Representations of Truth and Falsehood in Hellenistic Poetry

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A dissertation submitted to the Graduate School of the University of Cincinnati in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

In the Department of Classics Of the College of Arts and Sciences by

Kathleen Kidder B.A. University of Texas at Austin February 2018

Committee Chair: Kathryn J. Gutzwiller, Ph.D.

Abstract

This dissertation examines how five Hellenistic poets represent the processes of evaluating truth and falsehood. Applying the philosophic concept of a criterion of truth, I demonstrate that each poetic persona interrogates truth by suggesting a different kind of criterion. Due to the indebtedness of Hellenistic poetry to previous literature, the second chapter summarizes the evolution of pertinent vocabulary for truth and falsehood, tracking the words’ first appearances in early poetry to their reappearance in Hellenistic verse. In my third chapter, I discuss notions concerning the relationship between truth and poetry throughout Greek literary history. The fourth chapter covers Aratus’ Phaenomena and Nicander’s Theriaca, two poems containing scientific subject matter framed as true. Yet, as I argue, the poems’ contrasting treatments of myths attest to the differences in the knowability of the respective material. In the

Phaemomena, a poem about visible signs, Aratus’ myths offer a model for interpreting an ordered Stoic universe via regular and perceptible signs. By contrast, Nicander’s myths replicate the uncertainty of his subject matter (deadly creatures and remedies) and the necessity of direct experience as a criterion. The dichotomy between certainty and uncertainty applies also to the fifth chapter, which analyzes the narratorial voices of Callimachus in the Aetia and Apollonius of

Rhodes in the Argonautica. While the Callimachean persona exhibits a confident attitude in assessing sources and information, employing personal experience as a criterion, the Apollonian narrator expresses doubt and implies a lack of a definite criterion. The sixth chapter, devoted to

Lycophron’s Alexandra, focuses on how the prophetess Cassandra assesses truth through her understanding of hidden inner essences. Cassandra’s strategy, however, contrasts with that of the messenger, who claims to report her speech accurately but fails to comprehend or believe it.

Ultimately, in comparing the treatments of truth and falsehood in these five works, I show that

ii the combination of poetic language, allusion, and myth can embody the methods for reconciling certainty and doubt.

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Preface

The question of truth and falsehood is one of the fundamental issues underlying the study and reception of Ancient Greek poetry. Can poems, with their beautiful and ordered language, reveal deeper truths—truths about the world, society, and self? What role, moreover, does falsehood play in poetic production? Yet how can a person distinguish truth from falsehood, not just in verse, but in all spheres in existence? Is such a distinction even possible?

These are the questions that motivate my analysis of five Hellenistic poems. During this time, not only had prose usurped poetry’s role as purveyor of knowledge, the notion of truth was further complicated by a variety of factors. While the philosophic schools debated the criterion of truth, the Library of Alexandria stored an accumulation of information, much of which was conflicting. In this dissertation I consider conflict, not just between truth and falsehood, but also between order and chaos, certainty and doubt, clarity and ambiguity, seen and unseen, and being and seeming.

Acknowledgments

This dissertation is the culmination of ten years of training in Classics. The past two years of fellowship funding, from the Department of Classics and the University of Cincinnati, have facilitated this project, allowing more time for research and conference travel. Yet aside from these obvious requirements of time and financial support, numerous individuals have assisted in the genesis and completion of the work. I wish to thank them here. I begin by offering my profound thanks to my advisor, Kathryn Gutzwiller, who has supported me throughout my graduate career. Her insightful comments on my chapters aided me in developing and sharpening my arguments and analyses. Most importantly, she has taught me, to steal her metaphor, to look at the forest, not just the trees.

At the same time, I would like to thank the members of the dissertation committee for their comments and advice. Richard Hunter offered bibliography and suggestions for revising some arguments, as did Daniel Markovic and Susan Prince, bringing in their own specialties. In addition to the committee members, there are several others here at UC whom I would like to acknowledge: Kathleen Lynch, Jack Davis, the late Getzel Cohen, Barbara Burrell, and Lauren

Ginsberg. I would also like to thank the library staff: the retired Jacquie Riley, Mike Braunlin,

Cade Stevens, and all of the student workers. Thank you also to Jenny Lin, Joseph Katemkamp, and John Wallrodt for assistance with administrative and technical issues. Finally, I would like to thank Angelica Wisenbarger, Andy Lund, and Carina Moss. All three kindly agreed to look at portions of the final draft for typos and errors.

Over the past several years, I have received invaluable support from the following friends: Morgan Calahan, Erica Allseitz, Sarah Daigneault, Emily Wetzel, Molly Donnermeyer,

Liz Barnes, Katie Durante, and Amy Rudnik. I express the deepest thanks to my partner Steven

Kemple, who has supported me in every way possible, emotionally and intellectually. Not only has he used his librarian skills for proofreading and checking my bibliography, he has encouraged me to pursue my ideas in research, visual work, and performance. Without him, finishing this dissertation would have been possible, but much less pleasant. Finally, I thank my parents, Kay and Harold Kidder. Despite living far away in Texas, they have been with me every step of this process. I dedicate this dissertation to them.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Introduction ...... 1 Chapter 2: The Vocabulary of Truth and Falsehood ...... 17 Introduction ...... 17 Truth ...... 18 ἀλήθεια and ἀληθής ...... 18 ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός ...... 20 νημερτής and ἀτρεκής ...... 22 Truth in Hellenistic Poetry ...... 24 Falsehood ...... 27 ψεῦδος and ψεύδομαι ...... 27 Falsehood in Hellenistic Poetry ...... 28 Conclusion ...... 29 Chapter 3: Background ...... 32 Introduction ...... 32 Poetry ...... 33 Homer ...... 33 Hesiod ...... 38 Pindar ...... 42 Sixth and Fifth Century Criticism ...... 44 Philosophy...... 48 Plato ...... 48 Aristotle...... 53 The Early Stoics ...... 57 Chapter 4: Aratus and Nicander ...... 61 Introduction ...... 61 Origin Stories ...... 68 Aratus: Zeus and the Bears ...... 69 Nicander: Deadly Creatures ...... 75 Myths of Decline...... 81 Aratus: The Disappearance of Dike ...... 82 Nicander: The Disappearance of Youth ...... 88 Etymological myths ...... 93 Aratus: The Hippocrene ...... 95

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Nicander: Bane Helen and the haemorrhois ...... 99 Conclusion ...... 109 Chapter 5: Callimachus and Apollonius ...... 112 Introduction ...... 112 Narrators ...... 115 The Narrator of Callimachus ...... 117 The Narrator of Apollonius ...... 122 Sources ...... 127 Callimachus...... 127 Apollonius of Rhodes ...... 139 Evaluating Stories ...... 150 Callimachus: Too Much Knowledge ...... 151 Apollonius: The Sickle Beneath Drepane ...... 155 Conclusion ...... 162 Chapter 6: Lycophron ...... 166 Introduction ...... 166 Helen ...... 171 Odysseus ...... 187 The Sirens ...... 201 Conclusion ...... 213 Conclusion ...... 217 Bibliography ...... 221

Chapter 1: Introduction

In a dissertation concerning truth and falsehood in Hellenistic poetry, what passage is better to cite than the beginning of Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus? This hymn, the first of the six

Callimachean hymns transmitted in the manuscripts, engages with this topic and commences with a similar rhetorical question:1

Ζηνὸς ἔοι τί κεν ἄλλο παρὰ σπονδῇσιν ἀείδειν λώϊον ἢ θεὸν αὐτόν, ἀεὶ μέγαν, αἰὲν ἄνακτα, Πηλαγόνων ἐλατῆρα, δικασπόλον Οὐρανίδῃσι; πῶς καί νιν, Δικταῖον ἀείσομεν ἠὲ Λυκαῖον; ἐν δοιῇ μάλα θυμός, ἐπεὶ γένος ἀμφήριστον. Ζεῦ, σὲ μὲν Ἰδαίοισιν ἐν οὔρεσί φασι γενέσθαι, Ζεῦ, σὲ δ’ ἐν Ἀρκαδίῃ· πότεροι, πάτερ, ἐψεύσαντο; ‘Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται’· καὶ γὰρ τάφον, ὦ ἄνα, σεῖο Κρῆτες ἐτεκτήναντο· σὺ δ’ οὐ θάνες, ἐσσὶ γὰρ αἰεί.

At the libations, what else would be better to sing of than Zeus, the god himself, always great, always lord, expeller of the Giants, lawgiver for the gods? Just how will we sing of him, as the Dictaean or the Lycaean? My heart is very much in doubt, since his birth is contested. Zeus, some say you were born in the mountains of Ida, Zeus, others say in Arcadia. Which of them, father, has lied? “Cretans are always liars.” For in fact, o lord, the Cretans fabricated your tomb. But you did not die, for you exist always.

(Hymn 1.1-9)

The beginning question, which spans the first three lines, entails an evaluation. Of all the possible topics for a song, which is better (λώϊον, 2) in the context of a libation (παρὰ σπονδῇσιν,

1 See Stephens 2015: 38-43 for a summary of the manuscript tradition of the Hymns. After the Hymn to Zeus, the Hymns appear in the following order: Apollo, Artemis, Delos, Athena, and Demeter. Of these, the Hymns to Zeus, Apollo, Athena, and Demeter include a reference to an audience at a specific ritual, where the hymn could have been performed traditionally. Emphasizing the artificiality of these hymns, however, Depew 1993: 77 concludes, “By drawing attention to their simulation of the contextual, occasion-bound difference between contemporary instances of a genre and that genre’s traditional exemplars, these hymns acknowledge the loss of their models’ original performative context.” For discussion of the Hymns as a unified group, see Haslam 1993: 111-25 and Depew 2004: 117-37. 1

1)? Since a prayer to Zeus began and concluded such a ritual,2 Zeus represents the obvious choice for the subject of the hymn, along with being the first word (Ζηνός, 1).3 This focus on

Zeus, however, generates further questioning. By what epiclesis should the narrator address the god? The first title, Δικταῖον (“Dictaean,” 4), refers to Zeus’ association with Crete, where, according to Hesiod (Th. 475-84), Zeus was born and raised.4 The second designation Λυκαῖον

(“Lycaean,” 4) links the god with Arcadia.5 The pairing of the two names, as a result, signifies two conflicting versions of Zeus’ birth, the existence of which leads to the speaker’s doubt: ἐν

δοιῇ μάλα θυμός, ἐπεὶ γένος ἀμφήριστον (“my heart is very much in doubt, since his birth is contested,” 5).

Such uncertainty about the proper name of a god, as Hopkinson notes, is a hymnic topos.6

This doubt, however, suspends the progression of the narrative. If the narrator cannot decide on the place of Zeus’ birth, how could he recount this event? Challenged by this aporia, as well as

2 Cf. Clauss 1986: 159. For the naming of Zeus in the libation ritual, see Aesch. fr. 55 Radt and Ath. 15.692f-93c. As McLennan 1977: 26 notes, the language of beginning with Zeus is an echo of the ἐκ Διὸς ἀρχώμεσθα theme (Aratus, Phaen. 1 and Theoc. Id. 17.1). 3 As the scholiast (1a; Pfeiffer 1953.2: 41) points out, the function of the genitive Ζηνός is ambiguous. Should we read it as the objective genitive with παρὰ σπονδῇσιν or as a genitive of comparison with λώϊον? While Hunter and Fuhrer (2002: 170) think that Ζηνός actually belongs with παρὰ σπονδῇσιν, Lüddecke 1998: 13n13 maintains the inherent ambiguity of the placement, while also favoring the genitive of comparison. 4 Dicte is a mountain in Crete (scholiast 4a; Pfeiffer 1953.2: 41). Cozzoli 2006: 122, however, points out that the Theogony already contains a contradiction. After narrating Zeus’ birth in Crete (477-80), at 481-84 Hesiod states again that Rhea went to Lyctus. M. L. West 1966: 299 proposes taking Theog. 477-80 as indicating the arrangement and 481-84 as the actual journey. 5 There is no evidence for the Arcadian story before Callimachus. See Pausanias 8.41.1. Since the Arcadia story involves the creation of a river after Zeus’ birth (30-41), Newman 1985: 184- 85 and Stephens 2003: 97-98 propose a connection with Egypt, where the Nile River was crucial for fertility. 6 Hopkinson 1984: 140. As he notes, Callimachus models the beginning of this hymn on the beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (1-9), which presents multiple options for the location of Dionysus’ birth. See Stephens 2003: 83-84. See Race 1982: 4-7 for a discussion of hymnic openings. 2 the absence of a revealing birth certificate, the narrator nevertheless cites various types of evidence for the dilemma. In 6-7, the evidence stems from the oral tradition, as the narrator indicates with φασι (“they say,” 6). With this citation to oral sources, the narrator restates the dilemma, making Ἰδαίοισιν ἐν οὔρεσί (“in the mountains of Ida,” 6) correspond to Δικταῖον (4) and ἐν Ἀρκαδίῃ (7) to Λυκαῖον (4).7 These competing sources of authority provoke another question: πότεροι, πάτερ, ἐψεύσαντο (“which of them, father, has lied?” 7). Two additional pieces of evidence, in turn, seem to settle this problem. First, the quotation of Epimenides’ dictum Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται (“Cretans are always liars,” fr. 5 Kinkel) in 8 divulges the Cretans’ falsity and hence their unreliability as a source. To confirm this generalization concerning Cretan mendacity, the narrator then refers to evidence from material culture: the supposed tomb of Zeus on Crete.8 Although the verb ἐτεκτήναντο (“fabricated,” 9) already connotes deception,9 the narrator concludes the spuriousness of the tomb on the grounds that an immortal god cannot die, but exists always: σὺ δ’ οὐ θάνες, ἐσσὶ γὰρ αἰεί (9). Consequently, with the Cretan version eliminated, the narrator moves to describe Zeus’ birth in Arcadia (10-33), while also treating

Zeus’ childhood on Crete (46-54). In doing so, Callimachus ultimately integrates both versions.10

7 Stephens 2015: 58 points out that there is a mountain named Ida in Crete and in Troy. 8 The scholiast (8b; Pfeiffer 1953.2: 42) gives two rationalizing explanations for the existence of this tomb. The first is that the tomb originally belonged to Minos and bore the inscription: Μίνωος τοῦ Διὸς τάφος (“the tomb of Minos, son of Zeus”). Later, however, Μίνωος τοῦ was effaced and the tomb only read Διὸς τάφος (“the tomb of Zeus”). According to the second explanation, the Corybantes constructed the tomb to trick Cronus. Euhemerus (Lactant. Div. inst. 1.11.44-48 = Euhem. fr. 69 Winiarczyk) argued that Zeus was originally a human culture hero who died and was buried on Crete. Callimachus refers to Euhemerus obliquely at Iambus 1.10- 11. 9 Cf. McLennan 1977: 37, who cites Od. 14.131 (παρατεκτήναιο) and Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.1295 (συνετεκτήναντο). See also Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.592. The verb τεκταίνομαι properly refers to construction by carpentry (see Il. 5.62). 10 Callimachus, however, continues the ambiguity by referring to geographic markers attested for both Crete and Arcadia. For instance, at 34 Callimachus mentions a “Cretan hiding place” (κευθμὸν ἔσω Κρηταῖον). According to Pausanias (8.38.2), this is a place on Mount Lycaeum in 3

From this purposely simplistic reading, however, emerge several paradoxes that problematize both options. The saying Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται is lacking as evidence against the

Cretan version, since its author, Epimenides, is himself a Cretan and consequently a liar. Further ambiguity arises when we consider the speaker of this line. Is it Epimenides, the Callimachean narrator, or Zeus responding to have his say on the issue?11 According the dictum, moreover,

Zeus also would be a liar, if we believe the Cretan version of his birth.12 At the same time, the logic that the narrator uses to debunk Zeus’ tomb is contradictory. If Zeus has always existed, a point made emphatically with the triple appearance of ἀεί (“always”) in 2 and 9, how could he have been born?13 By this kind of rationale, neither version of Zeus’ birth would be true.

Due to these uncertainties and paradoxes, the poem fails as a straightforward examination of a mythological issue (Zeus’ place of birth). The narrator brings up the issue of truth and falsehood, albeit without firm resolution. Yet we should not expect a clear-cut analysis in the context of a poetic work, especially one composed by a poet as ironic and playful as

Callimachus.14 Indeed, after criticizing earlier poets for their lack of complete truth concerning

Zeus’ ascent to the throne of heaven (60),15 the narrator proclaims ψευδοίμην ἀίοντος ἅ κεν

Arcadia. At the same time, there are two Thenaes, one in Arcadia and on Crete, and Callimachus makes this point at 42-43. See Arnott 1976: 14-15, McLennan 1977: 74-76, and Stephens 2003: 93-95. 11 Cf. Hopkinson 1984: 140 and Goldhill 1986: 27. 12 Cf. Lüddecke 1998: 13n23. 13 Cf. Wilamowitz 1924: 12 and Cuypers 2004a: 105. 14 F. Williams 1993 offers an overview of the absurd and playful elements in Callimachus’ verse. For instance, in the Hymn to Zeus, the speaker calls the infant Zeus “father” at the very moment the umbilical cord falls off (43-44). 15 δηναιοὶ δ’ οὐ πάμπαν ἀληθέες ἦσαν ἀοιδοί (“the ancient singers were not entirely truthful,” 60). The narrator subsequently (61-64) discounts the version that Zeus and his brothers drew lots for heaven. This version of Zeus’ ascent occurs in Homer (Il. 15.187-93) and Pindar (Ol. 7.54). The narrator instead modifies the Hesiodic version of Zeus’ ascent (Theog. 881-85), according to which the gods willingly granted Zeus power. According to this hymn (66-67), however, Zeus 4

πεπίθοιεν ἀκουήν (“may I tell lies that would persuade the ears of a listener,” 65).16 Whether

ψευδοίμην connotes lies, fiction, or both, is unclear.17 Nevertheless, according to this wish, believability constitutes a criterion for effective falsehood, as much as it would for truth. Even though the narrator does not say that he is lying, here or elsewhere in the poem,18 we would not be able to tell otherwise, if his wish rings true.

Aside from this ironized wish, other factors hinder us from viewing this hymn as a straightforward analysis of truth. By the Hellenistic period, prose treatises had solidified poetry’s role in purveying truth.19 Poetry, meanwhile, was assessed by criteria other than truth and falsehood. For certain critics, such as the so-called Euphonists, the importance of aesthetic qualities like word choice and arrangement trumped even the meaning of a poem.20 Yet the heightened emphasis on aesthetic qualities does not preclude the potential of poetry to question notions of truth and falsehood and the means by which they are judged. Such poetic interrogation, however, is often subtle, demanding from the reader awareness of the prior textual tradition. For instance, the Epimenides quotation, as preserved in Paul’s Epistle to Titus (1.12), runs in full Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται, κακὰ θηρία, γαστέρες ἀργαί (“Cretans are always liars, evil

seizes power by means of his strength. As Floridi 2004: 67-68 notes, this version fits better with the encomiastic elements of the hymn. Cf. Fantuzzi 2011: 446. 16 As Lombardi 1998: 165-66 points out, the optative ψευδοίμην can be interpreted as the apodosis of a conditional with the protasis elided or an optative of wish. For discussion of this line, see Goldhill 1986: 29, Lombardi 1998: 165-72, and Floridi 2004: 65-75. 17 For ψευδοίμην as “compose fiction,” see McLennan 1977: 102. 18 For this observation, cf. Fuhrer 1988: 60n18. 19 See Cuypers 2010: 330-36 for an overview of the variety of prose texts during the Hellenistic period. 20 Of the Euphonists, whose ideas are preserved in Philodemus’ On Poems, Heracleodorus argued that the poet’s task was not the construction of thought, but the arrangement of words. Pausimachus of Miletus focused on good sound alone. For discussion of these critics, see Janko 2000: 143-89 and Gutzwiller 2010: 346-54, who finds examples of Euphonist principles in Hellenistic poetry. See also Acosta-Hughes and Stephens 2002: 242-44 and Romano 2011: 318- 22 for discussion of sound in Callimachus. 5 beasts, wild bellies”), thus recalling the Muses’ taunt at the beginning of the Theogony: ποιμένες

ἄγραυλοι, κάκ’ ἐλέγχεα, γαστέρες οἶον (“rustic shepherds, base reproaches, mere bellies,” 26).

This insult prefaces the Muses’ boast about their dual ability to tell truth and falsehoods like truth

(27-28). As a result, Callimachus’ appropriation of the Epimenides maxim works on two levels, not only discrediting the authority of Cretans but also evoking the famous passage that establishes the difficulty of distinguishing truth and falsehood like truth in poetry.

