics create the harmony, diversity, and completeness in the structure and order of the universe. Empedocles’ accounts of colour are intended to be considered within the context of his greater cosmogony, which is probably why he uses the parallel between love and strife to aid in these accounts. If the universe is created from these opposing forces, it would make sense that colour can also be understood in the same way. This view, that everything has a natural opposite and is arranged to exist in harmony with that opposite, can account for the variety of differences observed in the world. If one considers love and strife, it is reasonable to state that love creates living things by amassing like materials to form an organized body, whilst strife separates certain materials to ensure that a species of living things are distinguishable from another. For example, squirrels look different from dogs, and oak trees from rose-bushes. This vast array of differences can be seen even within a species, just as a German shepherd and a pug differ, but are still dogs. The extent to which love and strife govern the mixing of the elements is quite intricate; their incredibly nuanced and fine balance explains how one can account for numerous subtleties in colour and shade. Early Pythagorean accounts of the universe align with Empedocles’ explanations and are the foundations for his account of love and strife. Philolaus writes that the universe “comes to be in all respects out of opposites… a unification of things multiply mixed, and an agreement of things that disagree” (frag. 10).2 Harmonia is the Greek word for the ‘fitting together of things,’ and is used in this case to explain cosmological ordering and the interconnectedness of nature to a mathematical level.3 This idea is adopted by later philosophers, especially by Plato, and can shed light on why black and white were considered primary colours. If harmonia exists between all things, harmonia must also exist between things that appear to be extremely different. Opposite forces can create a cohesive universe, especially if they exist in proportion to each other. A source of harmony can be found between two things that are the most 2 Andrew Barker, “Pythagoras and Early Pythagoreanism,” in Greek Musical Writings (Cambridge University Press, 2004), 38. Philolaus was a Greek Pythagorean philosopher from Croton, in Southern Italy who predates Archytas and Plato and lived in 5th century BCE. 3 The Greek verb harmonia sometimes even meant something that fits within a mathematical ratio, or in certain proportions that make it viable and stable. See Katerina Ierodiakonou,“Empedocles on Colour and Colour Vision,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, no. 29 (2005): 7.

different from one another, like hard and soft, light and dark, sweet and sour, and, perhaps, black and white. There is a dichotomy for most things related to physical and sensory phenomena: volume, loud and quiet; temperature, hot and cold; texture, rough and smooth; weight, heavy and light. It seems likely that Empedocles understands colour in a similar way. While it is sometimes helpful to visualize two opposite extremes of any sensible phenomenon on a scale or linear format, this may not be the best way to think about colour, as it is a concept of continuous variation. For example, between the two extremes of hot and cold, there exist all the other temperatures; almost an infinite amount of them varying by degrees, tenths of degrees, hundredths, and so on. If one were to assume that this also applies to colour, we would simply say that black is on one end of a linear colour spectrum and white is on the other, and between them, every fathomable colour may be placed. We can see that many of the notions Empedocles took from the Pythagoreans were also mentioned and expanded upon by later philosophers, like Plato and Aristotle. As discussed before, the theories of harmonia and opposites of sensory phenomena are important for their discussions of colour. Aristotle writes in Sense and Sensibilia that “contraries are extremes… every object of sense-perception involves contrariety” and in “all classes of things lying between extremes the intermediates must be limited,” which can be interpreted to mean that the varying entities between the two poles are contained within the extremes (Aristotle, 445b 22-25).4 At first this seems counterintuitive, because there could be infinite numbers of colours (greys) resulting from combinations of black and white, just as there are infinite temperatures between hot and cold. However, Empedocles could mean that there are a limited number of distinct possible colours, because nothing can be blacker than the darkest black, nor whiter than the most extreme white. Black and white are the two most opposite extremes and they are unchanging; thus, we can infer that Empedocles believed there were a finite number of possible colours. It is difficult to visually experience a mathematically plausible – yet infinite – number of colours even with modern technology, for the human eye cannot distinguish such minute changes in pigment, such as adding, for instance, a one millionth of a pixel’s difference of darker blue to an already identically dark blue colour swatch.

a red that is redder than the most extreme red. This would raise the question as to whether red has a natural opposite, and if it too, like black, is an extreme on the end of another colour spectrum. This inquiry then leads to others. If there is an extreme red, is there then an extreme blue, green, yellow, and so on? It seems that colours have tangible limits. These questions are not discussed by either philosopher, and require further discussion. Although this linear theory of opposites makes sense from a modern perspective for other physical characteristics, the modern theory of colour has diverged so greatly from the ancient Greek one that it is difficult to imagine black and white as polar extremes of a complete linear colour spectrum. If we think practically about a colour spectrum with white and black on each end as opposite colours, and apply the same reasoning as that of mixing hot and cold, we end up with a grey-scale spectrum. Yet the work of both Empedocles and Aristotle seem to imply that all fathomable colours exist between black and white. It is not intuitive to the modern reader to think that combinations of black and white could ever mix to create yellow, blue, red, green, or any other bright colour we see in the world. If we consider a linear progression from black to white, only the variations of one colour are possible, thus, one colour must be able to exist on its own. Then, there could be slight variations of one colour, shown with their relative combinations and mixings with black and white. It seems the colour is at the center between them, and independent of black or white. The colour at its brightest point does not appear to be made of any of these two extreme shades. Therefore, in order to make better sense of Empedocles’ notion, one must not think of colours in a linear way, but instead on a plane, with black on one side and white on the other. All other colours from red to indigo, run from top to bottom, and at any point, the respective colour may become darker as it approaches black and lighter as it approaches white. However, from this perspective, one cannot see anywhere on this plane that accounts for the shades of grey that would naturally come about if a painter were to mix black and white together. It is hard to say whether it would be more correct to view colours on a plane than a linear spectrum, and perhaps neither are correct – Empedocles does not address this problem.

However, it is possible to conclude that there is not an infinite visible range of colours, because the number of colours are limited by the physiology of the human eye. This statement would be suitable for understanding Empedocles’ and Aristotle’s thinking anachronistically, but is insufficient in explaining their reasoning that all colours are combinations of black and white. If we accept that there can be no black darker than the most extreme black, there cannot also be

Additionally, Empedocles believes the element of fire to be white and water to be black. He writes “in the depths of the river a black colour is produced by the shadow,” likely the shadow of the water element (105/94, line 1). Interestingly, Empedocles does not associate colours with any other elements. Although other scholars, such as Katerina Ierodiakonou, believe that Empedocles is aware of four primary colours (white, black, yellow, and red). This is perhaps due to some universally known medical facts associated with the colours of phlegm, blood, and bile.5 Yet Ierodiakonou writes that these attributions are most likely

4 Aristotle, “Sense and Sensibilia,” in The Complete Works of Aristotle, trans. Brad Inwood (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 707. I rely exclusively on this translation of Aristotle.

5 The bile colours considered are black and yellow.

“implausible.” Following this, it is not useful to try to guess the possible colours associated with the other elements.6 Ierodiakonou suggests instead that the technique of chiaroscuro, or “drawing or painting with shading,” can clarify Empedocles’ sense of black and white as primary colours. Painters at the time used white to simulate light and black for darkness and shadow. While the black that they used was actually dark blue, their palettes were relatively complete if they also had white, red, and yellow.7 If we consider Empedocles’ accounts of colour as being rooted in practical art technique, it makes more sense to understand why he would believe black and white to be primary colours. However, even if we imagine the colour spectrum as the colours between black as shadow and white as light, the mixing of light and shadow would not necessarily result in a greyscale. It is difficult to state definitively whether Empedocles understands colour this way, or if he wants readers to understand his work in this way. Although he makes references to “painters… well-learned in their craft…[using] many-coloured pigments” and other artistic analogies to explain his theories, they are for illustrative purposes only and not entirely sufficient to understand the actual sense in which he meant to explain the visual perception of colour (27/23, line 1-3). Empedocles is more invested in trying to account for colour in a scientific sense than an artistic one. He explains how the physiology of the eye and the body are structured to be capable of sense perception. From an ancient biological lens, he looks at the body as having many differently sized pores that take in ‘effluvia’. Socrates explains Empedocles’ theory to Meno in Plato’s eponymous dialogue: “colour is an effluence from things which is commensurate with the organ of vision and is perceptible.”8 This is similar to how he believes smell works: small particles are given off by a body or object and are taken in by the nose, a porous organ used to collect the smell of those particles. He also believes that these particles are accepted by a separate effluence from the eye, which contains fire, and that because the colourful effluvia also contain fire, like finds like, allowing the eye to perceive the object as coloured. Empedocles says that “the blending of water and earth and aither and sun the forms and colours of [all the] mortals came to be” (74/71, line 2-3). He understands that colour is produced and can be seen because of the combination of the elements. Ierodiakonou interprets his idea of “blending” by noting that his understanding of painting at the time would influence his views and suggests that the four elements “do not fuse together in [a] genuine mixture… rather are arranged side by side or on top of each other,” so that none of the elements 6 7 8

Ierodiakonou, “Empedocles on Colour,” 11-12. Ibid., 15-16. Ibid., 23.

“[lose] their identity.”9 Thus, different colours are produced by his contemporary artists from an original four (black, white, yellow, and red) not by mixing the paints together on the palette, but by painting them side by side or on top of each other to create the illusion of a different colour. Empedocles would treat different colours as particular combinations of the elements, either juxtaposed or superimposed but not entirely mixed together, such that neither of the original colours are indistinguishable. Like harmonia, two very different colours are presented together in a harmonious way, or perhaps in a mathematically stable ratio, to create this illusion. Aristotle expands on Empedocles’ juxtaposition of colours in Sense and Sensibilia. This explanation is one of the more intuitive ways to understand why black and white were primary colours to the ancient Greeks. Aristotle says that different colours are made from tiny particles of black and white interspersed over a surface. The particles are so small that they are not perceptible to the eye individually, but collectively are able to form the impression of a certain colour: It is conceivable that the white and the black should be juxtaposed in quantities so minute that either separately would be invisible, though the joint product would be visible; and that they should thus have the other colours for resultants…many are the result of a ratio; juxtaposed in the ratio of 3 to 2, or of 3 to 4 (Aristotle, 439b 20-28).10 This idea is like the art technique of pointillism, where an artist covers an entire canvas with individual dots of paint in different colours so that when one stands far enough away, an image can be seen on the canvas. However, when viewed close up, one is able to see the individual dots of paint on the canvas. In Aristotle’s understanding, we cannot see the black and white dots on the surface of an object, but can see a certain combination of the two caused by a ratio, and that particular ratio yields a distinct colour. This theory of the juxtaposition of black and white would, in fact, mean that we could say all colours are created from the two, and it depends on the mathematical ratio of one to the other to determine which colour we can see. Even though Aristotle writes his accounts of colour well after Empedocles, both philosophers understand concepts that re rooted in the art techniques and practices of their day. The juxtaposition and superimposition of paint colours is thus a common visual style of the time, used to create an optical effect and the illusion of different colours. While Empedocles and those after him sought to provide a scientific answer to a physical phenomenon, their explanations are hard to separate from what we call artistic knowledge. There are many 9 Ibid., 6. 10 Aristotle, “Sense and Sensibilia,” 698.

ways in which we can try to understand why black and white were regarded as primary colours. Although it is difficult to know how Empedocles intends readers to interpret his account, by tracing common ideas in the works of other philosophers, one gains a sense of the historical understanding of both colour and of human perception.

The Various Fires in the Metamorphoses Nikolay Parvanov

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Aristotle. “Sense and Sensibilia.” In Aristotle, The Complete Works of Aristotle, 693-713. Edited by Jonathan Barnes. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984. Empedocles. Fragments. In Empedocles, The Poem of Empedocles: A Text and Translation with an Introduction. Translated by Brad Inwood. Toronto, Ontario: University of Toronto Press, 2001.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Barker, Andrew. “Pythagoras and Early Pythagoreanism.” In Greek Musical Writings, 38. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Ierodiakonou, Katerina, “Empedocles on Colour and Colour Vision.” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, no. 29 (2005): 1-37.

In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, there are two main words used to express the meaning of fire: ignis and flamma. Another, much less common word meaning fire used only in the second half of the book, is ardor. Since the poetic metrics of ignis and flamma are nearly identical and ardor is so seldomly used relative to the other two words, the exact meaning of each of these words that can all mean fire is put into question. After counting the number of times each is used, it is obvious that by far ignis, and derivatives, is the fire-related word used the most (145 times), followed by flamma (55 times), and ardor mainly present in the second half of the poem is rarely used (9 times). Since looking at each individual use of these three words is beyond the scope of this paper, the strategy adopted here is to look at cases where both ignis and flamma are present in the same episode, then seeing how ardor may compare in meaning and connotation. To that effect, out of these episodes, several were chosen to be examined more closely. Holistically, ignis and flamma are often used in their literal sense, which means that they do not exhibit much difference in their meaning throughout the text. In some cases, peculiar uses come up that require more attention: ignis and flamma as lightning, fires of passion, catasterism through fire, and fire in Pythagoras’ speech. However, even within those cases ignis and flamma are sometimes used interchangeably. Therefore, those two words have more or less the same uses when compared to one another, though when considered as one unit meaning “fire” they provide several peculiar connotations worth exploring further – these several different types of fire determined rather by context than by the word used. So, first, the literal uses of ignis and flamma will be investigated and then metamorphic ones.

Poetic metrics of ignis and flamma

Ovid must have had a reason to use ignis instead of flamma, and vice versa, other than each word’s metric properties. When it comes to the dactylic hexameter that Ovid uses in the Metamorphoses, ignis and flamma are only

naturally different in the plural dative or ablative (i.e. ignibus – three syllables of long quantity, flammīs – one syllable of short quantity and one syllable of long quantity) and in the singular ablative (i.e. igne – two syllables of short quantity, flammā – one syllable of short quantity and one of long quantity, though ignī – one syllable of short quantity and one syllable of long quantity is also possible).1 So, since each word has a double consonant in its middle, ignis and flamma are almost identical in terms of natural metrics except for that flamma ends in a vowel which opens up new metric possibilities. However, the rules of dactylic hexameter can alter these natural lengths of syllables (e.g. by a caesura or from the position of the word in the verse).2 Therefore, it is unlikely that Ovid would choose one over the other just because it would fit the meter better; a verse in dactylic hexameter is very adaptable, and the two words have comparable metrics.

