Hirundo XX by hirundo.mcgill

Hirundo The McGill Journal of Classical Studies Volume XX

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 Students’ Association of McGill and uses a policy of blind review in selecting papers. It is a 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: hirundo.history@gmail.com No portion of this journal may be printed without the consent of the editorial board. © McGill Hirundo 2022 i

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

Cindy Zeng Audrey Michel

Outreach Officers

Taryn Power Adam Rosengarten Rebecca Toropov

Design Officers

Kate Gelinas Emily Ann Harnett

Editorial Board

Shaam Beed Camille Deslongchamps Félix Gariépy Kate Gelinas Olivia Genest-Binding Pierina Gzlez Kimberly Honig Polina Iourtchenko Timothy Kwan Zoe Louchet Madeleine McGrath Audrey Michel Taryn Power Adam Rosengarten Rebecca Toropov Cindy Zeng

Academic Advisor

Darian Totten

Cover Artist

Olivia Yu

iii

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 Editor’s Preface Cindy Zeng

vii

Do Not Call Me By Your Name: Metamorphosing the Practice of Queer Recepetion Keisuke Nakajima

A Study of Medea Throughout History Victoria Vela

The Latin Origin of Spanish Root Alternations Jack Ryan

Pleasure and Stress at the Roman Baths Marie Levesque

The Social Implications of Improbitas in Roman Society Andrew Aziz

Editor’s Preface I am delighted to share with you the twentieth edition of Hirundo, McGill’s undergraduate research journal for Classical Studies. In keeping with the journal’s tradition and contemporary movements to probe the limits of our discipline, the edition we bring you presents interdisciplinary research, weaving together work associated with the ancient Mediterranean world from diverse fields that include literature, linguistics, archaeology, media studies, and Classical reception. These investigations challenge the conventional institutional divisions that fracture a holistic understanding of the past into rigidly-defined departments. The disparities of such an education are all too clear to Classicists, who approach ancient civilizations with an expectation of perceiving (as ancient populations did) their culture, religion, history, economy, and politics as a unified experience and of evaluating their norms and practices within a framework appropriate for a time so far-removed. The papers consolidated in this volume provide a glimpse into the cross-disciplinary studies of Classics and reflect its continued attractiveness to and prevalence for modern populations. I thank the contributors to this journal and my editorial board, Taryn, Camille, Olivia, Polina, Timothy, Zoe, Pierina, Rebecca, Adam, Félix, Madeleine, Shaam, Kimberly, and Kate. I am also immensely indebted to the design and layout work completed by Emily, Kate, and our cover artist Olivia Yu. The final product would not have been possible without the consistent dedication and effort of these individuals. To my steadfast and diligent Deputy Editor-in-Chief Audrey, my predecessor Daisy Bonsall, and McGill’s Department of History and Classical Studies, I express my sincere gratitude. On behalf of the authors and editorial board, I proudly present Hirundo XX. Cindy Zeng Editor-in-Chief

vii

viii

Do Not Call Me By Your Name: Metamorphosing the Practice of Queer Reception

Keisuke Nakajima

Throughout the centuries, many have used Plato’s dialogues, in particular his Symposium and Phaedrus to understand and celebrate homoerotic relationships between men. In the nineteenth century, for example, many American and British authors were exposed to the translations of Plato’s works, most famously Oscar Wilde, who “clearly saw Platonic erōs as a way to understand not only his own feelings, but also his inspiration as an artist.”1 To provide a more recent example, Lil Nas X includes a quotation from Plato’s Symposium in his music video for MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name).2 This video, which embraces and celebrates queer imagery and themes, has received enormous praise from LGBTQ communities.3 There is, however, an issue with giving Plato’s works such a privileged, foundational place in the history of LGBTQ literature. Plato’s homoeroticism is a manifestation of his misogynistic beliefs and of those of Classical Athenian society at large. Marilyn Frye’s description of homoeroticism in a patriarchal society sheds light on this issue: All or almost all of that which pertains to love, most [...] men reserve exclusively for other men. The people whom they admire, respect, adore, revere, honor, whom they imitate, idolize, and form profound attachments to, whom they are willing to teach and from whom they are willing to learn, and whose respect, admiration, recognition, 1 Leitao, “Plato and the Philosophical Dialogue,” 47-8. 2 Lil Nas X, “MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name),” Lil Nas X, March 26 2021. YouTube Video, 3:09, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6swmTBVI83k. 3 Chow. “Historians Decode the Religious Symbolism and Queer Iconography of Lil Nas X’s ‘MONTERO’ Video,” TIME, TIME USA, March 30 2021, https://time.com/5951024/lil-nas-x-montero-video-symbolism-explained/.

honor, reverence and love they desire … those are, overwhelmingly, other men. In their relations with women, what passes for respect is kindness, generosity or paternalism; what passes for honor is removal to the pedestal. From women they want devotion, service and sex.4 Plato’s homoeroticism precisely fits into what Frye describes as a symptom of patriarchy. A closer look at the Platonic dialogues reveals that they are by no means celebrations of diversity, although many later readers wish to use them as such, but rather are expressions of male superiority and misogyny according to Athenian social ideology. The popularity of Plato is a clear indication of the androcentrism which has been a crucial issue in queer communities to this day. While there now exists an abundance of work created on the temporality of gay men’s lives during the HIV epidemic, far less work focuses on the perspectives and experiences of women, transgender, and other queer individuals, whose lives were inevitably affected by the crisis as well.5 Indeed, Judith Halberstam observes that “the literature on sexuality and space is growing rapidly, but it tends to focus on gay men, and it is often comparative only to the extent that it takes white gay male sexual communities as a highly evolved model that other sexual cultures try to imitate and reproduce.”6 Although there has been an improvement in the diversity of queer media representation since Halberstam’s publication, the issue of androcentrism is far from being solved. In the latter half of this paper, I demonstrate how the practice of Classical reception is able to contribute to the solution to this problem. I argue that the popularity of Platonic dialogues in queer reception must be replaced by work which challenges the social norm of the society in which it was created and gives voices to those who are marginalized, oppressed and ignored, such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Let us begin by examining the passage from Plato’s Symposium, which Lil Nas X quotes in his MONTERO music video: Ἐπειδὴ οὖν ἡ φύσις δίχα ἐτμήθη, ποθοῦν ἕκαστον τὸ ἥμισυ, which translates to “after the form was cut in two, everyone began to long for their half” (Pl. Symp.

4 Frye, The Politics of Reality: Essays in Feminist Theory (New York: Crossing Press, 1983), 134-5. 5 Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives), 3. 6 Halberstam, 12-13.

191a).7 This excerpt appears in Aristophanes’ speech, in which the comic poet suggests an origin myth for humans and their sexual attraction, demonstrating why some people are attracted to those of the opposite sex, while others to those of the same. He says that humans used to be spherical creatures with three different sexes: male, female, and a combination of the two (Pl. Symp. 189d-e). Because of their hubristic acts, these creatures were later bisected by Zeus, as described in the quotation from Lil Nas X’s music video, and began to seek their other half. Joseph Howley praises the inclusion of a quote from this speech in the MONTERO music video, since this “passage speaks to a capacity to imagine an equal level of naturality to all of what we think of as sexual orientations,” and it is “an early example of homosexuality and bisexuality represented as being familiar or acceptable in ways they are not always in our society today.”8 However, if understood in the context of Plato’s Symposium, there are a few problems with praising this speech in such a way. The first of these problems is the nature of the speaker, Aristophanes. In order to interpret the meanings of this speech properly, one must not forget his profession as a comic playwright. It is evident that in the Symposium, the speaker’s occupation determines the nature of his encomium. Eryximachus the doctor, for example, whose speech precedes that of Aristophanes, tells of scientific and medical conceptions of love (Pl. Symp. 185e-188e). Therefore, one must be careful when determining how seriously this account should be taken, especially since the story rarely sees any parallels in Greek literature. In short, by placing this account into the mouth of Aristophanes, an artist who frequently satirizes and mocks others, Plato might be treating what Howley calls the “equal level of naturality” of different desires as a total joke. Secondly, the use of this speech as a celebration of diversity or expression of acceptance completely disregards its underlying androcentrism that is, in other words, exclusion of women. Consider the following passage, in which Aristophanes explains the outcome of Zeus’ bifurcation of the original creatures: ὅσοι μὲν οὖν τῶν ἀνδρῶν τοῦ κοινοῦ τμῆμά εἰσιν, ὃ δὴ τότε ἀνδρόγυνον ἐκαλεῖτο, φιλογύναικές τ᾿εἰσὶ καὶ οἱ πολλοὶ 7 All translations of Greek and Latin in this paper are my own work. 8 Chow. “Historians Decode the Religious Symbolism and Queer Iconography of Nil Nas X’s ‘MONTERO’ Video.”

τῶν μοιχῶν ἐκ τούτου τοῦ γένους γεγόνασι, καὶ ὅσαι αὖ γυναῖκες φίλανδροί τε καὶ μοιχεύτριαι, ἐκ τούτου τοῦ γένους γίγνονται. ὅσαι δὲ τῶν γυναικῶν γυναικὸς τμῆμά εἰσιν, οὐ πάνυ αὗται τοῖς ἀνδράσι τὸν νοῦν προσέχουσιν, ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον πρὸς τὰς γυναῖκας τετραμμέναι εἰσί, καὶ αἱ ἑταιρίστριαι ἐκ τούτου τοῦ γένους γίγνονται. ὅσοι δὲ ἄρρενος τμῆμά εἰσι, τὰ ἄρρενα διώκουσι, καὶ τέως μὲν ἂν παῖδες ὦσιν, ἅτε τεμάχια ὄντα τοῦ ἄρρενος, φιλοῦσι τοὺς ἄνδρας καὶ χαίρουσι συγκατακείμενοι καὶ συμπεπλεγμένοι τοῖς ἀνδράσι, καί εἰσιν οὗτοι βέλτιστοι τῶν παίδων καὶ μειρακίων, ἅτε ἀνδρειότατοι ὄντες φύσει. Those of men who are a cut from the shared one, which was then called androgenous, are women-loving and many of the adulterers also have become from this race, and also those women who are men-loving and adulterous are from this race. And those women who are a cut of a female race, they do not pay their mind to men at all, but rather are inclined to the women, and the women-loving women are from this race. And those who are a cut of a male race pursue men, and while they are children, because of being a slice of a male race, they love men and rejoice as they lie down together and entwine themselves with men, and those are the best of the children and youths, since they are the manliest by nature. (Pl. Symp. 191d-192a) While Aristophanes, as Howley points out, might be considering all kinds of love as natural, he by no means treats them equally. He praises the men-loving boys above all since they are the ἀνδρειότατοι, whereas he insults woman-loving men, treating them as unfaithful adulterers. Afterall, the purpose of this speech is, just like others in the Symposium, to justify pederasty as the ideal and superior form of love; thus, Aristophanes praises the removal of women and femininity from men’s lives altogether.9 The androcentric nature of his speech is also evident from the extent to which he wishes to explain each subject; while woman-loving men and women in general do not receive any attention outside of the passage above, 9 Songe-Møller, Philosophy without Women: The Birth of Sexism in Western Thought, 103.

Plato provides a very thorough description of male, homoerotic life and explanations as to why they are worthy of praise unlike the others (Pl. Symp. 191e-193a). Hence, the focus of Aristophanes’ speech is not to treat different kinds of love as equally natural, but to justify misogyny as well as male supremacy. Thus, the inclusion of this passage in the music video of MONTERO, which celebrates the equality and diversity of people’s identity, is misleading—if not outright inappropriate. This androcentrism is prominent not only in Aristophanes’ speech, but also throughout Plato’s Symposium. In order to perceive these underlying themes, it is useful first to turn our attention to Hesiod’s treatment of women in the story of Pandora, presented in both his Theogony and Works and Days. Although Hesiod’s composition predates the Classical period, his works gained great prestige and “become canonical in Greek thoughts” for understanding the world orders.10 More importantly for the present purpose, the Symposium also seems to be responding to the issues regarding women that are posed by Hesiod. While the two works provide different accounts of the story, there is certainly a very important common theme to notice: the very creation of women is an afterthought. Although, logically speaking, as Zeitlin rightly points out, both male and female should come into existence at the same time when human beings are created, Hesiod does not view matters as such.11 According to the Theogony, men and immortals lived in harmony until Prometheus stole fire, as a consequence of which Zeus “at once prepared an evil for men in recompense of fire” (αὐτίκα δ᾽ ἀντὶ πυρὸς τεῦξεν κακὸν ἀνθρώποισι), in the form of the first woman (Hes. Theog. 570). It is from her that the γένος of women came to be (Hes. Theog. 590). In Works and Days, the creation of women also occurs as the result of Prometheus’ misbehaviour, and Zeus “named the woman Pandora, since all those who have Olympian houses gave her a gift, misery for graineating men” (ὀνόμηνε δὲ τήνδε γυναῖκα Πανδώρην, ὅτι πάντες Ὀλύμπια δώματ᾽ ἔχοντες δῶρον ἐδώρησαν, πῆμ᾽ ἀνδράσιν ἀλφηστῇσιν, Hes. Op. 80-82). While the first woman in Theogony is “an evil thing” (κακόν) itself, she is portrayed as a rather innocent figure in Works and Days. The gods gifted a large jar, filled with κακῶν, which, upon the jar’s opening, poured forth for all mankind on earth (Hes. Op. 90-105). Although the two works show certain variations, they both present women as alien beings 10 Zeitlin, Playing the Other, 61. 11 Zeitlin, 53-4.

(i.e., arising from a different γένος than that of men), who are created after men as “the agent of separation between gods and mortal men” (Hes. Op. 56). Hesiod therefore characterizes women as inherently evil, creating a drastic asymmetry between men and women. He even inverts the usual etymology of Pandora’s name, “the giver of all gifts,” into “the one given all gifts” in order to emphasize the contrast between men, the workers, and women, the takers (Hes. Op. 59-60). Thus, Hesiod presents interaction with women not as a choice but as a necessity: since women separate the men from the divine, it is also through them that men might imitate a divine-like, immortal life. After the creation of women, men must secure their continuity into the future through union with them in the form of a marriage. Hesiod describes the consequence of the creation of the female race at length in his Theogony (Hes. Theog. 600-612). After the birth of Pandora, there is no more self sufficiency among mankind.12 While women are a baneful burden for men, they are also necessary, because it is only through marriage that a man may acquire continuity (i.e., the closest thing a mortal may achieve to divine immortality). He needs his child to tend his old age and to eventually inherit his property. Hesiod presents women as alien beings with whom men have nothing in common, yet are compelled to coexist, laying down the foundation for a long tradition of women as others.13 This misogynistic dilemma that Hesiod presents was certainly present in the minds of Classical Athenians. Apart from their admiration of Hesiod, they also believed that they could trace their genealogy back to Erichthonius, the “earth-born” who was engendered by Hephaestus’ seed, which had fallen on the earth.14 This myth expresses the Athenian ideal of one-sex humanity by explaining their origins without recourse to women, ultimately denying women their right to existence.15 Clearly, Athenian men dreamt of a utopia without women, and indeed many extant Greek tragedies explore the baneful outcome of marriage, reflecting contemporary male anxieties concerning “the other race” (cf. Euripides’ Medea and Hippolytus, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon).16 12 Songe-Møller, Philosophy without Women: The Birth of Sexism in Western Thought, 9. 13 Songe-Møller, 9-10. 14 Songe-Møller, 4-5. 15 Songe-Møller, 5-6. 16 cf. following lines by Jason in Euripides’ Medea: “If only it were fated for mortal children to be born by some other way, and there to be no race of women: then there would be no evil for men” (χρῆν τἄρ᾽ ἄλλοθέν ποθεν βροτοὺς / παῖδας τεκνοῦσθαι, θῆλυ δ᾽ οὐκ εἶναι γένος: / χοὔτως ἂν οὐκ ἦν οὐδὲν ἀνθρώποις κακόν: 573-5), which Songe-Møller also quotes to begin her first chapter (2002, 4).