Related to this issue of truth and falsehood, scholars have detected philosophical dimensions in the Hymn to Zeus.21 Zeus, for the Stoics, symbolized the eternal and omnipresent rational principle governing the world.22 Indeed, they favored the popular etymology that connected the two forms of Zeus’ name (Ζην- and Δι-) with the fact that all things live (ζῆν) through (διά) him.23 Though more obviously playful, Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus similarly touches upon these ideas, featuring etymological puns on Zeus’ name throughout the narrative.24

In this narrative, however, Callimachus makes the nature of Zeus subject to questioning, presenting the anthropomorphized god of traditional myth as well as hinting at Zeus the abstract eternal principle. For this reason, Cuypers observes, “So, while on the surface level of the text

Callimachus the narrator embarks on a mythological discussion about the birth-place of Zeus,

Callimachus the author allusively introduces theological, cosmological, and ontological—in

21 See, for instance, Kirichenko 2012: 188-200. 22 Such ideas found expression in the Hymn to Zeus (preserved in Stob. Flor. 1.1.12) of the Stoic philosopher Cleanthes (333-262 BCE), as well as the beginning of Aratus’ Phaenomena (1-18). See discussion of these two passages in James 1972: 28-38. It is not certain who influenced whom. 23 For this etymology, see Plat. Crat. 396a-c and Chrysippus SVF 2.1062. 24 The following words, which contain the elements δι-, ζην-, or both, can be viewed as puns on Zeus’ names: δίζητο (“searched,” 16), Ἀζηνίς (another name for Arcadia, 20), διεροῦ (“moist,” 24), δίχα (“in two,” 31), διέστη (“was separated,” 31), and διάτριχα (“three ways,” 61). See Hopkinson 1984: 141-42. 6 short, philosophical—questions that make the narrator’s strictly mythological frame of reference appear rather naive, and the idea that ‘Zeus’ might not be the short-fused autocratic philanderer of traditional mythology appear conceivable after all.”25

Associated with such philosophical questions about the nature of Zeus, moreover, is a political dimension. Just as Zeus establishes order in heaven, so too do kings, such as the

Ptolemies, enact order on earth. Consequently, “kings are from Zeus” (ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες), as the narrator states at 79, quoting verbatim the Hesiodic maxim (Theog. 96).26 Indeed, a few lines later, the narrator mentions the current king with ἔοικε δὲ τεκμήρασθαι / ἡμετέρῳ μεδέοντι

(“it is reasonable to judge by our ruler,” 85-86). Although Callimachus does not specify which

Ptolemaic monarch, Clauss has assembled evidence to support Ptolemy II. For example, Clauss argues that the reference to Zeus’ triumph over Poseidon and Hades (58-59) alludes to Ptolemy

II’s acquisition of the Egyptian throne over his half-brother, Ptolemy Ceraunus, the son of

Ptolemy I’s other wife Eurydice.27 Furthermore, Clauss interprets allusions to the Homeric Hymn to Hermes as reflecting this internecine strife as well as reconciliation.28 Just as Apollo forgives his brother Hermes for the theft of the cattle (Hymn. Hom. Merc. 496-520), so too does Ptolemy

II rightfully deserve the throne.

25 Cuypers 2004a: 97. 26 See Reinsch-Werner 1976: 61-63. 27 Clauss 1986: 160. Since the poem centers around Zeus’ birth, Clauss (1986: 158) argues that the occasion is Ptolemy II’s birthday, which coincided with the Basileia as well as Ptolemy’s ascension to joint-rule with Ptolemy I in 285/4 BCE. 28 For an analysis of these allusions, see Clauss 1986: 161-66. For instance, ἑσπέριος κεῖνός γε τελεῖ τά κεν ἦρι νοήσῃ·/ ἑσπέριος τὰ μέγιστα, τὰ μείονα δ’, εὖτε νοήσῃ (“in the evening he [our king] achieves what he thinks of in the morning, in the evening the greatest things, the lesser things, whenever he thinks of them,” 87-88) echoes the birth of Hermes at the beginning of the Hymn: ἠῷος γεγονὼς μέσῳ ἤματι ἐγκιθάριζεν / ἑσπέριος βοῦς κλέψεν ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος (“after he was born at dawn, he played the cithara in the middle of the day and in the evening stole the cattle of far-shooting Apollo,” 17-18). Lüddecke 1998: 30n58 detects irony in the triple parallel between Zeus, the Ptolemaic king, and Hermes, the god of lies. 7

Thus, through this dense web of literary quotations and allusions, Callimachus enables his Hymn to Zeus to touch upon a variety of issues. A mythological dilemma serves as the starting point to interrogate the tensions between truth and falsehood in poetry, the nature of divinity, and finally the relationship between divinity and kingship.29 The narrator, though ironic and assuming doubt, nevertheless affirms the authority of “Zeus” and by implication his earthly counterpart Ptolemy II.30 Both monarchs exert their authority to make their will become reality.

This reality of the Hellenistic period, as shaped by the monarchs and the intellectuals working under their milieu, profoundly influenced the poetic production during this time and the texts’ relationship to truth. Just as rulers drew poets and philosophers from all parts of the world to enrich their courts,31 so too did poets derive source material from a myriad of fonts. The increasing proliferation of prose texts, some of which were produced by poets, provided as much material as did the poetic sources.32 The scholarly centers established by the monarchs contained the producers and the results of such activity. Indeed, with its immense collection, the Library of

Alexandria was a physical manifestation of the nexuses that connected past and present and the disparate places of the Hellenistic world.33

Such an accumulation of sources and their knowledge, however, does not simplify the task of judging truth and falsehood. Rather, as is exemplified in Callimachus’ dilemma in the

29 In accordance with Egyptian custom, rulers were divine. See Koenen 1993: 25-115 for a discussion of Ptolemaic kingship, which involved an amalgamation of Greek and Egyptian ideas. Ptolemy II founded a cult for himself and his sister wife Arsinoe II in 272/1 BCE (Fraser 1972.1: 215; 2.364-65). 30 Cf. Hunter and Fuhrer 2002: 174. 31 For a concise overview of the relationship between literature and kings in the Hellenistic period, see Strootman 2010: 32-45. 32 The Suda (κ 227), for instance, attests to Callimachus’ prolific production of prose treatises. One of the listed titles is Arcadia, and it is likely that Callimachus used this same information for the Arcadian section in the Hymn to Zeus (cf. Stephens 1998: 174). 33 Cf. Fraser 1972.1: 320-45 and Stephens 2010: 54-56. 8

Hymn to Zeus, it only entangles the issue. When challenged by contradictory sources, how can one determine which piece of information is correct? That is, by what means can a person judge truth and falsehood, whether in dealing with a sense perception, a mythological narrative, or a reading in the text of Homer? In all cases, standards must be applied to distinguish the real from the spurious, and at the same time the being from the seeming. Such a standard, in philosophic terms, was called a criterion (κριτήριον) or a canon (κανών).34 Two questions, however, remain.

Does a definite criterion exist, and if so, what is it?

Selecting this notion of criteria as my underlying focal point, in this dissertation I explore how five Hellenistic poets represent the process of assessing truth and falsehood. Amidst the accumulation and organization of new information, how can one reconcile the problems that arise when contemplating the ordered and the chaotic, the certain and the doubtful, and finally what is apparent and what is hidden? As I will demonstrate, all of these issues manifest to varying extents in the five works I have targeted for extended analysis: Aratus’ Phaenomena,

Nicander’s Theriaca, Callimachus’ Aetia, Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica, and Lycophron’s

Alexandra.35

Although conflicting evidence prevents us from establishing the exact date and thus specific sociopolitical context for Nicander and Lycophron, these two poets’ extant works exhibit similarities to those of the securely dated poets Callimachus, Aratus, and Apollonius of

34 In her overview of the Greek word κριτήριον and its use in philosophic contexts, Striker 1996: 24 concludes that anything that plays a role in judging truth and falsehood can be called a κριτήριον. While a κανών literally is a yardstick, it could refer to any standard. Epicurus, for instance, wrote a work entitled the Canon (Diog. Laert. 10.14). The Pyrrhonian Skeptic Timon (325-235 BCE) in a fragment of the Indalmoi (842 SH) refers to a “straight canon of truth” (ἀληθείης ὀρθὸν ἔχων κανόνα, 2). See Clayman 2009: 58 for a discussion of this passage. 35 I have chosen these five works, since their sizeable length is conducive for analyzing changes in the treatment of truth and falsehood over the course of the work. Moreover, with the exception of the fragmentary Aetia, these poems are extant. 9

Rhodes (3rd century BCE). The major characteristics of the poetry of this period (3rd and 2nd centuries BCE) include the prevalence of obscure vocabulary and names, an interest in the foundation of cults and cities, and intense allusive engagement with literary predecessors.36

Connected to this allusive engagement, moreover, was a mingling of generic expectations.37

Within a single work, markers from epic, comedy, lyric, and tragedy could appear. Of the five works treated in the dissertation, Lycophron’s Alexandra represents the most extreme example of these features, requiring an encyclopedic knowledge of mythology, cults, and geographic data to navigate the obscure allusions and rare vocabulary.

The dense allusive nature of this poetry necessitates that close reading coupled with intertextuality form the primary method of my analysis. In what ways can poetic language replicate the processes of assessing truth? How do the poetic personae respond to their predecessors, who are for them “sources?” At the same time, to what extent can we spot influences from philosophical schools, such as the Stoics or the Skeptics? In all cases, I consider the language and the structure of the passage in isolation. What does the poet achieve by juxtaposing certain words or phrases, whether by placing them in the same line or in the same metrical sedes? For example, in the Hymn to Zeus, Callimachus balances Ζεῦ, σὲ μὲν Ἰδαίοισιν in 6 and Ζεῦ, σὲ δ’ ἐν Ἀρκαδίῃ in 7, and Hopkinson reads this structure as reproducing the seeming equality between the two options.38 Moreover, what meaning or emphasis does the repetition of words and sounds in a passage create? As I noted earlier, Callimachus highlights the

36 For discussion of these topics, see Kyriakou 1995 (hapax legomena in Apollonius), Cusset 1999 (hapax legomena in Hellenistic poetry), Hunter in Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 49-51 (aetiology in Callimachus), Giangrande 1967 (arte allusiva in Callimachus and Apollonius), and Hutchinson 1988: 6-11 (allusion in Hellenistic poetry in general). 37 See, for instance, Harder 1998 for an analysis of generic mixing in the Aetia. See Kroll 1924: 202-5 for discussion of the “Kreuzung der Gattungen” (mixing of genres). 38 Hopkinson 1984: 140. 10 idea of eternity by repeating the ἀεί sound, both in the adverb (2; 9) and within the verbs ἀείδειν

(1) and ἀείσομεν (4). With such repetition, moreover, Callimachus produces wordplay that suggests a connection between the act of singing and eternity. It is through the act of song that subjects become immortal.39

After analyzing the passage on its own, I will also look for both intertextual and intratextual parallels. I construe “intertextuality” as the interaction between texts. 40 An author, by adopting or modifying a word, phrase, sentence, or motif of another text and placing it in a new context, creates new meaning. Although one can focus on intertextuality exclusively in terms of the author’s intent, it is ultimately the part of the reader to discover such interactions and determine significance from them. In the case of direct quotations, such as Epimenides’

Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται and Hesiod’s ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες, the modern reader has the most success in spotting these. However, the interaction can be subtler and more complex, necessitating a deeper knowledge of the original text(s). For instance, Callimachus’ ἐν δοιῇ μάλα θυμός, ἐπεὶ

γένος ἀμφήριστον is a subtle modification of Antagoras’ ἐν δοιῇ μοι θυμός, ὅ τοι γένος

ἀμφιβόητον (“my heart is in doubt, since your lineage is far-famed”), the first line of Antagoras’

Hymn to Eros (Diog. Laert. 4.26-27 = Antag. fr. 1 Powell), which also questions the nature of a god (Eros).41 As Stephens points out, the change from ἀμφιβόητον to ἀμφήριστον (“contested”) provides an allusion to the rare Homeric word ἀμφήριστον, used twice in Iliad book 23 (382;

527) in the context of the funeral games.42 Cuypers, however, detects another intertextual play.

39 Cf. Hopkinson 1984: 139n4, who cites Theoc. Id. 16.1-4. 40 See Hinds 1998 for a general overview of intertextuality and its application to Latin poetry. Cusset 1999: 1-23 discusses the approach specifically for the Hellenistic period. 41 In this Hymn, the speaker deliberates on whether to refer to Eros as the son of Erebus and Nyx or as the child of Cypris. 42 Stephens 2003: 80. 11

Since the adjective ἀμφήριστον contains the eris- element, she argues that it recalls the section in

Hesiod’s Works and Days (11-26) devoted to the two kinds of Eris: the good and the bad.43

Callimachus, as a result, in modifying the Antagoras line, recalls not just Antagoras’ dilemma about the nature of Eros, but also the idea of conflict within Homeric and Hesiodic contexts.

Since Homer and Hesiod exerted a profound influence on the Hellenistic poets, in my analysis I pay close attention to influences from them.

While intertextual analysis situates a passage in the larger tradition, intratextuality is crucial for determining how passages function within the work as a whole. In particular, I will look for words that involve truth and falsehood, as well as words or phrases that indicate authority or sources (“they say;” “it is said”). Does the poetic voice exhibit a consistent attitude?

For instance, at 65 the Callimachean narrator’s use of ψευδοίμην (“may I lie”) picks up

ἐψεύσαντο (“lied,” 7) and ψεῦσται (“liars,” 8). While the wish on its own seems ironic, the irony deepens when we consider that the Cretans’ falsehood served as evidence against the Cretan version. Do the Cretans, unlike the narrator, lack the capacity to speak convincing falsehoods?

In analyzing the structure, language, and verbal parallels in the selected passages, I consider the particular effects that poetry can accomplish in tackling notions of truth and falsehood. While a technical prose treatise is useful for conveying information, poetic works, I argue, possess rich potential for questioning the same kinds of information. In the five works that

I have chosen, however, such questioning does not manifest in the voice of the actual author, as we could assume for a technical prose text, but rather through the filter of poetic personae. In their technical scientific poems, Aratus and Nicander assume the roles of teachers dispensing information for pupils. Callimachus and Apollonius, on the other hand, feature first-person

43 Cuypers 2004a: 98. 12 voices that fulfill the function of narrators but sometimes act like characters in the work. Finally,

Lycophron in the Alexandra excludes an external narrator and instead speaks as a messenger, who repeats the utterances of the prophetess Cassandra. In each of these situations, the expectations for truth would be different.

Before investigating these differing treatments of truth and falsehood in the Hellenistic poets, I begin with a two-chapter overview that covers this issue for the Homeric, Archaic, and

Classical periods. In the second chapter, I approach truth and falsehood solely through the lens of pertinent vocabulary words. While the rich vocabulary of the Homeric texts allowed for a distinction between different types of truth, Classical Attic prose authors erased these nuances when ἀληθής and ἀλήθεια came to designate both oral subjective truth and objective reality.

Similarly, the words for falsehood (ψεῦδος and ψεύδομαι), which originally did not differentiate between unintentional and intentional misinformation, could specify active deceit. Since many of these words, especially those that had vanished from Attic prose, reappear in Hellenistic poetry, it is necessary to identify the particular contexts in which each word was used. To what extent do the Hellenistic poets retain these words’ prior resonances?

After establishing the connotations of the vocabulary, I devote the third chapter to a synopsis of the question of evaluating truth and falsehood in poetry. Poetry, particularly Homer, represented the original medium for communicating information about the past, as well as moral and social truths. Yet over time the authoritative and unquestioned status of poetry became problematized, both by later poets and by critics of poetry. How could one distinguish between truth and falsehoods like truth, the dual abilities of the Muses, according to Hesiod’s Theogony?

This question I address by looking at the relevant passages of three poets (Homer, Hesiod, and

Pindar). For Pindar in particular, the moral dimensions of myth constituted a prime means for

13 judging truth and falsehood. From there, I move to discussing later responses to the question of truth in poetry. Allegorical readers like Theagenes of Rhegium (6th century BCE) and the early

Stoics interpreted Homeric passages so as to uphold their ultimate truth value. Plato, on the other hand, in denigrating what he identified as mimetic poetry, denied poetry value in the quest for ultimate philosophic truth. Finally, in the Poetics Aristotle rehabilitates poetry by minimizing truth and falsehood as criteria.

Despite this downplaying of truth as a criterion, the works of the Hellenistic poets display a diversity of scientific, geographic, and ethnographic information integrated with the overtly mythical material. The natural world of the present occupies the focus of Aratus’ Phaenomena and Nicander’s Theriaca. For this reason, as well as their shared didactic mode, I discuss these two works together in the fourth chapter. Acknowledging the impossibility and futility of finding a sincere didactic intent from the actual authors, I regard both poets as constructing a fiction of teaching scientific material. Although Aratus and Nicander acquired such material secondhand from prose sources, it could be theoretically tested by a reader for truth. By looking at the heavens, one can determine whether the stars and signs appear and move as Aratus’ persona claims. Likewise, observation in nature could confirm or deny the veracity of Nicander’s descriptions of creatures, bites, and remedies. Nicander’s persona, however, imparts a body of knowledge characterized by uncertainty, irregularity, and hiddenness. Such concepts are antithetical to the certain and divinely ordered Stoic universe of Aratus’ Phaenomena. As I show in this chapter, the two authors’ treatments of myths indicate these differences in subject matter.

While Aratus employs his myths to emphasize the regularity of a world filled with visible and meaningful signs, his successor Nicander highlights the dubiousness of myth to represent the role of direct experience in learning about dangerous and chaotic threats.

This dichotomy between certainty and uncertainty figures also in the fifth chapter, which

I devote to an analysis of passages in Callimachus’ Aetia and Apollonius’ Argonautica, two poems roughly contemporaneous to each other. While both works are concerned primarily with the distant mythic past, the predominant aetiological focus makes the present relevant as well. In fact, both poets assume narratorial voices that participate in the recounting of the narrative. The

Callimachean persona asks the Muses questions about cults and rituals in the first two books of the Aetia, while the Apollonian narrator frequently intrudes in the Argonautica’s narrative about the Argonauts’ expedition. Several passages, moreover, consist of these speakers commenting on the validity of information or sources. By focusing on these passages, I demonstrate how

Callimachus features a narrator confident in his ability to collate and evaluate information by using personal experience as a criterion. The Apollonian narrator, by contrast, boasts an uncertain tone, and in doing so, implies the absence of a definite criterion. Even the authoritative

Muses are subject to doubt. In this way, Apollonius’ epic displays influences from Skepticism.44

The focus of my final chapter, Lycophron’s Alexandra, deals not with the authority of the author or authorial personae, but rather two dramatic characters: an unnamed messenger and the

Trojan prophetess Cassandra. Although the messenger repeats Cassandra’s prophetic speech about the aftermath of the Trojan war, these two characters differ in their relationships to understanding and assessing truth. Lacking Cassandra’s omniscience and synoptic view of past, present, and future, the messenger comprehends only surface appearances, discounting

Cassandra’s external madness as proof of the falsity of her utterances. Cassandra, on the other hand, can understand the true and hidden essence of an entity by realizing the disjunction

44 With this, I adopt the arguments offered by Clayman 2009, who contends for Skeptic influences in Hellenistic poetry. Unlike her, however, I view these Skeptic influences as evident primarily in Apollonius’ Argonautica. Cf. Clayman 2000: 33-53. 15 between appearance and reality. This point I argue by examining Cassandra’s representation of three recurring characters: Helen of Troy, Odysseus, and the Sirens. Since a rich literary tradition surrounds all three figures, we can clearly see Lycophron’s subtle manipulation of the tradition via Cassandra’s riddling voice. While characterizing Helen and Odysseus by falsehood and deception, Cassandra casts the alluring and deadly Sirens as symbols for a hidden truth.

In handling these five works together, I consider how each poet has endeavored to condense a complex body of knowledge in a poetic format. Information about genealogy, aetiology, and etymology is entwined with allusions, riddles, puns, and other poetic techniques.

Rather than viewing these poems as exercises in aesthetic virtuosity, I ask how such poetic effects can contribute to the interrogation of the material. Yet, in doing so, I do not presume an actual intent to communicate truth, nor do I attempt to posit whether any material is true or not.

In that, I profess the uncertainty that the Hymn to Zeus narrator ironically adopts.

Chapter 2: The Vocabulary of Truth and Falsehood

Introduction

An examination of the concepts of truth and falsehood in Hellenistic poetry requires a discussion of the pertinent vocabulary and its use in earlier literature. For the Homeric period, this vocabulary includes the various words translated as “true,” such as ἀληθής (and the substantive ἀλήθεια), ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, ἐτεός, νημερτής, and ἀτρεχής. Along with its verb,

ψεύδομαι, ψεῦδος acts as the major word for “falsehood” and “lie.” While forms related to

ψεῦδος persist throughout the Classical and Hellenistic periods, all the “truth” words except for

ἀληθής and ἀλήθεια fall out of use in prose and appear rarely in poetry. At the same time,

ἀληθής and ἀλήθεια subsume the different functions of ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, ἐτεός, νημερτής, and

ἀτρεχής. The “truth” conveyed by ἀλήθεια no longer referred only to the completeness and accuracy of a report, as in the Homeric epics, but can suggest something more varied and complex. Just as our language can imagine many types of truth, ἀλήθεια in the Classical period could indicate truth that was historical, scientific, philosophical, legal, and prophetic. With these new conceptions of truth, falsehood too experienced a reconfiguration: things could seem true, while in fact being false.

Levet attributes these changes in word uses to a collapse of “ancient structures” and the development of a new “psychology.”45 Although he goes too far by implying a simple correlation between the changing use of words and “psychology,” he rightly emphasizes the gradualness of changes in how Greek authors presented and discussed truth and falsehood. In acknowledging this diachronic development, my overview of the terminology will handle the above-mentioned words in the following way. After briefly examining each word’s etymology, I

45 Levet 2008: 457. 17 will look at the words’ specific usages in Homer. Then, I will cite select examples from later texts up to the Classical period for comparison. The final section will focus on the words’ usages in the Phaenomena, Theriaca, Aetia, Argonautica, and Alexandra.