General uses of ignis and flamma

mean physical fire is also its most common. Again, based on the first two books a pattern emerges where flamma is used purely to mean “flame” which can often be interchangeably translated as “fire” in English.7 This type of literal use of fire-related words (not only ignis and flamma) persists throughout the Metamorphoses as the main usage overall. One place where ignis and flamma are repeatedly used in conjunction with one another and both mean physical fire is Met. 8.451-514.8 This is the episode where Althaea discovers the burned brand of Meleager in a hearth. In short, Meleager and Althaea’s story is a case of magic use within the Metamorphoses that “express[es] the release of violent human emotions,” where fire brings life and takes it away.9 Here both ignis and flamma generally express physical flames that burn things. Though, granted, they take up certain contextual connotation – a recurrent theme throughout the poem. So, the use of ignis and flamma, at least when in the literal sense of physical fire, is almost entirely interchangeable.

Ignis and flamma as lightning

In Latin in general, ignis can mean: 1) generic word for fire; 2) “brightness, splendor, brilliancy, lustre, glow, redness;” 3) “firewood, fuel;” 4) “the fire or glow of passion, in a good or bad sense;” 5) “like amores, a beloved object, a flame;” 6) a destructive/cataclysmic fire.3 On the other hand, flamma can mean: 1) “a blazing fire, a blaze, a flame;” 2) “the flame or fire of passion, esp. of love, the flame or glow of love, flame, passion, love;” 3) “a devouring flame, destructive fire, suffering, danger.”4 Throughout Ovid’s Metamorphoses both ignis and flamma, when in isolation from one another, adopt these definitions at several points throughout the poem but are generally used in their literal sense (i.e. actual physical fire/flame). For instance, in the first couple of books, when we are still in the very deep past, near the beginning of the universe, most uses of ignis express actual physical fires5 or the heat generated by the sun or other stars.6 Later in the poem, when the narrative becomes more grounded, ignis is still mostly used in its generic sense. As for flamma, the literal use to

Other than to mean physical fire, ignis and flamma are often used to signify Jupiter’s thunder. Ignis and flamma are closely used in two episodes of Book I – Lycaon’s terrors and Jupiter flooding the Earth (i.e. Lycaon is transformed into a wolf then Jupiter floods the Earth). Lycaon is shown to scorch his victims with physical fire but is struck by a uindice flamma which is the vengeful thunderbolt of Jove – the first use of this connotation of flamma.10 The contrast between the two here is not due to the use of ignis instead of flamma, and vice versa. Rather, it is determined by the context in which the fire in question occurs. Therefore, in this case, ignis and flamma can be used interchangeably; however, they cannot be used in all cases in the same way. Moreover, Jupiter floods the Earth instead of burning it again as he fears the heavens may catch in flames because of the fires from below started by the lightning bolts he would have hurled all over

1 Allen, Joseph Henry, and J. B Greenough. 2002. Allen and Greenough’s New Latin Grammar. New York: Dover Publications., 10, p.5. 2 Allen & Greenough, 615, pp.411-2. 3 Lewis & Short, ignis entry, pp.880-1. 4 Lewis & Short, flamma entry, pp.756-7. 5 For example, Ovid Metamorphoses: imminet his aer, qui, quanto est pondere terrae / pondus aquae leuius, tanto est onerosior igni (1.52-3); inde ubi libatos inroravere liquores / uestibus et capiti, flectunt uestigia sanctae / ad delubra deae, quorum fastigia turpi / pallebant musco stabantque sine ignibus arae (1.371-4); Cetera diuersis tellus animalia formis / sponte sua peperit, postquam uetus umor ab igne / percaluit solis caecumque udaeque paludes / intumuere aestu fecundaque semina rerum, / uiuaci nutrita solo ceu matris in aluo, / creuerunt faciemque aliquam capere morando (1.41621); iussa deae celeres peragunt ignemque uomentes / ambrosiae suco saturos praesepibus altis / quadripedes ducunt adduntque sonantia frena (2.119-21). 6 For example, Ovid Met.: cumque sit ignis aquae pugnax, uapor umidis omnes / res creat et discors concordia fetibus apta est (1.432-2); emicat extemplo laetus post talia matris / dicta suae Phaeton et concipit aethera mente, / Aethiopasque suos positosque sub ignibus Indos / sideris transit patriosque adit impiger ortus (1.776-8).

7 For example, Ovid Met.: sic deus in flammas abiit, sic pectore toto / uritur et sterilem sperando nutrit amorem (1.495-6); Regia Solis erat sublimibus alta columnis, / clara micante auro flammasque imitante pyropo, / cuius ebur nitidum fastigia summa tegebat, / argenti bifores radiabant lumine ualuae (2.1-4); tum pater ora sui sacro medicamine nati / contigit et rapidae fecit patientia flammae / imposuitque comae radios praesagaque luctus / pectore sollicito repetens suspiria dixit (2.122-5). 8 More specifically, Ovid Met.: protulit hunc genetrix taedasque et fragmina poni / imperat et positis inimicos admouet ignes. / tum conata quarter flammis imponere ramum / coepta quarter tenuit (8.460-3); nam postquam pestifer ignis / conualuit (8.477-8); o utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans (8.501); dixit dextraque auersa trementi / funereum torrem medios coniecit in ignes. / aut dedit aut uisus gemitus est ipse dedisse / stipes et inuitis correptus ab ignibus arsit. / Inscius atque absens flamma Meleagros ab illa / uritur et caecis torreri uiscera sentit / ignibus ac magnos superat uirtute dolores (511-7). 9 Segal, Charles. “Black and White Magic in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”: Passion, Love, and Art.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 9, no. 3 (2002): 1-34. http://www.jstor.org.proxy3. library.mcgill.ca/stable/20163854., pp.7-8. 10 i.e. Ovid Met.: partim subiecto torruit igni. / quod simul imposuit mensis, ego uindice flamma / in domino dignos euerti tecta (1.229-231).

the Earth.11 This explanation provided by Ovid subverts the expected order of events teasing his audience, perhaps to introduce the concept of Jupiter’s thunders as flamma/ignis more emphatically.12 Though, his lightning here is a fulmen, later in the poem both ignis and flamma are used to signify it. Indeed, this is the first peculiar mixed use of ignis and flamma and is not found in any particular book though it is always in context with the gods, especially Jupiter. Mostly concentrated in the first half of the poem where Jupiter is present more often, fire frequently actually means lightning when it is connected to the clouds or directly to the god himself. Furthermore, in Book II, just before the sun returns to its routine after the Phaeton incident, there is a brief mention of ignis ab illo (i.e. of Jove) having been unjustly sent down upon Phaeton to correct his mistake.13 A few lines down, Jupiter excuses his own missos ignes, fires that since they are by Jove are in fact his lightning bolts. Further still in the same book, we see Jupiter again cui dextra trisulcis ignibus armata est (Ov. Met. 2.849). His hand is armed with a three-pronged fire, a symbol of his lightning. In his way, Book II presents various instances where ignis is the fire of Jove, which is in fact his lightning – still a physical type of “fire” but not quite fire as one would imagine, rather something that more often than not starts a fire. Other cases where fire refers to lightning are: elisi ignes (Ov. Met. 6.696) from the cavities of the clouds (heaven), elisi nubibus ignes (Ov. Met. 8.339), and near the very end of the poem where Jupiter himself refers to his lightning as ignis (Ov. Met. 15.871). Curiously enough, other than the uindice flamma the word flamma is rarely used to refer to lightning (e.g. the flamma avita in Book II refers to the grandfather’s lightning bolt) (Ov. Met. 2.646). Finally, in Book IV, the ignigenam is in fact not the fire-born one but that of lightning since it refers to Bacchus whose mother was accidentally smitten by Jupiter’s true form (a lightning). So, using “fire” to refer to lightning is present in the Metamorphoses mostly through the use of ignis but also possible through the use of flamma. Thus, this is one peculiar case where the two words meaning fire are almost interchangeable when it comes to meaning lightning. However, for that to be fully attested in context, more examples of flamma as lighting would be needed. Otherwise, Jupiter’s lighting is a fulmen.

Fires of passion

In the Metamorphoses, gods are often enraged, frequently due to sexual frustration. In non-euphemistic terms, gods go through a cycle where they “‘blaze up’ or ‘catch fire’ and then ‘struggle’ or ‘fight’ with ‘resisting’ or ‘fleeing’ nymphs 11 Ovid Met.: Iamque erat in totas sparsurus fulmina terras, / sed timuit ne forte sacer tot ab ignibus aether / conciperet flammas longusque ardesceret axis (1.253-5). 12 Fantham, Elaine. Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Cary: Oxford University Press USA - OSO, 2004. Accessed December 4, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central., p.28. 13 Ovid Met.: fit noua Cycnus auis nex se caeloque Iouique / credit, ut iniuste missi memor ignis ab illo; / stagna petit patulosque lacus ignemque perosus / quae colat elegit contraria flumina flammis (2.377-80).

and, by the use of ‘force,’ ‘win’ or ‘are victorious.’”14 However, not only the gods can experience fires of this sort. In Book III, Narcissus loves himself and is loved by everyone including Echo whose own flamma burned like sulphur when it catches fire as the flame of a torch is brought near.15 Here, the first use of flame is her flames of passion, so to speak. Although at first glance seemingly literal, the flame here has a connection to passion since Ovid uses the imagery of a torch – an important element of ancient marital rites. Another example of flames as passion is when Narcissus, increasingly deranged, deliberates his own love for himself.16 Here, Narcissus’ flaming passion is so great that he develops an alter ego, or rather an iste within his inner monologue.17 So, the flammas can be understood as a burning passion (almost lust) which is linguistically figurative but actually very real in Narcissus’ mind. Therefore, although flamma is used twice in the same sentence it has different meanings depending on the connotation it has, which means that the difference between ignis and flamma is only as great as the differences between their contexts. Furthermore, in Book IV when Pyramus and Thisbe’s love is described by Arsippe, she also uses fire to express their shared compassion.18 Curiously, flamma never appears in Book IV. However, they were both burning in their captivated minds, again, a burning pertaining to passionate love.19 Moreover, Books VI & VII a varied use of several words meaning fire is also present. This is the first time where ignis and flamma reappear in close relation to each other since Book II. Again, fire assumes a more figurative meaning, one of internal passion, though not necessarily a good kind of passion. Indeed, in Book VI when Tereus sees Philomela for the first time, he bursts in flames like the fire of burning grain or hay which is burning to ash.20 In one sentence, Ovid uses three different words meaning fire, all with slightly different connotations, though relating to the same thing – passion (though not necessarily a good one). Later in the poem this occurs again when Jason makes a promise of marriage to Medea and him gets the Golden Fleece (i.e. two episodes in Book VII). Here, Medea shows her irrational love of Jason. This is also where ardor appears for the first time, as a noun and not a verb, in the Metamorphoses. Ardor, which can also mean fire with various connotations, 14 Nagle, Betty Rose. “”Amor, Ira”, and Sexual Identity in Ovid’s “metamorphoses”.” Classical Antiquity 3, no. 2 (1984): 236-55. doi:10.2307/25010817., p.251. 15 Ovid Met.: sequitur uestigia furtim / quoque magis sequitur, flamma propriore calescit, / non aliter quam cum summis circumlita taedis / admotas rapiunt uiuacia sulphura flammas (3.371-4). 16 Janan, Micaela. “Narcissus and Echo: The Arrows of Love’s Errors.” In Reflections in a Serpent’s Eye: Thebes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Oxford Scholarship Online, 2010. doi: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199556922.003.0004., p.148. She provides a translation of uror amore mei, flammas moueoque feroque (Ovid Met. 3.464) where flammas is translated as “passion.” 17 Janan 2010, p.149. 18 Ovid Met.: conscius omnis abest; nutu signisque loquuntur, / quoque magis tegitur, tectus magis aestuat ignis (4.63-4). 19 Ovid Met.: quod non potuere uetare, / ex aequo captis ardebant mentibus ambo (4.61-2). 20 Ovid Met.: non secus exarsit conspecta uirgine Tereus / quam si quis canis ignem supponat artis / aut frondem positasque cremet faenilibus herbas (6.455-7).

here has the sense of an internal fire or passion.21 Medea having pushed it away diminishes it, though the flamma of her ardor was relit as soon as she sees Jason.22 So, the first use of ardor (as a noun) is closely linked with the idea of internal flamma of passion and desire – in this case, desire that isn’t distorted like in Book VI. Thus, like ignis and flamma, ardor’s meaning is determined by its context more so than purely by its definition.

Catasterism through Fire

The catasterisms of Hercules in Book IX and that of Caesar in Book XV are another case where both ignis and flamma are prominently used. For, Hercules must burn to become deified and Caesar becomes a star after his assassination. In Hercules’ case, the uses of fire go from physical fire (i.e. the burning fire of Hercules’ pyre)23 to metamorphic fire which is the one burning Hercules’ corpse resulting in his catasterism by the gods: Iamque valens et in omne latus diffusa sonabat / securosque artus contemptoremque petebat / flamma suum; timuere dei pro uindice terrae ( Ov. Met. 9.239-41). Here, Jupiter himself speaks of these fires when addressing the other gods saying that not a single one can defeat Hercules – affirming his divine status.24 Ultimately, ignis and flamma are used more or less interchangeably with the only divide in meaning not between the two words themselves but through the progression of the passage which begins with physical fires and ends with metamorphic ones. Furthermore, Caesar also becomes deified, albeit with fewer mentions of fire. Only near the end, when he is already deified and now becomes a star, is the connection to fire made in that he is burning since he is now a star.25 This fire is both metamorphic, in the sense that it signifies Caesar’s deification, and physical since it pertains to the stars. Indeed, fire pertaining to the stars can be seen especially in Book II (i.e. the Phaeton episode, Ov. Met. 2.31-328). Still, in the passage about Caesar’s deification the two occurrences of fire are one of ignis (i.e. ignescere to be precise) and one of flamma (i.e. flammiferum). So, the meaning and connotation of the fires in this passage are again not drawn from the individual words themselves but from their context within the passage and within the sentence they are in.