It is to this universal dilemma that Plato provides a solution in his Symposium.17 Socrates’ speech argues that men can assure their futurity without the aid of women. He first establishes that it is not women who construct the bridge between mortal men and immortal continuity, but Eros; he is a “δαίμων” who is “between divine and mortal (μεταξύ […] θεοῦ καὶ θνητοῦ),” and, therefore, connects the mortal and immortal (Pl. Symp. 202d-e). According to the speech of Socrates, “all men are pregnant in respect to both the body and the soul” (κυοῦσιν […] πάντες ἄνθρωποι καὶ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα καὶ κατὰ τὴν ψυχῆν), and through the power of Eros, one can give birth and approach immortality through this process (Pl. Symp. 206c). Just like Hesiod, Plato suggests that childbirth, a result of a liaison between a man and a woman, is one way to achieve continuity (Pl. Symp. 206c); however, he provides an alternative way to secure continuity that not only replaces childbirth, but even surpasses it. If a man is pregnant with respect to his soul, without any help from women, he is able to produce immortal offspring that is by far more preferable than human children (Pl. Symp. 209a-c). He names as examples Homer and (of course) Hesiod, who have secured their immortality through their immortal children (i.e., their poems), as well as Lycurgus and Solon, the famed law makers (Pl. Symp. 209d-e). In short, Plato attempts to solve Hesiod’s dilemma by entirely denying the necessity of women for the continuity so prized by Ancient Greek men. Lying in the centre of his Symposium are the androcentrism and misogyny that are part and parcel of aristocratic Ancient Greek life.18 Phaedrus, another greatly influential work of Plato’s, should not be read as separate from this context. In this dialogue, Socrates gives a speech describing pederasty as a proper process for men to reach such immortality. He describes the nature of the soul by using a simile of a charioteer with two horses, one evil and one noble (Pl. Phdr. 246a-b). Should one be successful in training the unwieldy horse, the soul would be able to reach the domain of the immortals (Pl. Phdr. 247a-b). Furthermore, as Halperin argues, Socrates views pederasty as a process through which

17 Many scholars are aware of this connection between Plato’s works and Hesiod. Vered Lev Kenaan, for example, states: “The Symposium is among those Platonic dialogues that are very obviously interested in Hesiod: Plato quotes directly from him and borrows Hesiodic motifs and ideas at crucial points in the text” (Lev Kenaan 2009, 157). 18 As Songe-Møller observes: “the dream of a womanless world seems to inform one of the main currents of Greek philosophy, namely the Platonic tradition” (2002, 3-4)

one may tame the evil horse, in order to reach that immortality.19 Because of its homoerotic nature, Phaedrus has proven itself popular for reception in modern works that focus on the theme of homoeroticism between men; E.M. Forster’s Maurice, for example, depicts homoerotic love between two men understood through the model of Plato’s Symposium.20 The 1987 film adaptation of this novel employs allusions to Plato’s Phaedrus in order to illustrate the protagonist’s affection towards other men, and the 2017 film Call Me By Your Name, based on the novel by André Aciman, “replays Maurice’s own replay of the Phaedrus.”21 While modern audiences are receptive to this canonized usage of Phaedrus, one should not treat Phaedrus as an inclusive celebration of homoeroticism. Understood together with Symposium, Phaedrus provides another way for men to secure continuity without women. The nature of the dialogue, therefore, is androcentric and misogynistic at its foundation, even if this idea is less explicit than it is in the Symposium. In other words, there is nothing “queer” in the homoerotic relationships in Platonic dialogues. We must, therefore, question the legitimacy of his popularity in the queer narrative. In order to realize more inclusive, more feminist, and more queer practices of Classical reception in queer media, it is imperative to shift our attention to the works which challenge the social norms of patriarchy and androcentrism in the ancient world. By looking to such works, we are able to broaden our canon of queer reception beyond the scope of Plato’s propaganda. Here, I propose Ovid’s Metamorphoses as an example of such works, one which certainly deserves our attention. Given the sheer volume of stories of rape, murder, and other forms of violence against women, one might initially perceive the poet to be a misogynist. Closer analysis, however, reveals otherwise. Unlike his contemporaries, Ovid gives a voice and agency to girls and women, often treating them as the focus of his epic narrative by “invert[ing] Greco-Roman myths, suggesting that they were about girls rather than the gods, demigods and heroes etched into the politics and ideology of Augustan Rome.”22 Throughout his epic, there are several instances where Ovid very literally gives a voice to women who have been silenced. 19 Halperin, “Plato and Erotic Reciprocity,” 74. 20 Ingleheart, “Introduction: Romosexuality,” 2-5. 21 Hudak, “A Review of Call Me By Your Name, Courtesy of Philology 101,” 155-7. 22 James, “The Ovidian Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Boy Actors: Q2 Juliet,” 106.

In Book I, for example, Ovid tells the story of Io, a beautiful maiden who is turned into a heifer by Zeus as a result of his affection for her. Lauren Curtis notes the significance of Io in the epic, highlighting her as “the first of many women within the poem who try to communicate despite being silenced.”23 Ovid insists on her loss of speech as the first consequence of her transformation: even before Io sees her physical transformations in the reflection of water, she “gave forth bellowings from her mouth when she tried to lament, and she was afraid of the sounds and terrified by her own voice” (conata queri mugitus edidit ore. pertimuitque sonos propriaque exterrita voce est, Ov. Met. 1.637-638). When her father Inachus sees her and pets her, not knowing that the animal is his own daughter, Ovid does not forget to remind the reader of her inability to speak: “if only the words should follow [her tears], she would ask for help and say her name and her misfortune. She related the sad story of her transformed body through writing instead of words, which her foot shaped in the dust” (si modo verba sequantur, oret opem nomenque suum casusque loquatur. littera pro verbis, quam pes in puluere duxit, corporis indicium mutati triste peregit, Ov. Met. 1.647-650). In addition to the repeated mentions of her muteness, Ovid’s emphasis on her voicelessness is further highlighted by his indifference towards her physical appearance. Describing Io writing with her hoof, the poet uses the Latin word pes, a word which can refer to both animal and human feet. Had he wished to focus on the physical transformation of Io, he could have used a word which more explicitly refers to an animal body, such as ungula. Thus, Ovid directs the reader’s attention away from the physical body and focuses it solely on her loss of speech. It is important to note that Ovid deliberately chooses to focus on the silence of Io’s voice. The best-known source of Io’s tale, which was certainly available to Ovid himself, is Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound (Aesch. PV 561-886). However, Aeschylus does not present Io as a silenced figure, but as quite the opposite: a mourner who is too loquacious and helplessly confused.24 Ovid alters the tradition for his own purpose, and thus successfully finds a way to tell the story of a maiden, who has been silenced, nevertheless finding a way to tell her story and be heard. In another instance, Ovid returns to the trope of a silenced woman. In Book VI of the Metamorphoses, he presents the famous tale 23 Curtis “Ovid’s Io and the Aetiology of Lament,” 304. 24 Curtis, 311.

of Procne and Philomela. In this story, Tereus, Procne’s husband, rapes her sister Philomela, who in turn threatens him by saying: “I myself will tell of your deeds, with my shame thrown away” (ipsa pudore proiecto tua facta loquar, Ov. Met. 6.544-545). As a response to this threat, in which Philomela expresses her intention to speak up and desire to be publicly heard, Tereus silences her by cutting off her tongue, which was “calling her father’s name and struggling to speak” (nomen patris vocantem luctantemque loqui) while mutilated (Ov. Met. 6.555-556). Here, as in Io’s story, Ovid emphasizes Philomela’s loss of speech by repeating verbs of locution, as well as by contrasting her to Tereus who was able to speak his nefas (Ov. Met. 6.524). This word, commonly translated into English as “sin”, has an etymological root meaning “that which may not be spoken.”25 In this way, Ovid makes clear the dichotomy between a silenced woman and a man who is able to speak even of the unspeakable. Here again, however, Ovid gives back voice to Philomela. A year after her mutilation, during which Procne believes her sister is dead, Philomela “skillfully hanged up threads on a unpolished warp, and weaved purple signs into white threads, the story of the crime” (stamina barbarica suspendit callida tela purpureas notas filis intexuit albis, indicium sceleris, Ov. Met. 6.576-578). The word indicium, which Ovid uses in both Io’s and Philomela’s scenes, links them together and further intensifies the common theme in the two stories. When Procne receives her sister’s textile and discovers the crime of her husband, she also experiences the loss of voice: “she reads the miserable tale of her sister and (amazing that she was able!) falls silent. The pain repressed her mouth, and her tongue searching for enough indignant words lacked them” (germanaeque suae carmen miserabile legit et (mirum potuisse) silet. dolor ora repressit, verbaque quaerenti satis indignantia linguae defuerunt, Ov. Met. 6.582585). Ovid’s use of the language clearly connects the two sisters together as Sarah Annes Brown observes: This odd link between the sisters’ questing tongues (the same verb quaero meaning to seek, but also to desire, is used in each passage) joins them through language (lingua, like ‘tongue’, incorporates the meaning ‘language’) at precisely the moment when they are robbed of speech. 25 Brown, “Philomela,” 196.

Their verbal (and sensual) connection thus defiles Tereus’ attempt to part and silence them. (2004, 203). In both stories, therefore, Ovid’s elaborations first direct the reader’s attention to the female characters’ deprivation of speech, who nonetheless find their way to speak up and be heard. Ovid’s emphasis on the silencing of Philomela and Procne is also an alteration of the tradition of this story. Crucially, the story of these two sisters was understood in antiquity as an aetiological tale of human lamentation;26 Ovid, however, shows no interest in this aspect—which has been the entire point of the story for many of his literary predecessors—and appears “much more interested in the theme of female silence” and overcoming it.27 From these deliberate subversions of the traditional meanings behind the stories of Io and of Philomela, it may not be hyperbolic to say that Ovid is making a statement about contemporary Roman society, where women are too often silenced by men. The most noteworthy of all the stories in the Metamorphoses, with respect to queer and feminist perspectives, however, is that of Iphis and Ianthe, which deals with same-sex desire between two girls as a central theme. Lignus, a virtuous yet poor man, commands his wife Telethusa to kill her child if born female. A daughter, Iphis, is born, but upon receiving advice from the goddess Isis, Telethusa does not kill her, and instead raises the child as a boy. Thus, Iphis lives under this disguise largely without consequence until she reaches the age of marriage and is engaged to a girl, Ianthe. Both the mother and her child grieve over an impossible marriage, although Iphis truly feels love for Ianthe. However, Isis answers Telethusa’s prayer and makes the marriage possible. The interpretation of this scene is by no means unanimous. John F. Makowski, for example, views this story as containing “Ovid’s most damning denunciation of homosexuality.”28 Other scholars, such as Judith P. Hallett and Diane T. Pintabone, believe that Ovid demonstrates immense sympathy towards Iphis, and that therefore interpreting this story as a denunciation of homosexuality is too simplistic and unrealistic.29 I argue that the story of Iphis and Ianthe 26 Curtis, “Ovid’s Io and the Aetiology of Lament,” 309. 27 Curtis, 309-10. 28 Makowski “Bisexual Orpheus: Pederasty and Parody in Ovid,” 30-1. 29 Pintabone, “Ovid’s Iphis and Ianthe: When Girls Won’t Be Girls,” 264-7; Hallett, “Female Homoeroticism and the Denial of Roman Reality in Latin Literature,” 263.

challenges the patriarchal norm familiar to a Roman audience and reveals Ovid’s progressive attitude towards gender and queer love, which does not conform to “normal” Roman depictions of love between a man and woman or between a man and boy. Ovid first presents this story as a rather typical tale of a man of virtue in a patriarchal world. The story begins as the poet introduces Lignus, father of Iphis, stating that “no greater wealth was in him than his nobleness, but his life and loyalty was blameless” (nec census in illo nobilitate sua maior, sed uita fidesque inculpata fuit, Ov. Met. 9.671-673). Lignus is also shown to adhere to the patriarchal preference for male children and is praised for his deference towards the personified Pietas, from whom he seeks forgiveness when he orders his wife to murder a female child (Ov. Met. 9.679). From these descriptions, the poet invites the Roman reader to relate to and sympathize with Lignus.30 The patriarchal order is especially clear in this scene: The husband issues orders, the male child is valued over the female, thanks are given to gods, the father arranges the marriage; the child is even named patrilineally. In other words, all seem “in order.” (Pintabone 2002, 262) When his wife Telethusa decides to disobey her “good” husband, therefore, one might see this disruption of patriarchy in a family as a setup for a disaster, reminiscent of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Ovid, however, mocks the reader’s expectations by presenting her as a good wife and mother, and by casting upon her no negative judgement—either implicit or explicit.31 He goes even further in undermining his audience’s expectations by allowing a happy ending to the wife’s betrayal of her husband. Therefore, the framing of the story already suggests Ovid’s challenge to the patriarchal norms. The analysis of the Ovid’s description of Iphis further reveals his unique, progressive view of gender. While Makowski interprets the ending of the story, which he reads simply as Iphis’ sex change, as “a comment on the heterosexuality over homosexuality and of marriage over tribadism,” this statement is insufficient to explain Ovid’s narrative.32 Indeed, the 30 Pintabone, “Ovid’s Iphis and Ianthe: When Girls Won’t Be Girls,” 262. 31 Pintabone, 263. 32 Makowski “Bisexual Orpheus: Pederasty and Parody in Ovid,” 32.

poet’s language allows no space for a simplistic heterosexuality versus homosexuality interpretation, since he renders Iphis’ gender genuinely non-binary from the beginning of the story.33 Lignus gives the child a name “which was common [to both genders], and she would not deceive anyone with it” (quod commune foret nec quemquam falleret illo, Ov. Met. 9.710). Iphis grows up to have an appearance which “would be beautiful either way, whether you give it to a girl or a boy” (quam siue puellae siue dares puero, fieret formosus uterque, Ov. Met. 9.712-713). The adjective formosus here emphasizes Iphis’ fluid gender, since when it appears in the masculine elsewhere in Metamorphoses, it is used for the genderfluid Bacchus or for the love interests of transgressive female desires.34 The genderbend of Iphis goes further into the grammatical level as well. Although Richard Tarrant’s Oxford Classical Text consistently describes Iphis as grammatically feminine, the manuscript tradition of the scene is still unresolved in three places, providing evidence of both grammatically masculine and feminine Iphis.35 Even in Tarrant’s version, furthermore, the character’s gender is far from clear. Iphis receives a grammatically feminine gender upon birth (nata est ignaro femina patre, Ov. Met. 9.705). In the next line, however, Ovid refers to the same character as puerum and soon uses a masculine form to describe the child (cultus erat puero, Ov. Met. 9.706, 9.712). Thus, the poet’s alteration of feminine and masculine grammatical forms highlights the gender fluidity of Iphis.36 The conclusion of the story is not a simple sex change from female to male either. Regarding the scene, Valerie Traub poses a series of important questions to consider in order to comprehend the complex, queer nature of this metamorphosis. What exactly has been transformed? On what grounds do we know that a transformation has occurred? What is the basis of our certainty? Is her transformation an externalisation of essential, internal character? Is this metamorphosis an example of change-within-continuity or continuity-within-change? Is Iphis always, already, 33 Lochrie, “Gower’s Riddles in ‘Iphis and Iante’,” 81. 34 Begum-Lees, “Que(e)r(y)ing Iphis’ Transformation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” 108. 35 Begum-Lees, 108. 36 Perry Long, “Illegible Bodies: Reading Intersex and Transgender in Early Modern Frace (The Case of Isaac de Benserade’s Iphis et Ianthe),” 216.

really a man — and what would it mean to assert that she is or isn’t? What is at stake — hermeneutically, ethically, politically — in our answers to these questions? (2020, 15) Through such questions, one is able to understand that this story is not a denunciation of homosexuality and tribadism, nor a statement on a superiority of heterosexuality. I argue that it is quite the opposite. Ovid mocks the heteronormativity and the gender norms of Rome and creates a space for queer love. Consider Ovid’s description of Iphis’ transformation: sequitur comes Iphis euntem, quam solita est, maiore gradu; nec candor in ore permanet et vires augentur et acrior ipse est vultus et incomptis brevior mensura capillis, plusque vigoris adest habuit quam femina. nam quae femina nuper eras, puer es. Iphis follows her mother departing as a companion, With a bigger step than she was used to; and the paleness on the face Does not remain and the strengths are increased and the very face is Sharper and the unadorned hairs are shorter in length, There is more vigor than a woman had. For you who Recently were a woman, are a boy. (Ov. Met. 9,786-791) It is important to notice that the signs of gender mentioned here are “slippery at best,” giving no stable signs of gender, despite the fact that Ovid narrates this transformation with greatest detail over other stories of gender transformations in his epic.37 This metamorphosis involves only performative signifiers of genders, and since other scenes of gender changes make evident that Ovid could have been much more conclusive with Iphis as well had he wished to, it is safe to say that the poet intentionally makes this transformation ambiguous.38 Ovid does not provide any signs of a biological sex change, and if Iphis undergoes a genital change, it is not 37 Perry Long, 215-7. 38 Begum-Lees, “Que(e)r(y)ing Iphis’ Transformation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” 112-4.