Truth

ἀλήθεια and ἀληθής

Etymological analysis of ἀλήθεια and its adjective ἀληθής reveals an alpha privative affixed to the ληθ- root, which appears in the words λήθη (“forgetfulness”), and λάνθανω (“I escape the notice of,” “forget” in middle).46 According to Heidegger, ἀλήθεια corresponds to the

German Unverborgenheit (“unconcealment”).47 Detienne favors the interpretation of ἀλήθεια as

“not-forgetting.”48 Finding these previous interpretations inadequate, Krischer argues that

ἀλήθεια must be connected to the act of perception. To express ἀλήθεια is, in his words, “eine

Aussage machen, so dass der Gegenstand nichts unbermerkt bleibt.”49 In this way, Krischer emphasizes the subjective element involved in ἀλήθεια. This focus on the subjective nature of

ἀλήθεια finds agreement in the studies of Snell and Cole.50 Cole, however, deals with the archaic notions of ἀλήθεια not simply in terms of perception, but rather as a part of communication.

“What is involved is strict (or strict and scrupulous) rendering or reporting—something as exclusive of bluster, invention or irrelevance as it is of omission or understatement... It is, rather, truth and method, the what and how of a given communication that are so combined.”51 As a result, Cole’s interpretation of ἀλήθεια and ἀληθής comprises both the ideas of unconcealment

46 Chantraine 2009: 594. 47 Heidegger 1927: 212. 48 Detienne 1967: 24-25. For a treatment that argues for the association between truth and memory, see Heitsch 1963: 36-52. 49 Krischer 1965: 163. 50 Snell 1978: 100 and Cole 1983: 9. 51 Cole 1983: 12. 18 and not-forgetting. To communicate ἀλήθεια, a speaker accesses his memory to convey all the details clearly.

The evidence from the Iliad and the Odyssey confirms the association of ἀλήθεια with oral communication. With the exception of one place in a simile,52 the substantive adjective

ἀληθέα and the noun ἀληθείη occur with verbs of speaking, such as ἀγορεύω,53 μυθέομαι,54 and

καταλέγω.55 In these contexts, a character requests information from another character. For instance, Priam at Iliad 24.407, when asking Hermes about the condition of Hector’s body, says

ἄγε δή μοι πᾶσαν ἀληθείην κατάλεξον (“come now and tell me the whole truth”). The verb

καταλέγω, meaning “I recount at length,” stresses Priam’s concern for a full and complete account, and the adjective πᾶσαν further emphasizes this interest in completeness. When asked for information, characters also promise to tell the whole truth, as Nestor does before recounting the murder of Agamemnon for Telemachus in Odyssey 3.56 A scene in the Odyssey 13, however, contains an instance of a character not telling ἀληθέα. After meeting Athena on Ithaca, Odysseus

“retracts” his story (πάλιν δ’ ὅ γε λάζετο μῦθον).57 Since this phrase comes after οὐδ’ ὅ γ’

ἀληθέα εἶπε (“he did not speak the truth”), suppression of information (in this case Odysseus’ identity) is seen as antithetical to ἀλήθεια.

After Homer, ἀλήθεια and ἀληθής do retain their associations with oral communication.

52 At Il. 12.433, the simile compares the battle to an ἀληθής weaving woman weighing wool. Some readings print ἀλῆτις (the feminine form of ἀλήτης “wandering”) while others show ἀληθής. The B scholiast explains the expression as ἡ δὲ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ χερνῆτις (“a weaving woman in truth”). See Luther 1935: 25-26 for a discussion of this passage. Hainsworth 1985: 362 gives the translation “conscientious.” 53 Od. 3.254 and 16.61. 54 Il. 6.382; Od. 11.507, 14.125, 17.15, and 18.342. 55 Il. 24.407; Od. 7.297, 16.226, 17.108, 21.212, and 22.420. 56 Od. 3.254. 57 Od. 13.254. 19

In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, Hermes promises to speak the truth to his father Zeus:

ἀληθείην ἀγορεύσω (“I will tell the truth”).58 Yet, as Levet demonstrates, ἀλήθεια and ἀληθής come to describe things other than what is conveyed through dialogue. When applied to a person,

ἀληθής can mean “truthful” or “sincere.”59 Moreover, the noun ἀλήθεια assumes the sense of

“reality.”60 Since reality is not always apparent, ἀλήθεια can apply to the object of scientific and philosophic inquiry. For instance, Parmenides makes ἀλήθεια central to his philosophic poem, in which he is to learn of the “heart of famed Truth,” in addition to the opinions of men.61

Moreover, he contrasts the road of Peitho (“Persuasion”) with the road of Truth.62 As Cherubin argues, this road imagery implies a new conception of ἀλήθεια.63 No longer does a person automatically receive the truth through revelation or personal experience. Instead, he must exert mental effort and understand the principles of existence to discover the truth. Thus, ἀλήθεια can paradoxically refer to what is hidden, as well as what is revealed through dialogue.

ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός

Although the etymology of the related adjectives ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός is not certain,64 Krischer differentiates the words from ἀληθής, noting the absence of a speaker’s intentions in the use of these three adjectives.65 Rather, ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός indicate “das

Echte im Gegensatz zum Unechten.”66 Looking at the examples in the Homeric poems, Levet

58 Hymn. Hom. Merc. 368. 59 See Levet 2008: 143-44, who cites Thucydides 5.45.3 and Herodotus 8.142.5 as examples. 60 Levet 2008: 200. 61 B 1.29-30 DK. 62 B 2.3-4 DK. 63 Cherubin 2009: 66. 64 Chantraine 2009: 364 notes a relationship between the adjectives and the verb ἐτάζω (“I examine, test”). See also Beekes 2010.1: 474-75. 65 Krischer 1965: 167. 66 Krischer 1965: 166. 20 observes, “ἔτυμος qualifie des paroles subjectives, qui, à l’expérience, se révèlent conformes à ce qui est.”67 For instance, in Odyssey 23, Eurycleia uses the adverbial ἔτυμον to confirm the veracity of Odysseus’ homecoming.68 The conditional εἰ ἐτεόν (“if truly”) also appears when a character questions the truth of a statement or fact. In Odyssey 13, Odysseus asks Athena whether he has actually arrived on Ithaca,69 and Penelope applies the phrase to question the disguised Odysseus’ claim of entertaining her husband Odysseus on Crete.70 While in those cases the adverbial ἐτεόν applied to the truth of present and past situations, respectively, the related adjectives can also refer to validity of future circumstances. Indeed, Penelope describes the dreams emanating from the Gate of Horn as those “that achieve real things” (κραίνουσι ἔτυμα,

19.567).71 By contrast, dreams from the Gate of Ivory bring words that will be unfulfilled (ἔπε’

ἀκράαντα φέροντες, 19.565) and thus will not correspond to reality.

In the subsequent centuries, the adjectives ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός experience a decline in usage.72 ἔτυμος and ἐτήτυμος do occur in Attic tragedy. For example, in Aeschylus’

Seven Against Thebes, the chorus calls dust a speechless, clear, and ἔτυμος messenger.73 Dust is a true messenger because it signals a reality, namely the presence of the army. In the

Agamemnon, the chorus questions whether a βάξις (“rumor”) is ἐτήτυμος or some divine lie.74

The tragedians’ use of these adjectives may be due to stylistic reasons. The three adjectives,

67 Levet 2008: 42. 68 ἀλλ’ ἔτυμόν τοι / ἦλθ’ Ὀδυσεὺς καὶ οἶκον ἱκάνεται, ὡς ἀγορεύω (“but truly Odysseus has come and has arrived home, as I say” Od. 23.26-27). 69 Od. 13.328. 70 Od. 19.216-17. 71 Od. 19.562-67. 72 Levet: 2008: 31-66 73 Aesch. Sept. 82. 74 Aesch. Ag. 477. 21 however, are entirely absent in Attic prose. 75 As ἀληθής and ἀλήθεια start acquiring the sense of

“real” and “reality,” ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός are no longer necessary to express this specific meaning.

νημερτής and ἀτρεκής

Like ἀληθής, νημερτής is a negative construction, comprised of the prefix νη- (not) and the verb ἁμαρτάνω.76 Since ἁμαρτάνω originally means “I miss the mark,” the adjective conveys the idea of “not missing the truth.” Thus, the word envisions truth as a goal that the speaker hopes to obtain, either in his own speech or when requesting information from another.

Consequently, the adjective in Homer often occurs in commands introduced by verbs of speaking, such as εἰπέ77 and ἐνίσπες.78 In addition to characterizing the contents of a speech,

νημερτής modifies the noun βουλή (“plan”) at Odyssey 1.86 and 5.30, both times in reference to

Athena’s plan to rescue Odysseus from Calypso’s island. In this context, νημερτής signifies truth in terms of the future. A successful and unerring plan will become true. Likewise, Teiresias in the underworld calls his prophecies νημερτέα.79 This connection between the word νημερτής and prophecy is supported by the description of the prophetic Nereus as νημερτής in Odyssey 4.80

Indeed, Hesiod in the Theogony applies the same epithet to Nereus.81 However, aside from some isolated cases in the Homeric Hymns, Empedocles, and Aeschylus,82 νημερτής disappears, until its reappearance in the Hellenistic poets.

75 In prose, Democritus has a substantive form ἐτεή in his writings (B 9 DK, B 117 DK). 76 Chantraine 2009: 68. 77 Od. 15.263. 78 Il. 14.470; Od. 3.101, 4.314, 4.331, 4.642, 12.112, and 22.166 79 Od. 11.137 80 Od. 4.384, 4.401, and 4.542. 81 Hes. Theog. 235. 82 Hymn. Hom. Cer. 58, 294, and 406; Hymn. Hom. Merc. 369; Empedocles B 122 DK. The Doric form ναμερτής occurs at Aesch. Pers. 246. 22

The adjective ἀτρεκής similarly decreases in usage after the Homeric poems. This word, an alpha privative added to the presumed root τρεκ- (Latin torqueo),83 specifically suggests the idea of “not twisting or distorting” and thus “accurate.” In Homer, the adverb ἀτρεκέως accompanies the imperative κατάλεξον.84 At Odyssey 16.245, Telemachus uses ἀτρεκές in association with the number of suitors.85 Herodotus also applies it when referring to numerical amounts.86 The majority of later prose authors, however, eschew ἀτρεκής in favor of ἀκριβής

(“precise,” “exact”) and the noun ἀκρίβεια.87

For the Homeric period, three of the major words for truth expressed the notion in negative terms: something not overlooked (ἀλήθεια), something not missed (νημερτής), and something undistorted (ἀτρεκής). Furthermore, the Homeric texts primarily connected those words to the sphere of human speech. Only ἔτυμος, ἐτήτυμος, and ἐτεός denoted “true” in the sense of “real.” Yet, as all but ἀλήθεια dissipated, new vocabulary signified “true” and “truth.”

In addition to the words derived from ἀκριβής, these words include ὀρθός (“straight”) and forms from the verb εἰμί (“to be”), such as the adverb ὄντως (“in fact”).88

83 Chantraine 2009: 129. 84 Il. 10.384, 10.405, 24.380, and 24.656; Od. 1.169, 1.206, 1.224, 4.486, 8.572, 11.140, 11.170, 11.370, 15.383, 16.137, and 24.256. 85 μνηστήρων δ’ οὔτ’ ἂρ δεκὰς ἀτρεκὲς οὔτε δύ’ οἶαι / ἀλλὰ πολὺ πλέονες· τάχα δ’ εἴσεαι ἐνθάδ’ ἀριθμόν (“of the suitors, there are not exactly ten alone, or twice ten, but many more,” 16.245- 46). 86 Hdt. 7.187. 87As Levet 2008: 298 points out, ἀκρίβεια is associated with cognition. Thucydides for instance in Histories 1.22 announces that he will narrate each subject with accuracy (ἀκριβείᾳ) as much as he is able. 88 Levet 2008: 273-80; 282-97. For instance, ὀρθός can mean “exactly” (Ar. Nub. 228, Aesch. Eum. 584, and Hdt. 6.53.1). For ὄντως as “in fact,” see Ar. Vesp. 997 and Ar. Nub. 86. 23

Truth in Hellenistic Poetry

After their disappearance in Attic prose, the different words for truth (ἐτεός, νημερτής, and ἀτρεκής) make a comeback in Hellenistic poetry. We can explain this revival by the pervasive tendency in the Hellenistic poets to adapt, modify, and interrogate Homeric and archaic vocabulary.89 In Aratus’ Phaenomena and Nicander’s Theriaca, only forms of ἐτεός or

ἔτυμος appear. Both Aratus and Nicander use εἰ ἐτεόν (“if it is true”) to introduce mythological stories at the beginning of their works. Aratus’ story (Phaen. 30-35) deals with Zeus’ childhood, while Nicander describes the creation of deadly creatures (Ther. 8-12). Nicander, moreover, begins another story with εἰ ἔτυμον (“if it is true”): Helen’s wounding of a haemorrhois (female blood-letting snake) in Egypt (Ther. 309-19).90 The paucity of truth words in these two works is ironic, since we would expect poems with ostensive didactic aims to have declarations about the truth of the content. Rather, these words accompany sections of uncertain veracity, that is, myths.

For Callimachus’ Aetia, the fragmentary state prevents us from establishing an accurate calculation of truth vocabulary. Nevertheless, at fr. 178.5, Callimachus uses ἀληθές to mark the truth of a statement about the importance of conversation while drinking wine. Similarly, the exclamation ὡς ἐτεόν (fr. 75.9) appears in the citation of a proverbial saying (παῖς ὅδε μαῦλιν

ἔχει, “this man is a child with a knife”), albeit ironically since the speaker is not actually a child.

In the same fragment (fr. 75.76), moreover, Callimachus features an abstract noun form based off of ἐτήτυμος, ἐτητυμίη, when describing the authority of the prose author Xenomedes, the source of the Acontius and Cydippe narrative. Thus, in Callimachus’ Aetia, the truth words occur in sections that deal with authority, either of sayings or sources.

89 For an overview of Homeric words in the Argonautica, see Rengakos 1994a. 90 See also Ther. 826, where εἰ ἔτυμον appears before the claim that the moray eel mates with vipers. 24

Of the five works treated in this dissertation, the Argonautica offers the best sample of words pertaining to truth, due to its length and completeness. While forms of ἀληθής and

ἀλήθεια are absent, the Argonautica features ἐτεός, ἐτήτυμος, νημερτής, and ἀτρεκής. In several cases, the word, as an adverb or adjective, refers to the truth of oral utterances.91 As in Homer, moreover, ἐτεόν and ἐτήτυμον function as “indeed” or “in fact.”92 Likewise, νημερτής at 4.258 retains an association with prophecy. In addition to these conformities with traditional usage, however, Apollonius includes some innovative usages and words. ὡς ἐτεόν περ at 1.763 and

ἀτρεκές at 1.745, when applied to the images depicted on Jason’s cloak, refer to the appearance of reality and thus “realism.”93 At the same time, Apollonius has a new compound with the adverb πανατρεκές at 4.1382. Since ἀτρεκής already conveys the idea “without distortion,” the

παν- prefix is emphatic.

Lycophron’s Alexandra also contains multiple words for truth, as we would expect for a poem that thematizes the true utterances of a prophetess. The opening line in fact presents truth as a key theme, when the messenger states: λέξω τὰ πάντα νητρεκῶς (“I will speak all things accurately”). Just like Apollonius’ πανατρεκές, νητρεκῶς is a new formation, with the negating prefix νη- found in νημερτής affixed the τρεκ- root. Thus, like ἀτρεκής, νητρεκῶς indicates

91 The usages in contexts of oral communication are as follows: 1.797 (ἐξερέω νημερτές, “I will speak truly”), 2.182 (χρείων ἀτρεκέως, “predicting accurately”), 2.1137 (κατάλεξον ἐτήτυμον, “recount truly”), 2.1142 (ἀτρεκέως δοκέω που ἀκούετε, “I expect you heard accurately”), 4.810 (νημερτέα μῦθον ἐνίψω, “I will tell you a true account”), 4.1184 (νημερτέα βάξιν, “true report”), 4.1565 (νημερτὲς ἀνειρομένοισιν ἔνισπε, “tell truly to us asking”). ἀτρεκέως occurs in the context of knowledge at 1.661 (Hypsipyle about the Argonauts’ knowledge) and 2.312 (Phineus refusing to let the Argonauts know everything). At 4.554-55, the meaning of νημερτὲς πέφαται is ambiguous, as its accompanying verb πέφαται can be translated as “are visible” or “are said. See Rengakos 1994a: 148 and Hunter 2015: 157. 92 For this use of ἐτεόν, see 1.154, 2.209, 2.325, 2.646, 2.1179, 3.549-50, 3.816, 3.1080, and 4.292. For ἐτήτυμον, see 1.142, 2.975, 3.358, 3.402, 4.835, and 4.1603. 93 Cf. Zanker 1987: 47 and Hunter 1993: 57. For a discussion of realism in Hellenistic art, see Pollitt 1986: 141-47. 25

“without distortion.” With τὰ πάντα, moreover, the messenger emphasizes the completeness of the account. This focus on completeness and truth recurs in the messenger’s speech in the epilogue: καὶ πάντα φράζειν κἀναπεμπάζειν λόγον / ἐτητύμως ἄψορρον ὤτρυνας τρόχιν (“you ordered me to come back as a messenger and to report and repeat the whole speech truthfully,”

1470-71). Here the adverb ἐτητύμως (“truthfully”) picks up νητρεκῶς, emphasizing the loyalty of his reporting. In Cassandra’s speech, Lycophron uses νημερτής twice in reference to prophecy

(223; 1051) and ἐτητύμους for curses (620).94 The adjective ἀληθής (1458) applies to

Cassandra’s prophetic words (ἔπη, 1455). Although ἀληθής, when modifying ἔπη, can mean

“true,” the sense of “real” is present here as well. Apollo will make (θήσει, 1458) her true words become real.

From this condensed overview of vocabulary, we can detect some broad patterns. Three of the poets offer new formations of truth vocabulary (Callimachus with ἐτητυμίη, Apollonius with πανατρεκές, and Lycophron with νητρεκῶς). All five poets, however, invoke truth and accuracy with regards to stories, sayings, and sources. In bringing up truth in their two beginning mythological stories, Aratus and Nicander evoke Hesiod, either implicitly or explicitly. While

Aratus’ narrative recalls Zeus’ childhood in Hesiod’s Theogony (Theog. 477-84), Nicander openly cites Hesiod (Ther. 10). Likewise, Callimachus and Apollonius identify sources at places.

Callimachus’ ἐτητυμίῃ (fr. 75.76) is applied to the prose author Xenomedes, and Apollonius’

πανατρεκές deals with an account from the Muses: Μουσάων ὅδε μῦθος, ἐγὼ δ’ ὑπακουὸς ἀείδω

/ Πιερίδων, καὶ τήνδε πανατρεκὲς ἔκλυον ὀμφήν (“this story is from the Muses. I sing obedient to the Pieridian goddesses, and I heard this account entirely accurately,” 4.1381-82). In the

94At 223, Cassandra calls the seer Prylis the most truthful (νημερτέστατε), while νημερτῆ at 1051 modifies φάτιν (“prophecy”). 26

Alexandra, the adverbs νητρεκῶς (1) and ἐτητύμως (1471) frame the poem, emphasizing the messenger’s role as a credible source for Cassandra’s prophecies. She in turn derives her true speech from Apollo, the ultimate source. Such usages of these words, I suggest, imply an increased recognition of the difficulties entailed in assessing sources and information.

Falsehood

ψεῦδος and ψεύδομαι

While there are many words for truth, ψεῦδος serves as the primary word for falsehood.

As Luther and Levet determine,95 ψεῦδος and its related word ψεύδομαι in the Homeric poems denote error caused by the lack of clear information. Thus, the words cover not only the intentional manipulation or omission of facts, but also accidental misinformation.96 In asking

ψεύσομαι ἦ ἔτυμον ἐρέω (“will I speak falsely or truly?”), Nestor and Helen acknowledge the possibility of their statements not matching reality.97 Certain sections in the Odyssey, however, depict intentional falsehoods. In book 14, the swineherd Eumaeus criticizes the desperate wanderers who tell Penelope false stories in order to receive rewards.98 Odysseus, on the other hand, wins praise for his skillful deception from Athena.99 In recounting tales to conceal his identity, Odysseus tells lies that have the appearance of truth: ἴσκε ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγων

ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα (“he feigned, saying many falsehoods like the truth”).100 In addition, by making falsehood central to the portrayal of the main character, the Odyssey grants positive connotations

95 Luther 1935: 80-90 and Levet 1976: 201. 96 Carlisle 1999: 90-91 diverges from this observation by arguing that ψεῦδ- words in Homer refer to variant versions that do not correspond to the material presented as true in the poem. As she observes, characters in Homer tell ψεύδεα in agonistic situations for personal benefits. 97 Il. 10.534 and Od. 4.140: ψεύσομαι ἦ ἔτυμον ἐρέω; κέλεται δέ με θυμός. 98 Od. 14.124-27. 99 Od. 13. 291-95. 100 Od. 19.203. 27 to falsehood. Odysseus lies not for gain or for malice, but rather for self-preservation and as a means of testing his loved ones.101

During the post-Homeric and Classical period, ψεῦδος and ψεύδεσθαι experience a change in semantic range by referring to falsehood by intentional deformation.102 When ψεῦδος no longer encompasses unintentional error, the word takes on a moral coloring. Lying thereby constitutes a fault. Indeed, in Sophocles’ Philoctetes Neoptolemus assumes that telling lies is shameful. To counter this assumption, Odysseus argues that deception can have useful effects.103 Along with the more limiting modified meanings of ψεῦδος and ψεύδεσθαι, the adjective ψευδής becomes used, like ἀληθής, to describe people or things. For instance, a ψευδής person is a liar,104 while a ψευδὴς λόγος presents things as they are not.105 Thus, ψευδής, functioning as an antonym for ἀληθής, can mean “referring to what is not real.”106

Falsehood in Hellenistic Poetry

In the five works treated in this dissertation, words with the ψευδ- root appear less often than words denoting truth. In fact, such words are absent in the Theriaca. In the Phaenomena,

Aratus gives two instances of the verbal form ψεύδεσθαι: ἐψεύδοντο (35) and ψεύδονται (333).