Fire in Pythagoras’ Speech

Finally, ignis and flamma are closely used in Book XV as part of Pythagoras’s 21 Lewis & Short, entries on ardor and related verbs, pp.155-6. 22 Ovid Met.: et iam fortis erat pulsusque resederat ardor, / cum uidet Aesoniden extinctaque flamma reluxit (7.76-7). 23 Ovid Met. : quo flamma ministro est / subdita; dumque auidis comprenditur ignibus agger (9.233-4). 24 Ovid Met.: Oetaeas spernite flamma. / omnia qui uicit uincet quos cernitis ignes, / nec nisi materna Vulcanum parte potentem / sentiet; aeternum est a me quod traxit et expers / atque immune necis nullaque domabile flamma (9.249-53). 25 Ovid Met.: dumque tulit, lumen capere atque ignescere sensit / emisitque sinu; luna uolat altius illa / flammiferumque trahens spatioso limite crinem / stella micat (15.846-50).

speech about the elements and physical changes. When Pythagoras teaches about the elements, he only uses ignis to describe the element of fire and compare it to the other elements.26 The omission of flamma here could be because ignis is just a more generic term.27 Where flamma does appear is later when Pythagoras explains physical changes.28 The seeds flammae are in fact those simple “of fire” as in the element mention in the earlier passage. Otherwise, in these lines ignis and flamma seem to be used in the usual general concept of simply meaning physical fire.29 In the end, Pythagoras’ speech presents a unique perspective of fire as it is neither so literal that it is mundane, nor so figurative that it is an impossible type of fire (e.g. the fire within of passion/ love). Also, this speech exemplifies “the principles of cosmic metamorphosis” at length, a metamorphosis often achieved by means of fire (e.g. Hercules’ deification in Book IX).30 Thus, the uses of fire related words in this passage are didactic and as a result literal in their sense. From this, once again the meaning of fire is not as much related to whether ignis or flamma is used but the context within which it exists. In conclusion, the difference between the several types of fire in Ovid’s Metamorphoses does not stem from which fire-related word is used (e.g. ignis as opposed to flamma and vice versa). Rather, it depends on the context and specific use of “fire” as a concept in the passage in question. Also, most uses of any fire-related word in the Metamorphoses are quite literal in that they mean actual physical fire that burns, heats things up, or emanates from the stars. Nevertheless, some contextual uses seem to be more common to ignis (e.g. the lightning of Jupiter) or to flamma (e.g. figurative flames of passion within a person’s being). However, even in those cases interchangeable use of ignis and flamma is possible. Thus, ignis, flamma, and to some extent ardor are mostly interchangeable when used in isolation from any context or even when their meaning depends on a context. Ultimately, specific connotations of fire are gained from context and not from the word, chosen by Ovid, itself.

26 Ovid Met.: aer atque aere purior ignis. / quae quamquam spatio distant, tamen omnia fiunt / ex ipsis et in ipsa cadunt, resolutaque tellus / in liquidas rarescit aquas, tenuatus in auras / aeraque umor abit, dempto quoque pondere rursus / in superos aer tenuissimus emicat ignes. / inde retro redeunt, idemque retexitur ordo; / ignis enim densum spissatus in aera transit (15.243-250). 27 Lewis & Short, ignis entry, pp.880-1. 28 Ovid Met.: nec quae sulphureis ardet fornacibus Aetne / ignea semper erit; neque enim fuit ignea semper. / nam siue est animal tellus et uiuit habetque / spiramenta locis flammam exhalantia multis / ... / saxaque cum saxis et habentem semina flammae / materiam iactant, ea concipit ictibus ignem, / ... / nempe ubi terra cibos alimentaque pingua flammae / non dabit absumptis per longum uiribus aeuum / naturaeque suum nutrimen deerit edaci, / non feret illa famem desertaque deseret ignis (15.340-55). 29 Lewis & Short, entries on flamma and ignis, pp.756-7, 880-1. 30 Hardie, Philip. “The Speech of Pythagoras in Ovid Metamorphoses 15: Empedoclean Epos.” The Classical Quarterly 45, no. 01 (1995): 204. doi:10.1017/S000983880004180X., p.205.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Ovid, and R. J Tarrant. Metamorphoses. Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis. Oxonii: E Typographeo Clarendoniano, 2004.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Allen, Joseph Henry, and J. B Greenough. 2002. Allen and Greenough’s New Latin Grammar. New York: Dover Publications. Andrews, E. A, William Freund, Charlton T Lewis, and Charles Short. 1879. A Latin Dictionary Founded on Andrews’ Edition of Freund’s Latin Dictionary. Rev., enl. 2002. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fantham, Elaine. Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Cary: Oxford University Press USA OSO, 2004. Accessed December 4, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central. Hardie, Philip. “The Speech of Pythagoras in Ovid Metamorphoses 15: Empedoclean Epos.” The Classical Quarterly 45, no. 01 (1995): 204. doi:10.1017/S000983880004180X. Janan, Micaela. “Narcissus and Echo: The Arrows of Love’s Errors.” In Reflections in a Serpent’s Eye: Thebes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Oxford Scholarship Online, 2010. doi: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199556922.003.0004. Nagle, Betty Rose. “”Amor, Ira”, and Sexual Identity in Ovid’s “metamorphoses”.” Classical Antiquity 3, no. 2 (1984): 236-55. doi:10.2307/25010817. Segal, Charles. “Black and White Magic in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”: Passion, Love, and Art.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 9, no. 3 (2002): 1-34. http://www.jstor.org.proxy3.library.mcgill.ca/stable/20163854.

Backmatter International Work

In lieu of traditional backmatter, Hirundo XVII has decided to showcase the international network of the McGill Department of Classics by recognizing excellent work submitted by the broader McGill Classics community. This community spans from South Africa, to New Zealand, ending all the way back home in Montreal.

The Spartan Flaw limited citizenship and military imprudence

Matthew Alfred John Wannenburgh Stellenbosch University/Universiteit Stellenbosch This paper aims to critically analyse the Spartan prerequisites for citizenship as an inborn defect within the Spartan constitution, and how its exclusionary nature and rigorous selectiveness contributed to the overall decline and eventual collapse of the “true” Spartan citizenry. In order to illustrate the connection between Sparta’s fall and the exclusivity of citizenship status, the article will unpack the Spartan caste system and the significance and consequences of each of its major branches. The text will also explore the rigid blood inheritance rule, views on primogeniture, and the militant agōgē educational regime implemented to produce resilient citizen-soldiers and condition a populace decidedly built for endurance.

Sparta and its politeia:

The Dorian city-state of Sparta or Lakedaímōn (a mythical divine king of Laconia, and husband of Sparta), was a prominent military power of ancient Greece.1 Sparta became the prime enemy of Athens amidst the events of the Peloponnesian War between 431-404 BCE.2 Sparta’s victory over Athens arguably cost them more in hindsight, than their prima facie gains. The significant decrease in the number of Spartiates would bring about a negative imbalance in the Spartan demographic, ushering in an inevitable reversal of fortunes for the Spartiates minority as a power struggle brewed, and leaned in favour of the expanding Helots who sought to invert the conventional scales of power. The timeline for this paper will zoom in on events (in non-chronological order) deemed to be critical junctures occurring from the earliest known examples of Sparta’s adherence to the Spartan politeia or Lycurgus’ politeia, up until the fall of Sparta following the Theban invasion. The Spartan politeia (constitution) for the purposes of this text, refers to the collective Spartan governmental regime and accumulated legislation allegedly

1 2

Cartledge, P. 2003. Spartan Reflections. Berkeley: University of California Press. 91. Ibid., 192.

compiled since the era of Lycurgus, a legendary “lawgiver” hailed as the architect of the Spartan constitutional order.3 Xenophon, a known “laconophile”, described the Spartan social system as distinctly prescriptive of both strict imperatives and inflexible prohibitions applicable to those living under it.4 The Spartan constitution and social structure is distinct, in that it was devised with the key object of maximising the states potential for military competency through the creation of a generational warrior class.5 This dedication to military excellence manifested as a rigorous state endorsed right of passage (agōgē) for the male free-citizen youth seeking to join the ranks of the homoioi. By programming acceptable social behavior, the system aimed for prospective homoioi to acquire the fundamentals of survival and combat training , the development of physical endurance, and a means to engender a more hardened constitution.6 This often inured Spartans to violence through purposive exposure to hardships intended to shape the Spartan warrior-complex.7

the Spartan “guardian class” and entitled land-owners.11 The mothakes were the second most privileged demographic, and were technically non-Spartan free men who had been raised in the same manner befitting “true” Spartans, however, academics have not reached a credible consensus of the precise nature of the mothakes.12 Some authors attempt to explain the mothakes as being no different from the nothoi (illegitimates or half-Spartiates), alleging that mothakes were similarly composed of illegitimates and “lesser” Spartiates who succumbed to abject poverty or disgrace.13 The free class of perioikoi (“dwellers around”) were an autonomous non-gender-specific division that were free to inhabit, migrate, and inhabit the Spartan territories of Messenia and Laconia.14

The ancient polis of Sparta operated under one of the most exclusive, and possibly one of the most active forms of citizenship known to the ancient Mediterranean world. The Spartans practiced a hereditary caste system interlaced with timocratic policies (land-ownership as a prerequisite for political candidacy) with perceptibly wide disparities between the four traditional castes (Spartiates, Mothakes, perioikoi, and helots), broadly speaking.10 For the purposes of this paper, only the Spartiate and helot social groupings will be investigated. The summit of the social ladder was marked by the Spartiates, who held full citizenship status and benefitted from all available rights, as

Lastly, the helots (ilotas) were an enslaved local population of non-Spartans who fuelled a state-owned serfdom. The Spartan government exerted a firm hold over the local helot family structures, often strategically exploiting their helot subordinates by leveraging the welfare of helot soft targets (women and children) as the ultimate inducement for helot conscripts to actively participate as auxiliary soldiers within the larger Spartan army.15 The helots in essence served as a larger pool from which to draw additional infantry to flesh out the Spartan forces in larger scale conflicts, and were bound by a less restrictive relationship of ownership than that exerted by a conventional Roman “master” over their “chattel slaves,” who qualified more as corporeal property. It is important to note that helots were slaves (douloi), but the manner of their slavery should not be mistaken for the character of Roman slaves.16 Since helots were granted a greater degree of autonomy than that exhibited by conventional Roman slaves, they would be more accurately defined as serfs who were tethered to the land with minor benefits deriving from subsistence farming. Bruno Aguilera-Barchet contends that the helots were not entitled to usufructuary, and simply tilled their assigned demarcations, rendering a fixed payment of rent to the higher-ranking homoioi (body of equal peers).17 The privileged minority who held unreserved citizenship, were not intended to seek outside employment beyond the ambit of the military, and were therefore dependant on the regular rental income from individually allotted state controlled lands (i.e., “[non-transferable] lots”), of

3 Mossé, C. “Lycurgus the Spartan.” In Thamyris. Mythmaking from Past to Present, edited by N. M. W. De Vries & J. Best. 1 (2) (1994). 134. 4 Schofield, M. 2003. Saving the City: Philosopher-Kings and Other Classical Paradigms. Abingdon: Routledge. 54. 5 Kagan, D. 2013. The Fall of the Athenian Empire. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. 12. 6 Cartledge, 2003:101 7 Sage, M. 2002. Warfare in Ancient Greece: A Sourcebook. Abingdon: Routledge. 33. 8 Harte, V. & Lane, M. 2013. Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1. 9 Hess, F. M. 2010. The Same Thing Over and Over. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 59. 10 Pomeroy, Spartan Women. 97.

11 Brown, D. 1988. Hierarchy, History, and Human Nature: The Social Origins of Historical Consciousness. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. 153; Reisman, D. 2012. Economic Thought and Political Theory. Berlin: Springer Science & Business Media. 20. 12 Rhodes, P. J. 2007. The Greek City States: A Source Book. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 99. 13 Jennings, V., & Katsaros, A. 2007. The World of Ion of Chios. Leiden: Brill. 130. 14 Renshaw, J. 2008. In Search of the Greeks. London: A & C Black. 236. 15 Hunt, P. 2002. Slaves, Warfare, and Ideology in the Greek Historians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 18. 16 Cartledge, P. 1987. Agesilaos and the Crisis of Sparta. London: Duckworth Publishers. 175. 17 Aguilera-Barchet, B. 2014. A History of Western Public Law: Between Nation and State. Berlin: Springer. 23.

The logic of this paper will follow the Aristotelian view of the politeia as the “form of life” decidedly practiced by the Spartan people, thereby encouraging an analysis and brief review of ancient Spartan society in order to verify the reality of Sparta’s constitutional framework in practice.8 The paramountcy of the state, along with Sparta’s characteristic prioritisation of the strong over the weak, would come to characterise the militant state-centric nature of the Spartan ideology.9

100

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which only the usufruct was inheritable.18 The life of a helot was cheap, and their masters were not beyond sacrificing them as expendable objects upon which budding Spartan youth might sharpen their art of killing and further desensitise themselves to the routine of slaughter.19 The reason for this intermittent violence is debated amongst scholars, although some insistently attribute it to an enigmatic state institution called the Krypteia (“Secret Band” or “Secret Service Brigade”), presumably performed as a ritualistic culling of the large and potentially threatening helot (demographic majority) population.20 The rigid hierarchical foundation of the Spartan military was resoundingly echoed through the complex stratification of Spartan society.

Citizenship: the foreseeable consequence

According to Herodotus of Halicarnassus, the sparsely populated Spartan heartland, Laconia, was one of the most agriculturally rich lands in ancient Greece (Histories 7. 234. 2; 9. 10. 1).21 The Spartiate demographic was 8000 strong by the end of the Greek Archaic Period, but dwindled to a minority of 1000 inhabitants by the Greek Classical Period. Aristotle believed that the vulnerability of the ever-diminishing Spartan military (predominantly Spartiates), and the state’s failure to approach the issue pragmatically, lay at the root of their demise (Politics 1270a29-34). Nigel Wilson notes that the Spartans had desperately attempted to bolster their numbers by adopting a conscious policy of institutionalised pronatalism which dictated a penalty system intended to serve as a deterrent against celibacy, a near traitorous offence, and incentivising childbearing through a pro-birth reward system.22 Parents capable of meeting the state’s desired rate (three or four sons) of reproduction were awarded unique exemptions from military service, taxes, and other civic responsibilities.23 A less favoured tactic for repopulating their citizenry was the selective elevation of the lower strata to the rank of “full citizenship”.24 Jonathan Edmondson asserts that the inveterate Spartan bachelor would have been susceptible to immense social stigma, as a life of singleness was an improper social trajectory.25 18 Ibid., 22. 19 Kiernan, B. 2008. Blood and Soil: Modern Genocide 1500-2000. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. 47. 20 Rawson, E. 1969. The Spartan tradition in European thought. Wotton-under-Edge: Clarendon Press. 6. ; Cartledge, 2003:88. 21 Bradford, 2011. Leonidas and the Kings of Sparta: Mightiest Warriors, Fairest Kingdom. Santa Barbara, 19. ; Wilson, 2013. Encyclopaedia of Ancient Greece. Abingdon: Routledge. 215. 22 Lelis, et al., 2003. The age of marriage in ancient Rome. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press.7 ; Edmondson, J. (ed.). 2009. Augustus. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 253. 23 Sowerby, R. 2014. The Greeks: An Introduction to Their Culture. Abingdon: Routledge. 127. 24 Chrimes, K. M. T. 1949. Ancient Sparta: A Re-examination of the Evidence. Manchester: Manchester University Press. 348. 25 Edmondson, Augustus. 253.