worth mentioning for him.39 Why does Ovid skip the clearest, most obvious and stable marker of a sex change for his Roman audience: the genitalia? A plausible answer is that he does not support heteronormativity and androcentrism in love and has a liberal attitude to the queerer way of loving at his time. Judith Hallet observes that, from Plautus in the 2nd c. BCE to Seneca in the 1st c. CE, Roman authors have always linked female homosexuality to masculinity.40 Due to this connection to manliness, the Romans deemed same-sex desire between women as socially unacceptable.41 The Roman authorities are indeed eager to deny the femininity in women who enjoy same-sex intimacy.42 It is in this climate that Ovid composes his story of Iphis and Ianthe where he shows immense sympathy towards female homoeroticism. Had he been clearer about the genital change of Iphis, this story would have fit comfortably with the Roman ideal of heterosexual love, but he refuses to do so. The poet’s active disinterest in genitalia expresses his denial of the “law of phallus,” which would require a narrative climax focused on a change in sex organs.43 Instead, the genderqueerness of Iphis allows the two lovers to enjoy their intimacy without being reduced to the hierarchical, hypersexualized stereotypes of Roman love.44 The queer themes underpinning Ovid’s Metamorphoses did not remain unnoticed by subsequent generations. The French poet Isaac de Benserade, for example, was also aware of the potential ambiguity and inherent instability of gender signs while producing his Iphis et Iante in 1637.45 By using the Ovidian model, Isaac de Benserade suggests that gender is subjective, allowing a space for self-reinvention and re-creation.46 Ovid has also received attention from several queer women. Long before the Victorian Era, Anne Lister was cognizant of the queerness of Ovid’s work and is said to have “flirtingly referred to Ovid’s Metamorphoses to sound out whether a new female friend was aware of the queer possibilities 39 James “The Ovidian Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Boy Actors: Q2 Juliet,” 117. 40 Hallett, “Female Homoeroticism and the Denial of Roman Reality in Latin Literature,” 258-60. 41 Pintabone, “Ovid’s Iphis and Ianthe: When Girls Won’t Be Girls,” 257. 42 Hallett, “Female Homoeroticism and the Denial of Roman Reality in Latin Literature,” 267. 43 James “The Ovidian Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Boy Actors: Q2 Juliet,” 117. 44 Begum-Lees, “Que(e)r(y)ing Iphis’ Transformation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” 106. 45 Perry Long, “Illegible Bodies: Reading Intersex and Transgender in Early Modern Frace (The Case of Isaac de Benserade’s Iphis et Ianthe),” 214. 46 Perry Long, 234.

of antiquity.”47 More modern examples of Ovidian receptions focused on the female perspective include Ali Smith’s reinvention of the myth of Iphis and Ianthe in her Girl Meets Boy, and Céline Sciamma’s 2019 film Portrait de la jeune fille en feu, which portrays love between two women through retelling Ovid’s story of Orpheus and Eurydice. These media, however, have not received as much attention nor praise from the queer community as the Platonic receptions in Call Me By Your Name or Lil Nas X’s MONTERO music video. The overwhelming popularity of Plato in queer media is an indication of the longstanding legacy of androcentrism, which has been and remains still a prominent issue in many modern queer communities. Many remain unaware of the problematic reality of reinforcing Plato’s themes in works of Classical reception. Moving forward, we must seek more inclusive practices when referring to the ancient world, a goal we can realize by understanding these works in their context of production and by seeking those which challenge the social norm of exclusion. When engaging with the Classical past, one must not forget those who were ignored, oppressed, excluded and violated while praising only one side of the story. Just as importantly, we should be wary of cherry-picking quotes that seem to advance a modern cultural agenda, while disregarding the ancient context behind those quotes.

47 Ingleheart. “Romosexuality - embracing queer sex and love in Ancient times,” The Conversation, Academic Journalism Society, February 12 2020, https://theconversation.com/romosexuality-embracing-queer-sex-and-love-in-ancient-times-130420.

Bibliography Aeschylus. Prometheus Bound. Edited by Mark Griffith. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Begum-Lees, Rebecca. “Que(e)r(y)ing Iphis’ Transformation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” In Exploring Gender Diversity in the Ancient World, edited by Allison Surtees and Jennifer Dyer, 106117. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2020. Brown, Sarah Annes. “Philomela.” Translation and Literature 13, no. 2 (2004): 194-206. Chow, Andrew R. “Historians Decode the Religious Symbolism and Queer Iconography of Nil Nas X’s ‘MONTERO’ Video.” TIME. TIME USA, March 30 2021. https://time.com/5951024/lilnas-x-montero-video-symbolism-explained/. Curtis, Lauren. “Ovid’s Io and the Aetiology of Lament.” Phoenix 71, no.3/4 (2017): 301-320. Frye, Marilyn. The Politics of Reality: Essays in Feminist Theory. New York, NY: Crossing Press, 1983. Halberstam, Judith. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives. New York, NY: NYU Press, 2005. Hallett, Judith P. “Female Homoeroticism and the Denial of Roman Reality in Latin Literature.” In Roman Sexualities, edited by Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner, 255-273. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998. Halperin, David. “Plato and Erotic Reciprocity.” Classical Antiquity 5, no. 1 (1986): 60-80. Hesiod. Theogony. Edited by Glenn W. Most. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018. 17

Hesiod. Works and Days. Edited by Glenn W. Most. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018. Hudak, Justin. “A Review of Call Me by Your Name, Courtesy of Philology 101.” Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics 26, no. 2 (2018): 151-60. Ingleheart, Jennifer. “Introduction: Romosexuality.” In Ancient Rome and the Construction of Modern Homosexual Identities, edited by Jennifer Ingleheart, 1-35. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Ingleheart, Jennifer. “Romosexuality - embracing queer sex and love in Ancient times.” The Conversation. Academic Journalism Society, February 12 2020. https://theconversation. com/romosexuality-embracing-queer-sex-and-love-in-ancienttimes-130420. James, Heather. “The Ovidian Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Boy Actors: Q2 Juliet.” Shakespeare Survey 69, (2016): 106-122. Leitao, David D. “Plato and the Philosophical Dialogue.” In The Cambridge History of Gay and Lesbian Literature, edited by E. L. McCallum and Mikko Tuhkanen, 34-50. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Lev Kenaan, Vered. “The Seductions of Hesiod: Pandora’s Presence in Plato’s Symposium.” In Plato and Hesiod, edited by G. R. Boys-Stones and J. H. Haubold, 157-175. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2009. Lil Nas X, “MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name),” Lil Nas X, March 26 2021. YouTube Video, 3:09, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=6swmTBVI83k. Lochrie, Karma, “Gower’s Riddles in ‘Iphis and Iante’.” In Ovidian Transversions: ‘Iphis and Ianthe’, 1300-1650, edited 18

by Valerie Traub, Patricia Badir, and Peggy McCracken, 80-98. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2020. Long, Kathleen Perry. “Illegible Bodies: Reading Intersex and Transgender in Early Modern Frace (The Case of Isaac de Benserade’s Iphis et Ianthe).” In Ovidian Transversions: ‘Iphis and Ianthe’, 1300-1650, edited by Valerie Traub, Patricia Badir, and Peggy McCracken, 213-240. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2020. Makowski, John F. “Bisexual Orpheus: Pederasty and Parody in Ovid.” The Classical Journal 92, no. 1 (1996): 25-38. Ovid. Metamorphoses. Edited by R.J. Tarrant. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2004. Pintabone, Diane T. “Ovid’s Iphis and Ianthe: When Girls Won’t Be Girls.” In Among Women, edited by Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz and Lisa Auanger, 256-285. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2002. Plato. Phaedrus. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Plato. “Symposium.” In Plato: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias, edited by W. R. M. Lamb, 73-246. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925. Songe-Møller, Vigdis. Philosophy Without Women: The Birth of Sexism in Western Thought. New York, NY: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2002. Traub, Valerie. “Introduction: Transversions of Iphis and Ianthe.” In Ovidian Transversions: ‘Iphis and Ianthe’, 1300-1650, edited by Valerie Traub, Patricia Badir, and Peggy McCracken, 1-41. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2020. Zeitlin, Froma I. Playing the Other. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996. 19

A Study of Medea Throughout History Victoria Vela The myth of Medea, and especially its adaptation by Euripides, is one story that continues to disturb, fascinate, and inspire both authors and playwrights, who have attempted to reinvestigate its titular heroine under the guidance of contemporary events and societal attitudes across centuries. The presentation of the main messages of this myth evolved over time, with writers from different eras choosing to emphasize and adapt different aspects of the plot and of Medea’s character to address issues they deemed most relevant to their time. For instance, one prominent topic in adaptations of the myth is the concept of heroism, evident in the stress that Ancient Greek authors, such as Euripides and Apollonius, place on the flaws of Jason’s character and of heroic culture at large. However, as Seneca’s adaptation of Euripides’ Medea in the 1st century CE reveals, Roman audiences were more concerned with themes of marriage.1 By the late 19th century, priorities had shifted again and British writers used Euripides’ Medea myth to highlight issues of marital and child custodial inequalities for women.2 Moreover, during the later suffragette movement (i.e., around 1907), women adopted the Medea as one of the suffragette texts they would perform.3 More recently, Medea has been presented as the central character in a modern retelling of the Argonautica for children, which presents her intelligence and bravery as coveted and admirable qualities.4 The diversity of adaptations thus prompts us to question how the subjects emphasized by each writer reflect the concerns of the time in which they were written. Abrahamsen perhaps articulates this best when she notes that “the ‘facts’ of Medea’s mythological history remain constant over time, but each poet reshapes that inherited mythological tradition in ways that reflect the societal context in which s/he writes.”5 This essay 1 Guastella, “Virgo, Coniunx, Mater,” 198. 2 Hall, “Medea and British Legislation,” 52-53. 3 Hall, 44. 4 Holub and Williams, Medea the Enchantress. 5 Abrahamsen, “Roman Marriage Law,” 107.

will discuss a selection of writers from various historical periods and their reception of the Medea story to show that each version is a product of its time and thus discloses societal values and preoccupations of the period in which it was created. It will also analyze the kinds of impact these representations had on their contemporary audiences and on collective thought. In one of the earliest extant versions of this myth, Euripides’ monumental Medea reveals the brutality and savagery of heroism, a theme which possibly results from the contemporary cultural mindset cultivated by the constant threat of the Peloponnesian war. The Greek tragedy was written and performed for the first time in 431 BCE.6 Euripides closely connects Medea, who would “rather three times over stand behind a shield than give birth once” (250-1), with Ancient Greek ideals of masculine, militaristic heroism in several ways.7 For instance, Medea is greatly preoccupied by potential mockery from her enemies, which shows that she covets the same honour as earlier Homeric heroes. She expresses this concern multiple times, stating that she “mustn’t suffer the mockery of that Sisyphean marriage,” referring to the union between Jason and Creon’s daughter (Eur. Med. 404-5).8 Again, when her resolve to kill her children wavers, she asks, “Do I want to be mocked while my enemies go unpunished?”( Eur. Med. 1049-50).9 In this way, Medea is closely reminiscent of the great heroes, such as Ajax and Achilles.10 Like them, Euripides’ Medea also possesses a lust for vengeance; she feels she must destroy her enemies by killing Creon and his daughter, as well as her children, and leave Jason with nothing, as she believes it is “the only way to wound [her] husband” and to seek retribution for her suffering (Eur. Med. 817).11 In an attempt to present the brutality of heroism, Medea’s harsh treatment of her enemies may be a warning by Euripides against similar attitudes in warfare, to which he alludes in some of his other works.12 In Children of Heracles, written soon after the start of the Peloponnesian war, the same playwright describes Hercules’ mother, Alcemena, murdering her 6 Lefkowitz and Romm, “Introduction to Euripides’ Medea,” 485. 7 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea. 8 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea. 9 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea. 10 Bongie, “Heroic Elements in the Medea of Euripides,” 27; Lawrence, “Ancient Ethics,” 19-20. 11 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea. 12 McDonald, “War then and now,” 96.

enemy Eurystheus.13 This scene may have been an attempt by Euripides to dissuade Athenian soldiers from treating their enemies too harshly, perhaps as a direct response to the 430 BCE execution of Spartan envoys by Athenian soldiers.14 In addition to the act of slaughter, Medea also justifies her reasons for infanticide, stating that she “mustn’t delay or give over to some other / harsher hand the killing of the children” (Eur. Med. 1235-6).15 She knew her children would be targeted after she killed Creon and his daughter, and she therefore included their death in her plan—both as part of her punishment for Jason and as a corrupted manifestation of her maternal duty to protect them from a cruel fate at the hands of another. One can read these actions as a result of Medea’s adherence to some of the “virtues” found in Homeric heroic culture, and further, their tragic outcome as Euripides’ intention to show the potentially destructive consequences of excessively pursuing heroic characteristics to an Athenian audience that was priming itself for war. Although the Greek hero is traditionally a man who is able to attain glory by imposing his will on others through persuasion and physical strength in combat or athletics, virtuous women in Greek epic and tragedy are also able to attain heroic status by simply enduring their suffering.16 Euripides, too, introduces Medea as such a woman, participating in the passive form of heroism expected of her gender, when she lists the injustices imposed by men to a group of like-minded Corinthian women: we must, for a vast sum, buy a husband; what’s worse, with him our bodies get a master. And here’s what’s most at stake: Did we get a man who’s good or bad? For women have no seemly escape; we can’t deny our husbands (232-6).17

However, Medea’s participation in an active form of heroism emerges and dominates her characterization later in the play. Tessitore states that Medea has suffered injustices by her enemies and will therefore inflict harm on 13 McDonald, 96-97. 14 McDonald, 96. 15 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea. 16 Bongie, “Heroic Elements,” 30; Lefkowitz, Women in Greek Myth, 115. 17 Lefkowitz, Women in Greek Myth, 115; Tessitore, “Euripides’ “Medea”,” 590; Trans. Rachel Kitzinger, Medea.

them: she has “the boldness, determination, and passionate intensity characteristic of the hero.”18 In this way, she inverts the traditionallyheld view of the male hero. Her actions are similar to those of Ajax and Achilles, who turn on their own communities after their honour is slighted, and Euripides appears to highlight this major negative consequence of heroic culture.19 When Jason’s betrayal insults Medea’s honour, and when she is faced with exile by Creon, she double crosses the Corinthian community by killing their heads of state and turns on her marital family by killing her children.20 Therefore, Medea’s actions in response to her circumstances highlight the negative aspects of militaristic heroism and present an unflattering version to viewers. Perhaps the threat of war prompted Euripides to show these scenes as potential warnings against war’s brutalities to those in his audience. A later retelling of the myth by Apollonius in his Argonautica furthers the idea of the negative consequences of heroism by using Medea to consider what it means to pursue heroic glory. In this retelling from the 3rd century BCE, Apollonius of Rhodes’ epic poem focuses on Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece. His Medea is presented as a young girl, yet already at this age, she is concerned with her honour. Indeed, while debating whether or not to help Jason with his mission, she states that “even after [her] death, [the Colchians] will mock and reproach [her] in the future” (Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.791-2).21 This may be evidence of Apollonius following the themes important to his predecessor, Euripides. Throughout the Argonautica, the expected portrayal of Jason as the hero is undermined. When Jason must complete Aeetes’ challenges to acquire the fleece, it is Medea who furthers the action along and allows him to succeed through her witchcraft.22 Jason also recognizes her desire for honour when he tries to convince her to accompany him back to Iolcos by promising that she “will be honoured and respected among women and men; […] because it was thanks to [her] that their sons returned home safe” (Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.1123-6).23 Yet, despite Euripides’ portrayal of Medea as one obsessed with reputation, the Medea of Apollonius’ Argonautica reacts negatively 18 Tessitore, “Euripides’ “Medea”,” 590. 19 Lawrence, “Ancient Ethics,” 19. 20 Lawrence, 19; Euripides. Medea. 1160-1221, 137-1338. 21 Trans. Richard Hunter, Argon. 22 Pike, “Jason’s Departure,” 29. 23 Trans. Richard Hunter, Argon.

to Jason’s speech, as if she did not want to be honoured in a way that would be appealing to a Greek hero (Ap. Rhod. Argon.3.1131-3).24 Indeed, Medea would have refused this heroic virtue of attaining glory, had Hera not intervened and convinced Medea to flee with Jason out of fear (Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.1133-6).25 Perhaps Medea’s initial refusal is a comment by Apollonius that one should not jump at the chance to attain glory, as it leads to some horrible outcomes for which Medea is well-known. Initially innocent from the corruptions of militaristic heroism, both Apollonius and Euripides show a degradation in Medea’s character once her motives are ruled by vengeance and honour. As a result, one of the main focuses of the ancient Greek portrayals of Medea’s myth appears to be on the potential and actual negative consequences of heroism. In the 1st century CE, Seneca’s adaptation of Medea focuses on concepts that were more appealing to a Roman audience, particularly the theme of marriage.26 By this time, Medea was an established and especially popular character amongst Roman authors. The first “Roman Medea” was written by Ennius in the 3rd century BCE, and scholars believe that Ennius’ Medea is an adaptation of Euripides’ tragedy.27 Other Roman authors also wrote about Medea before Seneca: after Accius (2nd century BCE), the Medea story continued to be told in other forms until Seneca’s tragedies in the 1st century CE.28 Like his predecessors, Seneca’s Medea follows the plotline of Euripides’ version of the myth. However, Seneca places a particular focus on her broken marriage, portraying it in a manner that would have been familiar to a Roman audience. Guastella explains the logic behind Medea’s revenge: since Medea sacrificed her brother and life in Colchis for marriage to Jason, the end of that marriage must be met with similarly severe crimes, a brutal punishment for a husband who made an equally brutal betrayal.29 Medea concocts this plan in order to retrieve her dowry, demanding that Jason “give the fugitive back what is hers” (Sen. Med. 489).30 Here is a woman who demands what she deserves. However, she is much more concerned with her marriage and her birth family than Euripides’ heroine. The very first words of the play, spoken by Medea, 24 Trans. Richard Hunter, Argon. 25 Trans. Richard Hunter, Argon. 26 Guastella, “Virgo, Coniunx, Mater,” 198. 27 Manuwald, “Medea,” 117-118. 28 Manuwald, 120, 122, 124. 29 Guastella, 202-203. 30 Trans. John G. Fitch. Medea.