While the latter refers to the trees tricking the constellation Sirius, the former use describes how the Curetes deceived Cronus by hiding Zeus. At the same time, as in Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus

(8), the verb recalls the Epimenides saying “Cretans are always liars” (Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται, fr. 5

Kinkel). In the Aetia, Callimachus has the verb ψεύδομαι as a participle when the narrator rejects

101 See Walcot 1977: 1-19 for an analysis of Odysseus’ lies. 102 Levet 2008: 319. 103 Soph. Phil. 109-10. 104 Eur. Or. 1608-9. 105 Levet 2008: 340. For example, see Soph. OT 526. 106 Levet 2008: 334. 28 the popular tradition of calling epilepsy the sacred disease: ψευδόμενοι δ’ ἱερὴν φημίζομεν (fr.

75.14).107 Callimachus, moreover, characterizes a Homeric maxim (αἶνος Ὁμηρικός, fr. 178.9) as

“not false” (οὐ ψευδής, 178.10). Apollonius’ sole use in the Argonautica appears in the context of the visual deception caused by the realism of the images of Jason’s cloak: κείνους κ’

εἰσορόων ἀκέοις ψεύδοιό τε θυμόν (“when looking upon them, you would be silent and deceive your heart,” 1.765). Finally, for the Alexandra, although verbal forms of ψεύδομαι are lacking,

Lycophron identifies Cassandra’s wisdom as “not false” (ἀψευδῆ φρόνιν, 1456) and employs compound adjectives with the ψευδ- root: ψευδώμοτος (“false-swearing/falsely sworn”) at 523 and 933 and ψευδηγόροις (“false-speaking,” 1455) for the rumors (φήμαις) that destroy the credibility of her speech. Consequently, as with the truth words, many of these instances entail some sort of questioning of authority. For Aratus, the verb at 35 calls to mind the proverbial

Cretan falsehood, and in the Aetia, Callimachus deals with popular wisdom. With ἀψευδῆ

φρόνιν, Lycophron addresses the authority of the speaker Cassandra, whose words seem false, while being true.

Conclusion

So far, this analysis of the pertinent vocabulary has conceptualized truth and falsehood as a binary. In this scheme, falsehood is the existence of distortion, manipulation, and absence, whether intentional or not. Truth, on the other hand, is the absence of these things. What is uttered or perceived corresponds to the reality of the past, present, or future, without omission, obfuscation, or error. Overlapping this rigid binary of truth and falsehood, however, are several modes of discourse: λόγοι, δόξαι, and μῦθοι. In the case of the first two categories, λόγοι

107 This refutation of calling epilepsy the sacred disease reminds the reader of the Hippocratic treatise On the Sacred Disease. However, as Asper 2009: 11 notes, in the context of this story, epilepsy is a sacred disease, since it is sent by Artemis. 29

(“speeches,” “accounts,” “discourse”) and δόξαι (“opinions,” “beliefs,” “judgements”), truth and falsehood are possible options.108 Μῦθος, on the other hand, is a trickier concept. Referring initially to authoritative utterances in Homer,109 the word only later takes on the connotation of

“incredible tale” and thus falsehood.110 Yet the narratives identified as myths are not entirely false. As products drawn from a collective store of memory, myths may contain seeds of historical validity, as well as social and moral truths.111

Just as problematic as the question of myth is the notion of fiction.112 Although no single

Greek word maps onto the modern concept of fiction, πλάσσω and its noun form πλάσμα connote contrivance and thus distortion from the truth.113 For example, Xenophanes identifies the battles of Titans, Giants, and Centaurs as πλάσματα τῶν προτέρων (“fabrications of our predecessors,” B 1 DK, 22), and in the Alexandra Cassandra obliquely refers to the Odyssey as the “fictitious writings” (ἐν πλασταῖς γραφαῖς, 432). A scholiast on Pindar asserts that poets can

108 For instance, in the Palinode (192 PMGF Davies), Stesichorus identified the logos of Helen going to Troy as not true (οὐκ ἔτυμος). At Theaetetus 187c, while attempting to define knowledge, Socrates proposes the existence of true and false doxai. Ultimately Socrates determines that a true doxa does not count as knowledge (201c). 109 See R. Martin 1989: 66. 110 Morgan 2000: 30-37 offers an overview of the μῦθος and λόγος dichotomy and discusses the difficulty of defining μῦθος. See also Naddaf 2009: 101-2. 111 For an acknowledgement of the possible truth value in myth, see, for instance, Plat. Resp. 377a. See Edmunds 1990b: 1-20 and Brillante 1990: 91-138 for an overview of ancient and modern approaches to Greek myth. Brillante discusses the relationship between myth and history. See also Veyne 1988: 59-70. 112 Scholars have debated to what extent one can detect early ideas about fictionality in Greek literature, and what work or genre constitutes the beginnings of Greek fiction. For discussions of this issue and bibliography, see Bowie 1993: 1-37 (on earlier poetry) and Halliwell 2011: 10-15, especially, n19. 113 At Timaeus 26e, Socrates makes a contrast between a “fabricated tale” (πλασθέντα μῦθον) and a “true account” (ἀληθινὸν λόγον). See Resp. 485d for the adverb πεπλασμένως juxtaposed with ἀληθῶς. In Theocritus Idyll 7, Lycidas calls Simichidas “a sapling fashioned entirely for truth by Zeus” (πᾶν ἐπ’ ἀλαθείᾳ πεπλασμένον ἐκ Διὸς ἔρνος, 44). Segal 1974: 132 suggests the translation “fictioned for truth” to bring out the paradox of this statement. 30 make up (πλάττειν) whatever they want.114 Although the five discussed Hellenistic poets integrated presumably true information from prose sources within their works, the poems themselves, however, are ultimately fictive. In assuming a persona, each poet has produced the replication of a communicative act, either in the form of instruction (Aratus and Nicander), narration of the past (Callimachus and Apollonius), or prophecy (Lycophron).

114 Σ ad Pind. Ol. 4.31. Likewise, in the Evagoras (9.8-10), Isocrates acknowledges the poets’ freedom in adding ornamental language and scenes of gods and men interacting. Orators, by contrast, can only use ideas bearing upon the actual facts (τοῖς περὶ αὐτὰς τὰς πράξεις). 31

Chapter 3: Background Introduction

Long before the critical discussions of the Hellenistic age, Greek poets and critics articulated and debated poetry’s relationship to truth and falsehood, its effects on the audience/ reader, and its ultimate purpose in society. Just as Hellenistic scholars framed the question of poetry’s value as a dichotomy between “enchantment” (ψυχαγωγία) and “instruction”

(διδασκαλία),115 earlier Greek poets and critics also examined poetry’s role in providing pleasure and knowledge. In the case of the latter, truth is a crucial criterion. Yet the truth of poetry became subject to dispute, as poems could contain falsehoods.116 For the earlier period, we have the statements of the poets themselves to shed light on the issue of truth and falsehood in poetry.

In the sixth through fourth centuries BCE, prose writers also engage in this debate. This debate, however, transforms when the poet becomes viewed as a maker (ποιητής), rather than as an oral performer dependent on the Muses.117

Using Homer, Hesiod, and Pindar as case studies for early poetry, I will examine sections that allude to or make explicit statements about poetry’s relationship to truth and falsehood. My treatment of the late sixth and fifth century authors will consider the attacks on earlier poetry from Heraclitus and Xenophanes, the trend of allegorical interpretation, and the ideas of the sophists. Finally, I will devote extended analysis to philosophic responses to poetry, looking at the fuller treatments in Plato and Aristotle and the fragmentary evidence of the early Stoics.

115 According to Strabo 1.2.3, Eratosthenes claimed that the poet “aims for enchantment, not instruction.” See Meijering 1987: 5-6. 116 For instance, according to Solon fr. 29 West, “poets tell many falsehoods” (πολλὰ ψεύδονται ἀοιδοί). 117 Harriott 1969: 101 and Ford 2002: 132-39. 32

Poetry

Homer

A discussion of Homeric poetry’s relationship with the truth must consider the role of

Muses. According to Murray, the Muses serve two major purposes. They endow the poet with permanent skill, as well as aiding him at points in composition.118 The invocations to the Muses in the Iliad and the Odyssey express the Homeric poet’s request for the Muses’ assistance. In the proems of both epics, the poet asks the Muse to provide the subject matter of the poem. In the

Iliad (1.1), he asks the goddess (θεά) to sing of Achilles’ rage (μῆνιν), while the Odyssey (1.1) includes the request for the Muse to speak (ἔννεπε) of a man (ἄνθρωπον). The Iliad proem, moreover, features a question, which inquires what god set Achilles and Agamemnon to fight.119

Together these two invocations show that the poet appeals to the Muses as a source of information. Such information is true, as is revealed in the extended invocation in Iliad 2. Before reciting the Catalogue of Ships, the Homeric poet states:

Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι· ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστέ τε πάντα, ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν· οἵ τινες ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν·

Tell me now, O Muses who possess the Olympian houses—for you are goddesses and are present and know everything, while we know only report and know nothing—who were the leaders and lords of the Danaans.

(Il. 2.484-87)

The parallel placement of ὑμεῖς (“you”) in 485 and ἡμεῖς (“we”) in 486 highlights the contrast between the Muses’ divine omniscience (ἴστέ τε πάντα, 485) and the knowledge possessed by humans, who rely on report (κλέος, 486) alone. This limited nature of human knowledge

118 P. Murray 1981: 89. 119 Il. 1.8. 33 compels the Homeric poet to request divine assistance in the arduous task of cataloging the

Greek leaders at Troy.120

Since Homer invokes the Muses as all-knowing fonts of information, this passage has induced scholars like Detienne, Rösler, and Puelma to identify a connection between Homeric poetry and truth. Detienne, whose analysis equates “truth” with a kind of “memory,” calls the poet a maître de vérité. The Muses, as the daughters of Memory, empower the poet to preserve famous deeds and confer praise upon men.121 Rösler ties this commemorative function of the poet to the needs of an oral society. Since poetry served as the medium for social identity, it had to be presented as true whether it was or not.122 Puelma also argues for the unity of truth and

Homeric poetry, understanding the poet as the mouthpiece of the Muses.123 Bowie, however, challenges these claims by remarking that the Iliad 2 invocation does not speak for the poet’s relationship with the Muses for the whole of the Iliad and Odyssey.124 Rather, the Catalogue of

Ships in Iliad 2 qualifies as a special circumstance, the difficulty of which necessitates the

Muses’ help. Consequently, it is not certain whether we should assume the same level of divine aid for the rest of the two epics.

The portrayal of the bard Demodocus in Odyssey 8 elucidates the role of divine assistance in poetic production. When summoning Demodocus to perform, Alcinous calls him a “godly singer” (θεῖον ἀοιδόν, 43). In the subsequent lines, Homer clarifies this adjective: τῷ γάρ ῥα θεὸς

120 At 488-91, Homer clarifies that he will only name the leaders of the expedition. Naming the crowd would be impossible, even if the poet had ten tongues and a heart of bronze. 121 Detienne 1967: 13-16. “La mémoire n’est donc pas seulement le support matériel de la parole chantée, la fonction psychologique qui soutient la technique formulaire, elle est aussi qui soutient la technique formulaire, elle est aussi et surtout la puissance religieuse qui confère au verbe poétique son statut magico-religieuse (15).” 122 Rösler 1980: 290; 292-93. 123 Puelma 1989: 74. 124 Bowie 1993: 13-14. 34

περὶ δῶκεν ἀοιδὴν / τέρπειν, ὅππῃ θυμὸς ἐποτρύνῃσιν ἀείδειν (“for the god gave him a song to delight, in whatever way his heart urges him to sing,” 8.44-45). By pairing θεός with θυμός,

Homer implies a combination of divine and human effort.125 While the god supplies the song

(ἀοιδήν, 44), the bard exerts control in the act of singing (ἀείδειν, 45). At the same time,

Demodocus’ relationship with the divine allows his songs to describe events accurately, as

Odysseus observes in praising Demodocus’ song about the suffering of the Achaeans at Troy:

Δημόδοκ’, ἔξοχα δή σε βροτῶν αἰνίζομ’ ἁπάντων· ἢ σέ γε Μοῦσ’ ἐδίδαξε, Διὸς πάϊς, ἢ σέ γ’ Ἀπόλλων· λίην γὰρ κατὰ κόσμον Ἀχαιῶν οἶτον ἀείδεις, ὅσσ’ ἕρξαν τ’ ἔπαθόν τε καὶ ὅσσ’ ἐμόγησαν Ἀχαιοί, ὥς τέ που ἢ αὐτὸς παρεὼν ἢ ἄλλου ἀκούσας.

Demodocus, indeed I praise you above all mortals. Either the Muse, child of Zeus, taught you, or Apollo did. For you sing of the fate of the Achaeans very much in order, as many things the Achaeans did and suffered, and as many struggles they endured, as though perhaps you were there yourself or had heard from another.

(Od. 8.487-91)

Odysseus’ participation in the events described in the song authorizes him to judge the song’s closeness with reality. Not only does Demodocus sing the song in order (κατὰ κόσμον, 489),126 he can capture the totality of the experience, as the repetition of ὅσσα in 490 emphasizes. This interest in completeness implies the song’s truth (ἀλήθεια). Since the Homeric poems confine the notion of ἀλήθεια to contexts of communication,127 Demodocus under normal circumstances would have acquired this information from another source. Although suggesting that this accuracy is reserved for those who heard it from someone else or for an eyewitness (491),

125 See Od. 22.347 for Phemius’ claim of being self-taught (αὐτοδίδακτος) and granted songs by a god. 126 Cf. Adkins 1972: 16-17. 127 See Cole 1983: 12. 35

Odysseus confirms that Demodocus’ special relationship with the gods allows him to sing as though either of these were the case.

Despite praising Demodocus’ virtuosity at 487-91, Odysseus experiences sorrow in hearing the song. At 521-31, Homer compares his grief to a widow mourning her slaughtered husband. Demodocus’ performance triggers memories of the sufferings of Odysseus’ friends, just as Phemius’ telling of the nostoi in Odyssey 1 exacerbated Penelope’s concern for Odysseus’ fate.128 The typical audience at a performance, however, feels pleasure and enchantment, as is indicated in the epic by τέρπειν,129 θέλγειν,130 and θελκτήριον.131 Noting the association of this vocabulary with poetic performance, Pratt contends that early poets strived for pleasure, rather than “truth” in their poems.132 Halliwell adopts a similar line of interpretation, claiming that “any underlying notion in Homer of the ‘truth’ of epic (song) is always filtered through, and complicated by, a sense of intensity of emotional absorption.”133 Discarding the idea that the

Homeric poet intended to portray “what really happened,” both Pratt and Halliwell see the function of epic as the magnification of events’ importance.134 Walsh, on the other hand, sees pleasure and truth as inextricably linked in the Homeric poems; the truth of the poet’s words is the source of the audience’s pleasure.135 According to Ledbetter, Homer envisions poetry as offering a type of divine knowledge that has the “immediacy and pleasure of sensory

128 Od. 1.340-44. 129 Il. 9.186; Od. 8.45, 8.368, 17.385, and 17.606. 130 Od. 12.44. 131 Od. 1.337. 132 Pratt 1993: 53. 133 Halliwell 2011: 55. 134 Pratt 1993: 40 calls this “commemorative fiction.” Cf. Halliwell 2011: 91. 135 Walsh 1984: 13-14. 36 experience.”136 Such divine knowledge, she argues, does not allow for interpretation to lead the audience to some moral truth.137

Yet the scenes of poetic performance depicted within Homer are different from the

Homeric poems themselves. Demodocus’ songs in Odyssey 8 provide an immediate sense of pleasure because the audience grasps the entirety of its contents in a single sitting. The Iliad and the Odyssey, on the other hand, in requiring multiple performances,138 would not allow for the same comprehension. The audience at an oral performance would not easily see the patterns and juxtapositions created by the arrangement of episodes in the complete epics.139 As a result, this difference between the complete Homeric poems and the performances dramatized within the poem makes it difficult to hold Demodocus as an exact model for Homeric ideas about poetic truth and poetic effect. Whatever truth and/or pleasure Demodocus’ song generates for an intratextual audience does not necessarily reflect what the poet of the Iliad and Odyssey intends for the extratextual audience or what later audiences actually experience.

Despite this methodological difficulty in reading the epics’ dramatized scenes as expressions of poetic principles, Homer nevertheless focuses on poetry’s pleasurable qualities, as opposed to calling attention to the “truth.” Although the invocation in Iliad 2 and Demodocus’ song in Odyssey 8 do associate inspired poetry with divine truth, for the majority of the two epics, poetic truth is neither emphasized nor questioned. In fact, the trickster Odysseus’

136 Ledbetter 2003: 13. 137 Ledbetter 2003: 38. 138 Homeric poetry was often performed at festivals like the Panathenaea, where rhapsodes competed. See Nagy 1989: 6. 139 Thalmann 1984: 119 argues for the necessity of experiencing the Homeric poems in their entirety. 37 assimilation with a poet figure in the Odyssey may imply an element of deception and falsehood in poetry.140 To explain the lack of emphasis on truth in the epics, I propose two reasons.

Either the poet’s association with the Muses guarantees the truth in poetry (along the lines of

Detienne, Rösler, and Puelma) and there is no need to remark upon it, or the concentration on pleasure makes truth irrelevant. The audience entranced by the beauty of a singer’s words does not care about factual accuracy, which they could not judge. In either case, the Homeric poet does not interrogate truth and falsehood in the same way that later poets and scholars do.

Hesiod

While Homer’s poetry avoids overt statements about the relationship between poetry and truth and falsehood, the proem of Hesiod’s Theogony makes the Muses comment on the truth and falsehood of their words. Appearing to Hesiod as he was tending sheep on Mount Helicon, 141 they proclaim:

ποιμένες ἄγραυλοι, κάκ’ ἐλέγχεα, γαστέρες οἶον, ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, ἴδμεν δ’ εὖτ’ ἐθέλωμεν ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι.

Rustic shepherds, base reproaches, mere bellies. We know how to say many falsehoods like the truth, and we know, whenever we wish, how to utter the truth.

(Theog. 26-28)

These famous and enigmatic lines have elicited a variety of interpretations. Scholars disagree about their exact meaning and their overall significance for both Hesiod’s work and for poetry in general. In acknowledging the numerous possibilities for interpreting these difficult lines, I do

140 As suggested by Alcinous: Od. 11.367-69: σοὶ δ’ ἔπι μὲν μορφὴ ἐπέων, ἔνι δὲ φρένες ἐσθλαί, / μῦθον δ’ ὡς ὅτ’ ἀοιδὸς ἐπισταμένως κατέλεξας, / πάντων Ἀργείων σέο τ’ αὐτοῦ κήδεα λυγρά (“but there is grace to your words upon you, and you have a wise mind within. Like a bard, you have told your tale with skill, the grievous pains of all the Argives and of yourself”). 141 See M. L. West 1966: 158-61 for a summary of views regarding whether this was a “genuine” epiphany. 38 not align myself too closely with a single interpretation. Instead, my treatment of 26-28 will demonstrate how this section complicates notions of truth and falsehood in poetry. Poetry inspired by the Muses can contain falsehoods, in addition to the truth. Since the lines precede the

Muses’ bestowal of poetic skill to Hesiod,142 we can safely take them as an emblematic statement. However, what this statement means for the poet inspired by the Muses and the audience listening to the poet remains ambiguous.