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Stephen Hodkinson postulates that the Spartan State neglectfully placed a weak emphasis on the paternal role of Spartan fathers in relation to their collective progeny.26 The absence of adequate institutional incentives, according to Hodkinson, then led to a hereditary laxness and a consequent neglect of male progeny who were not intended to succeed their fathers in status as the primary heir or heir apparent.27 Arguably, Hodkinson’s argument ascribes too great an impact to this phenomenon, deprives the subject of the human element, and presumes that Spartan fathers required a financial incentive to care for and raise their own progeny, utilising their adherence to primogenital customs and a lack of verifiable evidence to support this stretched hypothesis. Sparta’s distress at the prospect of the Spartiates’ potential extinction was exhibited by their well communicated despair after the Athenians under Cleon and Demosthenes outmanoeuvred the initial deployment of 420 Spartans of assorted castes on the island of Sphacteria (south of Pylos). The Athenians ultimately imprisoned 120 officer class Spartiates in 424 BCE.28 The panic it incited hints at the cracks that were starting to surface on the once seemingly inviolable Spartan edifice prior to their failure at Leuctra in 371 BCE. The inability to maintain a healthy balance amongst the Spartan castes would soon prompt the “hyper-militaristic” state of Sparta to evolve into one of the most pro-natalist entities amongst the ancient Greek poleis.29 Peter Riesenberg and Andrew Dobson assert that some foundational sentiments of Sparta’s combative society are echoed by contemporary notions of Western citizenship in the outline of the Weberian state model established after the Peace of Westphalia. These models were thereafter endowed with an intense feature fixated on the fulfilment of civic duty in the form of citizens being conditioned to believed that giving their lives in the interest of the greater state amounted to the highest honour.30 The rationality behind Sparta’s ever-readiness for war was a response to the sober and somewhat oversimplified pretext: “war is inevitable and those who are not [militarily] strong, are weak,” and greatly aligns with the tenets of modern realism. Riesenberg suggests that we view Spartan opinions on citizenship and the expendability of life as answerable to a deeply entrenched sense of duty, and can be viewed as a noticeable sharpening of the Athenian 26 Hodkinson, S. (ed.). 2009. Sparta: Comparative Approaches. Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales. 102. 27 Ibid. 28 Buckley, T. 2006. Aspects of greek History: A Source-Based Approach. Abingdon: Routledge. 268. ; Ellis, W. M. 2014. Alcibiades (Routledge Revivals). Abingdon: Routledge. 29. ; Wright, E. 1985. History of the world: prehistory to the Renaissance. Oxford: Newness Books. 166. 29 Murray, S. O. 2002. Homosexualities. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 37. 30 Riesenberg, P. 2000. Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. 7-8. ; Dobson, A. 2003. Citizenship and the Environment. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 61.

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A citizen by blood and trial: the makings of a citizen

model of public service.31

The path of the warrior:

The agōgē was a cornerstone institution of the wider Spartan political and social ideology. This institution served as a medium through which to condition the youth by transmitting normative Spartan value structures to the future homoioi citizenry, thereby creating an ideologically homogeneous and culturally chauvinistic society taught to uncritically obey state imperatives.32 The Spartan State fostered a phenomenon known as laconophilia (an admiration for Sparta), which helped to solidify the state’s position as superordinate to the individual.33 It is clear that the organisation of the Spartan army and the steadily declining population were closely aligned, and was plainly apparent to scholars, both modern and ancient, including the likes of Xenophon, Aristotle and Herodotus.34 This phenomenon is indicative of a society in which mothers “reared their sons to be sacrificed on the altar of civic necessity”.35 The military elegies of the Spartan poet Tyrtaeus hails the Spartan doctrine of citizenship for encasing an unconditional and selfless devotion to the collective honour of the Spartan State.36 His elegies impose a further dimension to the Spartan outline of the ideal warrior-citizen, as someone who fights not for individual glory or the promise of exalted heroism, but in service to a selfless patriotism which demanded that the glory be wholly surrendered to Sparta. Tyrtaeus writes that the Spartan ideology of war requested more of its citizens than a mere willingness to dutifully perform in battle (Tyrtaeus, Eunomia 10.2-15).37 Their actions were to be motivated by a nationalistic intent, and a fearless courage idealistically quoted as the most valuable of (abstract) possessions to the battle-ready youth of Sparta during the latter half of the seventh-century BCE.

31 Riesenberg, Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau. 8. ; Cao, B. 2015. Environment and Citizenship. Abingdon: Routledge. 40. 32 Ober, J. 2005. Athenian Legacies: Essays on the Politics of Going on Together. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 138. 33 Powell, A. (ed.). 2013. Hindsight in Greek and Roman History. 104. 34 Atkinson, 1949. Ancient Sparta: A Re-examination of the Evidence, Issue 84. Manchester: Manchester University Press. 348. 35 Elshtain, 1992. “Just War as Politics: What the Gulf War Told Us about Contemporary Life.” ed. D. E. DeCosse, in But Was It Just? Reflections on the Morality of the Persian Gulf War. New York: Doubleday. 142. ; Ranchod-Nilsson, S., & Tetreault, M. A. 2003. Women, States and Nationalism: At Home in the Nation? Abingdon: Routledge. 64. 36 Riesenberg, Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau. 9. 37 Ibid. ; Freeman, C. 2014. Egypt, Greece, and Rome: Civilizations of the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 163. ; Dillon, M., & Garland, L. 2000. Ancient Greece: Social and Historical Documents from Archaic Times to the Death of Socrates (c.800-399 B.C.). 172.

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When a free Spartan male had concluded their agōgē curriculum at around the age of twenty, they became an eirên, which required them to enlist for military service.38 Citizenship through naturalisation was not a viable means of acquiring the citizen classification held by members of the homoioi.39 The Spartans also followed a rule of primogeniture, as a protective mechanism employed to ensure the continued confinement of wealth, in the hands of the few .40 The elitist ideology of the homoioi hastened the onset of their decline, particularly given their refusal to seek out a less-jeopardising alternative to their erratic lifestyles.41 Spartiates were known to have held an unimaginative and self-detrimental view of industry, as a lowly and servile realm not befitting their station.42 Bruce de Mesquita delineates an insightful discourse on the “logic of political survival” and the institutional exceptions created by wealth, both in the ancient and modern world orders.43 De Mesquita imposes a precondition of substantial and sustainable wealth upon those Spartan elites who did not wish to be ousted from the inner circles of power.44 The Spartiates partook in no profitable occupation, enjoying a considerable degree of leisure during times of relative peace and non-aggression, occasionally venturing outside their semi-urban centres to inspect their lots--state allocated land emblematic of citizenship.45 Plutarch’s accounts often embellished and exaggerated the frequency of Spartan idleness.46

The fall:

George Cawkwell narrows the window of Sparta’s societal decay to fifty years prior to the events that unfolded at Leuctra.47 Within those fifty years, many dimensions of Spartan society had undergone immense change, with the only exception being the constitution. Cawkwell equates this inability to enact vital constitutional reform, as symptomatic of the societal stagnation that befell 38 Garland, R. 2008. Daily Life of the Ancient Greeks. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO.1 22. 39 Turner, B. S., & Hamilton, P. (eds.). 1994. Citizenship: Critical Concepts. Volume 1. London: Taylor & Francis. 318). 40 De Mesquita, B. B. (ed.). 2005. The Logic of Political Survival. Cambridge: MIT Press. 48. 41 Laurence, P. M. 1878. The Law and Custom of Primogeniture: (being an Essay Which, Jointly with Another, Obtained the Yorke Prize of the University of Cambridge). Cambridge: J. Hall & Son. 72. 42 Martin, M. 2017. City of the Sun: Development and Popular Resistance in the Pre-Modern West. New York: Algora Publishing. 49. 43 De Mesquita, The Logic of Political Survival. 4-5 44 Ibid., 48. 45 Burckhardt, J. 2013. History of Greek Culture. North Chelmsford: Courier Corporation. 29. Cartledge, 2003:25. 46 (Pomeroy, 2002:161) 47 Cawkwell, G. L. “The Decline of Sparta”. The Classical Quarterly, 33 (2) (1983), 399.

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Sparta. Those still empowered by outmoded institutions of governance were least likely to introduce technological advancements or promote innovation and institutional reform. The Greek world had entered a period of rapid innovation, redefining the now lost world of warfare once familiar to the Spartan soldier .48 The world of Spartan warfare was effectively trapped in a time warp, unable to compete with the greater threats of this new warring age. Sparta’s fall was largely a question of military ingenuity, as their foes possessed greater insight and new technologies which enabled them to devise a superior strategy. Aristotle declared that the true face of Sparta’s defeat was its own success, and went as far as to implicate its acquisition of empire as the virus that heralded Sparta’s descent into institutional decay, reaching its climax at Leuctra in 371 BCE.49 The conservation of Sparta’s empire coupled with widespread peace and newfound wealth had festered into a cancer, sapping the strength from the Spartan military machine. The modes of peace and luxury were contradictory to their totalitarian ideology which campaigned against the symptomatic greed and inactivity fostered by such an indolent peace. Simply put, peace was not compatible with the Spartan archetype. Bodéüs repackages Aristotle’s criticism as Sparta’s primary flaw being attributable to a lack of self-control during secure intervals of peace (Aristotle, Politics 1271b3-6).50 War deterred corruption and ensured a degree of agility and dynamism from the state, as the ultimate unifier and ensnarer of their patriotic citizenry. Aristotle notably remarked that the Spartans had adopted a non-evolving and short-sighted approach to the doctrine of slavery as prescribed by the Spartan politeia. Further, to Aristotle, the perpetuity of enslavement without the promise of conditional freedom assisted in the creation of a formidable enemy within their own nation--the Helot majority.51 The inherent defect in Sparta’s highly oppressive institution of slavery should have been corrected after repeated Helot revolts (largely unsuccessful) and a perceivable worsening of social relations and demographic tensions brewing between their irreconcilable social spheres.52 In the vein of Aristotelian thought, it would have been more prudent for the Spartan institution of slavery to incentivise Helot cooperation by tantalising them with an delusive and possibly illusionary prospect of freedom as a reward for their obedience (Aristotle, Politics 1330a33-34).

48 Ibid., 400. 49 Liebert, H. 2016. Plutarch’s Politics: Between City and Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 106. 50 Bodéüs, R. 1991. Essays on the Foundation of Aristotelian Political Science. Berkeley: University of California Press. 97. 51 Ibid., 98-99. 52 Ibid.,100.

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Conclusion

Much like Edward Lorenz’s notion of the butterfly effect, this paper has sought to locate historical examples linked to the cause and effect on the issue of what inherent flaw in the Spartan politeia and wider social order led to the decline of the Spartan State as a military titan of the ancient Greek world. After consulting a wide range of sources, both ancient and contemporary, the prevailing academic opinions of scholars have been selectively expanded upon to substantiate the following stance: the fall of Sparta was not instantaneous, but its unseating was concretised through a distinct causal chain of events, with each critical juncture. This chain of events is as follows: (1) the politeia’s provisions on hereditary citizenship, 2) the loss of life during the agōgē, 3) the demanding post-agōgē preconditions for full citizenship, 4) the provocation of the helots, 5) an institutionalised aversion to constitutional reform or ideological alternatives. This institutionalised aversion to reform compromised the delicate socio-political fabric of the state, and further destabilised the fragile demographic balance which was vital to the security of an exploitative caste system characterised by wide socio-economic disparities and, to use an anachronism, the proletarianisation of the helot serfdom.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Aristotle. “Aristotle’s Politics” In The Complete Works of Aristotle. The Revised Oxford Translation, edited by J. Barnes. 1984. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Aristotle. Politics (Book 1 & 2). (trans. Newman, W. L. 1887). London: Clarendon Press. Herodotus. The Histories. (trans. Grene, D. 1987). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thucydides. The Peloponnesian War. (trans. Smith, C. F. 1965). Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Tyrtaeus. “Eunomia” In Ancient Greece: Social and Historical Documents from Archaic Times to the Death of Socrates (c.800-399 B.C.), translated and edited by M. Dillon & L. Garland. 2000. Abingdon: Routledge.