invoke the “gods of marriage” (Sen. Med. 1), and this focus on marriage would have made the events of the play even more disturbing to a Roman audience, as her situation continuously inverts standard Roman marriage and divorce practices.31 Since Medea refers to herself as a coniunx multiple times, while Jason only does so once, Seneca establishes that Medea is the only one who sees her marriage as legitimate.32 Seneca’s Medea also makes frequent connections between her marital family and her birth family, stating that she “gave birth to two, enough for [her] brother and [her] father” (Sen. Med. 957).33 Medea feels doubly wronged: firstly due to Jason not returning her so-called “dowry,” and secondly due to the fact that Jason asks to keep their children.34 This would have been striking to a Roman audience, since Roman law dictated that children from an illegitimate marriage with a non-citizen mother were meant to stay with their mother.35 Once she has committed her murders, she asserts that she has recovered all she has sacrificed for Jason, including her father, brother, the Cholcians, the golden fleece, and her maidenhood (Sen. Med. 982-4).36 She claims, therefore, to have regained her initial identity.37 She also exclaims “O wedding day!” (Sen. Med. 986), as if the slaughter of her children was akin to a reset button that annulled her failed marriage and returned her to chaste maidenhood. This evocation serves as another reminder that part of her motivation was based on her marriage and slighted status as a wife.38 Therefore, the Roman focus on marriage reflects the collective Roman mindset and potential anxieties surrounding this significant area of life. Marking a significant period of change in late 19th and early 20th century Britain, Medea’s story surged in production as a result of the growing attention given to women’s rights, and British adaptations of the play focused on the themes of marriage and women’s issues.39 Debates about women’s rights formed the political and social climate in which the many Medea adaptations were being produced.40 Before the reign 31 Trans. John G. Fitch. Medea.; Abrahamsen, 107, 116-117. 32 Abrahamsen, 113. 33 Abrahamsen, 111.; Trans. John G. Fitch. Medea. 34 Abrahamsen, 116-117. 35 Abrahamsen, 116-117. 36 Trans. John G. Fitch. Medea. 37 Guastella, 198. 38 Trans. John G. Fitch. Medea. 39 Hall, “Medea and British Legislation,” 53. 40 Hall, 53.

of Queen Victoria, divorce was unattainable for women, and fathers had all rights to the custody of their children and could even ban all contact between the children and their mother.41 By 1837, MP Thomas Talfourd introduced the Infant Custody Act, which awarded women partial custody of their children.42 In 1856, the first divorce law introduced in Britain was concerned with creating a new divorce court.43 Following this, British interpretations of Medea as “the abandoned wife and mother” became very popular.44 One well-received adaptation, Robert Brough’s Medea or The Best of Mothers, with a Brute of a Husband, sees Medea abandoned by Jason, left poor and destitute, and forced to hand over her children to her former husband.45 Medea’s situation in this play reflected the fear over the possible outcome for women if the divorce bill were passed.46 However, in this version, Creusa is depicted as an aid to Medea by helping her secure funds and full custody of her children, further emphasizing Brough’s interest in exploring how women can overcome difficulties in constraining situations.47 For some, Medea’s story remained an appalling and deeply upsetting tale because it breaks the mother-child bond, thought to be a basic and constant quality in women.48 However, the British public also had certain worries about the consequences of divorce for women, as well as other political and social changes like motherhood.49 The suffragette movement and their subsequent renditions of Euripides’ Medea saw an increase in sympathy for women who had committed infanticide and crimes towards their husbands, as these actions were seen to result from the low social statuses of these women and the injustices they suffered at the hands of men.50 Authors such as Cicely Hamilton wrote suffrage dramas that argued against the importance placed on the “mother-child bond,” and found that many had sympathy for the mother in cases of maternal infanticide.51 Thus, blame was heavily placed on men and their 41 Hall, 52. 42 Hall, 52-53. 43 Hall, 55. 44 Hall, 56. 45 Hall, 60-61. 46 Hall, 61. 47 Hall, 61. 48 Taplin, “Medea’s Swerving Flight.” 49 Hall, “Medea and British Legislation,” 62. 50 Hall, 46-47.; Van Zyl Smit, “Medea the Feminist,” 108. 51 Hall, “Medea and British Legislation,” 46-47.

irresponsibility, and, though women who committed these crimes still received punishment, reactions to Medea and other real-life “Medeas” became sympathetic, at least in theater.52 Paralleling these developments, British society revived their interest in stories of murder, especially those involving murderesses, which made Medea more sympathetic and familiar.53 The 1857 murder trial of Madeline Smith, who murdered her lover when he threatened to expose their affair, again placed the question of women’s rights on public display.54 Her actions received so much public support that she was acquitted, to which Hall comments that “this reaction shows how much women’s vulnerability to men - even if it led them to murder - was now informing opinion.”55 This fascination with murder trials—and in particular, sympathy towards women’s use of murder in marital contexts—made Medea similar to other fictional heroines of this time, such as Isabel Vane in East Lynne (1860) and Lady Audley in Lady Audley’s Secret (1862), rendering her actions more recognizable.56 Thus, Medea’s violence towards those who wronged her may have been better received by these audiences. These British adaptations of Euripides’ Medea (and the differences they hold from their source material) show how the society at the time attributed greater attention to the plight of women in marital contexts and thus chose to forefront this in their renditions. While there are a great number of adaptations of the Medea myth intended for adults, there are some intriguing examples of adaptations created for children. Joan Holub and Suzanne Williams’ Goddess Girls: Medea the Enchantress is a unique edition to the Medea corpus. This 2017 novel is part of the authors’ Goddess Girls book series for children between the ages of 8 and 12.57 Each book in the series focuses on a different female character from mythology, and the main setting throughout the series is Mt. Olympus Academy (MOA), a junior high school for gods and goddesses to hone their magical abilities and influence mortal affairs. The events of Medea the Enchantress are primarily based on the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes, following the pre-adolescent Medea on the famous quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece with Jason. As part of the “Hero-ology” class, Medea finds herself influencing the events 52 Hall, 46-47.; Van Zyl Smit, “Medea the Feminist,” 108. 53 Hall, “Medea and British Legislation,” 66-67. 54 Hall, 61. 55 Hall, 61. 56 Hall, 66-67. 57 Holub and Williams, Medea the Enchantress.

of the Argonauts before she and Glauce are accidentally transported onto the Argo. Crucially, Medea emerges not as a villain in this novel, but rather as a heroic figure meant to be admired by young readers. The initial presentation of Medea’s relationship with Glauce in this book is of particular interest. Euripides’ adaptation of the myth presents Creon’s daughter as Medea’s indirect marital rival (Eur. Med. 543-5).58 In Holub and Williams’ retelling, however, both girls respect the other’s abilities despite their academic rivalry.59 The very first word Medea herself uses to describe their relationship is “frenemy,” denoting a partial friendship instead of complete enmity.60 Soon after, Medea expresses concern over her academic performance in comparison to that of Glauce: “How was Medea supposed to shine at MOA with the wonderful and magically accomplished Glauce casting a shadow of greatness over her?”61 The adjectives “wonderful” and “accomplished” emphasize the recognition and respect Medea has for Glauce’s abilities. Indeed, Holub states that the authors chose to reproduce Medea and Glauce’s relationship in this light because “rivalry in academics and social life — even among friends — in school is common, so we thought readers would identify with the problems and emotions involved.”62 Therefore, the themes one can extract from an interpretation of the tragic Medea myth can be reworked to extend even to children. Holub elaborates further on the decision to write about Medea, stating that: Medea seemed a good character to enact a rivalry scenario and show that there could also be mutual respect for others’ abilities. One reason we wanted to write about Medea is that she’s portrayed as a bad guy in mythology. It’s a fun challenge to draw such a character as having both good and bad motivations, so readers can understand her actions, while maybe not approving of them (email message to author, February 28, 2021).

In an effort to create a relatable character for young readers, Medea’s actions in this book are far removed from the severity of her crimes, which was the focus of other adaptations, and instead linked with elements of the myth that are of more concern for the readership. One such situation 58 Trans. Rachel Kitzinger. Medea. 59 Joan Holub, email message to author, February 28, 2021. 60 Holub and Williams, Medea the Enchantress, 13. 61 Holub and Williams, 19. 62 Joan Holub, email message to author, February 28, 2021.

that is deemed more important to a child is Medea’s relationship with her father. In order to attend the school of the gods, Holub and William’s Medea defies her father’s wishes, which leads her to aid Jason in capturing Aeëtes’ beloved Fleece.63 However, the ordeal ends with a positive resolution, as Aeëtes expresses his pride over Medea’s actions and relief at her safe return.64 Thus, the authors also interact with the reception of Euripides’ and Apollonius’ Medea by remolding elements of the ancient versions of the myth with a focus on issues that are more relevant to a young, modern audience, such as disagreements between parent and child as well as relationships between schoolmates. Overall, the myth of Medea provides plenty of inspiration for authors, who have used it to tackle a range of issues that span militaristic heroism, marriage, divorce, women’s rights, and modern teenage concerns. It appears that one feature of these accounts that holds true throughout Medea’s literary history is that it allows writers and their audiences to reflect on contemporary issues and how they affect their way of thinking.65 According to Foley, adaptations of Euripides’ Medea and the study of their reception have allowed audiences “to recognize more directly the role that the contemporary climate plays in [their] thinking.”66 By using the method of story-telling, each version of Medea allows its audience to consider their society’s norms in a new context and to experience their preconceived notions as detached, third-party observers. The adaptations presented in this essay provide valuable insight into the ways in which changing societal norms can affect one’s readings of ancient stories. Given the current state of the world since 2020, one wonders how the Medea myth might continue to evolve, and which elements current and future authors will choose to emphasize when contemplating the unprecedented concerns of their time.

63 Holub and Williams, Medea the Enchantress, 208-209. 64 Holub and Williams, 226. 65 Foley, “Twentieth-Century Performance,” 9-10. 66 Foley, 9-10.

Bibliography Abrahamsen, Laura. “Roman Marriage Law and the Conflict of Seneca’s ‘Medea’.” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 62, no. 2 (1999): 107-121. Apollonius of Rhodes. Jason and the Golden Fleece. Translated by Richard Hunter. New York: Oxford University Press Inc., 1993. Bongie, Elizabeth Bryson. “Heroic Elements in the Medea of Euripides.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (19742014) 107, (1977): 27-56. Bruner, Jerome. “Life as Narrative.” Social Research 71, no. 3 (2004): 691-710. Euripides. Medea. Translated by Rachel Kitzinger, ed. Mary Lefkowitz and James Romm (New York: Modern Library, 2016). Foley, Helen P. “Twentieth-Century Performance and Adaptation of Euripides.” Illinois Classical Studies 24/25 (1999): 1-13 Gessert, Genevieve. “Myth as Consolatio: Medea on Roman Sarcophagi.” Greece and Rome 51, no. 2 (2004): 217-249. Guastella, Gianni. “Virgo, Coniunx, Mater: The Wrath of Seneca’s Medea.” Classical Antiquity 20, no. 2 (2001): 197-219. Hall, Edith. “Medea and British Legislation before the First World War.” Greece and Rome 46, no. 1 (1999): 42-77. Heavey, Katherine. The Early Modern Medea. Early Modern Literature in History. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Holub, Joan, and Suzanne Williams. Goddess Girls: Medea the Enchantress. New York: Aladdin, 2017.

Hunter, Richard. “Introduction.” In Jason and the Golden Fleece, ixxxxi, translated by Richard Hunter. New York: Oxford University Press Inc., 1993. Hunter, R. L. “‘Short on Heroics’: Jason in the Argonautica.” The Classical Quarterly 38, no. 2 (1988): 436-453. Lawrence, Stuart. “Ancient Ethics, the Heroic Code, and the Morality of Sophocles’ Ajax.” Greece & Rome 52, no. 1 (2005): 18-33. Lefkowitz, Mary and James Romm. “Introduction to Euripides’ Medea.” In The Greek Plays: Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, 483-486. Edited by Mary Lefkowitz and James Romm. New York: Modern Library, 2016. Lefkowitz, Mary R. Women in Greek Myth. 2nd ed., Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007. Manuwald, Gesine. “Medea: Transformation of a Greek Figure in Latin Literature.” Greece and Rome 60, no. 1 (2013):114-135. McDonald, Marianne. “War then and now: the legacy of ancient Greek tragedy.” Hermathena no.181 (2006): 83-104. Ovid. Metamorphoses. Translated by David Raeburn. London: Penguin Classics, 2004. Pike, David. “Jason’s Departure” Apollonius Rhodius and Heroism.” Acta Classica 36 (1993): 27-37. Quintus, John Allen. “The Moral Implications of Oscar Wilde’s Aestheticism.” Texas Studies in Literature and Language 22, no. 4 (1980): 559-574. Seneca. Medea. Translated by John G. Fitch. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2018.

Taplin, Oliver. “Medea’s Swerving Flight through Art and Literature.” Lecture uploaded to YouTube, Stanford, CA, April 2014. Video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAs37GavkWM. Tessitore, Aristide. “Euripides’ “Medea” and the Problem of Spiritedness.” The Review of Politics 53, no. 4 (1991): 587-601. Van Zyl Smit, Betine. “Medea the Feminist.” Acta Classica 45, (2002): 101-122.

The Latin Origin of Spanish Root Alternations

Jack Ryan

I. Introduction In Classical Latin, almost all verbs maintain one consistent root throughout the present tense. For example, to say ‘I come,’ ‘she comes,’ and ‘we come,’ one says /ˈwɛn-ɪoː/, /ˈwɛn-ɪt/, and /wɛˈn-iːmʊs/ respectively, the root being /wɛn/- in all three forms. However, in Castilian (also known as Spanish1), any verbs alter their roots in certain present tense forms. For example, Castilian speakers say /ˈbenɡ-o/ ‘I come,’ /ˈbjen-e/ ‘she comes,’ and /beˈn-imos/ ‘we come.’ While all the above examples of ‘come’ in Latin maintain the consistent root form /wɛn/-, Castilian has /benɡ/-, / bjen/-, and /ben/-. This paper explores why Classical Latin generally lacks the changes in root form so common in its descendants and explores the origin of these alternations with a focus on Castilian.2 After an introduction of the International Phonetic Alphabet in section II, section III of this paper will outline Classical Latin and Castilian verb conjugation. Sections IV and V will explore the origins of the /e/~/je/ and /o/~/we/ alternations and the additional /ɡ/ found in some forms, demonstrating that the vowel alternations come from regular sound change, while the origin of the /ɡ/ insert remains unexplained. Finally, section VI considers and ultimately rejects an alternate solution to the lack of present tense root alternations (i.e., changes in the form of the root) in Classical Latin. II. Notation The following charts list the relevant sounds for this paper in 1 I use ‘Castilian’ to refer to the Romance language widely spoken in countries such as Mexico and Colombia and the historical Castilla region in modern Spain. I avoid calling it Spanish as there are many other languages spoken in Spain (e.g., Basque, Catalan, Galician, Aragonese, Asturleonese, etc.). 2 All examples of modern Romance languages (other than Castilian and French) are from Romance Verbal Inflection Dataset 2.0.4 (Beniamine et al. 2020);. Old Castilian is from Penny (2002), Old French is from Luquiens (1919), and Old Tuscan is from Maiden (2018).

the International Phonetic Alphabet.3 The English examples are approximations due to variation in pronunciation. The symbol ‘ˈ’ marks the following syllable as stressed, ‘ː’ indicates the vowel before it is long (e.g., [aː] is said for longer than [a]), and ‘-’ separates the root from the rest of the verb. Root changes are bolded, ungrammatical forms are marked with ‘ˣ,’ and reconstructed forms with ‘*.’ ‘N’ represents a placeless nasal.4

3 One may listen to the sounds on various websites, such as https://www.ipachart.com/. 4 If you’re familiar with Latin poetry, you might have noticed that ⟨ᴍ⟩ at the end of a word behaves oddly. This is because it represents a placeless nasal, here transcribed as /N/. Normally, /N/ is pronounced as a nasalization of the preceding vowel. For example ⟨ᴠIᴛᴀᴍ⟩ /wiːtaN/ ‘life (accusative singular)’ is normally pronounced [wiːtãː] (like French “oui temps”). If the next word began with a /p b m/, /N/ was pronounced [m] (e.g., ⟨ᴠIᴛᴀᴍʙᴏɴᴀᴍ⟩ ‘good life (accusative singular)’ is [wiːtam bɔnãː]). Similarly, /N/ was pronounced [n] before /t d n/, and [ŋ] before /k ɡ/ (Allen 1978, 30-31); Written ⟨ɴ⟩ before ⟨s⟩ ⟨ғ⟩ also represents a placeless nasal, at least usually (Allen 1978, 28; Cser 2020, 162).