Before boasting about their skills in 27-28, the Muses address Hesiod with an insult, calling the shepherds “base reproaches” and “mere bellies.”143 The insults emphasize the disparity between the lowly mortal shepherds and the Muses, who frame their power as knowledge (ἴδμεν). Although the Muses’ association with knowledge has a Homeric precedent in the Iliad 2 invocation, the Hesiodic Muses include the telling of false things as a part of their wisdom. These falsehoods, moreover, are described as “like truth” (ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα).144 Yet in what way can lies be like the truth? Verdenius takes this phrase to mean “deceptive pictures.145

Both Bowie and Pratt propose that ψεύδεα πολλὰ ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα equates to “plausible fictions.”146 Heiden, however, disputes the translation of ὁμοῖος as “resembling,” arguing that the adjective in Homer never denotes exact likeness, but a shared quality.147 According to Heiden,

142 Theog. 29-34. 143 Svenbro 1976: 57-59 reads “mere bellies” to refer to poets who lie because of their desire for profit. Thalmann 1984: 146 connects “mere bellies” with the low status of the shepherds. Katz and Volk 2000 posit a reference to prophecy, specifically to the type in which a demon possesses a person’s belly. They suggest that “mere bellies” represents Hesiod’s role as “receptacle for the Muses’ inspiration” (127). 144 See Od. 19.203 for a similarly worded line. 145 Verdenius 1972: 234. 146 Pratt 1993: 110 and Bowie 1993: 21. 147 Heiden 2007: 155. 39

Hesiod does not clarify in what respect lies share a quality with reality, thus contributing to the ambiguity of the passage.148

Line 28 contains the alternative to ψεύδεα πολλὰ ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα. The Muses, whenever they wish, can also utter true things (ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι).149 Scholars like Luther, Puelma, and

Finkelberg take this line to represent Hesiodic poetry.150 Since the Theogony recounts the birth of gods and the Works and Days imparts moral and ethical maxims, Hesiodic poetry seems to have educational aims and thus should be considered “true.” Indeed, in the proem to Works and Days,

Hesiod promises to tell his brother Perses things that are true (ἐτήτυμα).151 As a result, this connection between Hesiodic poetry and “truth” has led Puelma and others to view 27 and 28 as a polemical contrast between two different types of poetry: one marked by falsehoods and the other by truth. 152 Under this schema, Homeric poetry falls into the former camp and the poetry of Hesiod in the latter.153 Stroh, however, dismisses this polemical reading by arguing that the designation of Hesiod as a “didactic poet” does not find support in the ancient evidence.154 Thus,

148 Heiden 2007: 169. Heiden prefers the translation “lies equivalent to truth [sc. somehow].” His analysis (170) proposes that the phrase “half is more than the whole” at Works and Days 40 qualifies as such a lie. The phrase, while literally false, functions as a “truth.” Nagy 2010: 153- 67, however, assembles usages of ὁμοῖος in Homer to argue that the word in Hesiod means “looking like.” 149 γηρύσασθαι is the preferred reading from Π1 and Π.2 As M. L. West 1966: 163 notes, the variant μυθήσασθαι was influenced by the Homeric formula ἀληθέα μυθήσασθαι (see Il. 6.382). 150 Luther 1935: 125, Puelma 1989: 74-75, and Finkelberg 1998: 157. 151 Hes. Op. 10. 152 Puelma 1989: 75: “Unter dem ‘Trugbild-Gesang’ versteht hier Hesiod offensichtlich die Art der homerischen Mythenerzählung mit ihrer Technik der mimetischen Vergegenwärtigung, die ‘Wahrheitsaussage’ ist demgegenüber das, was Hesiod für seine eigene Ependichtung beansprucht.” 153 M. L. West 1966: 162 refutes this argument based on the assumption that no Greek ever considered the Homeric poems as fiction. 154 Stroh 1976: 110. 40

Hesiod would not be obligated to tell only the truth. In fact, Stroh’s analysis considers lying a positive trait and finds in Hesiod’s poetry a mixture of truth and falsehoods.155

Heath likewise rejects calling Hesiodic poetry didactic and instead maintains that the pleasure and beauty of song make up Hesiod’s prime concern.156 Indeed, Hesiod’s description of the Muses in the Theogony focuses on pleasurable effects of their performance. They delight the mind of their father,157 and their mother Memory bore them as “forgetfulness from troubles and a rest from woes.”158 Moreover, they empower their servants (singers) to make mortals forget pain and suffering.159 As Ledbetter argues, the Theogony’s emphasis on these curative effects of song overshadows the issues of truth and falsehood in poetry.160 According to her, the Muses’ plausible falsehoods prevent both the poet and the audience from distinguishing the truth.161

Hesiod, despite making the truth claim in the Works and Days (10), does not explicitly label any material in the Theogony as true or false. Rather, I suggest, in attributing an enigmatic boast to the Muses, he only intimates at the possibility of falsehood, without explaining how it could be discerned.

155 Stroh 1976: 106. Stroh views probability (Wahrscheinlichkeit) as Hesiod’s goal for mythic narration. For a refutation of Stroh’s views, particularly the idea that Hesiod is purposely including lies, see Neitzel 1980: 400. 156 Heath 1985: 62-63. 157 Theog. 51. 158 τὰς ἐν Πιερίῃ Κρονίδῃ τέκε πατρὶ μιγεῖσα / Μνημοσύνη, γουνοῖσιν Ἐλευθῆρος μεδέουσα, / λησμοσύνην τε κακῶν ἄμπαυμά τε μερμηράων (Theog. 53-55). Verdenius 1972: 234 and Pucci 1977: 22 call attention to the paradox of the daughters of Memory inducing forgetfulness. 159 Theog. 99-103. 160 Ledbetter 2003: 60. 161 Ledbetter 2003: 40. In this way, she follows the conclusions of Pucci 1977, who had interpreted the Muses’ claim in 27 to symbolize the inevitability of distortion caused by discourse. See Ferrari 1988 for a refutation of Pucci’s findings. Belfiore 1985: 55, however, notes that not even the Muses know the entire truth. Since they were born after Zeus’ succession, they could not have witnessed firsthand the events narrated in the Theogony. 41

Pindar

In praising the exploits of victorious athletes, Pindar’s epinician odes include claims for truth, as well as rejections of lies and falsehood.162 At the beginning of Olympian 10, he invokes

Truth (Ἀλάθεια) to ward off the blame of lying.163 By disassociating his poetry from falsehood,

Pindar establishes the authenticity of his praise, which glorifies athletes and heroes appropriately.164 False praise, on the other hand, does not accurately reflect its subject, as Pindar in Nemean 7 observes in the case of Odysseus: ἐγὼ δὲ πλέον’ ἔλπομαι λόγον Ὀδυσσέος ἢ πάθαν

διὰ τὸν ἁδυεπῆ γενέσθ’ Ὅμηρον (“I believe that the story about Odysseus has become greater than his experience on account of sweet-speaking Homer,” 20-21). Moreover, this embellished portrayal of Odysseus has eclipsed the fame of Ajax, whom Pindar deems worthier of remembrance.165 Thus, Pindar shows the damaging effects false praise can wreak, both in rewarding the unworthy and depriving the commendable. In focusing on such ramifications of praise, Pindar, as Walsh observes, “derives a doctrine of social poetics.”166

While Pindar frequently addresses truth and falsehood in terms of praise, he also exhibits concern about the veracity of mythological narrative. In Olympian 1, he dismisses the story that the gods ate Pelops, attributing the tale to a hateful neighbor (τις αὐτίκα φθονερῶν γειτόνων, 47).

Unlike his predecessors, Pindar refuses to depict gluttonous gods: ἐμοὶ δ’ ἄπορα γαστρίμαργον

μακάρων τιν’ εἰπεῖν· ἀφίσταμαι (“I cannot say some god is gluttonous. I stand away,” 52-53). By

162 See Komornicka 1972 for an overview of truth and falsehood vocabulary in Pindar. 163 ὦ Μοῖσ’, ἀλλὰ σὺ καὶ θυγάτηρ / Ἀλάθεια Διός, ὀρθᾷ χερί / ἐρύκετον ψευδέων / ἐνιπὰν ἀλιτόξενον (“Daughter of Zeus, Truth, with a correcting hand ward off the charge of harming a guest friend with lies,” Pind. Ol. 10.4-5). 164 Park 2013 argues for a generic connection between praise and truth in Pindar’s poetry. Pindar does not want to praise beyond what is right (καιρός). See Pind. Pyth. 10.4 165 See Pind. Nem. 8.24-35. 166 Walsh 1984: 37. 42 denying this version, Pindar seeks to shield the majesty of the gods from this hateful lie. Yet the story is a lie because it portrays the gods in a negative light. As Ledbetter notes, “Pindar focuses on the moral dimension of myth, but that is because for him too its moral content is indicative of, or grounds for inferring, its accuracy or inaccuracy.”167 Pindar, moreover, makes a distinction between a true account and stories embellished with variegated lies. 168

In commenting directly on the truth and falsehood of mythical narratives, Pindar signals a shift from the practices of Homer and Hesiod. For the former, neither the narrator nor the characters question the truth of verse inspired by the Muses. Although the latter acknowledges that his Muses can utter falsehoods, he does not identify any material in the Theogony or the

Works and Days as false. Pindar, on the other hand, appears confident in distinguishing between a truth and a lie. In fact, his practice of evaluating his material corresponds to his role as prophet for Muses.169 Acting as the intermediary through which the Muses’ knowledge reaches a mortal audience, he interprets and filters their words. In this role, Pindar aims not only to portray gods, men, and heroes as is befitting, but also to avoid showing examples of criminal behavior. For instance, in Nemean 5, he refuses to elaborate on the unjust deed of Phocus, stating that the

“whole exact truth is not more profitable when it shows its face.”170 Thus, in suppressing the full truth, Pindar transforms the traditional ἀλήθεια into a new kind of truth: one that he ultimately

167 Ledbetter 2003: 70. 168 ἦ θαύματα πολλά, καί πού τι καὶ βροτῶν / φάτις ὑπὲρ τὸν ἀλαθῆ λόγον / δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις/ ἐξαπατῶντι μῦθοι (“Yes, there are many wonders, but then too, I suppose, in men’s rumors, stories are beyond the true account and deceive with variegated lies,” Pind. Ol. 1. 28-29). 169 Fr. 150 Snell. 170 οὔ τοι ἅπασα κερδίων / φαίνοισα πρόσωπον ἀλάθει’ ἀτρεκής (Pind. Nem. 5.16-17). 43 decides is morally suitable for his audience. Under this new ἀλήθεια, only the worthy are commemorated, while criminal and insignificant deeds are consigned to oblivion.171

Sixth and Fifth Century Criticism

The concern about the morality of mythical narrative stimulated much of the critical reaction to poetry in the sixth and fifth centuries BCE. In this time, poetry, especially that of

Homer, occupied a central position in the education of elite citizens.172 As the material memorized by children, Homer’s poetry was expected to be suitable and offer some forms of truths. Yet some thinkers of the sixth and fifth centuries questioned Homer and Hesiod as sources of wisdom. Although identifying Hesiod “the teacher of most,”173 and Homer “as the wisest of the Greeks,”174 Heraclitus of Ephesus (ca. 500 BCE) denies that either poet actually possessed knowledge. In another fragment,175 Heraclitus observes that the πολυμαθίη possessed by Hesiod does not teach sense (νόον ἔχειν οὐ διδάσκει). For Heraclitus, then, the contents of

Homeric and Hesiodic poetry do not promote philosophic wisdom.

Xenophanes (6th-5th century BCE) also censured Homer and Hesiod, concentrating on the poets’ portrayal of anthropomorphic gods. Xenophanes considered such anthropomorphic gods false,176 as they did not correspond to his conception of the divine.177 In particular, he faults

Homer and Hesiod for attributing human vices to the gods: πάντα θεοῖσ’ ἀνέθηκαν Ὅμηρός θ’

Ἡσίοδός τε, / ὅσσα παρ’ ἀνθρώποισιν ὀνείδεα καὶ ψόγος ἐστίν / κλέπτειν μοιχεύειν τε καὶ

171 Walsh 1984: 60-61. 172 For a discussion of poetry in education, see Ford 2002: 197-200. 173 B 56 DK. 174 B 57 DK. 175 B 40 DK. 176 For Xenophanes’ criticism of anthropomorphism, see B 15 DK and B 16 DK. 177 εἷς θεός, ἔν τε θεοῖσι καὶ ἀνθρώποισι μέγιστος, / οὔτι δέμας θνητοῖσιν ὁμοίιος οὐδὲ νόημα (“there is one god, greatest among gods and men, like mortals in neither body nor mind,” B 23 DK). 44

ἀλλήλους ἀπατεύειν (“Homer and Hesiod attributed to the gods all things that are reproaches and blame among men: theft, adultery, and tricking each other”).178 By targeting the crimes of the

Homeric and Hesiodic gods, Xenophanes hints at moral concerns. Indeed, such portrayals of fighting gods could supply negative models for human behavior. Similarly, in fragment 1 DK, he extorts symposiasts to avoid speaking of the battles of Titans, Giants, and Centaurs, dubbing these creatures “fabrications of our predecessors” (πλάσματα τῶν προτέρων, 22). In analyzing this passage, Ford warns against construing the phrase πλάσματα τῶν προτέρων as referring to a particular genre, such as epic. Rather, Ford suggests that the stories of Titans and Centaurs act as paradigms for destructive aristocratic fighting.179 Indeed, as Xenophanes states in 23, there is nothing useful in any of these things (τοῖσ’ οὐδὲν χρηστὸν ἔνεστι).

While Heraclitus and Xenophanes questioned the truthfulness and therefore educational value of Homeric and Hesiodic poetry, some thinkers employed allegorical interpretation to read poems as articulations of true propositions. Since allegory (ἀλληγορία) means “saying something else,”180 it enables an interpreter to extract truth from a poem, despite the perceived falsehood of the surface meaning. For instance, the scholion on Il. 20.67 records a method of interpretation that is ascribed to the sixth century BCE Theagenes of Rhegium. By this kind of interpretation, one can view the Theomachy as a conflict between elemental forces: Apollo and Helius symbolize fire, while Poseidon and Scamander are water. 181 The passage thus serves as an

178 B 11 DK. 179 Ford 2002: 56. 180 While I use the term ἀλληγορία here to refer to this type of interpretation, Plutarch (Quomodo adul. 19e-f) makes clear that ἀλληγορία was a newer term to convey ὑπόνοια (“under- meaning”). For more on ancient allegory, see Whitman 1987: 14-57, Dawson 1992, Struck 2004, and Ramelli and Lucchetta 2004. Dawson 1992: 3 distinguishes between allegorical reading and allegorical composition. 181 8.2 DK. This scholion is attributed to Porphyry. 45 expression of scientific principles, rather than as a literal scene of strife among the gods. In the fifth century BCE, Metrodorus of Lampascus analyzed heroes as parts of the universe and gods as parts of the human body.182 Although scholars debate whether an impetus to defend Homer motivated this mode of interpretation,183 the readings of Theagenes and Metrodorus nevertheless granted Homeric verse the potential to transmit wisdom.

This mode of allegorical interpretation was not just reserved for Homeric poetry. The

Derverni Papyrus, discovered in Tomb A in Derveni (1962) and written in a script dated to the

340s BCE, includes an allegorical commentary on an Orphic hexameter cosmogonical poem.184

At col. VII. 4-7, the commentator introduces this commentary by remarking, “the poem is strange and riddling to people, though [Orpheus] himself did not intend to say contentious riddles but rather great things in riddles.” As Struck and Ford observe, this notion of riddling and enigmas is the operant term for allegory at this stage.185 In the mind of the Derveni commentator, the Orphic poet has purposely produced enigmatic verse throughout, thereby demanding the analysis of an enlightened reader, who must probe the poem word by word to uncover meaning

(col. XIII).186 For instance, when interpreting αἰδοῖον (“reverend”) as penis, the commentator notes a connection between genitals and the sun, since both have generative power.187 Through

182 61 A 3-4 DK. Plato at Ion 530 mentions Metrodorus of Lampsacus. For discussion of Metrodorus, see N. J. Richardson 2006 (1974): 67-68. 183 Tate (1929; 1934) argues that defending Homer was not the prime motivation of allegorical reading. Rather, thinkers used this interpretation to support their own philosophic principles. See Pfeiffer 1968: 9-10 and Morgan 2000: 64-65 for the view that allegory was defensive. 184 Since the papyrus features information on rituals as well as cosmogonic principles, there is disagreement concerning the authorship and the primary goals of the text. For a summary of these issues, see Kouremenos, Parássoglou, and Tsantsanoglou 2006: 45-59. 185 Struck 1995: 225 and Ford 1999: 39. 186 ὄτι μὲν πᾶσαν τὴν πόησιν τῶν πραγμάτων / αἰνίζεται κ[α]θ’ ἔπος ἕκαστον ἀνάγκη λέγειν (“since he is speaking through the entire poem allegorically about real things, it is necessary to speak about each word in turn”). 187 Kouremenos, Parássoglou, and Tsantsanoglou 2006: 196. 46 this type of allegorical analysis focused on linguistics, the commentator can adapt an existing text to match his own cosmogonic principles.

Despite these discussions about poetry’s truth, the association between poetry and pleasure did not vanish in sixth and fifth centuries. Some critics, like the author of the Dissoi

Logoi, identify pleasure as the poets’ goal, instead of truth.188 This downplaying of truth enables deception to qualify as a virtue of poetry. Indeed, the same treatise characterizes the best tragedian as the one who creates the greatest illusion of reality.189 The fifth century sophist

Gorgias similarly attaches positive associations to deception, stating that “the deceiver is more just than he who does not deceive, and the deceived is wiser than the one who is not deceived.”190 Furthermore, in the Helen, Gorgias argues that deception by logos (speech) should not deserve reproach, since speech can achieve the most divine deeds (θειότατα ἔργα).191 In order to prove his point, Gorgias cites the ability of poetry, defined by him as logos with meter, to induce fear, pity, and longing in the audience. This occurs because “the soul experiences something through the logoi.”192 As is revealed in the subsequent section, magic affects an individual in the same way, introducing ψυχῆς ἁμαρτήματα καὶ δόξης ἀπατήματα (“errors of the soul and deceptions of opinion”).193 By juxtaposing the examples of poetry and magic spells,

Gorgias alludes to the established connection between poetry and enchantment. Yet, as De

Romilly notes, Gorgias’ arguments imply the increased role of the poet’s τέχνη in achieving

188 90.3.17 DK. 189 90.3.10 DK. 190 B 23 DK. 191 B 11.8 DK. 192 τὴν ποίησιν ἅπασαν καὶ νομίζω καὶ ὀνομάζω λόγον ἔχοντα μέτρον· ἧς τοὺς ἀκούοντας εἰσῆλθε καὶ φρίκη περίφοβος καὶ ἔλεος πολύδακρυς καὶ πόθος φιλοπενθής, ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίων τε πραγμάτων καὶ σωμάτων εὐτυχίαις καὶ δυσπραγίαις ἴδιόν τι πάθημα διὰ τῶν λόγων ἔπαθεν ἡ ψυχή (B 11.9 DK). 193 B 11.10 DK. 47 these effects of poetry.194 When poets like Demodocus in the Odyssey and Hesiod in the

Theogony acquired their skills from the Muses, the magic was religious in origin. Logos, however, exists in the sphere of human activity, even while producing godlike effects. Through manipulation of this logos, a poet’s deceptions can transform the minds and souls of the audience.

Philosophy

Plato

The concerns of sixth and fifth century criticism culminate in the works of Plato. In multiple dialogues, his character Socrates questions poetry’s relationship to the truth, the role of mimesis, and the effects of poetry on society and the individual. While the complexity and diversity of these dialogues render it difficult to pinpoint a single Platonic conception of poetry, we can see the arguments of Plato’s Socrates as responses to the central role that poetry occupied in Greek education and culture. Despite ultimately acknowledging poetry’s charm (Resp. 607a),

Socrates denies it any value in the quest for philosophic truth.195 He does so by attacking the poet’s authority in possessing technical knowledge (Ion) and by noting the impossibility of extracting unambiguous meanings from poems (Protagoras and Republic 1), the inappropriateness of mythic stories (Republic 2), and the problematic ramifications of mimesis

(Republic 3 and 10). In the Republic especially, a concern about moral corruption underlies such critiques.

194 De Romilly 1973: 158. 195 For instance, Socrates at Resp. 607b mentions an “ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry.” Kannicht 1988: 5 takes the statement as evidence for the ongoing polemic of philosophy and science against poetry. For a doubtful reception of this view, see Ford 2002: 46 and Most 2011: 1-20. As Most (3-4) points out, Xenophanes does not target Homer and Hesiod for writing poetry, but because of the improper contents of the poetry. 48

The Ion focuses entirely on poetry, specifically in terms of the relationship between rhapsodes, poets, and technical knowledge. As one of these rhapsodes who performs Homeric poetry, Socrates’ interlocutor Ion boasts about his skill in speaking about all the fine thoughts

(καλὰς διανοίας; Ion. 530d) of Homer. Throughout the exchange, however, Socrates not only exposes the faultiness of the knowledge in Ion, who can only interpret Homer (Ion. 531a), but also denies that the poets themselves know what they sing. Rather, the poets’ knowledge comes from the Muses, who possess a poet and strike him out of senses (Ion. 533d-534c), controlling him just like a magnet. While noting the traditional association between poets and Muses,

Murray points out, “Plato transforms the traditional notion of poetic inspiration by emphasizing the passivity of the poet and the irrational nature of the poetic process. He differs most significantly from his predecessors in maintaining that inspiration is incompatible with techne.”196 Moreover, as Socrates shows in the second portion of the dialogue, a poet cannot act as an authority on any other τέχνη than his own (Ion. 538a). As a result, Socrates shatters the idea that either Homer or his interpreters like Ion have benefits in the fields of charioteering, medicine, or generalship (Ion. 541c).

While the arguments of the Ion divest poetry of practical knowledge, Socrates elsewhere criticizes the use of poetry in arguments concerning ethical matters. After debating with

Protagoras about the syntax in a Simonides poem about virtue in the Protagoras (Prt. 339a-

346c),197 Socrates remarks upon the futility of such an exercise. Poems generate various interpretations from different people (Prt. 347e), and without the poet present it is impossible to

196P. Murray 1996: 9. 197In one part of the poem (fr. 542.1-2 Campbell), Simonides claims that “it is difficult for a man to become truly good” (ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθὸν μὲν ἀλαθέως γενέσθαι χαλεπόν), but disagrees with Pittacus’ saying χαλεπὸν φάτ’ ἐσθλὸν ἔμμεναι (“he said that it is difficult to be good,” 13) 49 figure out what poems mean. Socrates instead prefers live debate, in which all members can offer their own thoughts and be examined. Similarly, Socrates in Republic 1 criticizes quoting

Simonides to define justice.198 Simonides, Socrates argues, spoke in riddles, by calling justice

“returning what is owed” while intending “what is fitting for each” (Ἠινίξατο ἄρα, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, ὡς

ἔοικεν, ὁ Σιμωνίδης ποιητικῶς τὸ δίκαιον ὃ εἴη. διενοεῖτο μὲν γάρ, ὡς φαίνεται, ὅτι τοῦτ’ εἴη

δίκαιον, τὸ προσῆκον ἑκάστῳ ἀποδιδόναι, τοῦτο δὲ ὠνόμασεν ὀφειλόμενον, Resp. 332 b-c). The adverb ποιητικῶς (“poetically”) modifying ἠινίξατο suggests that Socrates considers speaking in riddles (ἠινίξατο) a characteristic of poetic language.199 Whereas the Derveni commentator saw riddling language as a valid medium for communicating truths, Socrates implies that riddling language is antithetical to such a goal. Coupled with the impossibility of knowing the author’s intentions, obscurity impedes the use of a poem in establishing a clear definition for a moral concept.