SECONDARY SOURCES

Aguilera-Barchet, B. 2014. A History of Western Public Law: Between Nation and State. Berlin: Springer. Atkinson, K. M. T. C. 1949. Ancient Sparta: A Re-examination of the Evidence, I ssue 84. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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Bradford, A. S. 2011. Leonidas and the Kings of Sparta: Mightiest Warriors, Fairest Kingdom. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Bodéüs, R. 1991. Essays on the Foundation of Aristotelian Political Science. Berkeley: University of California Press. Brown, D. 1988. Hierarchy, History, and Human Nature: The Social Origins of Historical Consciousness. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Buckley, T. 2006. Aspects of greek History: A Source-Based Approach. Abingdon: Routledge. Burckhardt, J. 2013. History of Greek Culture. North Chelmsford: Courier Corporation. Cao, B. 2015. Environment and Citizenship. Abingdon: Routledge. Cartledge, P. 1987. Agesilaos and the Crisis of Sparta. London: Duckworth Publishers. Cartledge, P. 2003. Spartan Reflections. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cawkwell, G. L. “The Decline of Sparta”. The Classical Quarterly, 33 (2) (1983), pp. 385-400. Chrimes, K. M. T. 1949. Ancient Sparta: A Re-examination of the Evidence. Manchester: Manchester University Press. De Mesquita, B. B. (ed.). 2005. The Logic of Political Survival. Cambridge: MIT Press. Dobson, A. 2003. Citizenship and the Environment. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Edmondson, J. (ed.). 2009. Augustus. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Ellis, W. M. 2014. Alcibiades (Routledge Revivals). Abingdon: Routledge. Elshtain, J. B. 1992. “Just War as Politics: What the Gulf War Told Us about Contemporary Life.” edited by D. E. DeCosse, In But Was It Just? Reflections on the Morality of the Persian Gulf War. New York: Doubleday. Freeman, C. 2014. Egypt, Greece, and Rome: Civilizations of the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Garland, R. 2008. Daily Life of the Ancient Greeks. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Harte, V. & Lane, M. 2013. Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hess, F. M. 2010. The Same Thing Over and Over. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hodkinson, S. (ed.). 2009. Sparta: Comparative Approaches. Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales. Hunt, P. 2002. Slaves, Warfare, and Ideology in the Greek Historians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jennings, V., & Katsaros, A. 2007. The World of Ion of Chios. Leiden: Brill. Kagan, D. 2013. The Fall of the Athenian Empire. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Kiernan, B. 2008. Blood and Soil: Modern Genocide 1500-2000. Melbourne:

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Melbourne University Publishing. Laurence, P. M. 1878. The Law and Custom of Primogeniture: (being an Essay Which, Jointly with Another, Obtained the Yorke Prize of the University of Cambridge). Cambridge: J. Hall & Son. Lelis, A. A., Percy, W. A. & Verstraete, B. C. 2003. The age of marriage in ancient Rome. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Liebert, H. 2016. Plutarch’s Politics: Between City and Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin, M. 2017. City of the Sun: Development and Popular Resistance in the Pre-Modern West. New York: Algora Publishing. Mossé, C. “Lycurgus the Spartan.” In Thamyris. Mythmaking from Past to Present, edited by N. M. W. De Vries & J. Best. 1 (2) (1994). pp. 134 137. Murray, S. O. 2002. Homosexualities. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ober, J. 2005. Athenian Legacies: Essays on the Politics of Going on Together. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Percy, W. A. 1998. Pederasty and Pedagogy in Archaic Greece. Champaign: University of Illinois Press. Pomeroy, S. B. 2002. Spartan Women. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Powell, A. (ed.). 2013. Hindsight in Greek and Roman History. Bristol: ISD LLC. Ranchod-Nilsson, S., & Tetreault, M. A. 2003. Women, States and Nationalism: At Home in the Nation? Abingdon: Routledge. Rawson, E. 1969. The Spartan tradition in European thought. Wotton-under Edge: Clarendon Press. Reisman, D. 2012. Economic Thought and Political Theory. Berlin: Springer Science & Business Media. Renshaw, J. 2008. In Search of the Greeks. London: A & C Black. Rhodes, P. J. 2007. The Greek City States: A Source Book. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Riesenberg, P. 2000. Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Sage, M. 2002. Warfare in Ancient Greece: A Sourcebook. Abingdon: Routledge. Schofield, M. 2003. Saving the City: Philosopher-Kings and Other Classical Paradigms. Abingdon: Routledge. Sowerby, R. 2014. The Greeks: An Introduction to Their Culture. Abingdon: Routledge. Turner, B. S., & Hamilton, P. (eds.). 1994. Citizenship: Critical Concepts. Volume 1. London: Taylor & Francis. Wilson, N. 2013. Encyclopaedia of Ancient Greece. Abingdon: Routledge. Wright, E. 1985. History of the world: prehistory to the Renaissance. Oxford: Newness Books.

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Weaponry in the Eastern Mediterranean a study of development throughout the millennia Giulia Heinritzi Concordia University, Montreal Antiquity can be characterized by constant and continuous transformation, be it the development of common identity and religious beliefs, a region’s sociopolitical landscape, or technology. Everything was, and still is, constantly developing, and this is particularly true of weaponry, an integral part of human society. This paper argues that the development of weaponry used for warfare was a result of the increasing socio-political complexity of a society and the discovery/access to new technology. The chronological parameters studied are the Upper Paleolithic through the Hellenistic period, while the geographical parameters studied are Anatolia, the Levant, Mesopotamia, and Greece. The paper will examine the types of societies that characterize these time periods and five main categories of weapons when developments in these areas occur: shock and missile weapons, mechanical weapons, biological weapons, and chemical weapons.

Upper Paleolithic and Neolithic

In the Upper Paleolithic there is no evidence of fortifications or the use of specialized weapons in warfare in the Mediterranean. This is not to say that there were no technological advancements in weaponry in the Upper Paleolithic. There were improvements made in throwing spears, harpoons, and arrows due to the development of microlithics. However, these weapons were primarily associated with tools for daily-life, namely for hunting and gathering food sources.1 That being said, the largest body of evidence for warfare is based on skeletal remains. One of the most important sites demonstrating the occurrence of warfare is Jebel Sahaba in the Sudan.2 This burial, dating to 1 2

Bar-Yosef 2002, 367; Broodbank 2013, 125; Christensen 2004, 135 Bard 2008, 78; Christensen 2004, 4

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12,300 BP, contains the remains of 59 individuals of which 40% demonstrate evidence of violent deaths due to cut marks on their bones and stone projectile points embedded within them.3 This site is the earliest evidence of human conflict and it occurs at a time when populations and long distance trading in the Upper Paleolithic were increasing and when group identity was emerging as represented by the use of body decorations. Thus, the reasons behind this conflict may have been due to the increasing competition for resources between various social groups.4 By the Neolithic period, however, throughout the Eastern Mediterranean basin, there was an increase in the socio-political complexity of societies associated with the rise of sedentism. This was due to the dispersal of the Neolithic package. It led to an increase in warfare as attested by the types of wounds on skeletal remains due to the potential for plundering food storages. Furthermore, societies also had more time to experiment in non-food producing activities and as a result allowed for innovations in technology to occur; in this case the development of copper metallurgy.5 This was the period of the first urban cities in the Levant. Settlements such as Ur and Eridu grew to 22-25 acres and began to exert some control over the goods that entered into these villages through clay sealing, the use of tokens, and the introduction of large scale storage.6

Shock and Missile Weapons

Although it is still difficult to distinguish utilitarian tools from weapons of war since both types were constructed from the same materials, including: flint, chert, or obsidian. It is possible, however, to determine what weapons had been used during war.7 Weapons used include flaked-stone projectiles, as attested by the increase in their size and the variations of the types of projectile points found. Yet, there was a general decrease in the hunting of animals across the Mediterranean at this time.8 This increase in size and variation of projectile points, along with the decrease in animal hunting, indicates that this specialization was not due to hunting game but rather due to warfare. Polished stone axes were also used, as well as slings with bullets of clay or stone. These types of weapons were found stored near defensive walls in Syria, such as at the site of Tel Sabi Abyad, and on the wounds found at a grave site in southern Greece.9 At the Final Neolithic (4500-3200 BC) site of Alepotrypa Cave, 13% of the 69 individuals, including women, demonstrated signs of head wounds 3 Bard 2008, 78 4 Bar-Yosef 2002, 367-669 and 379; Bard 2008, 78 5 Bar-Yosef 2002, 380; Broodbank 2013, 238-39; Christensen 2004, 152; Hamblin 2006, 18; Runnels et al. 2009, 191 6 Broodbank 2013, 239-240 7 Hamblin 2006, 19 8 Hamblin 2006, 27; Runnels et al. 2009, 178-79 9 Hamblin 2006, 27; Runnels et al. 2009, 178-79

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typically associated with the shape of a sling bullet.10 Further weapons used during this period include the javelin, bow and arrow, and the dagger.11

weapons that were forged from copper-alloy included daggers, spearheads, arrowheads, javelins, and by the Late Bronze Age, long slashing swords.18

Specialization in weapons of war began in the later part of the Neolithic in the 6th millennium. This is demonstrated by the development of the earliest metal weapon, the Neolithic copper shaft-hole-mace,found at the site of Can Hasan in southern Anatolia. This copper shaft-hole-mace developed from the Paleolithic club or axe.12 Although it could be argued that the mace was created for the purpose of hunting, considering the likelihood that a dagger or axe would be used in hunting contexts, there was no need for innovation in this sphere.. That this new type of mace was used for warfare rather than hunting is also demonstrated by a conscious technical change.13 Rather than having a sharpedged design, the copper shaft-hole-mace was designed to smash through harder objects, such as bone, by using a heavy-weight metal object at the end of the wooden shaft. Furthermore, its context suggests the same conclusion, since it was found alongside a skeleton in a destruction level.14

The Minoans also developed their own types of swords during this period. On Crete, during the MMII-MMIIIB period, the Mallia Type A sword was introduced. The Type A sword was a metre-long sword with flat narrow tangs and a high midrib.19 Further inventions include the Type C sword by the LM period, which was a horned sword. Its characteristic features being a slender blade, a high midrib, and a horned handguard which was cast at the same time as the blade and tang.20 Type D swords were also invented around this time and are similar to Type C swords except for the fact that the handguard was not horned but cruciform in shape.21 Not only were these new types of swords, but they were also representative of a new casting technique that was developed to create these slender and finely ridged midribs.22 These swords were designed as a response to the weak structure of earlier swords, particularly at the hilting.23 The Mycenaeans also invented a new type of large spearhead with no neck, therefore creating no point of weakness in the spear; ensuring that the head of the spear would not break off from the rest of the body.24

The Bronze Age (ca. 3000-1000 BC)

During the Bronze Age, civilizations began to emerge in southern Mesopotamia as the Sumerians began to form city-states, and by the later part of this time period, empires had developed. With this development came a trend towards a complex administrative system capable of gathering and distributing surpluses of raw or crafted material. This new administrative system allowed leaders of these political units to accumulate enough wealth to organize and mobilize armies, and for technological innovation in non-food producing activities that began in the Neolithic to continue.15 Furthermore, it also created conflicts between citystates for control over natural resources.16 The increased occurrence of warfare was characteristic of this period and initiated the creation of various types of innovative weapons used in warfare.

Shock and Missile Weapons

One of the most important innovations for weaponry in the Bronze Age was the alloying of copper and tin. The Sumerians in Lower Mesopotamia began applying bronze technology to create bronze maces, sickle-swords, and socket spears and axes. By around 2500 BC these weapons became the standard for warfare and were used by the armies of various city-states of this period.17 Other 10 Broodbank 2013, 236; Runnels et al. 2009, 177-78 11 Hamblin 2006, 19 12 Hamblin 2006, 20-21 13 Hamblin 2006, 20-21 14 Hamblin 2006, 20 15 Hamblin 2006, 35-36 16 Carey 2005, 10 17 Carey 2005, 2

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By around 2700 BC, both two- and fourwheeled carts were introduced into combat by the Sumerians. The former was more efficient as it was lighter, faster, and easier to manoeuvre compared to its larger and less maneuverable fourwheeled counterpart.25 The weapons of the warrior on the war-cart were the javelin and the axe, which were the standard weapons for Sumerian warriors at the time. These carts would have been pulled by equids.26 It was by the Middle Bronze Age that the use of the composite bow with bronze arrowheads was added to the arsenal of a charioteer, making it the quickest and most powerful missile weapon in antiquity.27 By the Late Bronze Age, the true chariot had appeared. These were drawn by horses rather than equids allowing it to reach faster speeds. It used two wheels rather than four making it lighter, and it used spoked wheels rather than disk ones, which decreased the weight of the structure and increased its speed. Furthermore, there was a shift away from the nose ring to control the horse and a move towards the bit and reins. Additional improvements were also 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Hamblin 2006, 246; Stiebing Jr. 2009, 61 and 186 Sandars 1961, 17 Sandars 1963, 119 Sandars 1963, 123 Sandars 1963, 119 Snodgrass 1967, 21 Snodgrass 1967, 22-23 Hamblin 2006, 132, 134 and 137 Hamblin 2006, 137 Hamblin 2006, 145

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made to the yoke and harness. These improvements allowed chariots to reach speeds of up to 30 miles per hour by ca. 1700 BC.28 The spread of the light war chariot was probably brought on by the need to match the military innovations of rivals and its introduction to the battlefield also corresponded to the rise of the aristocratic warrior. Quite simply, the chariot became a symbol for the emerging elite class.29 With the rise of the Akkadian empire under Sargon I (ca. 2334-2279) another major development in weaponry occurred: the composite bow.30 This was a recurve bow made out of wood and strengthened with sinew or horn. It was much more powerful and accurate than the simple bow which only had a maximum range of 100 yards and could not penetrate armour.31 As the sociopolitical landscape increased in complexity, so too did the weapons of war, as empires increasingly faced various foreign enemies over natural resources or territories.

Mechanical Weapons

Siege engines were also developed during the Bronze Age. A cylinder seal dating to the Early Bronze Age (ca. 2400-2250 BC) from Tell Beydar depicts an Assyrian three-storey siege tower and a siege ram. By the Middle Bronze Age, the combination of siege-ramps, siege-towers, and battering-rams became the standard equipment of siege warfare, as supported by their use during the siege of Ursha in northern Syria by Hattusilis. It was also during the Middle Bronze Age when Mesopotamian engineers turned siege craft into a science by using mathematical models to calculate the time it would take to create siege ramps to reach a certain height.32 Once empires began to emerge, these states were able to acquire more resources and wealth through the conquest of other territories, driven by the need for expansion, which in turn enabled, and necessitated, the construction of complex and large weapons of war.

Biological Weapons

Biological weapons are another example of an integral weaponry development that occurs in the Eastern Mediterranean during the Bronze Age. A Hittite (ca. 1500-1200 BC) cuneiform tablet describes the earliest historical example of a deliberate attempt to spread disease. At least one infected woman was sent to the enemy in the hopes of spreading whatever illness that woman possessed.33 This information indicates that not only was there a basic comprehension of how diseases and illnesses worked, but that these could be weaponized. 28 29 30 31 32 33

Goetze 1963, 124-125 Carey 2005, 28; Stiebing Jr. 2009, 110 Carey 2005, 12; Stiebing Jr. 2009, 69 Carey 2005, 12; Stiebing Jr. 2009, 61 Hamblin 2006, 216, 227 and 298 Mayor 2003, 122

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Evidence for biological warfare in Greece during the Bronze Age, or the Dark Ages depending on the time Homer was referring too, can also be found within the Iliad. It is suggested that certain arrows were coated with poison when they were described as “bitter,” or “transmitter[s] of dark pain,” or as “black pain” which caused “dark blood” to drip from the wound (Homer, Iliad 4.118, 135; 4.117; 4.191; 11.812). The treatment of these wounds within the Iliad was by sucking out the blood, as Machaon does for Menelaos (Homer, Iliad 4.209-219). In antiquity, one way to treat a snakebite would have been by sucking out the venom.34 Furthermore, the adjectives used to describe these arrows evoke the imagery of a snakebite and that along with the method of treating the wound –by sucking out the blood– suggests that certain arrows were poisoned with venom.35 As the socio-political landscape of the Eastern Mediterranean was becoming increasingly more complex, particularly in Asia Minor and Mesopotamia, with the rise of city-states and eventually Empires, new technology became available due to the greater access of resources and monetary funds and the competition that arose amongst these political entities for natural resources.