Sound /θ/ /t͡ ʃ/ /ɾ/ /r/ /j/ /i/ /ɪ/ /e/

English thing chest better (Amer.) (rare) you see kit face (Scottish)

French (rare) Tchad (rare) (rare) tiennent petit petite (Québec) mangé

Castilian hacer (Euro.) ocho pero perro siempre si N/A debes

/ɛ/ /u/ /ʊ/ /o/

bed boot foot goat (Scottish)

faite tout toute (Québec) saute

N/A tú N/A todos

/ɔ/

thought (Scottish)

sotte

N/A

Latin N/A N/A 5

(see above fnt.) IACEÓ SꟾC (long; /iː/) BIBERE DÉBÉS (long; / eː/) SEMPER TV́ (long; /uː/) SVNT TÓTÓS (long; / oː/) DORMIT

III. Overview of Latin and Castilian Verb Conjugation The first conjugation, or class, of Latin and Castilian verbs has an /aː/ or /a/ before the inflectional morphology.6 This /aː/ or /a/ disappears when followed by another vowel (e.g., /klaːmaː/- ‘shout’ + -/oː/ ‘I’ is / ˈklaːmoː/ not ˣ/ˈklaːmaːoː/).7 In the table below, the singular forms stress the root (e.g., /ˈnɛɡ-oː/ ‘I deny,’ /ˈnɛɡ-at/ ‘she denies’) while the firstperson plural has stress after the root (e.g., /nɛˈɡ-aːmʊs/). As will be discussed in section IV, this stress shift creates specific types of rootchanging verbs. French ‘-er’ verbs also fall into this class (e.g., klam-e/ ‘to proclaim,’ /ni-e/ ‘to deny,’ /vɔl-e/ ‘to fly’).

5 It is not known for sure if Classical Latin ⟨ʀ⟩ represents the trilled /r/ or a flapped /ɾ/. See Cser (2020, 49). 6 That is, before tense, aspect, mood, person, number, etc. /a/ is similar to the vowel in English “run” (outside of places in the British Isles where “run” has the same vowel as “put.”). /aː/ is pronounced longer. 7 In Latin, the vowels /a/, /aː/, /ɔ/, and /oː/ are regularly dropped when directly before a vowel-initial suffix. For example, /ʊnda/- ‘wave’ + -/iːs/ -ᴅᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ/ɪɴsᴛʀᴜᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ.ᴘʟᴜʀᴀʟ’ yields /ˈʊndi:s/ ‘to/with waves’ rather than ˣ/ˈʊndaiːs/ (Cser 2020, 112-114).

Classical Latin

Castilian

English Translation

/ˈklaːm-oː/ /ˈklaːm-at/ /klaːˈm-aːmʊs/ /sˈpeːr-oː/ /sˈpeːr-at/ /speːˈr-aːmʊs/ /ˈnɛɡ-oː/ /ˈnɛɡ-at/ /nɛˈɡ-aːmʊs/ /ˈwɔl-oː/ /ˈwɔl-at/ /wɔˈl-aːmʊs/

/ˈʎam-o/ /ˈʎam-a/ /ʎaˈm-amos/ /esˈpeɾ-o/ /esˈpeɾ-a/ /espeˈɾ-amos/ /ˈnjeɡ-o/ /ˈnjeɡ-a/ /neˈɡ-amos/ /ˈbwel-o/ /ˈbwel-a/ /boˈl-amos/

‘I shout’ > ‘I call’ ‘she shouts’ > ‘she calls’ ‘we shout’ > ‘we call’ ‘I hope’ ‘she hopes’ ‘we hope’ ‘I deny’ ‘she denies’ ‘we deny’ ‘I fly’ ‘she flies’ ‘we fly’

Second conjugation verbs have /ɛ/ and /eː/-stems in Classical Latin and /e/-stems in Castilian.8 Unlike in the first conjugation, Latin preserves the stem vowel before /oː/; in late spoken Latin, -/ɛoː/ would become -*/jo/, where /j/ is an English ‘y’-sound. The palatal glide /j/ comes to affect the preceding root, giving rise to various root alternations to be discussed in section V (e.g., /ˈteng-o/ ‘I have,’ vs. /ˈtjene/ ‘she has’). French ‘-oir’ verbs originate in this class (e.g., /dəv-waʁ/ ‘to owe,’ /muvwaʁ/ ‘to move,’ /val-waʁ/ ‘to be worth’).

8 Many English speakers use the vowel /ɛ/ in “bed.” The vowel /e/ is found in Scottish English “fate.” The general consensus is that Latin short ě was /ɛ/ and long ē was /eː/ (Loporcaro 2015, 32); For the view that long ē was /ɛː/, see Calabrese (2003).

Classical Latin /ˈaːrd-ɛoː/9 /ˈaːrd-ɛt/

Castilian /ˈaɾd-o/ /ˈaɾd-e/

English Translation ‘I burn’ (intransitive) ‘it burns’ (intransitive)

/aːrˈd-eːmʊs/

/aɾˈd-emos/

‘we burn’ (intransitive)

/ˈdeːb-ɛoː/

/ˈdeb-o/

‘I owe’

/ˈdeːb-ɛt/ /deːˈb-eːmʊs/

/ˈdeb-e/ /deˈb-emos/

‘she owes’ ‘we owe’

/ˈtɛn-ɛoː/

/ˈtenɡ-o/

‘I hold’ > ‘I have’

/ˈtɛn-ɛt/

/ˈtjen-e/

‘she holds’ > ‘she has’

/tɛˈn-eːmʊs/

/teˈn-emos/

‘we hold’ > ‘we have’

/ˈmɔw-ɛoː/

/ˈmweb-o/

‘I move’

/ˈmɔw-ɛt/

/ˈmweb-e/

‘she moves’

/mɔˈw-eːmʊs/

/moˈb-emos/

‘we move’

/ˈwal-ɛoː/

/ˈbalɡ-o/

‘I am worth’

/ˈwal-ɛt/

/ˈbal-e/

‘she is worth’

/waˈl-eːmʊs/

/baˈl-emos/

‘we are worth’

The third conjugation does not survive in modern Castilian; verbs formerly belonging to this group have been redistributed among the second and fourth conjugations.10

9 The length of the ‘A’ in ARDE- ‘to burn’ is unattested. Some guess it to be long for etymological reasons (Allen 1978, 74). 10 Unlike verbs in the other conjugations, Latin third conjugation verbs stress the root throughout the present indicative and the present imperative and in the present infinitive. For example, the third conjugation verb forms /ˈfakɪmʊs/ ‘we do’ and /ˈfakɛrɛ/ ‘to do,’ stress the root while the first conjugation verb forms /klaːˈmaːmʊs/ ‘we shout,’ and /klaːˈmaːrɛ/ ‘to shout’ have stress after the root vowel. Daco-Romanian (including “standard” Romanian) widely maintains this root stress (e.g., /ˈfat͡ʃem/ ‘we do’ and /ˈfat͡ʃe(re)/ ‘to do’). On the other hand, modern Castilian and other Iberian Romance languages lose the root stress (e.g., /(h)aˈθemos/ ‘we do,’ and /(h)aˈθeɾ/ ‘to do’). Other Romance languages fall somewhere in between Daco-Romanian and Ibero-Romance, generally losing the root stress in the present tense but maintaining it in the infinitive (Maiden 2018, 168). For example, in Nuorese Sardinian, /faˈkimus/ ‘we do’ loses root stress while the infinitive, /ˈfakɛrɛ/ ‘to do,’ maintains it. Old Castilian still contained relics of the third conjugation; for example, /ˈhemos/ ‘we do’ (< /ˈfakɪmʊs/), and /ˈheɾ/ or /ˈhaɾ/ ‘to do’ (< /ˈfakɛrɛ/) still had root stress (Penny 2002, 172). Modern Castilian /(h)aˈθemos/ ‘we do,’ and /(h)aˈθeɾ/ ‘to do’ have lost the root stress.

The fourth conjugation verbs have /ɪ/ and /iː/-stems in Latin and /e/ and /i/-stems in Castilian.11 The first-person singular -/ɪoː/ develops along the same lines as the second-conjugation -/ɛoː/, both becoming *-/ jo/ in late spoken Latin. This class corresponds to French third-group ‘-ir’ verbs (e.g., /paʁt-iʁ/ ‘to leave,’ /vən-iʁ/ ‘to come,’ /dɔʁm-iʁ/ ‘to sleep’). Classical Latin

Castilian

English Translation

/ˈpart-ɪoː/

/ˈpaɾt-o/

‘I share’ > ‘I cut’

/ˈpart-ɪt/

/ˈpaɾt-e/

‘she shares’ > ‘she cuts’

/parˈt-iːmʊs/

/paɾˈt-imos/

‘we share’ > ‘we cut’

/ˈwɛn-ɪoː/

/ˈbenɡ-o/

‘I come’

/ˈwɛn-ɪt/

/ˈbjen-e/

‘she comes’

/wɛˈn-iːmʊs/

/beˈn-imos/

‘we come’

/ˈdɔrm-ɪoː/

/ˈdweɾm-o/

‘I sleep’

/ˈdɔrm-ɪt/

/ˈdweɾm-e/

‘she sleeps’

/dɔrˈm-iːmʊs/

/doɾˈm-imos/

‘we sleep’

Castilian is not unique in its root alternations; in fact, they occur throughout the Romance-speaking world. Below is a small sample of Romance language root alternations. As will be discussed in section V, some Romance languages follow the Castilian pattern by having a velar sound (/ɡ/ or /ŋ/) in ‘I come’ (e.g., modern Tuscan (including “standard” Italian), Catalan) while others have a palatal /ɲ/ (e.g., Portuguese, Old French).

11 Many English speakers use the vowel /ɪ/ in “bit” and /iː/ in “beet.” The general consensus is the Latin short ǐ was /ɪ/ and long ī was /iː/ (Loporcaro 2015, 32); some, such as Calabrese (2003), propose short ǐ was /i/.

‘come’ in Latin and Romance Variety Classical Latin Castilian Aragonese Galician Portuguese Catalan - Eastern - Alguerès

‘I come’

‘she comes’

‘we come’

/ˈwɛnɪoː/

/ˈwɛnɪt/

/wɛˈniːmʊs/

/ˈbenɡo/

/ˈbjene/

/beˈnimos/

/ˈbjenɡo/

/ˈbjene/

/beˈnimos/

/ˈbeɲo/

/ˈbɛŋ/

/ˈbimos/

/ˈvɐɲu/

/ˈvɐ̃ĩ /

/ˈvimuʃ/

/ˈviŋ(k)/

/ˈve/

/vaˈnim/

/vœnə/

/ve/

/vənã/

/ˈviɲ/

/ˈvjent/

/vəˈnons/

/ˈvænje/

/ˈvæɲ/

/uˈnjoɲ/

/ˈvɛɲ/

/ˈvɛn/

/ˈɲin/

/ˈveɲi/

/ˈveŋ/

/viˈɲemo/

/ˈvɛɲe/, /ˈɲene/

/ˈɲeŋ/

/(ve)ˈɲoŋ/

/ˈwɛnɡo/

/ˈwɛ/

/weˈnimo/

/ˈvɛnɡo/

/ˈvjɛne/

/veˈnjamo/

/ˈvjenɡə/

/ˈvɛ/

/məˈnemə/

/ˈviəɲɲʊ/

/ˈvɛnɪ/

/viˈniəmʊ/

Occitan - Northern - Auvergnat Gartempe Old French (c.1100 CE) Ladin- Dolomitic - Atesino - Val Gardena Swiss Ræto-Romance - Puter Engadine (Upper) Veneto - Istrioto - Valle d’Istria Veneto - Northern - Alpago Laziale - North-central - Ascrea Tuscan Molisano - Casacalenda Sicilian - Central - Mussomeli

Compared to its living relatives, Classical Latin has few present tense root alternations. Those that it does have are generally lost in the Romance languages. For example, the present tense root alternations in irregular /ˈpɔs-sɛ/ ‘to be able’ do not continue into Romance, as this verb is reformed as a second conjugation verb (e.g., Castilian /poˈd-eɾ/; French /puv-waʁ/). Only /ˈɛs-sɛ/ ‘to be’ retains some of its Latin present tense root alternations in modern Castilian. Classical Latin Castilian

English Translation

/ˈpɔss-ʊN/

/ˈpwed-o/ (not ˣ/ˈpweso/)

‘I can’

/ˈpɔtɛs-t/

/ˈpwed-e/ (not ˣ/ˈpwedes/)

‘she can’

/ˈpɔss-ʊmʊs/

/poˈd-emos/ (not ˣ/ˈpwesmos/)

‘we can’

/s-ʊN/

/s-oj/

‘I am’

/ɛs-t/

/es/

‘she is’

/s-ʊmʊs/

/s-omos/

‘we are’

Thus, outside of ‘to be,’ Romance present tense root alternations do not exist in Classical Latin. So, where did they come from? IV. The /e/~/je/ and /o/~/we/ Alternations The /e/~/je/ and /o/~/we/ alternations in Castilian originate from Latin stress assignment rules.12 Two syllable words stress the penult (i.e., the second-to-last syllable), as in /ˈwɛ.nɪt/ ‘comes.’ Words with three or more syllables stress the antepenult (i.e., the third-to-last syllable) unless the penult contains a long vowel or ends in a consonant. For example, / ˈdiː.kɪ.mʊs/ ‘we say,’ stresses the antepenult because the penult ends in the short vowel /ɪ/. On the other hand, /wɛˈniː.mʊs/ ‘we come’ stresses the penult because that syllable has the long vowel /iː/. Similarly, the penult of 12 Contra Penny (2002, 42), I follow Allen (1978, 7) and Loporcaro (2015, 8) in taking Latin to have had a stress-accent system (as found in most varieties of English) rather than pitch-accent system (as found in Sanskrit, Swedish, and Japanese); I set aside clitics and prefixes in this discussion. For more information, see Allen and Greenough (1903, section 12).

/wiːˈɡɪn.tiː/ ‘twenty’ bears stress as it ends in a consonant, /n/. This stress assignment pattern gave rise to vowel alternations in verbs when vowels started to sound less distinct in unstressed syllables than in stressed ones.13 Below is a summary of Latin-to-Castilian vowel changes. Importantly, more Latin vowels merge in unstressed syllables than in stressed ones (e.g., Latin /eː/ and /ɛ/ only stay distinct in Castilian stressed syllables).14

Latin /ɛ/, /aj/, /eː/, and /ɪ/ all become Castilian /e/ unstressed syllables. In stressed syllables, /ɛ/ and /aj/ yield Castilian /je/ while /eː/ and /ɪ/ yield Castilian /e/. The /je/-/e/ distinction is now limited to stressed syllables, and Castilian has more contrasts in stressed syllables than unstressed. This asymmetry gives rise to the /e/~/je/ alternation in verbs. Latin root

Castilian stressed root

Castilian unstressed root

English translation

/nɛɡ/-

/ˈnjeɡ/-

/neɡ/-

‘deny’

/tɛn/-

/ˈtjen/-

/ten/-

‘hold’ > ‘have’

/wɛn/-

/ˈbjen/-

/ben/-

‘come’

13 Compare English, where /ə/ is generally the only vowel allowed in unstressed syllables. 14 Many of these examples come from the second chapter of Penny (2002).

A similar process happens with /ɔ/, /oː/, and /ʊ/: the back vowel equivalents of /ɛ/, /eː/, and /ɪ/ respectively.15 Latin /oː/ and /ʊ/, along with /aw/, become Castilian /o/. Latin /ɔ/ becomes Castilian /we/ when stressed and /o/ when unstressed. Latin root

Castilian stressed root

Castilian unstressed root

English translation

/wɔl/-

/ˈbwel/-

/bol/-

‘fly’

/mɔw/-

/ˈmweb/-

/mob/-

‘move’

/dɔrm/-

/ˈdweɾm/-

/doɾm/-

‘sleep’

In this way, one can see that regular sound change from Latin to Castilian affected stressed and unstressed syllables in different ways. These asymmetries gave rise to verbs that alternate between /je/ and /e/ and between /we/ and /o/. In Latin’s first, second, and fourth conjugations, only the present singular and third-person plural bore root stress; only in these forms did /we/ and /je/ develop. V. /ɡ/ Insert In some Castilian verbs, /ɡ/ appears in the first-person singular present indicative and throughout the present subjunctive, although it is lacking in both Classical Latin and other Castilian forms. As mentioned in section III, some Romance languages (e.g., Old French) palatalize the root-final consonant rather than add a velar insert. For example, compare Castilian /tenɡo/ to Old French /tiɲ/ (where /ɲ/ is the sound spelled ⟨ñ⟩ in Castilian and ⟨gn⟩ in French). Castilian has /nɡ/ where Old French has the palatal /ɲ/).