The discussion in Republic book 2 evaluates the role of poetry in terms of the content of mythological stories. The context of this discussion is the education of the future Guardians of the Ideal State, who require an educational curriculum that inculcates proper behavior within their souls. Due to the impressionable nature of young children’s minds (Resp. 377b), however,

Socrates demands the elimination of the traditional stories about the gods recounted by Homer and Hesiod (Resp. 377d). Such stories earn Socrates’ censure not necessarily because they are false, but rather because Socrates considers them examples of “lying not well.”200 In addition to attributing evil actions to the gods, tales such as Cronus’ ascent to power (Resp. 378a) offer poor

198 Resp. 332a. Socrates refuses to believe that Simonides meant what he said. 199 For the association of riddles (αἰνίγματα) with allegory, see Struck 2004: 39-51. 200 Ὅπερ, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, χρὴ καὶ πρῶτον καὶ μάλιστα μέμφεσθαι, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐάν τις μὴ καλῶς ψεύδηται (Resp. 377d). 50 models for human behavior. Hearing such stories would hinder harmony among the Guardians

(Resp. 378c). By reflecting on the social consequences of poetry, Socrates makes morality the central concern of his criticism, subordinating the issue of truth and falsehood. Indeed, he remarks that such stories should be suppressed, even if true.201 Moreover, he rejects the possibility of poems having an “under-meaning” (ἐν ὑπονοίαις πεποιημένας), arguing that children cannot discern alternate hidden meanings.202 Since ὑπόνοια is the word for allegory at this point, we can see Plato’s Socrates as denying the practicality of the allegorical interpretation, at least for a young impressionable audience.

The third book of the Republic continues the evaluation of the effects of poetry on the young Guardians. However, while book 2 discusses poetry in terms of the subject matter, the focus of book 3 is on how the contents of poetry are said. At 392d, Socrates identifies three possibilities: simple narration (ἁπλῇ διηγήσει), mimesis (διὰ μιμήσεως), or a mixture of the two

(δι’ ἀμφοτέρων). Unlike simple narration, where the poet speaks as himself, mimesis entails a poet assuming the voice of another character.203 This assimilation of the poet with another character seems problematic to Socrates, who worries that poet who mimics many things (398a) would influence the Guardians to represent characters indiscriminately. The Guardians should mimic only worthy characters, not lowly individuals such as women, slaves, and cowardly men

(395d-396a). In fearing this consequence of mimesis, Socrates again dwells on the moral dimensions of poetry. Yet the disapproval here stems from the ability of mimetic poetry to convey a semblance to reality, rather than from the falsity or immorality of mythological stories.

201 Resp. 378a. In this curriculum, even lies are acceptable as long they fulfill this purpose. 202 Resp. 378d. 203 Mimesis characterizes the entirety of tragic and comic works (Resp. 394c), as well as the sections in epic where the poet speaks as another character (Resp. 394d). 51

Mimetic poetry, when representing real yet unworthy humans, can corrupt the Guardians.

In Republic book 10, Socrates returns to the problematic nature of mimesis by emphasizing the separation between the products of mimesis and truth.204 To make this point,

Socrates constructs an analogy that contrasts a carpenter with a painter. While the carpenter builds a couch in imitation of the Ideal Couch, the painter produces only an imitation of an imitation (598b). The poet, who imitates human life, corresponds to the painter in the analogy and is thus three levels removed from the truth.205 As a result, poets do not truly understand what they are saying and cannot distinguish between the good or the bad (600e). Moreover, Socrates attacks tragic poetry for arousing emotions, such as grief (605d). In inducing emotions that

Socrates deems unsuitable for a man, tragedy nurtures the lowest portion of the soul, the appetitive part.206

Although he emphasizes the corrupting effects of tragic poetry, nowhere does Plato’s

Socrates doubt its aesthetic charms. In fact, Socrates mentions the “honeyed Muse” (ἡδυσμένην

Μοῦσαν) and proposes allowing poetry the chance to defend herself in the polis.207 However, it is this acknowledgment of poetry’s beauty that underlies Socrates’ attacks and decision to banish mimetic poetry from the polis. Through its charm, mimetic poetry overwhelms an audience, causing them to feel strong emotions unsuitable for the rational mind. This suspension of

204 Scholars have struggled to reconcile the discussion of mimesis in book 10 with book 3, where the usage seems to correspond to “impersonation” rather than “representation.” For discussion of this issue and arguments for a consistency in Plato’s arguments, see Belfiore 2006 (1984): 85- 114. Halliwell 2002: 56 proposes that while book 3 refers to mimesis in the dramatic mode, book 10 applies the term to all forms of representation in poetry and the visual arts. 205 Resp. 599a. As Nehamas 1982: 67 points out, although Plato presents both painting and poetry as mimesis, poetry is much more dangerous for the soul. 206 Resp. 606d. As Ferrari 1989: 138 observes, this appealing to the appetitive part of the soul implies a descent to the tyrannical personality, which was described in Republic 9 (Resp. 587b- c). 207 Resp. 607d. 52 rationality makes poetry unsuitable for the pursuit of philosophic truth. Yet what alternative does

Plato suggest in poetry’s place? As mimetic works, Plato’s dialogues should be subject to the same issues that accompany mimetic poetry. The dialogues, moreover, are fictional and contain numerous myths.208 Ferrari and Gill both contribute solutions to this issue. Ferrari states, “The best sort of imitation is not poetry at all, but philosophy—an activity which cannot be distinguished, either in its products or procedures, from the practice of a certain kind of life.”209

The Platonic dialogues serve as models for the practice of this life. According to Gill, they

“illustrate and promote the Socratic conception of philosophy as shared enquiry, through organized discussion, with the ultimate goal of defining and achieving systematic knowledge of objective truth.”210 Poetry, while powerful and charming, cannot aid in this quest for truth for

Plato.

Aristotle

Aristotle’s Poetics provides a departure from the criticisms raised by Socrates in the

Platonic dialogues. While Plato’s Socrates judged most poetry as corrupting and thus antithetical to philosophic development, Aristotle seems to cast poetry as a worthwhile pursuit.211 According to him, all poetry is mimesis, along with music and dance (1447a13-17).212 Of the poetic types, tragedy occupies the bulk of the analysis in the Poetics, as Aristotle describes the characteristics of effective tragedies. Well-composed plots induce pity and fear, which together produce

208 Most famously, the myth of Er, beginning at Resp. 614b. 209 Ferrari 1989: 142. 210 Gill 1993: 68. 211 It is unclear to what extent Aristotle is directly responding to Plato’s criticisms of poetry. For the view that Aristotle is, see Halliwell 1986: 1-2. See Woodruff 1992: 73-74 for a critique of this assumption. 212 For a discussion of the meaning of mimesis in Aristotle, see Woodruff 1992: 89-91, who eschews translating the word as “imitation,” “reproduction” or any other English equivalent. 53 katharsis for the audience (Poet. 1449b27-28).213 In judging these plots, however, Aristotle subordinates the issue of truth and falsehood by offering a new set of criteria to evaluate poetry.214 After discussing these criteria in the subsequent section, I will consider the reasons why Aristotle downplays truth and falsehood.

One way that Aristotle assesses poetry is by considering the possible objects of mimesis

(1448a1-5). Like painters, poets can portray those better than us (βελτίονας), those worse than us

(χείρονας), and those just like us (τοιούτους). Tragedy represents the βελτίονας, while comedy deals with χείρονας (1448a26-30). In comparing the objects of mimesis with the audience (“us”),

Aristotle acknowledges the process of recognition involved in the mimesis. The audience comprehends characters in reference to themselves. This emotional involvement in turn affects their response, namely the emotions of pity and fear. For instance, while no one would pity a wicked person falling into misfortune (1453a1-3), seeing someone similar to oneself suffering heightens fear (1453a5-6). Indeed, as Nussbaum notes, “In fearing the downfall of a person whom we see as similar to ourselves, we are in effect fearing our own related possibilities.”215

For this reason, Aristotle recommends a character who is outstanding in neither virtue nor vice

(1453a7-10). The preference for this middling character does not stem from a desire for realism insomuch as this kind of character has the most potential for the tragic emotions.

213 The exact sense of katharsis remains ambiguous. Bernays 2006 (1857) advanced the idea that it was a technical medical term that Aristotle transferred from the physical sphere to the emotional sphere. Katharsis then is the purgation of emotions. Lear 1988: 299 attacks this notion of purgation, arguing that emotions like pity and fear cannot be expelled. Moreover, he observes that a virtuous member of the audience would not require such purgation. Belfiore 1992: 340-41 claims that tragic katharsis entails applying a tragic emotion to remove shameless emotions. 214 According to Ford 2002: 269, the Poetics “inaugurates literary criticism as a technical appreciation of poetry that was distinct from the abundant moral, social, and religious critiques.” 215 Nussbaum 1992: 275. 54

At 1460b10-11, Aristotle offers a different division of the objects of mimesis. A poet represents “as things were or are” (οἷα ἦν ἢ ἔστιν), “as they say and seem to be” (οἷά φασιν καὶ

δοκεῖ), or “as things ought to be” (οἷα εἶναι δεῖ). The quote attributed to Sophocles at 1460b33-

34 connects Sophocles and Euripides with the third and first options, respectively, while the second category corresponds to things concerning the gods (τὰ περὶ θεῶν). Of these options, only the first, οἷα ἦν ἢ ἔστιν, would equate with truth. οἷά φασιν καὶ δοκεῖ, on the other hand, would equal δόξα (“opinion”), which could be true or false.216 Finally, οἷα εἶναι δεῖ does not fall under the rubric of falsehood, but rather represents an ideal. By framing the objects of mimesis in this way, Aristotle downplays the truth/falsehood distinction. Indeed, Aristotle praises Homer for teaching poets how to convey falsehoods in a suitable manner (1460a18-19).

In eliding the issue of truth and falsehood, Aristotle evaluates tragic plots based on their adherence to probability (τὸ εἰκός) or necessity (τὸ ἀναγκαῖον). In well-constructed plots, events happen because of each other (διὰ τάδε), not simply after each other (μετὰ τάδε).217 For instance,

Aristotle cites the arrival of the messenger in the Oedipus Tyrannus as an example of a

περιπέτεια (“reversal”) happening from probability and necessity.218 In demanding that plots follow the rules of probability and necessity, Aristotle expects plots to possess an internal logic.

Such logic does not necessarily correspond to the rules of reality. In fact, Aristotle prefers an impossible probability to an unpersuasive possibility (1460a26-27). This emphasis on a plot’s internal logic and believability has led some scholars to read in Aristotle an articulation of the rules of fiction.219 While it is perhaps anachronistic to ascribe to Aristotle the concept of fiction,

216As Ford 2015: 12 notes, “It is evidently more important that a poem engage the beliefs and even prejudices of its audience than that it be philosophically or theologically correct.” 217 Poet. 1452a18-21. 218 Poet. 1452a24. 219 See Rösler 1980: 308-19 and Gill 1993: 75. 55 as we understand it, Aristotle nevertheless does mark poetry as a separate discourse. Unlike history, which must convey what happened (τὰ γενόμενα), poetry portrays what kind of things could happen (οἷα ἂν γένοιτο, 1451b4-7). For this reason, Aristotle characterizes poetry as more philosophical and serious: poetry deals with universals, while history with only particulars.

Why does Aristotle grant poetry this special status from history? What effects does poetry provide for society, in contrast with history? Although the Poetics touches on the effects of poetic works in terms of pity and fear, nowhere does Aristotle explicitly say whether tragedy has cognitive value or is primarily for pleasure. Emphasizing Aristotle’s reference to a particular pleasure to tragedy (1453b11), Halliwell characterizes this pleasure as coming “from the exercise of our capabilities for both understanding and feeling in the engagement with the imagined possibilities which art represents.”220 Nussbaum argues that the emotions of pity and fear grant the spectators a deeper understanding of the world.221 Ferrari, on the other hand, counters

Halliwell and Nussbaum’s emphasis on cognitive benefits. He contends that Poetics 1448b10-17, the main evidence for the role of cognition in viewing an artistic representation, refers to the lowest level of appreciation and thus cannot speak for the more complex responses caused by tragedy.222 Instead of contributing to intellectual or moral edification, tragedy, Ferrari argues, constitutes an aesthetic experience for Aristotle. The tragic emotions of pity and fear work towards the suspense of a plot.223 According to his argument, the adherence to probability and necessity allows the plot to absorb the audience into the fiction.

220 Halliwell 1992: 255-56. 221 Nussbaum 1992: 287. 222 Ferrari 1999: 186. 223 Ferrari 1999: 194. 56

Ferrari’s arguments about the importance of aesthetic experience does not preclude the possibility of cognitive or moral benefits. An audience member easily could extract some sort of general understanding through such emotional absorption into the plot. The plot’s relationship to an external reality matters less than its potential for enabling such absorption. For this reason, it does not matter that Homer depicts a doe with horns (1460b18).224 On the other hand, excessive obscurity (1458a18-26) and inconsistent staging (1455a26-29) receive censure. These are the faults that hinder the proper experience of tragedy, whether that experience is tied to aesthetics, cognition, or moral benefits.

The Early Stoics

Despite their divergent views concerning mimesis and the role of poetry in society, Plato and Aristotle both dismiss allegorical interpretation as a strategy for reading poetry. Plato’s

Socrates views under-meanings as inadequate for explaining socially inappropriate myths. As

Struck notes, enigmas are antithetical to what he dubs Aristotle’s “poetics of clarity,” which demands refined and lofty language without riddles or barbarisms (1458a18-26).225 The Stoics, on the other hand, employed allegorical interpretation, perceiving in poetry the potential to convey philosophic ideas.226 Zeno maintained the truth value in Homer by instructing that he

“composed things in accordance with opinion and some things in accordance with truth” (Dio

Chrys. Or. 53.4-5 = SVF 1.274). Cleanthes in fact deemed rhythmic arrangements the more effective medium for making a listener contemplate the divine (Philodem. De. musica col. 28 =

SVF 1.486). His Hymn to Zeus thematizes Zeus as the rational governing principle central to

224 Aristotle at 1460b15-16 distinguishes between two kinds of flaws: a technical error with respect to the art and an error outside of the art. 225 Struck 2004: 63-67. 226 For a discussion of the Stoic interest in poetry, see DeLacy 1948. 57

Stoic theology. For instance, the phrase διὰ πάντων (“through all things”) in 12 signifies not only

Zeus’ omnipresence, but also plays on his name Δία.227

In their readings of poetry, the early Stoics applied allegorical interpretation consisting of etymological analysis.228 For instance, Zeno analyzed χάος in Hesiod’s Theogony as “water,” from χέεσθαι (“to pour”) (SVF 1.103). According to Plutarch (Quomodo adul. 31d-e = SVF

1.535), Cleanthes read ἄνα Δωδωναῖε (“lord of Dodona”) at Il. 16.233 as a single word, explaining that “the air coming as vapor from the earth is ἀναδωδωναῖον because of its rising”

(διὰ τὴν ἀνάδοσιν). Through such linguistic analyses of words, the Stoics could detect expressions of their own philosophic principles. Indeed, the Epicurean Velleius in Cicero’s De

Natura Deorum (1.41) observes that Chrysippus in his second book on the gods made the ancient poets seem Stoic. Although it is not certain whether the early Stoics viewed intentionality on the part of the poets,229 their kinds of readings uphold the pedagogical value of Homer and other ancient poets.

Conclusion

In tracking ideas about the relationship between truth and falsehood in poetry, I have confined my overview to the evidence in three early poets (Homer, Hesiod, and Pindar) and to later critical responses to such poetry, much of which was concerned with Homer. Aside from

227 Cf. Gutzwiller 2010: 355. 228 Long 2006 (1992) argues that this type of etymological analysis does not qualify as allegory. See, however, Struck 2004: 113. Other practitioners of allegory include Crates of Mallus (second century BCE), the Stoic philosopher Cornutus (1st century CE), and Heraclitus the Allegorist (1st or 2nd century CE). Crates of Mallus interpreted Agamemnon’s shield at Iliad 11.32-40 as a μίμημα τοῦ κόσμου (Σ bT Il. 11.40). Cornutus’ Compendium of Greek Theology consists of a catalogue of etymological analyses of gods’ names. The allegorical readings in Heraclitus’ Homeric Problems serve to defend Homer from the charge of impropriety. As Russell 2003: 221 points out, Heraclitus tends to favor moral allegories over scientific ones. 229 See Boys-Stones 2003b: 189-216 for the argument that the early Stoics did not believe in authorial intention behind their readings. 58 references to truth and falsehood in particular contexts (Il. 2.484-87; Od. 8.487-91), the Homeric poet gives no explicit declarations concerning the truth of his poetry in general. For this absence,

I proposed two explanations. Either the poet’s relationship with the Muses assures a poem’s truth value, or the goal of pleasure makes it irrelevant. Hesiod, on the other hand, has his Muses openly proclaim their ability to utter falsehood like truth (Theog. 27-28). Neither Hesiod nor the

Muses, however, clarify this phrase or identify what constitutes “truth” and “falsehood like truth.” Finally, the epinician poet Pindar offers clear articulations of what he considers true and false, employing appropriateness as a criterion for mythic narration. Nevertheless, each poet alludes to the charming qualities that poetry possesses.

These two characteristics of poetry, its definite charm and uncertain veracity, provoked a variety of responses from subsequent poets, critics, and thinkers. Faced with fantastic and morally dubious depictions of divine strife, one could adopt three approaches. Of these, the first is to reject the surface meaning as false. Xenophanes did so while framing his own poetry as the better source for communicating truths about the divine, as did Empedocles and Parmenides, who conveyed their principles in hexameter verse.230 Plato’s critiques, articulated by Socrates in various dialogues, attacked not just the authority of poets and the moral impropriety in traditional stories, but ultimately poetry’s overwhelming emotional power. It is Plato’s dialogue format, not poetry, that provides a model for finding the truth. Secondly, a critic could reject a false surface meaning of a poem but still maintain the existence of a deeper truth. For this, critics used allegorical interpretation, which, though rejected by Aristotle, found favor with the Stoics. The

230 In his fragments, Empedocles describes the existence of four elements, which are governed by the principles of Love and Strife. Parmenides’ poem is divided into the Proem (1.1-28), Aletheia (1.29-8.49), and Doxa (8.50-remaining fragments). For discussion as to why these two poets wrote in verse, see Wright 1998: 1-22 and Osbourne 1998: 23-35. Aristotle in the Poetics (1447b11) denies Empedocles’ status as a poet, instead calling him a scientist. 59 final strategy for dealing with the possibly false subject matter of poems is to eliminate truth and falsehood as criteria for judging poems. Indeed, Gorgias and the unnamed author of the Dissoi

Logoi construed deception as a virtue of poetry. Aristotle in the Poetics, while acknowledging that poems can include true material, minimizes the issue of truth and falsehood in favor of probability and necessity.

From these diverging views arises a general agreement. Much like the λόγοι, δόξαι, and

μῦθοι contained therein, poetry possesses the simultaneous potential for expressing truth and falsehood.231 At the same time, surface falsehood may still convey moral, social, and even scientific truths. An awareness of such truths, hidden or not, in turn depends on a variety of factors. What does a reader consider true? That is, by what means does an individual acquire and assess truth and falsehood? Moreover, is absolute certainty even possible, especially in the case of dangerous hidden creatures and the remote past? These are the questions, as I will argue, that underlie the representations of the truth and falsehood in the five Hellenistic poets.

231 The bT scholion on Il. 14.342-51 lists three ways of considering poetry: “that which imitates the truth” (ὁ μιμητικὸς τοῦ ἀληθοῦς), “in imagination of truth” (ὁ κατὰ φαντασίαν τῆς ἀληθείας), and “surpassing truth and imagination” (ὁ καθ’ ὑπέρθεσιν τῆς ἀληθείας καὶ φαντασίας). Fantastic beasts like the Cyclops and Laestrygonians fall into the third category. For discussion of this scholion, see Meijering 1987: 68-69. 60

Chapter 4: Aratus and Nicander

Introduction

The task of expressing the truth demands a correspondence between what is said and what is really the case. Knowing what really is the case is a prior issue, sometimes involving reasoning through what is said, sometimes by means of sensory perception. At the same time, one can draw from the authority of others. Language in turn transfers the results of these processes into an act of communication, either oral or written, either in prose or in verse. During the Hellenistic period, the authors of prose treatises sought to communicate truth by producing systematic collections of information about the physical world.232 The poets Aratus and Nicander took the process a step further, subjecting the same material to the confines of meter while also employing a variety of poetic techniques such as metaphors, etymological figures, and mythological narratives.233 Since all these elements contribute to the pleasure produced in reading a poem, truth no longer constitutes the sole goal of the work.234 Yet aside from their potential for generating pleasure, the mythological stories235 integrated by both Aratus and

232 For the relationship between prose and poetic texts, see Hutchinson 2009: 196-97. 233 For the issue of “didactic” as a genre of poetry and the various ways to isolate its characteristics, see Toohey 1996: 16, Fowler 2000: 205-19, Volk 2001: 34-43, and Van Noorden 2015: 16-23. Sider 2014: 22, however, argues that didactic was not invented until the Hellenistic period. For the relationship between didactic and epic, see Lausberg 1990: 180-88. Indeed, the ancients would not have felt a strong distinction between epic and what we identify as didactic, since both were composed in dactylic hexameter, the traditional meter of epic poetry. See Quint. Inst. 10.1.46-47. 234 During the Hellenistic period, theorists such as Andromenides and Eratosthenes considered truth the function of prose and pleasure of poetry. According to Pausimachus, whose views are preserved in Philodemus’ On Poems, writing in accordance with truth was not even the duty of the prose writer. See Janko 2000: 147-48. 235 Scholars disagree to what extent the stories are simply diversions from the technical subject matter or are symbolically significant. For views about the function of Aratus’ mythological stories, cf. Effe 1977: 52, Kidd 1997: 9, and Fakas 2001b: 481. For Nicander’s tales, see Effe 1974a: 57, Effe 1988: 403-7, Touwaide 1991: 90, and Spatafora 2008: 50. 61

Nicander insert doubt amidst the presumably true scientific information. Derived from the oral tradition, such stories cannot be tested by scientific means, thus undermining the speaker’s authority.