The Iron Age (ca. 1000-700 BC)

Iron smelting had been known since the 3rd millennium BC, but it was only by the 8th century BC that it became widely used for the weapons of all armies in this period.36 This is because iron is stronger, less brittle, it maintains a sharper edge, and is a lighter material than bronze.37 Iron held these valuable qualities mainly due to the way in which iron objects were created; they were heated and hammered into shape, rather than being cast. Thus, the method of cold forging and tempering created a revolution in weapons technology.38 Furthermore, the wide availability of iron ore allowed states to mass produce weapons at a cheap price, and allowed for a democratization of warfare to take place.39 Therefore, some of the major implications of the discovery of iron smelting, cold forging, and tempering, included the rise of large armies and the translation of bronze weapons into iron. By 854 BC, Shalmaneser III, a Neo-Assyrian king, was able to form a multinational army of 70,000 men, and by the 8th century BC the entire Assyrian armed forces consisted of up to 200,000 men.40 It was the largest standing 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

Mayor 2003, 95 Mayor 2003, 49-50; Sutherland 2001, 115 Bakhuizen 1977, 223; Snodgrass 1971, 273-4; Snodgrass 1977, 36 Bakhuizen 1977, 223; Carey 2005, 25 Carey 2005, 25 Bakhuizen 1977, 223; Carey 2005, 25 and 33 Carey 2005, 26

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army in the Near East up to this point in time.41 Such a large army then paved the way for increased specialization in their weapon systems. Further, the expansion of the Assyrian empire introduced larger and sturdier horses from the Eurasian steppes. By the time of Sargon II, the army of the Assyrian king combined heavy and light infantry units, cavalry, chariots, and siege machinery. It also included specialized units such as sappers and engineers; this trend of increasing specialization continued into and throughout the Persian Empire.42

Shock and Missile Weapons

With the development of iron metallurgy, weapons were prioritized during the shift from copper alloy to iron, which demonstrates both the importance of iron works to the weapons industry as well as the importance of weapons to Iron Age societies.43 Given that the main purpose of a sword, for cutting or slashing, and that iron provided a sturdy, light, and sharp object, it is not surprising that the sword was the first to receive attention. For example, the Griffzungenschwert sword introduced in the Bronze Age became a stouter weapon and was translated to iron.44 This increased specialization of warfare in the Assyrian Empire enabled further developments to occur, such as the invention of a quiver that could hold up to 50 arrows. Some of these arrows were fitted with special arrow heads that were capable of launching combustible materials; these were known as “messengers of death”.45 Iron was also used to mass produce spearheads. The leaf-shaped spearhead used on Crete was mass-produced using iron and was elongated by 20 inches during the Iron Age.46 Arrowheads were also affected by the change in metals used to produce weaponry; they were forged in iron.47 As the size of armies increased, aided by the availability and mass production capabilities of iron, various military units were created, and each required their own types of weapons. Thus, further specialization and innovation was required to meet the demand of the various branches of the military in antiquity.

Archaic Period (600-480 BC)

By the second half of the 7th century BC, there was a population boom in Greece that saw a 1% population growth per year.48 This growth in population lead to a larger number of urban settlements and an increase in intensive agriculture and 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

Carey 2005, 26 Carey 2005, 26-28 Pleiner and Bjorkman 1974, 296; Snodgrass 1967, 36 Snodgrass 1971, 273-4 Carey 2005, 28 Snodgrass 1967, 38; Snodgrass 1971, 273-4 Snodgrass 1971, 294-5 Broodbank 2013, 506 and 535; Viggiano 2013, 123

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subsequent land hunger, leading to an intense competition for the most fertile land.49 Although urbanism was not a new trend, the intensity and number of these poleis was new, as well as the investment in monuments that created a sense of collective identity within these poleis.50 This sense of cohesive identity within city-states, as well as the economic prosperity from the revival of trade routes and the beginning of colonization, allowed for an increasing amount of Greek farmers to equip themselves for war. This lead to one of the most important developments in Greek warfare that allowed the Greeks to become a supreme military force: the hoplites and the hoplite phalanx.51

Shock and Missile Weapons

Hoplite warfare arose with Greek concern for the protection of their crops, which the Greeks depended on not only for survival but also for their livelihood. Such a situation was reflected in the way the army fought: they battled in the early summer, ensured the destruction of the enemies’ crops, and then returned to their polis to harvest their own crops.52 As a result, there was a slow development until the formation of the phalanx became the characteristic 16 rows of hoplites carrying short swords and non-throwing spears, acting in unison with their fellow hoplites and fighting on a mutually agreed upon terrain that was both spacious and level.53 In the earlier part of the Archaic period, the phalanx formation was quite loose and disorganized as told by Tyrtaeus when he described the phalanx during the Messenian Wars (Tyrtaeus, Frag. 8.30-39).54 Generally, the organization of the phalanx was difficult to achieve as most hoplites were not professional soldiers but militia men who were subsistence farmers.55 Hoplite warfare became adopted across Greece and became a traditional mode of warfare, so any development in weaponry occurred slowly; the use of the phalanx in battle became a ritual component of the poleis during warfare.56 By the 5th century BC, peltasts became a regular feature within the light-armed troops, as well as archers who began to use arrowheads typically associated with the Scythian cupid bow. There was also a switch from iron arrowheads back to bronze as bronze was easier to mass produce.57 Furthermore, the sword became a smaller and cruder weapon.58 Little development in terms of shock and missile weapons occurred during this period. This is in part due to the strict use of the phalanx by the engaged poleis but also because most of the 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Viggiano 2013, 123 Broodbank 2013, 537 and 544 Broodbank 2013, 558; Carey 2005, 37; Snodgrass 1967, 49 Kern 1999, 91; Snodgrass 1967, 62 Bugh 2006, 266; Everson 2004, 71; Raaflaub 1999, 133 Snodgrass 1967, 66-7 Carey 2005, 40 Carey 2005, 41; Everson 2004, 73 Snodgrass 1967, 78, 81-2. Snodgrass 1967, 84

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soldiers were subsistence farmers. Farmers, working in the primary sector of the economy, were operating at the subsistence level, while innovation generally requires a surplus in goods to occur.

Biological Weapons

Before the archaic period, the only evidence for biological weapons in Greece occurred in the Iliad. During the Archaic period, however, the earliest historically documented case for biological warfare took place, in the First Sacred War, when the Amphictyony League contaminated the drinking water of the Kirrhans with hellebore in 590 BC. The Kirrhans became so violently ill, that the hoplites of the League managed to overtake the city (Frontius, Strategems 3.7.6).59 In Archaic Greece, innovations were minor compared to the innovations in Mesopotamia and Asia Minor under the Assyrian Empire in the Bronze Age. The lack of development during the Archaic period in Greece attests to the adoption of a standardized mode of warfare in which both sides agreed on the terrain and used the same fighting style. Furthermore, there was a lack of professionalism and an inability to collect vast resources that is needed to create the scale of warfare seen in prior periods and for developments and innovations to occur.

Classical Period (480-323 BC)

The Classical period saw warfare shift from the traditional mode of hoplite warfare to a more innovative and imperialistic approach, which began an arms race that would continue to the end of the Hellenistic period.60 During this period, the Athenians began exerting their control over the Aegean through the Delian League. As a result, Athens became wealthy, earning 1,000 talons per annum as tribute, a figure that was only later superseded by Philip II of Macedonia.61 This eventually led to the Peloponnesian Wars and allowed for the Macedonians to enter into Greece and start forming its empire. Thus, by this point in time, the Eastern Mediterranean is characterized by more consolidated key players. This was the beginning of the age of empires in Greece as well as an ancient arms race.62

Shock and Missile Weapons

The Classical period in Greece saw the introduction of a specialized cutting sword, a curved, single-edged sword with the heaviest part of the sword being the tip, inspired by Persian technology, and became the standard swords for hoplites. Philip II of Macedon catalyzed the improvement of the hoplite phalanx in order to exploit the weaknesses of the Greek hoplites. This was achieved through the employment of new types of missile weapons and a greater use 59 60 61 62

Mayor 2003, 101 Carey 2005, 60 Cartledge 2011, 72 Broodbank 2013, 579 and 606

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of professional soldiers.63 One of these reforms concerned the spear. This new spear became known as the sarissa (Polybius, Histories 18.29).64 Projecting up to 15-18 feet long, the sarissa was much longer than the spears of the Greek hoplite forces. This forced the Greeks to advance closer to the Macedonian forces, and which gave the Macedonians the upper hand in battle.65 The peltasts were adopted to improve the Macedonian army because they were capable of fighting on rugged terrain thanks to their light armour. This was advantageous since the hoplites of Greek poleis were heavily-clad and so slow-moving (Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War 4.33). They were further improved by Philip II by being given long-thrusting spears.66 At this time, cavalry also became an important aspect of the phalanx formation in order to defend the flanks and rear. They were also integral in searching for and exploiting any weaknesses in the defence of the enemy. Cavalrymen were also equipped with sarissas.67 Later, as the Macedonian empire expanded, Alexander the Great added Eurasian horse archers to this unit.68 Soldiers were also trained, and equipment was provided by the state, which was supplied through royal revenues.69 In this way, the Macedonian template of the hoplite phalanx was created. It combined both improved and foreign shock and missile elements and trained soldiers to undermine the Greek hoplites who were untrained and not as well armoured as the Macedonians. It was with these innovations that Philip II developed an effective and powerful weapon that allowed Alexander the Great to conquer the Persian Empire.

Mechanical Weapons

Although the concept of siege machines was developed during the Bronze Age by the Assyrians, in the Late Classical period, they were introduced in Greece, and used on a much larger scale than had previously been seen. This was because prior to this point, there was a lack of monetary funds to sustain sieges.70 Thus, by the Peloponnesian War, Greek armies began constructing ramps, and by 440 BC, battering-rams as well as other undescribed siege engines were used under Pericles against Samos (Dio. Sic., Library 12.28.3).71 The introduction of battering-rams into Greece was by way of the Persians, as the engineer of Pericles, Artemon, was from Asia Minor and familiar with 63 Burgh 2006, 265; Hamilton 1999, 172; Snodgrass 1967, 97 64 Bugh 2006, 270; Snodgrass 1967 97-98 65 Hamilton 1999, 170 66 Bugh 2006, 270 67 Hamilton 1999, 170 68 Carey 2005, 66 69 Hamilton 1999, 171 70 Kern 1999, 89 71 Campbell 2003, 3; Kern 1999, 104; Snodgrass 1967, 116

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Persian war machines.72 Although the battering-ram was also used at Plataea in 429 BC by the Spartans, for the most part the Greeks of the 5th century did not seem to show much interest in siege engines.73 With the advent of offensive siege weapons came the construction of various defensive mechanical weapons. To counter the battering-rams used by the Spartans, the Plataeans devised a machine called keraia or ‘yardarm’ which consisted of two beams that were projected over their defensive walls. Attached to the ends of these beams were iron chains and at the ends of these chains was another beam which they would let loose to break the heads of the rams (Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 2.76).74 However, the only ambitious siege machine that was developed in the early part of the Classical period was a flame-thrower that was devised by the Boeotians in 424 BC. With the use of a blacksmith’s bellows, they directed the chemical fire, which was created by a mixture of coal, sulphur, and pitch, towards the enemy (Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 4.100).75 Metal incendiaries were also used against soldiers, such was the case during Alexander’s siege of Tyre in 332 BC. Here, the Phoenician engineers created a large, shallow bowl of iron and bronze and filled it with fine sand and small pieces of metal which they then roasted over a fire until the sand was glowing. The molten sand and hot metal shrapnel seared the skin of the Macedonians.76 One of the more important developments in the Late Classical period was the invention of the first catapult, the gastraphetes. This was a mechanical device that used a slider, ratchet, and trigger, and could shoot arrows 50 yards farther than the best hand-bows at the time.77 It was developed under Dionysus I of Syracuse, and its use would almost entirely disappear for 50 years until the time of Philip II and Alexander the Great. This was likely because these large and complex machines were costly to build and maintain, and thus required the wealth of empires to construct.78 The same can be said for the use of siege towers. It was under Philip II that catapults and siege towers became systematically used once again and, in general, siege warfare became more technical. This technical aspect of war that developed under Philip II culminated into the highly technical and professional methods of warfare conducted by the Successors of the Hellenistic period.79 In the case of catapults, the engineers of Philip II invented the torsion spring catapult, which made these catapults 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

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much more powerful than the gastraphetes of Dionysus I.80 The principle behind torsion was the isolation of the sinew from the wood and the horn in a composite bow, because the wood and horn were hindering the potential power of the elasticity of the sinew.81 Under Philip II torsion power was used to shoot arrows.82 During the reigns of Philip II and Alexander the Great, various improvements to torsion catapults were made, and different models appeared, such as the Mark I arrow shooting two-armed catapults of Philip II to the Mark IIIB stone-throwing two-armed catapults of Alexander the Great. The latter, which was capable of throwing a 65.5kg stone ball, was used during the siege of Tyre in 332 BC.83 The siege towers constructed under Philip II became much taller than those coming before.84 At the siege of Perinthus in 341 BC, Philip II used a siege tower that was 37m high. This trend towards gigantism continued under Alexander the Great, who had a 45m tall siege tower constructed for the siege of Tyre. Such a trend was continued by the Successors as well.85 Another invention constructed for Alexander the Great was the borer. This machine consisted of an iron-tipped beam which ran along a grooved timber piece. The timber piece had rollers at the bottom and a winch at the back. This allowed the beam to repeatedly hit the same spot and was able to easily roll backwards and forwards with enough force to break a wall.86

Biological Weapons

During the Late Classical period the use of biological weapons increased. This attests to at least a basic understanding of contagion and the dangers associated with the decomposition of bodies and excrement.87 As a result, biological warfare continued, but it was now implemented in a more complex manner. For example, the entire terrain was used as a weapon against the enemy. During the expedition against Sicily in 414-413 BC, the Sicilians actively led the Athenians into inhospitable terrain, denying them clean water, the ability to forage, and often forced them to make camp in malarial swamps (Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War 7.47.2).88 The use of tactics involving biological weapons or strategies became increasingly common, as Aeneas the Tactician lists several tactics, one of which, the polluting of water supplies, was seen earlier during the Sacred War at the polis of Kirrha. Aeneas’s work also suggests releasing wasps and bees into the opening of the tunnels created by 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88