15 In addition being made further back in the mouth than /ɛ eː ɪ/, the vowels /ɔ oː ʊ/ also have lip rounding.

Classical Latin

Castilian

Old French

English Translation

(c.1100) /ˈwɛn-ɪoː/

/ˈbenɡ-o/ (not ˣ/ ˈbeɲ-o/)

/ˈviɲ/

/ˈwɛn-ɪt/

/ˈbjen-e/

/ˈvjen-t/

/wɛˈn-iːmʊs/

/beˈn-imos/

/vəˈn-ons/

/ˈtɛn-ɛoː/

/ˈtenɡ-o/ (not ˣ/ ˈteɲ-o/)

‘I come’ ‘she comes’ ‘we come’

/ˈtiɲ/

‘I hold/have’

/ˈtɛn-ɛt/

/ˈtjen-e/

/ˈtjen-t/

‘she holds/has’

/tɛˈn-eːmʊs/

/teˈn-emos/

/təˈn-ons/

‘we hold/have’

/ˈsaʎ/

‘I go out’

/ˈsal-ɪoː/

/ˈsalɡ-o/ (not ˣ/ ˈsax-o/)

/ˈsal-ɪt/

/ˈsal-e/

/ˈsaw-t/

‘she goes out’

/saˈl-iːmʊs/

/saˈl-imos/

/saˈl-ons/

‘we go out’

/ˈvaʎ/

‘I am worth’

/ˈwal-ɛoː/

/ˈbalɡ-o/ (not ˣ/ ˈbax-o/)

/ˈwal-ɛt/

/ˈbal-e/

/ˈvaw-t/

‘she is worth’

/waˈl-eːmʊs/

/baˈl-emos/

/vaˈl-ons/

‘we are worth’

The Castilian forms are unexpected, not because the first-person singular has different root forms from the third-person singular, but because of what those different forms are. Regular sound change would predict the forms ˣ/ˈbeɲo/, ˣ/ˈteɲo/, ˣ/ˈsaxo/, and ˣ/ˈbaxo/ instead of /ˈbenɡo/, /ˈtenɡo/, /ˈsalɡo/, and /ˈbalɡo/.16 16 These theoretical expected forms are based on my knowledge of regular Castilian sound change. Any oversights here are mine alone. Also, /teɲo/ and /beɲo/ are how these words are pronounced in the closely related Galician language.

As discussed in section III, the /ɛ/ and /ɪ/ of the second and fourth conjugations become /j/ before a vowel in late spoken Latin. The palatal glide would often affect nearby sounds, making them more /j/-like. For consonants, this meant a shift to a palatal articulation. Late spoken Latin */ nj/ becomes /ɲ/ (spelled ⟨ñ⟩ in Castilian and ⟨gn⟩ in French).17 For example, Latin /aˈraːneaN/ becomes late spoken Latin */aˈɾanja/ which yields Castilian /aˈɾaɲa/ ‘spider.’ Likewise, the late spoken Latin sequence */lj/ becomes */ʎ/, where it stays in some other Romance languages (e.g., Latin /ˈwalɛoː/ ‘I am worth’ > Portuguese /ˈvaʎu/, Old French /ˈvaʎ/) eventually becoming /x/ in Castilian. For example, Latin /mɛlɪˈoːrɛN/ becomes Latin Latin */meˈljoɾe/ and ultimately Castilian /meˈxoɾ/. Palatal consonants (e.g., */j/, */ɲ/, */ʎ/) are made in a similar place in the mouth to the high vowel /i/ (as in “meet”).18 Thus, they caused nearby vowels to become more /i/-like. Importantly, a nearby palatal can change */ɛ/ — the source of Castilian /je/ — into */e/. The table below demonstrates how /e/ is higher, thus more /i/-like, than /ɛ/. Tongue height:

Vowel

high

/i/ (as in “meet”)

high-mid

/e/

low-mid

/ɛ/ (as in “met”)

This vowel raising in Castilian explains why /ˈtenɡo/ and /ˈbenɡo/ have /e/ and not /je/.19 The */ɛ/ of late spoken Latin */ˈtɛnjo/ (< /ˈtɛnɛoː/) rises to */e/ which, unlike */ɛ/, does not yield Castilian /je/. Based on sound change, one would expect /ˈbenɡo/, /ˈtenɡo/, / ˈsalɡo/, and /ˈbalɡo/ to have /ɲ/ and /x/ (<*/ʎ/) rather than /nɡ/ and /lɡ/. As 17 According to van den Bussche (1985, 226), */nj/ and */lj/ become geminated */ɲɲ/ and */ʎʎ/ in Proto-Romance (i.e., the theoretical last common ancestor of all the Romance languages). If this is the case, then the chronology is: /nɛV/ or /nɪV/ > */nj/ > */ɲɲ/ > /ɲ/

/lɛV/ or /lɪV/ > */lj/ > */ʎʎ/ > */ʎ/ > /ʒ/ > /ʃ/ > /x/

18 Hence why ancient Romans wrote the palatal consonant /j/ and the vowels /iː/ and /ɪ/ all as ⟨ɪ⟩. 19 /ˈtjenɡo/ and /ˈbjenɡo/ occur in the closely related Aragonese language. Perhaps Castilian-style vowel raising did not occur in Aragón, or perhaps the /je/ in forms such as /ˈtjene/ and /ˈbjene/ influenced the first-person singular.

Kania’s 2011 paper surveys, various scholars have proposed explanations for these mysterious /ɡ/ inserts in Castilian and other Romance languages. For example, Penny claims these /ɡ/ inserts are due to influence from other Old Castilian verb paradigms that uniquely have /ɡ/ in the present subjunctive and first-person singular present indicative. He references Old Castilian alterations such as /esˈpaɾɡo/ ‘I spread’ vs. /esˈpaɾd͡ ze/ ‘she spreads’ and /ˈjeɾɡo/ ‘I lift’ vs. /ˈjeɾd͡ ze/ ‘she lifts.’20 According to Penny, this /ɡ/ pattern spread to other verb paradigms, replacing the /n/~ /ɲ/ and /l/~*/ʎ/ patterns, yielding /ˈbenɡo/, /ˈtenɡo/, /ˈsalɡo/, and /ˈbalɡo/ rather than the expected ˣ/ˈbeɲo/, ˣ/ˈteɲo/, ˣ/ˈsaxo/, and ˣ/ˈbaxo/. However, this explanation does not account for the independent adoption of these /ɡ/ insert forms in other Romance languages. It is unlikely that such a particular influence from verbs such as /esˈpaɾɡo/ and /ˈjeɾɡo/ onto higher frequency verbs occurred multiple times independently. That being said, the same /ɡ/ inserts developed on the Italian peninsula. Such a coincidence — where the same innovation develops on the Iberian and Italian peninsulae — deserves a more natural explanation, one that multiple languages could feasibly undergo independently. More investigation is needed to explain why Castilian and various Italian Romance languages share an innovation lacking in other Western languages such as Galician, Portuguese, and French when, in general, Castilian shares many innovations with these languages that it does not share with Italian Romance languages.21 One could argue that Castilian and Italian Romance languages share the /ɡ/ insert due to contact between the two peoples. However, cross-linguistically, verbs meaning “come” show incredible stability

20 Penny, A History of the Spanish Language, 179. 21 These common innovations are widely explained by assuming Castilian, Galician, Portuguese, and French share a more recent common ancestor with each other (called Proto-Western Romance) than with Italian Romance languages, Romanian, or Sardinian (Blažek 2005). Changes shared by all Western Romance languages can be explained as a single innovation that happened in the development of Proto-Western-Romance rather than the same innovation coincidentally happening multiple times. The /ɡ/ insert cannot be explained this way because French, Portuguese, and Galician do not have /ɡ/ inserts. Castilian and Italian Romance languages do not share a common ancestor that excludes Portuguese, Galician, and French; therefore, shared innovations between Castilian and Italian Romance languages that other Western Romance languages lack must have happened independently or from contact between Castilian and Italian people.

and resistance to borrowing.22 In fact, the Latin/Romance root /wɛn/goes back thousands of years to when Latin and English were the same language: English “come” and and Latin /wɛn/- both come from ProtoIndo-European *gʷem-.23 As “come” is generally so stable, it is unlikely that Italians or Spaniards would alter the way they say this word due simply to contact with each other. The /ɡ/ insert in “I come” is therefore likely to be an independent innovation in the two peninsulae. VI. Alternate Theory A potential alternate solution to the lack of root alternations in the Classical Latin present tense is that Classical Latin had lost them, whereas Latin’s less prestigious spoken varieties that yielded the Romance languages retained them. This hypothesis, while plausible at first glance, falls apart under the previous inspection of the regular sound correspondences between Latin and Romance and another close look at the development of the /ɡ/ insert. Where Classical Latin and Romance differ, the former does not always represent the more archaic form. For example, Castilian preserves certain vocabulary words that Classical Latin had lost, including /kanˈsaɾ/ ‘to tire,’ /deˈmas/ ‘remaining,’ /(h)abˈlaɾ/ ‘to speak.’24 The survival of preClassical vocabulary in modern Castilian demonstrates that the loss of an element in a language’s prestige variety does not necessitate a similar loss throughout the language, lending feasibility to the idea that Classical Latin lost the Romance root alternations. Furthermore, many verbs in Latin’s relatives, such as Sanskrit and Hittite, contain root alternations in the present tense, a pattern partially preserved in some basic Latin verbs (e.g., /ɛs-t/ ‘be-3.sɪɴᴜɢʟᴀʀ’ vs. /s-ʊnt/ ‘be-3.ᴘʟᴜʀᴀʟ’; compare Sanskrit /ás-ti/ and /s-ánti/). However, closer inspection reveals that the root alternations in Castilian have no relation to those in Sanskrit and Hittite and largely follow from regular Latin-to-Castilian sound changes. First, there is no correlation between Castilian and ancient IndoEuropean languages as to which verbs show root alternations. In Castilian, 22 Tadmor, Haspelmath, and Taylor, “Borrowability and the Notion of Basic Vocabulary,” 226–46. 23 Rix, Lexikon der indogermanischen Verben: die Wurzeln und ihre Primärstammbildungen, 209. 24 These words respectively come from pre-Classical Latin campsāre ‘to go round,’ dēmagis ‘furthermore,’ fabulārī ‘to chat’ (Penny 2002, 11).

root change is independent of verb conjugation; all classes have alternating and non-alternating verbs. In Sanskrit, whether a verb undergoes root (or stem) alternations in the present tense depends on the verb’s conjugation (i.e., class). For example, first conjugation verbs keep a consistent root throughout the present, while second conjugation verbs generally have vowel alternations.25 Furthermore, as shown in section IV, the /je/~/e/ and /we/~/o/ alternations are consistent with other developments from Latin to Castilian. For example, Latin /ɛ/ regularly becomes Castilian /je/ in stressed syllables (as in /ˈsɛmpɛr/ > /ˈsjempɾe/ ‘always’) and /e/ in unstressed syllables (as in /ˈsɛmpɛr/ > /ˈsjempɾe/ ‘always’), so it follows that the stressed /ɛ/ in /ˈwɛnɪt/ and the unstressed /ɛ/ in /wɛˈniːmʊs/ have different outcomes in Castilian. As for the /ɡ/ insert, this alternation developed during the early Romance period and thus postdates Classical Latin. Kania finds that, in the thirteenth century, Castilian verbs such as /soˈleɾ/ ‘to do often,’ and /βaˈleɾ/ ‘to be worth’ lack the /ɡ/ insert that they would later acquire.26 Furthermore, Old Tuscan has the expected /ɲɲ/ and /ʎʎ/ forms while its descendant, modern Tuscan (including “standard” Italian), has /nɡ/ and /lɡ/.27 Thus, written Romance attests to the development of the /ɡ/ insert, indicating that it does not predate Classical Latin. The /je/~/e/ and /we/~/o/ alternations and the /ɡ/ insert are therefore both later Romance developments rather than retentions of patterns lost in Classical Latin. VII. Conclusion This paper introduced Castilian present tense verb alternations and the comparative lack thereof in Classical Latin. The /je/~/e/ and /we/~/o/ alternations derive from regular sound change in Latin roots with short vowels, while the /ɡ/ insert requires further research. It has demonstrated how morphological quirks are more than just odd irregularities; they provide a valuable insight into how a given language developed. 25 For example, the first conjugation verb ‘to become’ has the root form /bʱáʋ/- throughout the present tense (e.g., /bʱáʋ-ati/ ‘she becomes,’ /bʱáʋ-aːmas/ ‘we (three or more) become’) while the second conjugation verb ‘to be’ has the root form /ás/- in some instances and /s/- in others (e.g., /ás-ti/ ‘she is,’ /s-más/ ‘we (three or more) are.’) 26 Kania, “The Spread of the Velar Insert /g/ in Medieval Spanish Verbs,” 148. 27 Maiden, The Romance Verb: Morphomic Structure and Diachrony, 94, 97.

Bibliography Allen, Joseph H., and James B. Greenough. Allen and Greenough’s New Latin Grammar for Schools and Colleges Founded on Comparative Grammar. Rev. ed. Boston, Ginn & Company, 1903. Allen, William Sidney. Vox Latina: A Guide to the Pronunciation of Classical Latin. 2nd ed. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1978. Beniamine, Sacha, Martin Maiden, and Erich Round. “Romance Verbal Inflection Dataset 2.0.4.” Zenodo, September 19, 2020. Blažek, Václav. “On the Internal Classification of Indo-European Languages: Survey.” Linguistica Online, 2005. Calabrese, Andrea. “On the Evolution of the Short High Vowels of Latin into Romance.” In Romance Linguistics: Theory and Acquisition. Selected Papers from the 32nd Linguistic Symposium on Romance Languages, 63–94. John Benjamins Publishing, 2003. Cser, András. “The Phonology of Classical Latin.” Transactions of the Philological Society 118, no. S1 (May 11, 2020): 1–218. Fortson IV, Benjamin W. Indo-European Language and Culture: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Blackwell Textbooks in Linguistics 19. John Wiley & Sons, 2010. Glare, Peter G. W., ed. Oxford Latin Dictionary. 2nd ed. 2 vols. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 2012. Goad, Heather. “The Representation of SC Clusters.” The Blackwell Companion to Phonology, 2011, 1–26.

Kania, Sonia. “The Spread of the Velar Insert /g/ in Medieval Spanish Verbs.” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 88, no. 2 (January 1, 2011): 129–61. Kobayashi, Masato. Historical Phonology of Old Indo-Aryan Consonants. Study of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa Monograph Series 41. Tokyo, Japan: The Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2004. Loporcaro, Michele. Vowel Length From Latin to Romance. Oxford Studies in Diachronic and Historical Linguistics 10. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 2015. Luquiens, Frederick Bliss. An Introduction to Old French Phonology and Morphology. Revised and Enlarged. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1919. Maiden, Martin. The Romance Verb: Morphomic Structure and Diachrony. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 2018. Penny, Ralph John. A History of the Spanish Language. 2nd ed. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Rix, Helmut. LIV, Lexikon der indogermanischen Verben: die Wurzeln und ihre Primärstammbildungen. 2nd ed. Wiesbaden, Germany: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2001. Schwan, Eduard, and Dietrich Behrens. Grammatik des altfranzösischen. Leipzig, Germany: O.R. Reisland, 1909. Tadmor, Uri, Martin Haspelmath, and Bradley Taylor. “Borrowability and the Notion of Basic Vocabulary.” Diachronica. 27, no. 2 (October 19, 2010): 226–46. Van Den Bussche, H. Review of Proto-romance inflectional morphology: Review of: Robert A. Hall, Jr., Proto-Romance morphology, by Robert Anderson Hall Jr. Lingua 66, no. 2–3 (July 1, 1985): 225–60. 49

Whitney, William Dwight. A Sanskrit Grammar, Including Both the Classical Language and the Older Dialects of Veda and Brahmana. 3rd ed., Boston, Ginn & Company, 1896.