Yet, in adding this doubt through the mythological stories, I argue, both poets represent the processes involved in knowing and evaluating the truth of their respective subject matter.

Aratus’ poetic persona in the Phaenomena describes the celestial and terrestrial signs,236 and

Nicander’s persona in the Theriaca promises to enlighten his addressee Hermesianax about dangerous creatures, the symptoms of their bites, and the appropriate remedies (Ther. 1-7).237

While the question of actual didactic intent remains subject to debate,238 the ostensive goal of teaching the truth invites the reader to question notions of truth and falsehood, as well as the

236 The basic structure of the Phaenomena can be split into three parts. Lines 19-461 are devoted to listing the constellations in the sky, and in 462-757 Aratus describes how to observe the passage of time from looking at the movement of constellations. Weather signs occupy the final section of the poem (758-1141). Aratus’ source for the astronomical portions was Eudoxus of Cnidos (368-365 BCE). Hipparchus’ (ca. 147-127 BCE) Commentary on the Phaenomena of Aratus and Eudoxus indicates Aratus’ debt towards Eudoxus by citing parallel passages in the two authors. See Kidd 1997: 21-23 for a discussion of Aratus’ sources for the weather sign section. The material overlaps with pseudo-Theophrastus’ De Signis. 237 Schneider 1856: 181-201 claimed that the major source for the Theriaca was the Περὶ Θηρίων by the third century BCE writer Apollodorus. The scholia of the Theriaca mention the Περὶ Θηρίων at 715 and 858. Recent work, however, has attacked the notion of a single major source for the Theriaca. For a discussion of Nicander’s sources, see Touwaide 1991: 71-73, Jacques 2002: lli-lvi, and De Stefani 2006: 55-65. 238 Effe 1977: 26-39 bases his typology of didactic on this notion of authorial intent. While Effe identifies the actual theme of the Phaenomena to be an expression of the power of Stoic Zeus, he argues that Nicander has primarily aesthetic concerns. Thus, the Phaenomena is an example of “transparent didactic,” while the Theriaca is a “formal” didactic. Cf. Effe 2005: 27-34 for further discussion of this typology. Observing the various inconsistencies, such as the claim that human spittle can ward off snakes (Ther. 86), Overduin 2009: 92 argues that the poem fails if the primary goal is to articulate clearly scientific knowledge concerning bites and remedies. For him, the Theriaca is a pseudo-scientific treatise, and Nicander’s interest is more in exciting and poetical writing, rather than scientific accuracy. In her study, Papadopoulou 2009: 117 proposes that Nicander’s color vocabulary strives simultaneously to add poetic flavoring and achieve scientific accuracy. For views on Nicander’s role as poet and scientist, see also Hatzimichali 2009: 33-39. 62 means by which they are judged. How can a person gain knowledge about signs or deadly creatures, and how does language, particularly poetic expression and allusion, reflect these methods? What limitations hinder human comprehension?

This issue of knowledge in fact occupied a crucial place in the debates between the various Hellenistic philosophic schools, as philosophers grappled with two major questions. Can people possess definite knowledge, and what criterion, if any, exists to discern truth from falsehood?239 While both the Epicureans and Stoics maintained the possibility of acquiring knowledge, the two schools disagreed about the criterion of truth (κριτήριον τῆς ἀληθείας).

According to Diogenes Laertius 10.31, Epicurus (341-270 BCE) identified three criteria:

αἰσθήσεις (“perceptions”), προλήψεις (“preconceptions”), and πάθη (“feelings”).240 Of the three, the first criterion, αἰσθήσεις, receives the most emphasis in later reception of Epicurean epistemology. Indeed, later sources attribute to Epicurus the idea that “all perceptions are true.”241 As the raw data about the world, they are not subject to distortion, which comes only with the addition of opinion.242 By arguing for the infallibility and self-evidence of the senses,

239 In her overview of the Greek word κριτήριον and its use in philosophic contexts, Striker 1996: 24 concludes that anything that plays a role in judging truth and falsehood can be called a κριτήριον. 240 An example of a preconception is “This is a Man.” That is, someone identifies an entity as a Man based on a universal preconceived notion of a human. 241 These later sources include Plut. Adv. Col. 1109b, Aristocles in Euseb. Praep. Ev. 14.20.5, Sext. Emp. Math. 7.203-4, and 8.9. However, the wording varies among the authors. For example, Plutarch records the statement that all presentations (φαντασίας) that come through perception (δι᾽αἰσθήσεως) are true (ἀληθεῖς), and Sext. Emp. Math. 8.9 records the claim that sensation always tells the truth. For the controversy as to whether ἀληθεῖς means “true” or “real,” see Taylor 1980: 111 and Striker 1996: 80. Epicurus stated that all perception is without reason (ἄλογος) and incapable of memory (μνήμης οὐδεμιᾶς δεκτική). Moreover, the sensations cannot refute one another due to their equal strength (Diog. Laert. 10.31). 242 Opinion, in turn, can be judged as true or false (Sext. Emp. Math. 8.10). For an opinion, the criterion of truth is confirmation (ἐπιμαρτύρησις) and no non-confirmation (οὐκ ἀντιμαρτύρησις), while a lack of confirmation and non-confirmation characterize falsehood (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.216). 63

Epicurus aimed to establish a solid foundation for knowledge. The Stoics, however, acknowledging the potential for false impressions, specified the φαντασία καταληπτική

(“apprehensible presentation”) as a criterion for truth.243 Sextus Empiricus defines the apprehensible presentation as “one that is from what exists and is stamped and sealed in accordance with what is, being of such a sort that it would not come from that which does not exist.”244 For example, an image from a dream or a hallucination, since it is not real, would not qualify as an apprehensible presentation. Furthermore, a person must assent to an apprehensible presentation, and this assent leads to apprehension (κατάληψις).245 Yet, as Sandbach points out, this theory raises the question of how the agent is able to recognize and assent to this presentation.246 What about the presentation makes it evidently apprehensible? Nevertheless, the

Stoic apprehensible presentation, like the senses for the Epicureans, represented a definite means for comprehending the external world and in turn making statements.

These Epicurean and Stoic notions faced opposition from skeptical thinkers: the

Academic philosophers Arcesilaus and Carneades and the followers of Pyrrho.247 The Academic philosopher Arcesilaus (ca. 316-242 BCE) attacked the Stoic concept of the apprehensible presentation, denying that a true presentation “could be found that could not turn out false.”248

243 Diog. Laert. 7.54 accredits Chrysippus, Antipater, and Apollodorus with this theory. Other criteria favored by Stoics include νοῦς (“mind”), αἴσθησις (“perception”), ὄρεξις (“desire”), ἐπιστήμη (“knowledge”), προλήψεις (“preconceptions”), and ὀρθὸς λόγος (“right reason”). 244 καταληπτικὴ δέ ἐστιν ἡ ἀπὸ ὑπάρχοντος καὶ κατ’ αὐτὸ τὸ ὑπάρχον ἐναπομεμαγμένη καὶ ἐναπεσφραγισμένη, ὁποία οὐκ ἂν γένοιτο ἀπὸ μὴ ὑπάρχοντος (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.248). 245 Sext. Emp. Math. 7.152. Apprehension is an intermediate stage between knowledge (ἐπιστήμη) and opinion (δόξα). Cic. Acad. 1.41 attributes this threefold distinction to Zeno. 246 Sandbach 1971: 19. 247 For a discussion of the word Skeptic as applied to the Academics and Pyrrhonists, see Striker 1996: 92n1. 248 δεύτερον ὅτι οὐδεμία τοιαύτη ἀληθὴς φαντασία εὑρίσκεται οἵα οὐκ ἂν γένοιτο ψευδής (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.154). 64

Arcesilaus’ successor Carneades (214-129 BCE) extended the argument to eliminate all criteria of truth, instead proposing to judge presentations by their plausibility and their relationship to other presentations.249 In refuting the prior criteria for truth, the Academic Skeptics seemed to argue for the impossibility of definite knowledge.250 The senses do not always offer reliable witnesses to reality, and thus the wise man should suspend judgment (ἐπέχειν) in order to avoid holding opinions.251 This strategy of suspending judgment (ἐποχή) was also associated with

Pyrrho (360-270 BCE) and his followers, who acknowledged the existence of conflicting sensory experiences.252 Timon (320-230 BCE), for instance, in On Perception claimed that he could only affirm how something seemed to him, not how it really was.253 While the exact differences between the Academic Skeptics and the Pyrrhonists remain unclear,254 both groups challenged the assumption that certain knowledge is possible.

In the context of these philosophical debates about knowledge, the ostensive didactic aims of Aratus and Nicander’s works presuppose the possibility of knowledge. The two poets, although not directly engaged in such philosophic debates, describe perceivable phenomena, which, as such, can be tested for truth and falsehood. Indeed, Aratus, whose poem the

249 προσλαμβάνων τήν τε πιθανὴν φαντασίαν καὶ τὴν πιθανὴν ἅμα καὶ ἀπερίσπαστον καὶ διεξωδευμένην (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.166). 250 At Acad. 1.45, Cicero states that Arcesilaus denied that anything could be known. 251 πάντων δὲ ὄντων ἀκαταλήπτων ἀκολουθήσει καὶ κατὰ τοὺς Στωικοὺς ἐπέχειν τὸν σοφόν. (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.155). 252 See Diog. Laert. 9.76 for a summary of Timon’s views. Brunschwig 1999: 249 proposes that Timon attributed his own epistemological views to Pyrrho, who left no writings. The most complete sources for early Skepticism come from Sextus Empiricus (2nd-3rd century CE), who composed Outlines of Pyrrhonism and Adversus Mathematicos. Before this, Aenesidemus was responsible for reviving Pyrrhonism in the first century BCE. 253 Diog. Laert. 9.105. 254 Striker 1996: 135-49. 65

Phaenomena displays Stoic influences,255 emphasizes the visibility and regularity of the signs he catalogues. Such signs can be interpreted as indications of Zeus’ forethought for mankind, which is a truth for the Stoics.256 In the Theriaca, Nicander likewise deals with the perceptible world, in particular the pain caused by the bites of dangerous creatures.257 Due to the diversity of individual experiences, Nicander presents a body of knowledge that is more chaotic and irregular. For this reason, Nicander seems to align with the Empiricists, for whom experience was the sole means of obtaining knowledge.258

This chapter will examine how the mythological stories reflect these intellectual backgrounds and epistemological ideas. Since Aratus precedes Nicander chronologically,259

255 According to the Vitae, Aratus studied under the Stoic Zeno in Athens and was a colleague of Persaeus. However, scholars have disagreed about the extent of the Stoic elements in the Phaenomena. Along with Effe 1977, J. Martin 1979: 91-92 and Erren 1967: 25 emphasize the Stoic elements of the poem. Hunter 1995 argues that the Stoic notion of kosmos (“order”) is central to the Phaenomena and can be seen in the famous ΛΕΠΤΗ acrostic at 783-87. Both Kidd 1997: 12 and Fakas 2001a: 19 minimize the philosophical aspect in favor of the literary. 256 For the importance of signs in Stoic thought, see Allen 2001: 150-58. The Stoics define the sign as a “proposition antecedent in a sound conditional and revelatory of the consequent” (Sext. Emp. Pyr. 2.104; Math. 8.245). For the importance of Zeus to Stoic theology, see Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus. 257 For examples of human suffering in the Theriaca, see the descriptions of snakebites: 187-89 (aspis), 235-57 (viper), 271-81 (cerastes), 298-308 (haemorhoos), 338-42 (dipsas), 360-65 (chersydrus), 403-4 (King of Snakes), 424-37 (dryinas), and 465-68 (cenchrines). In the second part of the poem (715-832), which is dedicated to miscellaneous dangerous creatures like spiders and scorpions, Nicander devotes fewer lines to the detailing the symptoms. 258 The Empiricists were a medical sect active in the first half of the third century BCE and argued against the Rationalists, who regarded theory as the basis for medical knowledge. Galen’s De sectis is our evidence for these schools. See Frede 1987: 245-49. Cf. Sistakou 2012: 200 for the suggestion of Nicander’s relationship with empiricism. Indeed, according to the Suda entry (ν 374), Nicander was also a doctor and wrote a metaphrasis of Hippocrates’ Prognostics. Jacques 2006: 28 argues that Nicander was a specialist in venomous creatures (θηριακός) employed by Attalus III. 259 Aratus dates to about the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus (283/2-246 BCE). The evidence for his life comes from four Vitae preserved in the manuscripts and an entry in the Suda (α 3745). According to Vita I, Antigonus Gonatas summoned him to Pella in 276 BCE. Although this Vita includes an account of how Antigonus bid Aratus, a doctor, to write the Phaenomena and Nicander the astrologer to compose the Theriaca, it is almost certain that Nicander comes after 66 discussion of Aratean sections will come before passages from the Theriaca. In order to determine the relationship between Aratus and Nicander, I will pair mythological stories from the two poems that display similarities in theme, content, or structure.260 For instance, the first section will explore the stories at the beginning of the works: the catasterism of the Bears who nursed Zeus on Crete at Phaenomena 30-35 and the origin of venomous creatures from the

Titans’ blood at Theriaca 8-12. Since both stories concern the origins of their respective poems’ important subjects (Zeus for Aratus and dangerous creatures for Nicander), I will read the sections as programmatic passages, focusing in particular on the effect of expressions of doubt. I will then compare the Dike excursus at Phaenomena 96-136 with the loss of Youth at Theriaca

343-58. As the most intricate mythological sections in the two poems, both stories narrate decline brought about by human folly and wickedness. At the same time, both Aratus and

Nicander liken the stories’ focal points to objects of scientific inquiry. Looking at how the poets track the changes in the relationship between these entities and humans, I will demonstrate that the stories encapsulate different processes of acquiring knowledge. The final section will address the question of truth and falsehood with respect to etymology, looking at Aratus’ discussion of the Hippocrene (Phaen. 216-24) and Helen’s injury of the haemorrhois (Ther. 309-19). Aratus,

the time of Aratus. Magnelli 2006: 185-204 comes to this conclusion on the basis of word choice and allusions. However, the dating and identity of Nicander, author of the Theriaca and Alexipharmaca, is fraught, since multiple sources, which consist of the Vitae, Suda, and a Delphian decree (Syll. Inscr. Gr.3 452) that confers proxenia to Nicander of Colophon, offer different dates and fathers. For discussion and solutions to this issue, see Pasquali 1913, Gow and Scholfield 1953: 6, Cameron 1995: 194-208 and Massimilla 2000: 132-35. 260 Although this chapter will examine only the most developed mythological sections in the two authors, other stories (not counting brief allusions) occur at Phaenomena 64-66 (Engonasin), 71- 73 (the Crown), 179-81 (Cepheus), 254-63 (the Pleiades), 268-71 (the Tortoise of Hermes), 637- 46 (Orion and the Scorpion), and 653-58 (Cassiopeia). The other stories in the Theriaca include 483-87 (the metamorphosis of Ascalabus into a gecko), 541-49 (the discovery of Alcibius’ root), 666-75 (another story about the discovery of an herb by Alcibius), and 835-36 (the death of Odysseus). 67 in citing the name Hippocrene (“Spring of the Horse”) as the primary evidence for the story about the Horse’s involvement in the creation of the spring on Mount Helicon, portrays etymology as a legitimate strategy. Nicander, however, destabilizes the logic behind etymology by presenting a Helen who does not live up to her dire name.

In comparing these stories, I will argue that Nicander highlights the doubt about the truth of his myths in order to reflect the difficulties in possessing exact knowledge about his subject matter, as it is derived from direct experience. Aratus, by contrast, employs his myths to emphasize the consistency of signs and hence their ability to be known, albeit by means of interpretation. The myths, as verbal interpretations of visible phenomena, provide a model for perceiving and comprehending the heavens. Ultimately, the poets’ respective treatments of myth represent two ways of grasping the truth: direct experience for Nicander and interpretation of signs for Aratus.

Origin Stories

Towards the beginnings of their works, Aratus and Nicander incorporate mythological stories that explain the origins of their respective subjects. Describing the catasterism of the

Bears (Phaen. 30-35), Aratus narrates the childhood of the infant Zeus, whom the Bears protected on Crete. Since Zeus established the signs that make up Aratus’ catalogue in the

Phaenomena, the god himself is essential to Aratus’ topic.261 Nicander similarly deals with the topic of mythical birth, mentioning the descent of dangerous creatures from the blood of the

Titans. Both stories, moreover, contain similar expressions that question the truth. Aratus employs εἰ ἐτέον δή (“if it is indeed true,” Phaen. 30) to introduce the story, while Nicander adapts this phrase to interrogate the truthfulness of Hesiod: εἰ ἐτεόν περ... Ἡσίοδος κατέλεξε (“if

261 For the role of Zeus in the Phaenomena, see Rostropowicz 2003: 219-28. 68

Hesiod recounted truly,” Ther. 10,12). As Kidd observes, the adjective ἐτεός (“true”) in Homer occurs in genealogical contexts and is thus particularly suited for a story about Zeus’ childhood.262 However, the exact effects of these phrases remain ambiguous. Do they serve to provide an objective tone, as Stinton suggests for Aratus,263 or is the effect to add doubt?

Furthermore, to what extent does Nicander’s use differ from Aratus? Taking these questions into consideration, I will argue that the two varying uses of the expressions offer a key to the ways to understand and know the two poets’ respective topics. For Aratus, εἰ ἐτεόν περ signals the apparent falsity of the accompanying tale, while at the same time calling attention to the actual truth, that is, the parallel roles of the Bears and Zeus as sources of protection. In this way, Aratus employs εἰ ἐτεόν περ to encourage the reader to interpret this parallel. Nicander, on the other hand, uses the phrase to convey doubt both about the story and the story’s source Hesiod, so representing the uncertainties faced when encountering unpredictable deadly creatures.

Aratus: Zeus and the Bears

Aratus begins the catalogue of the Northern constellations with a description of the two

Bears (25-30). He then features a mythological story that explains the reason for their ascent into the sky, introducing the tale with εἰ ἐτεὸν δή (“if it is indeed true,” 30). As Hunter points out, this expression “marks the first introduction of what cannot be seen, but must be narrated.”264 Unlike the previous description of the Bears in the sky, such a tale cannot be subjected to direct testing on visual grounds. Consequently, the truth value of this story becomes questionable, especially since Aratus deviates from the Hesiodic version of Zeus’ childhood (Theog. 477-84) by making

262 Kidd 1997: 184. For the use in Homer, see Od. 3.122, 9.529, and 16.300. 263 Stinton 1974: 63. 264 Hunter 1995. 69 the two Bears Zeus’ nurses on Crete.265 This predilection for including uncommon alternate versions of myths finds numerous instances throughout Hellenistic literature, most notably at the beginning of Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus.266 There, Callimachus’ speaker expresses doubt over the two possible locations for Zeus’ birthplace: Crete or Arcadia, and in his ironized treatment, he shows how the existence of multiple versions problematizes the truth value of myth: of the many versions, which, if any, is correct, and moreover, what criteria do we have for evaluating them?267 While here Aratus is only providing one account of Zeus’ birth, I argue that his use of εἰ

ἐτεὸν δή in fact serves to encourage the reader to examine the myth with respect to truth and falsehood, specifically how the details given in the myth correspond to the scientific subject matter of the poem.

Aratus confines the narrative to five lines, beginning with the catasterism of the Bears and ending with the Curetes’ deception of Cronus:

εἰ ἐτεὸν δή Κρήτηθεν κεῖναί γε Διὸς μεγάλου ἰότητι οὐρανὸν εἰσανέβησαν, ὅ μιν τότε κουρίζοντα Δίκτῳ ἐν εὐώδει, ὄρεος σχεδὸν Ἰδαίοιο, ἄντρῳ ἐγκατέθεντο καὶ ἔτρεφον εἰς ἐνιαυτόν, Δικταῖοι Κούρητες ὅτε Κρόνον ἐψεύδοντο.

If it is indeed true, these Bears ascended from Crete to heaven by the will of great Zeus, because, when he was then a boy in fragrant Dicton, near Mount Ida, they deposited him in a cave and nurtured him for a year, while the Dictaean Curetes were deceiving Cronus.