Kern 1999, 198 Marsden 1969, 17 Campbell 2011, 681; Kern 1999, 198-9 Hamilton 1999, 182; Kern 1999, 207; Marsden 1969, 43 and 61 Campbell 2003, 24 Campbell 2003, 5-6; Kern 1999, 198 Campbell 2003, 18-19 Mayor 2003, 106 Mayor 2003, 115

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enemies attempting to dig under fortifications (Aeneas Tacitus, On Siegecraft 37.1-3). At this time, the Scythians were known to have dipped their arrows in scythicon, a mixture of the venom of a decomposing viper, human blood, and animal feces. Even if one was not struck by these arrows, people would still have suffered from the odor that was emitted by these projectiles. Thus not only could they be used as biological weapons, but also as stench weapons that would have a powerful psychological effect on its victims as well.89

Chemical Weapons

As biological weapons and tactics became increasingly common as viable weapons, so too did chemical weapons. Aeneas the Tactician describes an iron-spiked wooden device filled with combustible material that was dropped onto siege engines. The iron-spikes would then be embedded into the wooden framework of the siege machine, consuming both the device and the machine in fire (Aeneas Tacitus, On Siegecraft 33.1-2).90 He also lists a recipe for a highly combustible combination of elements, including pitch, sulphur, tow, powdered frankincense gum, and pine sawdust (Aeneas Tacitus, On Siegecraft 33.1-2).91 During this period, fire became increasingly used by the Greeks in warfare, and developed into a more complex chemical weaponry. The earliest evidence for the use of flaming arrows in Greece was recorded in 429 BC by the Spartans during the siege of Plataea. This then developed into the production of chemical fuels. The Spartans accumulated a pile of wood next to the defensive walls of Plataea and added substances such as pine sap and sulphur. When lit, it produced a great fire and its fumes created a toxic gas: sulphur dioxide. This was the earliest recorded use of a chemical incendiary that created a poison gas.92 The Classical period was marked by a progressive shift away from the traditional man-to-man clash of hoplites to a more indiscriminate, technical, and scientific approach to warfare characterized by the use of chemical warfare. These developments continue through the Hellenistic period.

Hellenistic Period (323-31 BC)

When Alexander the Great died, his expansive and wealthy empire was divided up into kingdoms and distributed amongst his Successors. The most powerful of these Successors were the Antigonids, Seleucids, and Ptolemies, who frequently contested among one another for territory. Although all of the Successors employed the Macedonian phalanx, they differentiated themselves from their competitors by incorporating the military technology of the various ethnicities both within their borders and on the fringes. Furthermore, the increase 89 90 91 92

Mayor 2003, 81 Mayor 2003, 210-2 Kern 1999, 182 Mayor 2003, 210-1

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in warfare that occurred due to the imperial ambitions of the Successors was reflected in the demand for the growth of science and engineering.93

Shock and Missile Weapons

Within the Hellenistic armies a new infantryman appeared called the thureophoros. These men carried a long oval shield called the thureos and fought with either javelin or a sword, thereby allowing for greater flexibility in battle.94 This type of shield may have been brought to Greece during the invasion of the Gauls into Asia Minor and Greece.95 The Antigonids also incorporated foreign neighbouring military components in order to improve the skill and technology of their army, the Tarentines. These were a light cavalry force originating from Southern Italy, that carried a sword, javelin, and shield.96 Medians lancers and cavalry were also used in the army of the Antigonids (Diodorus, Library 19.29.2). A heavy cavalry unit called the cataphracts was introduced into the Seleucid army, and because both the men and horses were heavily armoured, this unit required bigger and much more powerful horses, which were borrowed from the Iranian regions of Alexander’s empire.97 Thus, the Seleucids incorporated the various ethnicities within and on the fringes of their kingdom, using them to their advantage as foreign military components. Elephants were increasingly used by the armies of the Successors. Crews were placed in small wooden towers on the backs of elephants. The elephant crew of Ptolemy wielded sarissas to stab at the enemy, and the elephant crews of Antiochus III had two men wielding sarissas and two archers.98 These elephants were very useful in creating mass panic and casualties within the ranks of enemies. They were also useful as siege engines to force entry into cities.99 The kingdom who incorporated the most elephants into their army were the Seleucids as they had easy access to elephants given that their kingdom was in Asia; Seleucus I Nikator had 500 of them kept at Apameia. Furthermore, the Seleucid kingdom also incorporated camels with Arab archers.100

93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

Keyser and Massie 2006, 241 Bugh 2006, 270 Everson 2004, 216; Hamilton 1999, 170 Hamilton 1999, 175 Bugh 2006, 272 Everson 2004, 205 Carey 2005, 86 Bugh 2006, 277 and 279

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Mechanical Weapons

The expansionist mindset of the various Hellenistic kingdoms strove to further the science of warfare and create larger and more advanced machines. In terms of two-armed catapults, there were a series of improvements made. The Mark IVA arrow shooters and the Mark IVB stone-throwing catapults were built according to specific formulas for euthytones and palintones, respectively.101 For example, the arrow-shooting catapult devised by Philon got rid of the stretcher, washers, and tightening-levers and instead the spring-cord wrapped around the frame and tension was created by using two wedges for each spring.102 It was by the 2nd century BC that arrow-shooting euthytones were designed with curved arms which allowed the springs to wind up more. By the first century BC Mark VA and Mark VB two-armed catapults were improved by replacing the round washer with an oval one which allowed for a larger amount of cord in each spring. The Mark V engines were very effective and became the standard type of artillery by the Early Roman Empire. 103 One of the more famous siege machines was the helepolis or the “city-taker”. It was designed for Demetrios Poliorketes for the siege of Salamis, and it improved on the siege towers of Philip II and Alexander the Great. It was 135 feet tall, mounted on 4 wheels, and had nine stories. At the bottom were the stonethrowing catapults, in the middle levels the arrow-shooting catapults, and in the upper levels the lightest stone- and arrow-shooting catapults.104 Another, much larger, helepolis was built for Demetrios’ siege of Rhodes by Epimachus. This was also nine storeys tall but was rolled on eight wheels, had two staircases, shuttered windows, and was padded with wool-stuffed rawhide to absorb the shock of the artillery fire of the enemy. Sheets of iron were attached to the machine as its timber construction was vulnerable against incendiary missiles.105 Through the inclusion of foreign military technology, the wealth of these kingdoms, and the imperialistic drive to conquer neighbouring lands allowed for an explosion in the diverse types and sizes of weapons that could be used in battle. Not only did the physical scale of warfare increase but so too did its complexity. It was no longer two forces agreeing on a flat terrain and pushing and shoving each other until the enemy phalanx broke apart, but rather, two armies using any means at their disposal to win.

101 102 103 104 105

Marsden 1969, 42 Marsden 1969, 42 Marsden 1969, 42-3 Bugh 2006, 284 Campbell 2003, 9-11

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Conclusions

The Upper Paleolithic period saw the emergence of social group identity along with a rise in violence amongst prehistoric peoples. As time passed and permanent settlements were established, civic identity began to form with the creation of urban settlements in the Levant during the Neolithic period. This was also the case in Archaic Greece with the establishment of the poleis. As a result, people had more time to experiment and participate in tasks that were not related to food production, which subsequently lead to advancements in technology. For example, metallurgy was discovered during the Neolithic period as a consequence of increased sedentism. As polities clashed over resources, or due to differing group identities, innovations in weaponry were made in order to gain the advantage. However, it was only with the emergence of empires that a dramatic increase in the scale of military ingenuity occurred. This was due to the drive of empires to acquire resources outside of their borders, which brought them into conflict more often. Thus, there was a demand to either create better versions of the weapons already in their possession or create new weapons entirely as they encountered these foreign armies. Such was the case for the creation of the composite bow and siege towers under the Assyrian Empire, as well as the case behind the discovery of torsion power in the Classical period. By the time of the Hellenistic period, there were multiple kingdoms all vying for hegemony over the Eastern Mediterranean, and, as a result, warfare became highly scientific and technical. As a result, the types of weapons that were used not only became more sophisticated and larger than previously imagined, but they also became much more discrete, adding biological and chemical weapons to their arsenal.

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Athenian Imperialism

Persia’s Defining Legacy in Greece? Wenwei Jiang University of Auckland, New Zealand Starting from the reign of Darius I, Persia has had extensive interactions with the Greek world, in the forms of warfare, diplomacy, cultural exchange, and so on. However, its most important and defining legacy upon the Greek poleis came in the form of the diffusion of various mechanisms of governance from Persia into Athens, such as levying tribute and employing widely scattered intelligence officers. Such mechanisms were unprecedented in the Greek world, distinct from contemporary examples in any other Greek polis, and had striking similarities with their Persian counterparts. Through the adoption of such mechanisms, Athens was able to transform the Delian League into its empire, and become arguably the most powerful Greek polis for much of the 5th century BCE. In turn, through its imperial domination, Athens changed the Greek world forever via its interactions with its allies and enemies. First of all, the collection of tribute, or phoros (φόρος), from allied poleis was arguably the most significant Athenian mechanism of governance that had Persian origins. Both Thucydides and Plutarch state that the phoros paid by the Delian League allies had an original fixed sum of 460 talents , which is to say that it was a purely monetary payment (Thuc. I.96; Plut. Arist. 24.3). The establishment of the Hellenotamiai, a dedicated office in charge of receiving phoros (Thuc. I.96), as well as the overwhelming share of phoros among the constituents of the later Athenian income (Thuc. VI.13), testify to the scale and the permanent nature of the phoros. Raaflaub clarifies that the permanence of this phoros was not due to some anticipation of continuous long-lasting military operations, since much of the phoros was evidently not used for such purpose (Thuc. VI.13).1 Thus the practically true nature of the phoros is better described as an unconditional contract lasting for as long as the Delian League existed.2 This distinction is significant because the former case can be interpreted as 1 Raaflaub, Kurt A. “Learning from the Enemy: Athenian and Persian ‘Instruments of Empire’”. In Interpreting the Athenian Empire, edited by John Ma, Nikolaos Papazarkadas and Robert Parker, p. 89-124. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd., 2009. p. 99. 2 Ibid.

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the same type of non-regular contributions collected for a specific purpose, a type which the Greeks were used to (Hdt. I.61, III.48, VIII.112), only that here its purpose lasted a particularly long duration; whereas the latter is something fundamentally different.3 Indeed, when an allied polis tried to avoid paying the phoros by leaving the league, such as Naxos had done, it was met with severe punitive actions from Athens (Thuc. I.98-99). All in all, the phoros in the Delian League can be summarised as a fixed amount of regularly-paid compulsory monetary tribute from the allies, to the league treasury, which was firmly in Athenian control by 454 BCE at the latest.4 Before the formation of the Delian League, there is no valid evidence for any phoros being employed as a mechanism by any Greeks. For example, Roebuck shows that the Ionian League, which precedes the Delian League in formation date (Hdt. I.143), was primarily religious in nature, and did not involve any one polis as the hegemon.5 Such a conclusion would mean that phoros could not have been a relevant concept within the league, since there was no hegemon to receive the payment. Indeed, the only records of any pre-Delian phoros being paid by the Ionians are exclusively those paid to non-Greeks, specifically the Lydians (Hdt. I.6) and later the Persians (Hdt. III.90). As for the later Hellenic League, established against Xerxes’ invasion, again no ancient sources make any mention of a monetary tribute, except Plutarch (Plut. Arist. 24.1). However, Brunt questions the veracity of Plutarch’s claim, since Sparta was clearly the leader of the Hellenic League (Hdt. VII.149, VII.161, VIII.3-4), and yet had traditionally never imposed a regular tribute on any of its allies up to that point (Thuc. I.19).6 Raaflaub provides an explanation that the apophora, which is the term used by Plutarch, refers to the traditional non-regular contributions, and is thus fundamentally different to the phoros.7 In any case, the phoros could not have been a mechanism within the Hellenic League, since no references to it are made in Herodotus’ account of the league’s foundation (Hdt. VII.145). Such an important economic policy would have been almost impossible for Herodotus to miss. Therefore, drawing from the absence of phoros within two major pre-Delian Greek leagues, it is most likely that the phoros has never been a pre-Delian Greek mechanism of governance. On the other hand, the similarities between the tribute systems of Persia and the Delian League are obvious. Herodotus describes the phoros set up by Darius as a “fixed amount of tribute” paid on an annual basis by every satrapy (Hdt. III.89). Immediately, this fits with all the characteristics of the Delian phoros. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid, p. 95. 5 Roebuck, Carl. “The Early Ionian League”. Classical Philology 50, no. 1 (Jan. 1955): p. 28-31. 6 Brunt, P. A. “The Hellenic League against Persia”. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 2, h. 2 (1953): p. 138. 7 Raaflaub, “Learning from the Enemy”, p. 100.