Pleasure and Stress at the Roman Baths Marie Levesque Getting into a hot shower after a long day of work was not a luxury that most Romans could enjoy, for most lacked access to running water. Instead, urban dwellers had to visit public and privatelyowned baths to meet their daily hygienic needs. However, the change in political regimes in the 20s BC, which resulted in the advent of the principate, marked an increase in the monumentality of such establishments. Baths became more than practical spaces: they started to embody imperial luxury as havens of pleasure within the busy and dangerous city. By building public bath complexes on an unprecedented scale, emperors and their entourage offered a taste of elite life even to commoners and slaves. Yet as enjoyable as this new imperial bathing mode was, baths could also induce some form of tension because they were sociopolitically charged spaces, where public life invaded this institution dedicated to the private sphere. An analysis of two complexes in Early Imperial Rome and Pompeii, complemented by ancient sources, reveals that baths were venues for politics, social scrutiny, and normmaking which subverts their original raison d’être as spaces of pleasure. The structure of the Thermae Agrippae in Rome reflect an architectural shift which transformed public baths into spaces of leisure, while retaining its original functional elements for maintaining hygiene. Although their original size and layout are not known with certainty due to poor preservation in an urban context, the Thermae constitute an important line of evidence to study imperial baths since they were the first impressive and lavish baths to be built by a member of the imperial circle and to be made accessible to the public. Thus, they served as a model which was exported to the rest of the empire as it grew over the centuries.1 Located in the Campus Martius among other Late Republican 1 Hrychuk Kontokosta, “Building the Thermae Agrippae”, 47.

and Augustan monuments such as the Pantheon (fig. 1), Agrippa built the Thermae as part of a leisure complex between 25 and 12 BCE (fig. 2), and he officially bequeathed it to the Roman people for free use in his will in 12 BCE.2 According to ancient sources, the bath complex itself contained open spaces, a series of hot and cold vaulted rooms – an architectural innovation at the time – all adorned with stucco and terracotta decorations.3 The baths and its accompanying grove also served to display paintings and statues which were scattered throughout the entire leisure complex.4 The size of the complex, its materials, as well as the investment made in the architectural design and decoration indicate that this space was meant to be seen and to be a site where enjoyment could be procured as an end in itself. Indeed, Romans of all social classes were allowed into the elite practice of leisure: they could take their time bathing, strolling in the gardens, or doing physical exercises in the open spaces — all while savoring the architecture, elegant materials, and works of art just like the elite were accustomed to do in their luxurious peri-urban estates (horti). This new sort of establishment, which focused on physical and aesthetic pleasure, contrasted with the architecture of the Republican baths (balnea), which were smaller, darker, and more utilitarian, because they only accommodated bathing.5 Therefore, by building and opening his luxurious baths to the public after his death, Agrippa initiates a transition in the custom of public bathing. This is also indicated by the change in the terminology, since the word therma, first used to describe his baths, will come to designate the richly decorated bathing complexes built by the imperial caste for public use.6 The baths of Agrippa initiate the transition from balneum to therma, which parallels a simultaneous shift in values. Thus, the ideal of austerity propounded during the Republic was gradually replaced by the imperial notions of luxury and otium (leisure). 2 See Cass. Dio 54.29.4; Hrychuk Kontokosta, 55. 3 Such reconstruction of the interior of the baths is based on fragment 38 of the Forma Urbis Romae and on Renaissance sketches by Andrea Palladio; Hrychuk Kontokosta, 51. 4 For ancient mentions of the lavishness of the Thermae Agrippae, cf. Mart. 10.58, 11. 47.5.-6, 14. 163; Ov. Pont. 1.8.37-38; Plin. HN. 36. 121, and 36.189. Otherwise, few authors, such as Seneca (Ep. 86.412), describe in depth the appearance of baths, other than Vitruvius (5.10.1-5); Hrychuk Kontokosta, 57. 5 Hrychuk Kontokosta, 49. 6 Hrychuk Kontokosta, 69.

Although these new baths were meant to bring pleasure, their role as spaces of political benefaction, of social and physical display, and of norm-making created a tense environment for Romans to unwind. Agrippa’s decision to build his opulent Thermae and to open them to the public ties into a tradition of public favors initiated by Pompey and Caesar, who had opened their own horti to the Romans in order to garner public support.7 Agrippa’s motivation to give back to the people becomes apparent by the fact that the Thermae were partially built on one of Pompey’s estates which had been acquired by Marc Anthony.8 By letting the people benefit from an area and facilities that had been closed to them in the past, he solidifies the rising regime by securing the support of the people and simultaneously weakening the elite by taking their land. Thus, elite bathers might have felt some resentment while using the baths built by the new imperial caste, knowing that their own avenues for displaying wealth and status had been greatly constrained given that their land had been usurped. Perhaps even the lower classes shared this unease because, while they were able to enjoy newfound pleasures, they were simultaneously being forced into this conversation of imperial supremacy. This discomfort was exacerbated by the luminosity of the new baths which permitted people to observe each other. Since individuals from the lowest classes, such as slaves, could afford to visit them alongside the rich, public baths reunited all strata of Roman society.9 Although the nudity required for bathing seems to have been a social equalizer — with people being unable to flaunt their social, political or economic status through their clothing — ancient literature suggests that social display and scrutiny occurred nonetheless. For example, wealthy individuals brought their slaves to the baths to carry their clothing, give them a scrub, or help them in frivolous ways, just like Trimalchio in Petronius’ Satyricon who makes his slaves hold silver urinals.10 As a result, those without an entourage of slaves to help them in their bathing experience conspicuously appeared to be of lower status. Furthermore, the body, through its appearance or mannerisms, was examined by others to determine the character of the 7 Hrychuk Kontokosta, 67-68. 8 Hrychuk Kontokosta, 59. 9 Beard, “A Good Bath,” 241. 10 Laurence, “The Roman Body at the Baths.”, 67.

person.11 Martial’s Epigrams confirm this practice of intense scrutiny; he often takes some bather’s body or habits as a subject for his invective. This voyeuristic position is apparent in 2.42 where he criticizes a man, caught in the intimate act of cleansing his behind, for his dirtiness: “Washing your ass pollutes the tub. Instead, / to make it fouler, Zoilus, douse your head.”12 One can assume that these literary attacks would have made bathers selfconscious, and it would have incited them to regulate their behavior and to present their bodies in the most favorable light. The stress resulting from this obligation would have marred their experience of pleasure. As baths increasingly became venues of display – whether performed willingly or imposed by such scrutiny – bathers were invited to reflect upon their performance of gender. Given these considerations, it can be assumed that the state utilized these public spaces to shape the public understanding of gender norms. Here, the decoration of the Tepidarium of Pompeii’s Forum baths helps us to understand the role baths could play in expressing and shaping masculinity. The Forum Baths, built around 80 BCE and renovated in the 1st c. CE, present a great parallel with the Thermae Agrippae because they also reflect the shift from Republican to Imperial baths.13 Moreover, the outstanding preservation of the decoration gives us a better insight into the visual experience of Roman baths. In the case of the Tepidarium located in the male quarters, forty bearded telamones (statues of men holding a cornice) dating from the Republican era run along the walls at eye-level (fig. 3 and 4). Eleven of them are naked and their genitals appear to be tied up, while the rest wear loincloths made from leaves or hides. These telamones, through their role as architectural supports for the cornice and shelf above them, allude to the figure of Atlas, who is known to hold the sky in Graeco-Roman mythology. Additionally, their musculature and wild dress highlight their brute force. Yet, the ligatured genitals and the visual reference to the Titan imply that this mighty virility is tamed in the bathing complex, just like the gods tamed Atlas.14 They remember and celebrate a self-controlled 11 Laurence, 69. 12 Martial. Selected Epigrams. Translated by Susan McLean, 17. 13 Hakanen, “Normative Masculinity and the Decoration of the Tepidarium of the Forum Baths in Pompeii.”, 43. 14 Hakanen, 48-49.

masculinity which must be sought by the male bathers. The discovery of similar ligatured telamones in the baths at Fregellae seems to indicate that they were a common metaphor of masculinity during the Republic, and this decorative consistency corroborates their normative function in this context.15 Above these figures, stucco reliefs have been added between 62 and 79 CE to adorn the vaulted ceilings. The main three scenes which have been preserved show Ganymede being seized by an eagle (fig. 5), an ambiguous figure representing either Apollo or Hyacinthus riding a griffin (fig. 6), and Cupid as a youth (fig. 7). These three hairless and naked subjects contrast with the telamones in that they represent objects of desire rather than acceptable projections of masculinity.16 However, even if they were not meant to be regarded as models, their very presence seems to challenge the staged self-control of the figures below. Another reading suggests that they reinforce the depiction of self-control by showing the telamones’ grounding in reality and discipline in the face of the temptation posed by these celestial youths.17 The depiction of desire can therefore either symbolize the victory of pleasure over discipline or their coexistence. Following this interpretation, the physical proximity of the visual metaphors of these seemingly opposing values asserts their complementarity: without pleasure, discipline has nothing over which to triumph. These competing interpretations can only attest to the potential inner conflict experienced by the male viewer trying to reconcile restraint with otium in his perception and embodiment of ideal masculinity. In conclusion, the emergence of Imperial public baths marked the increasing monumentalization of these spaces, and the resulting architecture and decoration turned bathing into less a practical act than one focused on pleasure. Taking the Thermae Agrippae as the exemplar, public baths became luminous, monumental, and decorated with sumptuous materials and artworks. But as the entirety of the population of Rome gained access to this luxury — once reserved for the few — the political agenda behind building them for the people became apparent: this space meant to be disconnected from the tumults of public life was in 15 Hakanen, 49. 16 Hakanen, 60. 17 Hakanen, 61.

fact a venue for the display of imperial authority and a tool to negotiate public support for the regime. Not only that, but as the gaze of the users instinctively turned from the grandeur of the baths to the individuals in it, the naked bathers might have felt vulnerable to the judgment of others, resulting in the conscious assessment and shaping of one’s own behavior inside the baths. This tension stemming from the display of one’s physical body and status was accrued by the seriousness and complexity of the conversation surrounding ideals of gender as elicited by the state through the decoration of baths. Therefore, despite the exterior appearances of bathing complexes, the ideological and psychological strain of bathing itself undermined the imperial agenda of otium.

Appendix

Fig. 1. Map of the Campus Martius in the late first century B.C.E. The boundary of the first-century B.C.E. Agrippan baths is not marked, as the extent of the original building is unknown. Features in blue are related to the Thermae Agrippae. Dotted lines indicate unattested features and features constructed after the Agrippan baths. 1, Thermae Agrippae; 2, Nemus Agrippae; 3, Euripus; 4, Stag- num Agrippae; 5, Porticus Philippi; 6, Porticus Octaviae; 7, Theatrum and Crypta Balbi; 8, Diribitorium; 9, Saepta Iulium; 10, Pan-theon; 11, Thermae Neronis; 12, Circus Flaminius; 13, Theatrum Pompei; 14, Porticus Pompei; 15, Mausoleum Augusti; 16, Pons Agrippae; 17, Pons Neronianus; 18, Aqua Virgo; 19, Aqua Virgo extension; 20, Hecatostylum (drawing by C. McClarty, modified from Carandini and Carafa 2016, table 222) (Hrychuk Kontokosta 2019, 54).

Fig. 2. Restored plan of the Thermae Agrippae (drawing by C. McClarty, after Hülsen 1910, pl. 3) (Hrychuk Kontokosta 2019, 52).

Fig. 3 (left) Tepidarium of the Forum Baths looking southwest toward the caldarium (V. Hakanen; courtesy Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali, Parco Archeologico di Pompei) (Hakanen 2020, 39).

Fig. 4 (right) Four types of telamon statues in the tepidarium: a, naked; b, c, with loincloths made of hides; d, with a loincloth made of leaves (V. Hakanen; courtesy Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali, Parco Archeologico di Pompei) (Hakanen 2020, 47).

Fig. 5 and 6 Abduction of Ganymede, and Apollo-Hyacinthus on a griffin, tepidarium vault (V. Hakanen; courtesy Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali, Parco Archeologico di Pompei) (Hakanen 2020, 59).

Fig.7 Eros, tepidarium vault (V. Hakanen; courtesy Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali, Parco Archeologico di Pompei) (Hakanen 2020, 60).

Bibliography Beard, Mary. “A Good Bath” in The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found, 241-50. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008. Hakanen, Ville. “Normative Masculinity and the Decoration of the Tepidarium of the Forum Baths in Pompeii.” The American Journal of Archaeology 124, no. 1 (2020): 37-71. Hrychuk Kontokosta, Anne. “Building the Thermae Aggrippae: Private Life, Public space, and the Politics of Bathing in Early Imperial Rome.” The American Journal of Archaeology 123, no. 1, (2019): 45-77. Laurence, Ray. “The Roman Body at the Baths.” In Roman Passions: A History of Pleasure in Imperial Rome, 63-74a. London: Continuum, 2009. Martial. Selected Epigrams. Translated by Susan McLean, 3-22. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014.

The Social Implications of Improbitas in Roman Society Andrew Aziz In Republican Latin literature, improbitas was a term that Roman authors used to explore questions about rationality, immorality, and the human will. It was seen as a potential source of motivation that exists within humans and which, when awakened, can dramatically affect one’s decision-making process in a way that negatively impacts those around them. Authors as early as Plautus and Lucretius relate improbitas to societal issues and personal responsibility, portraying how it taints the mind and, as a result, leads to interpersonal failure. Because of improbitas, societies begin to collapse. Thus, many Roman authors showcase how the dangers presented by this force must be controlled by the penal system, since a strict justice system prevents humans from harming themselves and society. This paper seeks to uncover Vergil’s understanding of improbitas by analyzing the attested uses of the noun and its adjectival forms in the Aeneid and in the works of various Republican authors writing prior to Vergil’s 1st c. CE. Ultimately, I argue that although the criteria by which actions are deemed improbus vary from author to author, improbitas is often equated to a lack of reason and self-control, which Vergil emphasizes in the Aeneid by displaying how improbitas reduces the human being into an irrational, selfish, and ultimately immoral animal. Throughout the Aeneid, Vergil showcases the repercussions of improbitas—although he never uses the noun itself in his work. Rather, he prefers the adjectival form improbus, which provides the reader with a clearer definition of improbitas through the words it describes.1 The modified nouns 1 One should note that Vergil uses this adjective form of improbitas 16 times in

the entirety of his literary output and they are all found within the Aeneid. Thus, these uses are particularly important.

all refer to acts and emotions that could remove one’s rationality and thus corrupt the mind. Thus, it appears that Vergil is not necessarily concerned with the concept of improbitas itself; he instead demonstrates how such improbus actions affect the mind, the body, and, in turn, society as a whole. Vergil shows the complete loss of rationality and restraint that improbitas represents in Book II of the Aeneid, when Aeneas recounts the fall of Troy to Dido, Queen of Carthage. In the martial chaos following the deception of the Trojan Horse, Vergil uses a simile of rapacious wolves to describe Aeneas and his companions who, after a fierce speech by Aeneas, are provoked to anger and eager to ambush the invading Greek army: sic animis iuvenum furor additus. inde lupi ceu raptores atra in nebula, quos improba ventris exegit caecos rabies catuli que relicti faucibus expectant siccis per tela, per hostis vadimus haud dubiam in mortem mediaeque tenemus urbis iter... (2.355-358) Thus, madness was added to the souls of the youth. Thence just like wolves, as plunderers in a dark cloud, whom the improba anger of the stomach drive them out as blind (animals) and their cubs having been left behind are waiting with dry throats. (Thus) we go through spears and enemies into scarcely dubious death and we maintain the journey to the middle of the city.2 This simile compares the furor of Aeneas and his followers with the improba rabies of wolves. Vergil emphasizes this connection by placing both concepts in the nominative case (i.e., as the subjects). The wolves’ anger in this instance correlates with a loss of sanity and self-control due to the primal hunger they feel. Such anger blinds them to reality; the only thing that matters to them is conquering their desire for sustenance. Their ferocious, uncontrollable, wolf-like nature cannot be contained.3 2 All translations are my own. 3 Horsfall, Virgil, 295-6.

Consequently, the wolves abandon their cubs. Aeneas and his followers, just like the wolves, act irrationally, blinded by their own anger and impossible desire to purge the Greeks from Troy.4 Evidently, Vergil connects improbitas with emotions (such as rage) that taint the mind and destroy the human capacity to reason.5 Although becoming improbus risks losing one’s sanity, people still commit improbus acts to achieve their goals. The wolves’ irrational anger and lack of restraint, for example, prompted them to abandon their cubs to try and find a meal. Similarly, Aeneas and his companions are maddened by their improba rabies to fight a losing battle against the Greek army, an overwhelming force already occupying Troy. In such reckless fury, they become willing to head to the center of the city to ambush the invaders, unthinkingly risking their lives rather than attempting to save the Trojan people through another means (e.g., evacuation). In Book IX of the Aeneid, Vergil once again utilizes the analogy of wolves. This time, however, he showcases how someone can become improbus when they fail to fulfill their yearnings. In this chapter, Aeneas and his men have arrived in Italy, and Turnus, the King of the indigenous Rutulians, is encouraged by Iris at Juno’s behest to seize the Trojan camp. The goddess persuades Turnus to attack by informing him of the threat the Trojans pose to his kingdom as well as their current state of vulnerability: Aeneas is absent from his camp. This message convinces the Rutulian king to attack the Trojan fort, during which Vergil compares Turnus to a wolf: ... ille asper et improbus ira saevit in absentis, collecta fatigat edendi ex longo rabies et siccae sanguine fauces: haud aliter Rutulo muros et castra tuenti ignescunt irae, duris dolor ossibus ardet (9.59-63). That savage and improbus man/wolf rages in anger against the unavailability of things about to be eaten. A mad desire for eating having been collected for a long time tires him, along with jaws thirsty for blood. Not at 4 Horsfall, 295-6. 5 Stephens, “Like a Wolf on the Fold”, 126.