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Raaflaub further argues that a direct Athenian adoption of the Persian tribute assessment is highly likely for two reasons.8 First, ancient sources describe the assessments done by Artaphernes the Persian and Aristides the Athenian, as both being based on each region’s ability to pay (Diod. X.25.4; Hdt. VI.42; Plut. Arist. 24.1).9 Second, the short amount of time between the Delian League’s foundation and its first phoros collection makes a complete reassessment from scratch both inaccurate and impractical (Thuc. I.96).10 In summary, the evidence for the extreme similarities between the Persian and Delian tribute systems, as well as the non-existence of such systems in the pre-Delian Greek world, can confirm a significant Persian influence upon the Athenian adoption of the phoros. Closely associated with the collection of phoros is the Athenian office of episkopos (ἐπίσκοπος), which likewise was most probably based on Persian models. There exist extremely few surviving records of the episkopos; the very first mention of episkopos is from the Erythrae Decree, dating to around 450 BCE.11 Here, the stated task for the episkopoi is to “allot and install the Council” at Erythrae (ML 40 lines 13-14), according to rules and procedures largely based on the Athenian model.12 Then in the subsequent Cleinias’ Decree, the episkopoi are mentioned again, this time to “manage that the phoros is collected each year” (ML 46 lines 7-10), and to make sure that the payment is made according to the correct procedures – using token seals (ML 46 lines 11-18), so as to prevent fraud.13 Thus evidently, the basic function served by the episkopos, literally meaning “the one who watches over”, was to supervise various affairs in allied poleis and make sure they were done in Athens’ best interest. There is a consistent theme of cooperation across the two decrees, with the garrison commanders, or phrourarchoi (φρούραρχοι) (ML 40 line 13), and with “the Council and the archontes (ἄρχοντες) in the cities” (ML 46 lines 5-6), respectively. This suggests that the episkopoi often did, and most certainly had the capability to secure help from other Athenian officials. It is also noteworthy that in the latter decree, the name episkopoi appears after “in the cities” rather than before, and is thus separated from the names of the two other parties co-charged with this task. Since there is no reason why this would not have been intentional, the logical conclusion is that the episkopoi were in fact different from the archontes, in that they were constantly mobile rather than stationed at specific cities. This mobile nature, as well as the episkopos’ supervisory role, are both confirmed 8 Ibid, p. 100-101. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 11 Balcer, Jack Martin. “Imperial Magistrates in the Athenian Empire”. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 25, h. 3 (3rd Qtr. 1976): p. 258-259. 12 Meiggs, Russell, and David Lewis. A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century B.C. Revised edition. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988. p. 91-92. ML 40, Athenian regulations for Erythrai. Translated by Stephen Lambert and P. J. Rhodes. 13 Meiggs and Lewis, p. 119-120. ML 46, Decree about tribute of Delian League (“Kleinias’ decree”). Translated by Stephen Lambert and P. J. Rhodes.

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by Harpocration’s description of the episkopoi who were sent to Lindos as “sent by the Athenians to the subject cities, overseeing affairs in each” (Harp. Lex. Episkopos).14 The episkopos also makes an appearance in Aristophanes’ 414 BCE play, The Birds.15 Although not a historical document, it reveals some extremely valuable facts about the way the episkopoi generally operated. In the play, the first thing the episkopos does is looking for “the proxenoi (πρόξενοι)”, presumably of the local polis (Aristoph. Birds 1020-1024).16 Meiggs demonstrates that the proxenoi were excellent political informants, and often played an important role in Athenian politics.17 In meeting with the proxenoi, the episkopos can immediately be acquainted with the local situation.18 Then, the episkopos introduces himself as someone “appointed by lot to come to Nephelococcygia as episkopos” (Aristoph. Birds 1020-1024). This implies that the episkopos was a civilian office, in the same way that the randomly selected five hundred councillors (Aristot. Const. Ath. 43.2), epistates (Aristot. Const. Ath. 44.1) and proudroi (Aristot. Const. Ath. 44.2) were also civilian offices, rather than a military office, such as the strategoi and the hipparchoi, which was characteristically elected by voting (Aristot. Const. Ath. 44.4). The fact that the episkopos is “urgently needed to be at Athens to attend the Assembly” once again testifies to its mobile nature (Aristoph. Birds 1025-1029). Finally, Balcer thoroughly examines the episkopos’ threats to “summon Pisthetaerus for outrage” and “have [him] condemned to a fine of ten thousand drachmae”, and concludes that the episkopoi clearly had the power to summon allies to the Athenian court.19 This no doubt was an important means for the episkopoi to act against those harming Athenian interest. All in all, the episkopos was an Athenian civilian office with strong imperial connotations, who were able to travel around the Athenian Empire, in order to supervise allied affairs with the help of local officials such as the phrourarchoi, archontes and proxenoi, as well as to sabotage anti-Athenian actors by either reporting them to Athens or bringing them to court. When compared to the episkopos, the Persian office of the King’s Eye (βασιλέως ὀφθαλμός) has numerous similarities.20 The establishment of the King’s Eye potentially dates to as early as the Median kingdom, where its founder Deioces was said to have “people spying and listening for him throughout his kingdom” (Hdt. I.100), and the young Cyrus made one of his friends the King’s Eye in their 14 Harpocration. Lexeis of the Ten Orators. Translated by Joshua D. Sosin, John-Paul SmithMacDonald, Mackenzie Zalin, et al. 15 Balcer, “Imperial Magistrates in the Athenian Empire”, p. 261. 16 Aristophanes. Birds. Translated by Eugene O’Neill Jr. In The Complete Greek Drama, 1938. 17 Meiggs, Russell. The Athenian Empire. London: Oxford University Press, 1972. p. 215-217. 18 Ibid, p. 216. 19 Balcer, “Imperial Magistrates in the Athenian Empire”, p. 263-264. 20 Balcer, Jack Martin. “The Athenian Episkopos and the Achaemenid ‘King’s Eye’”. The American Journal of Philology 98, no. 3 (Autumn 1977): p. 255-256.

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childish game (Hdt. I.114).21 Xenophon mentions that the Persian king “receives reports from his trusted agents on the territories that he does not see for himself” (Xen. Ec. 4.8).22 The most substantial record of the King’s Eye comes from the Cyropaedia, where Cyrus generously rewarded whoever reported anything of his interest to him, and thus gathered many such informants, as if he has “many ears and many eyes” everywhere at once (Xen. Cyrop. VIII.2.10-12).23 Thus it is evident that the King’s Eye could have referred to appointed officials, or casual informants in a broader sense, or both.24 Just like the episkopos, the King’s Eyes were a civilian office with a primarily observational purpose, were dispersed widely across the empire, and were most likely free to move around at will. Although their specific methods may be different – the episkopos by reporting to the Athenian state and bringing people to court, and the King’s Eye by solely reporting to the king; their ultimate goal of maintaining stability and disrupting subversive activities by gathering intelligence from everywhere at once is the same.25 However, despite the overwhelming similarity suggested by the above sources, none of them was written before when the episkopos was first mentioned in the Erythrae Decree in around 450 BCE, and thus they cannot substantiate any direct linkage between the two offices. Raaflaub points out, importantly, that an early mention of the King’s Eye in Aeschylus’ Persae from 472 BCE serves as the essential proof of Athenian awareness of the office in the early days of the Delian League.26 Here, a servant of King Xerxes is mentioned, described as πιστὸν πάντ᾽ ὀφθαλμὸν – “the eye that is to be trusted in every way” (Aesch. Pers. 979).27 This choice of vocabulary seems to confirm Aeschylus’ reference to the King’s Eye. Given that the date of Persae roughly coincides with the probable date of the episkopos’ establishment, the existence of Persian influence is highly plausible.28 The differences between the two offices, specifically in their degree of formality and exact methods of operation, can be easily attributed to Athenian modifications of the Persian idea to suit their democratic context. By examining merely the above two mechanisms of governance – the phoros and the episkopos – it is already easy to see the significance of the legacy left by Persia, as the model adopter of these mechanisms, upon Athens and the Greek world. As previously stated, the phoros, at its height, made up the majority of the Athenian income (Thuc. VI.13). Thucydides more than once states that the 21 Herodotus. The Histories. Translated by Robin Waterfield, 1998. 22 Xenophon. Oeconomicus. Translated by Walter Miller. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, 1979. 23 Xenophon. Cyropaedia. Translated by Walter Miller. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, 1914. 24 Raaflaub, “Learning from the Enemy”, p. 104. 25 Briant, Pierre. From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire. Translated by Peter T. Daniels. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2002. p. 344. 26 Raaflaub, “Learning from the Enemy”, p. 105. 27 Aeschylus. Persians. Translated by Herbert Weir Smyth. In Aeschylus, with an English translation by Herbert Weir Smyth, Ph. D., 1926. 28 Balcer, “The Athenian Episkopos and the Achaemenid ‘King’s Eye’”, p. 255.

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phoros is the source of Athenian power (Thuc. I.143, II.13). The rationale behind this statement is simple: in his work, Thucydides repeatedly refers to money, chremata, as a necessity for the attainment of power, dunamis, especially for a naval power, arche, through a fleet, nautikon.29 Although founded without the phoros (Hdt. VII.144; Plut. Them. 4.1), the Athenian nautikon was able to be expanded once they started receiving phoros, thus catalysing their increase in dunamis (Thuc. I.99).30 The essential importance of phoros in maintaining the nautikon can be inferred from the huge sums that naval operations costed: 1276 talents against Samos, and 2000 talents against Potidaea (Thuc. II.70.2).31 This is even more evident when during the 4th century BCE, without its sizeable phoros, Athens struggled much more with financing its fleet, often resorting to alternative and less reliable methods, such as the eisphora tax, raiding, extorting from allies, or simply leaving the problem to the individual trierarchoi to be figured out.32 The Athenian nautikon, in turn, played an indispensable role in holding the Athenian Empire together, subjugating its enemies and deterring them from launching offensives. The latter two points are best summarised by Pericles’ strategy of non-engagement on land against Sparta: if the Spartans captured Attica and the Athenians captured the Peloponnese, the Athenians would actually then gain a huge advantage over Sparta, because they had many other easily defensible islands to migrate to, and the Spartans did not (Thuc. I.143.35). It is common knowledge that for much of the 5th century BCE, Athens was unquestionably the strongest naval power, where numerous examples of its naval victories exist (Thuc. I.98, I.100-101, I.108, III.50, IV.57). Therefore, not only was Pericles’ strategy feasible, but the nautikon also ensures adequate supplies into Athens, since the city was clearly not self-sufficient, given the size of its garrison (Thuc. II.13.6-8). Surveying both literary and archaeological evidence, Moreno finds that during the 5th century BCE, Athens was never selfsufficient in grain, and imported half of its annual consumption from overseas, primarily from the surplus-producing cleruchies.33 Therefore, possessing control of the sea, through a powerful nautikon supported by stable revenue such as a phoros, was an absolute necessity for the Athenian Empire. Unlike the phoros, the benefits provided by the episkopos are much harder to quantify. Its clandestine nature and a general lack of extant evidence make 29 Kallet-Marx, Lisa. Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. p. 3. 30 Kallet-Marx, p. 67. Plutarch. Plutarch’s Lives: Themistocles. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. London: Harvard University Press, 1914. 31 Gabrielsen, Vincent. Financing the Athenian Fleet: Public Taxation and Social Relations. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994. p. 115. 32 Ibid, p. 116-118. 33 Moreno, Alfonso. Feeding the Democracy: The Athenian Grain Supply in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. p. 309-324.

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it impossible to prove the importance of the episkopos to Athens. However, judging from their assigned tasks in the Erythrae Decree and Cleinias’ Decree, it should be reasonable to deduce that they played a prominent role in making sure the phoros was being paid and the allied poleis did not have any subversive intentions, thus consolidating Athenian control and power over its allies. Apart from the phoros and the episkopos, various other Athenian mechanisms of governance have been plausibly compared to possible Persian antecedents, such as the deportation and colonisation of defeated enemies, and the lavish display of tributes.34 Even the idea of empire itself might have come from Persia to Athens.35 In turn, the Delian League, and later the Athenian Empire, transformed the Greek world forever, through its rise and fall from power, and its interaction with its allies and its enemies in the process. In summary, Persia left its most important and defining legacy on the Greek poleis, and Athens in particular, by acting as a model of imperial mechanisms of governance, which inspired the Athenians to establish their counterparts. Consequently, the latter became arguably the most powerful Greek polis during much of the 5th century BCE. The Persian influence on the Athenian establishment of the phoros and the episkopos has been discussed above at length, but scholarship also exists for various other mechanisms of governance. Both of these mechanisms played a vital part in the Athenian rise to imperial power, leaving a Persian legacy on not only Athens, but also much of the Greek world.

Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

ML 40, Athenian regulations for Erythrai. Translated by Stephen Lambert and P. J. Rhodes. Updated July 5, 2017. ML 46, Decree about tribute of Delian League (“Kleinias’ decree”). Translated by Stephen Lambert and P. J. Rhodes. Updated April 30, 2018. Aeschylus. Persians. Translated by Herbert Weir Smyth. In Aeschylus, with an English translation by Herbert Weir Smyth, Ph. D. Vol. 1. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1926. Aristophanes. Birds. Translated by Eugene O’Neill Jr. In The Complete Greek Drama. Vol. 2. New York: Random House, 1938. Aristotle. Constitution of the Athenians. Translated by H. Rackham. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes. Vol. 20. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1952. 34 35

Raaflaub, “Learning from the Enemy”, p. 101-112. Ibid, p. 114-115.

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Diodorus Siculus. Diodorus of Sicily in Twelve Volumes with an English Translation by C. H. Oldfather. Vol. 4-8. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1989. Harpocration. Lexeis of the Ten Orators. Translated by Joshua D. Sosin, John- Paul Smith-MacDonald, Mackenzie Zalin, et al. Herodotus. The Histories. Translated by Robin Waterfield. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Plutarch. Plutarch’s Lives: Aristides. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. London: Harvard University Press, 1914. Plutarch. Plutarch’s Lives: Themistocles. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. London: Harvard University Press, 1914. Thucydides. History of the Peloponnesian War. Translated by Richard Crawley. London: J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1910. Xenophon. Cyropaedia. Translated by Walter Miller. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes. Vol. 5-6. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1914. Xenophon. Oeconomicus. Translated by Walter Miller. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes. Vol. 4. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1979.

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Balcer, Jack Martin. “Imperial Magistrates in the Athenian Empire. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 25, h. 3 (3rd Qtr. 1976): p. 257-287. Balcer, Jack Martin. “The Athenian Episkopos and the Achaemenid ‘King’s Eye’”. The American Journal of Philology 98, no. 3 (Autumn 1977): p. 252-263. Briant, Pierre. From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire. Translated by Peter T. Daniels. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2002. Brunt, P. A. “The Hellenic League against Persia”. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 2, h. 2 (1953): p. 135-163. Gabrielsen, Vincent. Financing the Athenian Fleet: Public Taxation and Social Relations. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994. Kallet-Marx, Lisa. Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Meiggs, Russell. The Athenian Empire. London: Oxford University Press, 1972. Meiggs, Russell, and David Lewis. A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century B.C. Revised edition. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988. Moreno, Alfonso. Feeding the Democracy: The Athenian Grain Supply in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. Raaflaub, Kurt A. “Learning from the Enemy: Athenian and Persian ‘Instruments of Empire’”. In Interpreting the Athenian Empire, edited by John Ma, Nikolaos Papazarkadas and Robert Parker, p. 89-124. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd., 2009. Roebuck, Carl. “The Early Ionian League”. Classical Philology 50, no. 1 (Jan. 1955): p. 26-40.

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Hirundo is the Latin word for martlet, a mythical bird without legs, always shown in flight, unceasing in its quest for knowledge. The McGill coat-of-arms has three martlets.