all differently, anger burns for the Rutilians, surveying the walls and camps; their pain burns in their vigorous bones. It is striking to see that Vergil omits the word lupus in this passage. Instead, he uses the demonstrative adjective ille, meaning “that,” from which the word “wolf” is implied (in conjunction with siccae sanguine fauces). In this way, the wolf is defined by its improbus: it is a savage beast, a purely animalistic creature. The desire to eat but not being able to attain food causes it to lose control and become improbus.6 Similarly, when Turnus and the Rutulians prove incapable of overpowering the Trojan fort, they lose control over their irae, becoming as savage as the wolves themselves.7 Vergil, through this example, indicates that improbus rage can result from our anger at failing to achieve the goals that we pursue. Furthermore, Turnus’s lack of self-control manifests itself in selfish, irrational decisions, since he refuses to retreat even after it was made evident that he will not take the fortress. Indeed, after the goddess Cybele saves the ships of the Trojans from the flames— clearly indicating that, by the god’s will, he was not destined to win—Turnus arrogantly says: nil me fatalia terrent, si qua Phryges prae se iactant, responsa deorum (“No fateful responses of the gods terrify me, if the Phyrgians should boast about anything before themselves,” 9.133-134). This refusal to heed the sign of the gods directly results in the needless death of many of his men, a slaughter which could have been avoided had reason and not selfish ambition for victory and power guided the Rutulian leader. Vergil thus proposes two things in this episode: the improbus man is both one who discounts divine portents and one who disregards the interests of others. In associating improbitas with self-centered desires, Vergil follows in the footsteps of previous Roman authors. In the Persa, the Republican playwright Plautus asserts that “Nam improbus est homo qui beneficium scit accipere et reddere nescit” (“For the improbus man is he who knows to accept a gift but does not know how to return it,” Pers. 762). This quotation 6 Fratantuono, “The Wolf In Virgil”, 108. 7 Stephens, “Like a Wolf on the Fold”, 125-126; Rabies and its synonym, ira,

appear three times in this passage, further emphasizing Vergil’s focus on the loss of rationality.

presents a use of improbitas in mundane, daily life and outlines clearly a societal example of improbitas. Here, Plautus invokes a Roman social code: every gift must be repaid with a gift of equal value to show that the receiver honors and cares about that friendship.8 Through this, Plautus shows that an improbus man is one who disregards others’ interests in favor of their own. He is willing to break the bonds of friendship and its corresponding ethical duties by accepting a gift while having no intention of repaying it. In the long run, suchactions will taint the ungrateful recipient as selfish and immoral in their society. Cicero echoes this in his Pro Murena speech, stating that “amicorum neglectio improbitatem coarguit” (“The negligence of friendship encourages improbitatem,” 1.9). Like Plautus, Cicero advocates for people to value friendship rather than cave to improbitas. In this passage, Cicero responds to the attacks against him by Servius Sulpicius, who asserted that Cicero abandons their friendship by defending Murena. Cicero rebukes this by recalling the aid he provided Servius during the consulship election. In addition to this, he claims that he has a duty towards Murena, whom he also considers a friend. If he were to abandon Murena in his time of need, he would display that he does not care for his allies and therefore would demonstrate improbitas. Cicero showcases that friendship is a duty, as one must actively contribute for the relationship to remain fruitful for both parties. Thus, we can infer that the Romans viewed the lack of care towards friends as highly immoral and selfish because the negligence of camaraderie would cause the whole community to suffer, since no one would care for one another.9 Just as the man who refuses to repay his gift-giver, failing to uphold the ethical standards of his culture, so does Turnus jeopardize the lives of the men whom he leads. As in the Aeneid, these instances of improbitas all portray how a lack of self-control and reasoning results in selfish, immoral actions that harm both the author of the action and their community. Despite the risk that improbitas poses to the individual and his social circle, Vergil presents how temptation can overcome our ability to consider its negative outcomes. This can be seen in Book 8 Griffin, “De Beneficiis and Roman Society”, 97-8. 9 Bauman, Cicero on Punishment, 28-9.

IV of the Aeneid, when Dido, resolving to die because Aeneas has left her in order to fulfill his destiny of founding Rome, soliloquizes: improbe Amor, quid non mortalia pectora cogis! ire iterum in lacrimas, iterum temptare precando cogitur et supplex animos summittere amori, ne quid inexpertum frustra moritura relinquat (4.412-415). O improbus love, what do you force the mortal heart not to do? Again she is being forced to go into tears, again she is being compelled to make an attempt by praying and, as a suppliant, to submit her mind to love, lest she, about to die in vain, leaves behind anything untested. Vergil displays how Dido’s lack of control over her desire for Aeneas to remain makes her improba. This love is improbe because of its unreasonable nature. Dido thinks only of her own happiness and people, but she does not consider Aeneas’s destiny and objectives.10 This is significant because it showcases that improbitas could have prevented the founding of Rome. If Dido had tempted Aeneas sufficiently, he would have become improbus because he would have acquiesced to his love for Dido and disregarded the fate entrusted to him by the gods. Specifically, Dido makes this lament, invoking improbe Amor, in response to Aeneas, who has just explained his departure and need to fulfill his fate. This is extremely significant because it shows that Dido was aware that this love would not work out, but nevertheless, she is blinded by her irrational emotions and by her own obsession over Aeneas. After Aeneas leaves, her obsession emerges exceedingly as she states to her sister Anna, inveni, germana, viam (gratare sorori) quae mihi reddat eum vel eo me solvat amantem. (“I found, O sister, [rejoice for your sister] a way, which would bring him back to me, or release my love for him,” 4.474). Dido’s scheme to kill herself so that she can be free of Aeneas unveils her lack of selfcontrol and how her obsession drives her insane. Evidently, the Queen of 10 Richard, The

Dido Episode, 37.

Carthage, no longer able to reason, believes that only suicide can solvat her. Even Dido’s final suicide can be seen as irrational and even selfish because she ignores her sister and people, whom she would be leaving behind. After all, they require her stable leadership as Queen. Rather than assuming her leadership responsibilities, Dido is consumed by the thought of escaping her pain. Improbus Amor drives her to ignore her rationality and lose control over her amorous desires. In this instance, Vergil’s use of the verb cogo (“to force”) in the passive sense is especially telling, since it shows that Dido has no control over her actions and thoughts and is instead controlled by her conscious obsession with Aeneas. Dido is no longer rational; she is completely controlled by her improbus desire to be with Aeneas, just as he himself was blinded by irrational rage when the Greeks invaded Troy. Dido’s animos submitted to this unreasonable amor, which led to her ultimate demise. This marks another clear example of how dangerous Vergil thought improbitas to be and how it could lead some to lose their sanity forever. The notion that improbitas produces immoral and irrational actions to satisfy one’s temptations persists into the 1st c. CE. In Petronius’ Satyricon, the main character Encolpius, while alluding to his temptation to sleep with his host’s son (who continues to tempt him throughout his stay), states “nihil est tam arduum quod non improbitas extorqueat” (“Nothing is so difficult that improbitas cannot extort,” 1.87). Eventually, he submits to his base desires and acts upon this urge. This is noteworthy because, just like Vergil, Petronius displays the dangers of how temptation encourages improbitas.11 Encolpius acts very similarly to Dido in this instance. he cannot control his temptations and ultimately sleeps with his host’s son. After this event, Enclopius claims that “Ego vero deposita omni offensa cum puero in gratiam redii” (“In truth, with all displeasure having been cast aside, I returned into grace with the boy,” 1.87). Enclopius, in this very specific instance, seems to imply that lack of self-control towards the boy’s allurement led him to become improbus, unable to truly connect with the boy on a personal level and purely focused on using him to obtain coitum plenum (“satsifying sexual intercourse” 1.86). Only once 11 Schmeling, the

Satyrica, 87.

the sexual offense had been deposita was Enclopius able to once again become sensible enough to bring back the gratiam he had with the boy. Arguably, both Dido and Enclopius lose some aspect of their self-control and their ability to think about other people, with Dido disregarding her sister’s needs, and Encolpius about the boy’s chaste reputation. Unlike Vergil’s Queen, however, Enclopius regains his senses and gets rid of his improbitas after fulfilling his temptation, while Dido is never able to fully recover from her maddening passion and return to her prior state of mind. Lucretius expands the meaning of improbitas in his 1st c. BCE poem De Rerum Natura by displaying how improbus behavior can cause destruction on a larger scale and corrupt an entire society’s ability to maintain moderation. In Book 5 of De Rerum Natura, Lucretius maintains that “improba navigii ratio tum caeca iacebat” (“The improba manner of navigation at that time was laying in darkness,” 1006). Here, Lucretius is likely referencing the peace that earlier societies, whose knowledge of navigation lay caeca, or experienced, since they were safe in their ignorance of the dangers of seafaring.12 The ability to navigate the sea was an improbus act because it pushed people to use their navigation skills to acquire wealth and power for themselves in foreign lands.13 Without seafaring technology, the hope of acquiring far-off riches would never have tempted these early natives, who, in turn, would not have lost their rational sense of moderation and self-control. Thus, Lucretius is subtly alluding to a very pertinent political issue in Rome during his lifetime: the expansion of the Roman Empire.14 During the mid-1st c. BCE, Romans were increasing their military operations and trade overseas, reaching as far as China, Arabia, and India, a reality which became an especial concern for Roman adherents of Stoicism and Epicureanism—such as Lucretius himself. Thus, he voices the concern that navigation and sea travel are improbus acts because they encourage Romans to abandon moderation and reach beyond their means.15 The view that improbitas endangers the wellbeing of whole societies also appears in Vergil’s Aeneid. In Book XI, Turnus, during a council with 12 Campbell, Lucretius, 1006. 13 Campbell, 1006. 14 McLaughlin, Rome And The Distant East, 2. 15 Campbell, Lucretius, 1006.

King Latinus, learns that Aeneas and his men are marching to attack their city. Here, Turnus addresses his ally Camilla about the incoming Trojan attack: Aeneas, ut fama fidem missique reportant exploratores, equitum levia improbus arma praemisit, quaterent campos; ipse ardua montis per deserta iugo superans adventat ad urbem (11.511514). Aeneas – as the rumour and as the scouts having been sent out report the credible news – as an improbus man, has sent forth the lightly armed cavalry, and they harass the camps; (and) he himself ascending the mountain ridge through the steep, abandoned parts of the mountain, advances toward the city. In this scenario, Aeneas is cast in the role of the improbus foreigner who comes from the sea and attempts to forcefully settle in Italy, Turnus’s homeland.16 From Turnus’ perspective, Aeneas, the stranger who holds neither roots in Latium nor understands the local customs, acts unreasonably (improbe) by advancing towards a Latin city to lay siege. Lucretius’s assertion that sea travel is improbus can be applied to the position of these Italians, who had a much more stable and peaceful settlement before Aeneas and his men sailed into Italy.17 Aeneas, sending his cavalry to quaterent campos, indicates the consequences of improbitas on a larger scale, since his invasion upsets the balance of powers in early Italy. The improbitas of Aeneas is no longer personal, nor interpersonal, but international—Vergil, like Lucretius, upscales the devastation caused by the arrogance born from improbitas. Despite the dire consequences associated with irrational and selfish actions, the Romans believed that the threats posed by improbitas could be controlled through punishment. Publilius Syrus, a Roman writer in the early half of the 1st c. BCE, maintained that 16 Michels, “The Many Faces of Aeneas,” 404. 17 Moorton, “The Innocence of Italy”, 106.

“Paucorum improbitas est multorum calamitas” (“The improbitas of the few is the disaster of many,” Sent. 36). The contrast between the ‘few’ improbus individuals and the ‘many’ individuals affected displays the power of improbitas. The loss of sanity and self-control can lead people to commit crimes; since they are no longer bound by reason, they are more likely to ignore the boundaries of the law. In addition, he claims that “Nisi uindices delicta improbitatem adiuues” (“If you should not punish crimes, you would aid improbitatem,” Sent. 18). Notably, Publius uses the second person verbs adiuues and uindices to directly instruct his reader to combat improbitas. Further, the conditional here showcases the future consequences of improbitas, such that it is an ethical imperative to judge those who are improbus. This idea emphasizes that an effective judicial system is necessary to confront the dangers of improbitas. Moreover, Cicero expresses a similar sentiment to Syrus in his prosecution of Verres, stating that “Tenetur igitur iam, iudices, et manifesto tenetur avaritia cupiditas hominis, scelus improbitas audacia” (“Therefore now, O Judges, the avaricious desire of this man is being held openly: his crime, improbitas, and audacity,” 3.152). In this quote, Cicero condemns the embezzlement of funds by Verres and values scelus as a charge of equal weight to improbitas, while also making a clear distinction between the two. Although a loss of sanity and self control brings forth irrational, immoral and selfish behaviors that harm society, it appears that not every improbitas act is defined as a crime.18 Furthermore, Cicero uses the vocative to speak directly to the senators as iudices, emphasizing their responsibility to safeguard Rome from improbitas by reminding them of their duty to preserve the state and to confront the hazards that it poses.19 In essence, the Senate acts as representatives of a justice system, which is required to cull the citizenry’s inherent and potentially rampant irrational behaviors. Vergil appears to understand this term in a similar way, as he depicts improbitas as a punishable and controllable force in Book IV of the Aeneid. In this passage, a suicidal Dido uses her last 18 It should be noted that not every improbitus

practice is a crime, however, any improbitus practice is negatively looked upon by Roman society 19 Fantham, The Roman World of Cicero’s, 20-21; Mitchell, “Cicero On The Moral Crisis,” 29.

breath to curse Aeneas with the remaining anger left in her heart: spero equidem mediis, si quid pia numina possunt, supplicia hausurum scopulis et nomine Dido saepe vocaturum. sequar atris ignibus absens et, cum frigida mors anima seduxerit artus omnibus umbra locis adero. abis, improbe, poenas (4.382-386). I certainly hope that if divine spirits are able (to do) anything, (Aeneas) is going to absorb punishments in the middle of the rocks and is going to always call the name Dido. I, being absent (from life), will follow you with black fires and when cold death has led the strength out of my soul, my shade will be present in all locations. You will be punished, o you improbus man. Dido, blinded by sorrow and her desire for justice, believes Aeneas to be improbus because he chooses his fate over her well-being. She views Aeneas’s actions as senseless and greedy, since he pays no regard to her emotions and abandons her in pursuit of his own desires.20 It follows that since Aeneas is improbus to her, he also deserves poenas; as Cicero and Syrus revealed, improbitas merits punishment in Rome. Furthermore, Vergil advances this idea a step further than his predecessors. In fact, he has Dido explicitly wish that Aeneas suffers. The punishments she imposes are harsh, condemning him to atris ignibus and forcing him to endure supplicia. As she calls upon divine spirits (numina) to help her execute justice, Dido implies that improbitas deserves not just socio-political punishment, but also spiritual atonement.21 Clearly, in the Aeneid, the obligation to punish improbitas exists, just as it did in the writings of Syrus and Cicero. However, Dido’s demands for justice are more intense, as they are pursued by the individual through spiritual means rather than safekept by social structures. Thus, Vergil’s Aeneid presents the hazards of improbitas and 20 Richard, The 21 Richard, 48.

Dido Episode, 48.

equates this concept with a lack of reasoning and self-control because it encourages selfish, irrational, and immoral behaviors. This reading is supported by various earlier Roman authors, who connect improbitas with the complete negligence of rationality, which frees one to pursue their unrestrained ambitions to the detriment of themselves and of their society. Furthermore, the dangers presented by improbitas necessitate a justice system to control it. It is conceivable that the use of improbitas by Vergil in the Aeneid reflects a broader understanding of this word in his contemporary Rome. Although this is a mythical work, the dangers of improbitas are real, and its presence exists as a potential motivator within humans. This powerful force, if not controlled, could lead to our downfall. Vergil, therefore, appears to depict the disasters caused by improbus actions in an epic context to warn his audience about the problems similar actions could create in early Imperial Rome.

Bibliography Bauman, Richard A. Crime and Punishment in Ancient Rome. London: Routledge, 1996 Campbell, Gordon Lindsay. Lucretius on Creation and Evolution: A Commentary on De Rerum Natura, Book Five. Oxford Classical Monographs. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Horsfall, Nicholas. Virgil, Aeneid 2: A Commentary. Mnemosyne. Supplements, Monographs on Greek and Roman Language and Literature, Volume 299. Leiden: Brill, 2008. Fantham, Elaine. The Roman World of Cicero’s De Oratore. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Ferguson, Everett. Backgrounds of Early Christianity. 3rd ed. Eerdmans Pub, 2003. Fratantuono, Lee. “The Wolf In Virgil.” Revue Des Études Anciennes 120, no. 1 (2008): 108. Griffin, Miriam. “De Beneficiis and Roman Society.” The Journal of Roman Studies 93 (2003): 92–113. McLaughlin, Raoul. Rome and the Distant East: Trade Routes to the Ancient Lands of Arabia, India and China. London: Continuum, 2010. Michels, Agnes. “The Many Faces of Aeneas.” The Classical Journal 92, no. 4 (1997): 399-416. Mitchell, Thomas. “Cicero On The Moral Crisis Of The Late Republic”. Hermathena 136, no. 136 (1984): 21-41.

Moorton, Richard. “The Innocence of Italy in Vergil’s Aeneid.” The American Journal of Philology 110, no. 1 (1989): 105-30. Monti, Richard. The Dido Episode and the Aeneid: Roman Social and Political Values in the Epic. Mnemosyne, Bibliotheca Classica Batava. Supplementum, 66. Leiden: Brill, 1981. Stephens, Viola. “Like a Wolf on the Fold: Animal Imagery in Vergil.” Illinois Classical Studies 15, no. 1 (1990): 107-30. Schmeling, Gareth L, ed. A Commentary on the Satyrica of Petronius. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016.

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.