(Phaen. 30-35)

265 Kidd 1997: 185 and J. Martin 1998.2: 166 both comment that Aratus seems to be the first to give a version of this myth. Elsewhere, the goat Amaltheia is Zeus’ nurse on Crete, while the Great Bear is the Arcadian nymph Callisto, seduced by Zeus, but subsequently changed into a bear. See J. Martin 1998.2: 162-67. 266 McLennan 1977: 33. 267 Callim. Hymn 1.4-7. See Hopkinson 1984: 140. 70

At the beginning of each line, Aratus places a word indicating location: Κρήτηθεν (“from Crete,”

31), οὐρανόν (“heaven,” 32), Δίκτῳ (“Dicton,” 33),268 ἄντρῳ (“cave,” 34), and Δικταῖοι

(“Dictaean,” 35). This emphasis on location corresponds to the overall point of the narrative, that is, the Bears’ movement from Crete to their current situation in the heavens. Yet the reference to

Crete exudes connotations of falsehood. Indeed, the saying Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψευσταί (“Cretans are always liars”) is attributed to the Cretan Epimenides.269 Such a phrase in the mouth of a Cretan, who, according to the dictum is lying, creates a paradox. Aratus, by juxtaposing an expression concerning truth (εἰ ἐτεὸν δή) with a location famed for dishonesty, signals the possibility of falsehood entailed in the story, as well as paradox.

As both Effe and Fakas have observed,270 a paradox is created by the story’s portrayal of

Zeus. The description of Zeus as a child (μιν τότε κουρίζοντα, 32) conflicts with the image of

Zeus in the proem, where Aratus employed traditional hymnic elements to depict him as a force pervading the universe and responsible for all things.271 Aratus further suggests this all-powerful

Zeus with the phrase Διὸς μεγάλου ἰότητι (“by the will of great Zeus,” 31), and by coordinating it with the participle κουρίζοντα (“when he was a boy,” 32), Aratus makes the story present two contradictory versions of Zeus: one, an omnipotent deity who can generate new constellations through his will, and the other a child who was once dependent on the Bears for protection and

268 Like J. Martin 1998, I adopt the reading of the MSS Δίκτῳ, taken by the scholion in MDΔKVUA to be the neuter equivalent of Δίκτῃ. The scholiast, as well as Strabo (10.4.12), criticizes Aratus for an error, on the grounds that Mount Dicte is more than a thousand stades from Ida. To eliminate this error, Kidd 1981: 358 defends Grotius’ conjecture Λύκτῳ, since the mountain appears at Theog. 477 and 482 as the place where Zeus was sent for hiding on Crete. This emendation would thus make Aratus adhere to Hesiod. Kidd posits paleographic corruption caused by the proximity of Δικταῖοι in 35. 269 Epim. fr. 5 Kinkel. Kidd 1997: 185. The quotation appears at Callim. Hymn 1.8. 270 Effe 1977: 52 and Fakas 2001a: 183. 271 Phaen. 2-4. For an analysis of the traditional hymnic elements of the proem, see Fakas 2001a: 3-66. 71 nourishment. That Aratus places εἰ ἐτεὸν δή in the same position as κουρίζοντα and ἰότητι highlights this paradox.

This contradictory version of Zeus generates another paradox. As a deity, Zeus exerts his power through signs, which are characterized by their visibility.272 In the story, however, he is hidden in a cave (ἄντρῳ, 34), while the Curetes are deceiving Cronus (Δικταῖοι Κούρητες ὅτε

Κρόνον ἐψεύδοντο, 35). Such deception took place over the span of a year (εἰς ἐνιαυτόν, 34), and this prepositional phrase echoes ἐσκέψατο δ’ εἰς ἐνιαυτόν (“he organized for the year,” 11).

There, Aratus describes how Zeus fixed the constellations to follow a yearly and orderly cycle and thus allowed mortals consistency in their lives.273 The repetition of this phrase, which connoted regularity and visibility, in this context, however, is ironic, since it is referring only to a single year of action (as opposed to a yearly cycle) and not to visible signs, but rather concealment and deception. Indeed, Aratus calls attention to this inconsistency by making

ἐνιαυτόν mirror the placement of ἐψεύδοντο. Yet at the same time, the repetition of εἰς ἐνιαυτόν for both Zeus and the mythic Bears suggests a parallel between the two. Just as Zeus takes consideration for men, so too did the Bears nourish (ἔτρεφον, 34) him. Furthermore, the Bears’ depositing of Zeus in the cave corresponds to Zeus’ placement of them in the heavens, and

Aratus implies this analogy through the parallel placement of the verbs εἰσανέβησαν (“they ascended,” 32) and ἐγκατέθεντο (“they deposited,” 34).

272 Phaen. 6 and Phaen. 771-72. 273 Αὐτὸς γὰρ τά γε σήματ’ ἐν οὐρανῷ ἐστήριξεν / ἄστρα διακρίνας, ἐσκέψατο δ’ εἰς ἐνιαυτὸν / ἀστέρας οἵ κε μάλιστα τετυγμένα σημαίνοιεν / ἀνδράσιν ὡράων, ὄφρ’ ἔμπεδα πάντα φύωνται (“for it was Zeus himself who fixed the signs in the sky, making them into distinct constellations, and organized stars for the year to give the most clearly defined signs of the seasonal round to men, so that everything may grow without fail,” 10-14). 72

Aratus further develops this parallel between Zeus and the Bears in the subsequent lines, where he again focuses on them as constellations:

Καὶ τὴν μὲν Κυνόσουραν ἐπίκλησιν καλέουσιν, τὴν δ’ ἑτέρην Ἑλίκην. Ἑλίκῃ γε μὲν ἄνδρες Ἀχαιοὶ εἰν ἁλὶ τεκμαίρονται ἵνα χρὴ νῆας ἀγινεῖν· τῇ δ’ ἄρα Φοίνικες πίσυνοι περόωσι θάλασσαν. Ἀλλ’ ἡ μὲν καθαρὴ καὶ ἐπιφράσσασθαι ἑτοίμη πολλὴ φαινομένη Ἑλίκη πρώτης ἀπὸ νυκτός· ἡ δ’ ἑτέρη ὀλίγη μέν, ἀτὰρ ναύτῃσιν ἀρείων· μειοτέρῃ γὰρ πᾶσα περιστρέφεται στροφάλιγγι· τῇ καὶ Σιδόνιοι ἰθύντατα ναυτίλλονται.

And they call one of them Cynosura by name, and the other Helice. By Helice, Greek men at sea judge where it is suitable to steer ships, while the Phoenicians cross the sea, trusting in the other. And the one, Helice, appearing large at the beginning of the night is clear and easy to recognize, while the other is small, but better for sailors, for it revolves entirely in a smaller circle. By this one, the Sidonians sail the straightest.

(Phaen. 36-44)

Helice is said to guide Greek sailors because it appears clear (καθαρή, 40), easy to recognize

(ἐπιφράσσασθαι ἑτοίμη, 40), large (πολλή, 41), and at the beginning of the night (πρώτης ἀπὸ

νυκτός, 41). For the Phoenician sailors, Cynosura, although small (ὀλίγη, 42), allows for the straightest (ἰθύντατα, 44) sailing. In connecting the constellations’ appearance in the sky with their usefulness for navigation, Aratus again underscores the protecting function of the Bears.

Just as they nurtured Zeus on Crete, they prevent sailors from becoming lost at sea. Yet, unlike the mythical Bears, the constellations benefit humans through their visibility, and it is through this visibility that they parallel Zeus the omnipotent Stoic god, who first established the visible signs and whose status as source of order in the universe in fact mirrors the Bears’ placement at the beginning of the pole.274 Thus, in constructing this parallel between Zeus and the Bears,

274 Erren 1967: 33. 73

Aratus demonstrates how both qualify as “sources,” that is, they are starting points with which humans can begin to comprehend the order of the universe.

In addition to serving as sources, both Zeus and the Bears have two manifestations: a mythical as well as a scientific. Indeed, as Hutchinson has observed, throughout the

Phaenomena, Aratus vacillates between treating Zeus as a benevolent force, the figure of myth, as well as a synonym for the “sky.”275 While the scientific manifestations of Zeus (the benevolent force and the sky) and the Bears (the constellations) are defined by their visibility, the mythic versions are associated with concealment and hiding. The mythic Bears hid the child

Zeus. Motifs of hiding and concealment in fact suit mythic narration, since myths often account for causes that cannot be perceived directly and are thus concealed from human knowledge. At the same time, myths involve sentient beings that purposely hide things, just as the gods hid men’s livelihood according to the Works and Days.276 Yet, as Kidd and others have noted,277

Aratus, by portraying Zeus as a deity whose signs are evident for all, transforms this image of a concealing Zeus. Aratus thus reworks Hesiod’s Zeus, in the same way he modifies the Hesiodic account of Zeus’ childhood to integrate the Bears.

Such a reworking of Hesiodic myth is an act of interpretation. After beginning with visible signs (the Bear constellations), Aratus attributes their origin to a mythic scenario that he suffuses with elements of falsehood, concealment, and paradox—all concepts antithetical to the visible and ordered world of the Phaenomena. Indeed, Aratus’ choice to return to the Bears as constellations may indicate a subordination of the myth to the scientific concern of the poem.

Yet it is through the myth that the shared function of the Bears and Zeus as protectors becomes

275 Hutchinson 1988: 215. For Zeus meaning “sky,” see Phaen. 224, 253, 293, 899, and 936. 276 Hes. Op. 42. 277 Kidd 1997: 12. See also Solmsen 1966: 127 and Hunter in Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 230. 74 clearer. The myth, like the particular stars whose origin it explains, acts as a guide for understanding the order of the universe.

Nicander: Deadly Creatures

As in the Phaenomena, the first mythological story in the Theriaca appears at the beginning of the work, immediately after the proem:

Ῥεῖά κέ τοι μορφάς τε σίνη τ’ ὀλοφώϊα θηρῶν ἀπροϊδῆ τύψαντα λύσιν θ’ ἑτεραλκέα κήδευς, φίλ’ Ἑρμησιάναξ, πολέων κυδίστατε παῶν, ἔμπεδα φωνήσαιμι· σὲ δ’ ἂν πολύεργος ἀροτρεύς βουκαῖός τ’ ἀλέγοι καὶ ὀροιτύπος, εὖτε καθ’ ὕλην ἢ καὶ ἀροτρεύοντι βάλῃ ἔπι λοιγὸν ὀδόντα, τοῖα περιφρασθέντος ἀλεξητήρια νούσων.

Easily and in due order I will tell you of the appearance of beasts and their deadly bites that strike unforeseen, and the countering remedy for the injury, dear Hermesianax, most glorious of my many kinsmen. The hardworking ploughman, the cowherd, and the woodsman, whenever a beast casts its deadly fang into him in the woods or at the plough, would respect you, since you have knowledge of these means of averting sickness.

(Ther. 1-7)

With ῥεῖα (“easily,” 1) as the first word of the poem, 278 the poet’s voice develops the impression of a teacher confident in his ability to instruct the addressee Hermesianax (3). Hermesianax’s extensive knowledge of the remedies (περιφρασθέντος, 7) will in turn benefit the workers who might confront such threats in the wilderness.279 Yet, as Nicander indicates with ἀπροϊδῆ

278 For the relevance of ῥεῖα, which also occurs at Alex. 4, see Fakas 2001: 63n190 and Magnelli 2006: 196-97. As both scholars observe, Nicander, unlike Hesiod and Aratus (Phaen. 16-17), does not invoke the Muses. This absence can be interpreted as reflecting Nicander’s independence (cf. Overduin 2015: 185). For discussion of ῥεῖα in terms of the poem’s theme of knowledge, see Clauss 2006: 162-69. As Clauss 2006: 162-63 notes, the adverb appears multiple times in the proem to Hesiod’s Works and Days (Op. 5-7) to refer to the ease with which Zeus exerts his power. This parallel has led Clauss to detect an analogy between Nicander’s knowledge as poet and the power of Zeus. The Theriaca, for Clauss, “embodies a celebration of human knowledge” (182). 279 As Hunter 1995n13 points out, Nicander envisions three levels of communication: instructor, addressee, and this group of workers. 75

τύψαντα (“striking unforeseen,” 2),280 such beasts attack unpredictably. Since this erratic behavior renders it more difficult to learn about these creatures, we can observe that the coordination of ῥεῖα and ἀπροϊδῆ creates a tension. The teacher persona’s assumption of confidence clashes with the dubiousness of the complex subject matter. Such a tension, as I will demonstrate, manifests in the subsequent section about the origins of these creatures. In it,

Nicander combines verifiable scientific information with a dubious story that he connects with

Hesiod. At the same time, moreover, Nicander interrogates Hesiod’s authority with the phrase εἰ

ἐτεόν περ. As I will argue, this phrase, a modification of Aratus’ εἰ ἐτεὸν δή (Phaen. 30), encourages the reader to resolve the ambiguities. By comparing Nicander’s version with a similar Hesiodic account of creation from blood (Theog. 183-86), a reader can further appreciate the chaotic and vengeful nature of the creatures.

After the proem, the narrative runs as follows:

Ἀλλ’ ἤτοι κακοεργὰ φαλάγγια, σὺν καὶ ἀνιγρούς ἑρπηστὰς ἔχιάς τε καὶ ἄχθεα μυρία γαίης Τιτήνων ἐνέπουσιν ἀφ’ αἵματος, εἰ ἐτεόν περ Ἀσκραῖος μυχάτοιο Μελισσήεντος ἐπ’ ὄχθαις Ἡσίοδος κατέλεξε παρ’ ὕδασι Περμησσοῖο.

But as you know, they say that malicious spiders, along with painful reptiles and vipers and the countless burdens of the earth are from the blood of the Titans, if the Ascraean Hesiod recounted truly on the banks of the secluded Melisseeis by the waters of the Permessus. (Ther. 8-12)

The first two lines consist of a catalogue of dangerous creatures: spiders (φαλάγγια, 8), reptiles (ἑρπηστάς, 9), vipers (ἔχιας, 9), and the “countless burdens of the earth” (ἄχθεα μυρία

280 For the importance of this word, cf. Wilson 2015: 188. She notes, moreover, that the word occurs in the same position (first word of second line) as ἄρρητον (“unmentioned”) at Phaen. 2. See Bing 1990: 281-85, who detects in ἄρρητον a pun on Aratus’ name. 76

γαίης, 9). In listing these creatures, Nicander places special emphasis on their potential for causing harm. The adjective κακοεργά (“malicious,” 8), in particular, typically connotes purposeful intent,281 and Nicander further highlights this idea of deadliness with the adjective

ἀνιγρούς (“painful,” 8), a rare word found in a Callimachus fragment where it refers to an illness.282 Since Nicander’s persona previously mentioned means of warding off diseases

(ἀλεξητήρια νούσων, 7), it makes sense to see here a parallel between diseases and deadly creatures. As is the case with diseases, the symptoms caused by the bites of deadly creatures are directly experienced by humans, such as the farmer, shepherd, and carpenter mentioned in the proem (4-5), all of whom come into contact with the creatures while in the woods (καθ’ ὕλην, 5).

Indeed, Nicander notes the creatures’ habitat in the earth with ἄχθεα μυρία γαίης, a poeticized phrase that combines the Homeric ἄχθος ἀρούρης (“burden of the land”) with Empedocles’

ἔθνεα μύρια θνητῶν (“countless races of mortals”).283 In addition to indicating the creatures’ habitat in the ground, this phrase denotes the damage caused by the creatures. The χ in ἄχθεα repeats the continuing string of gutturals (κακοεργά, φαλάγγια, ἀνιγρούς, ἔχιας), mimicking the harshness of a bite.

While the contents of 8-9 consist of information that can be directly experienced, namely the effects and habitat of the dangerous creatures, the subsequent information about their origins from the blood of Titans cannot be. Indeed, the mention of Titans in 10 brings the mythical sphere into play, specifically the primeval time of creation and overthrow.284 With the verb

ἐνέπουσιν (“they say,” 10), Nicander attaches this Ur-myth to an unspecified “they.” It is

281 See Theoc. Id. 15.47 (applied to a robber) and Phaen. 131 (applied to a brigand’s knife). 282 Callim. Aet. 75.14. 283 For ἄχθος ἀρούρης, see Il. 18.104 and. Od. 20.379. For ἔθνεα μύρια θνητῶν, see Emp. 35.7 and 35.16 DK. 284 Cf. Sistakou 2012: 198. 77 impossible to determine whether this “they” refers to folk wisdom or to certain prose or poetic sources. Nevertheless, Nicander associates this unnamed group with a named source, Hesiod, who “recounted” (κατέλεξε, 12). Due to the association of this verb with catalogue verse,285 we can assume that Nicander is referring to Hesiod producing a catalogue. In particular, by bringing up the Titans, Nicander evokes the Theogony, the Hesiodic catalogue in which the Titans and their struggles with Zeus featured predominantly (674-731). At the same time, the geographic markers in 11-12 point to the Theogony. Περμησσοῖο in 12, for instance, appears in the same sedes as in Theogony 5. There, Hesiod describes how the Muses wash their skin in the stream of

Permessus on Mount Helicon.286 Moreover, the scholiast explains Μελισσήεντος (“Melisseis,”

11) as the place where the Muses manifested to Hesiod.287

Scholars have interpreted these references as signaling Hesiod’s authority on Nicander’s adaptation of catalogue verse.288 Indeed, Hesiod, for Nicander, is a source, in the same way that the Titans’ blood has engendered the deadly creatures. Yet the absence of this exact story in

Hesiod has troubled both the scholiast and modern scholars. While the scholiast accuses

Nicander of an error,289 Cazzaniga and Knoefel and Covi have posited various explanations for

285 Kühlmann 1973: 23-28. 286 καί τε λοεσσάμεναι τέρενα χρόα Περμησσοῖο (“washing their delicate skin in the Permessus”). 287 Σ ad 11c; Crugnola 1971: 39: <Μελισσήεντος>· Μελισσήεντα δέ φησιν τὸν τόπον τοῦ Ἑλικῶνος, ἐν ᾧ εὗρε τὰς Μούσας, ὃς οὕτως ἐκλήθη ἀπὸ Μελισσέως βασιλεύσαντος τοῦ τόπου (“He says that the Melisseis is a place on the Helicon, in which he [Hesiod] discovered the Muses. It was called so because of Melisseus who was king of the region”). 288 See Effe 1974b: 120, Hunter 2014: 26, and Overduin 2015: 185. 289 Σ ad 12a; Crugnola 1971: 39. The scholiast then provides other authors’ accounts of dangerous creatures’ origins, citing Acusilaus (FGrHist 2 F 14) and Apollonius of Rhodes (fr. 4 Powell, Foundation of Alexandria), who identified the blood of Typhon and Medusa, respectively, as the source of snakes. See also Argon. 4.1513-17. See, moreover, Jacques 2002: 78, who provides an overview of these sources. 78

Nicander associating this story with Hesiod.290 Although it is impossible to know whether

Nicander’s “error” was intentional or not, the use of εἰ ἐτεόν περ further complicates the Hesiod citation. Such a phrase, if taken literally, hints at the possibility of Hesiod not uttering the entire truth in his cataloging. Hesiod, as a result, is not an entirely credible source, not just for the mentioned story, but for anything that derives from his works. Indeed, the famous scene in the

Theogony already insinuates the possibility of Hesiod’s falsehood. The Muses, Hesiod’s inspirers, can tell “falsehoods like truth” (ψεύδεα ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, Theog. 28), as well as the truth. Since the geographic markers Περμησσοῖο and Μελισσήεντος recall this encounter with the Muses, we can see εἰ ἐτεόν περ as similarly pointing toward this scene and in turn the problematic implications of the Muses’ dual abilities.

Thus, in pairing Hesiod’s name with an expression of doubt and in recalling this meeting with the Muses, Nicander has infused his model with a mixture of authority and uncertainty, in the same way that the story blends verifiable scientific information with dubious mythical elements such as the Titans. The absence of the exact story in Hesiod only increases the difficulty. Nevertheless, Hesiod’s Theogony does feature a similar story of birth from blood:

ὅσσαι γὰρ ῥαθάμιγγες ἀπέσσυθεν αἱματόεσσαι, πάσας δέξατο Γαῖα· περιπλομένων δ’ ἐνιαυτῶν γείνατ’ Ἐρινῦς τε κρατερὰς μεγάλους τε Γίγαντας, τεύχεσι λαμπομένους, δολίχ’ ἔγχεα χερσὶν ἔχοντας.

For Gaia received all the bloody drops that gushed forth. As the years went by, she begat the mighty Furies and the great Giants, who gleamed with their armor, holding long spears in their hands.

(Theog. 183-86)

290 Cazzaniga 1975: 178 proposes that Nicander had identified a Titanomachia as a work of true Hesiodic authorship. Knoefel and Covi 1991: 53 hypothesize that Nicander saw the snake-legged Giants on the Altar of Zeus at Pergamon and conflated Giants with the Titans. 79

While Nicander deviates from the Hesiodic story with respect to agents, he preserves the essential point of the narrative. Blood from an act of vengeance results in the creation of many harmful beings: the Furies and Giants after Uranus’ castration by Cronus and deadly creatures from the Titans’ blood. In fact, the Furies and Giants share many similarities with the deadly creatures. Like snakes and spiders, the Furies and Giants are chthonic beings, sprung from the earth both literally (from the ground) and figuratively (born from Gaia). Moreover, Furies,

Giants, and deadly creatures all pose threats to the established order. Just as the Furies and

Giants battle Zeus and the Olympians,291 so too do deadly creatures, as Spatafora observes, undermine the social stability guaranteed by human exertion.292 Indeed, Nicander frequently depicts such creatures as sentient evils constantly menacing humans with their bites.293

Consequently, this modification of the Hesiodic narrative is appropriate. An oblique comparison with mythical paradigms of vengeance and violence (Furies and Giants) elucidates the deadly creatures’ harmfulness and thus the incessant need to be wary of them. The story, then, despite its dubiousness and absence in Hesiod, nevertheless communicates a truth, but one that must be appreciated by weighing Nicander’s version against the Hesiodic rendition.

The phrase εἰ ἐτεόν περ, in inserting doubt about Hesiod’s authority, urges the reader to undergo this process of discovery. The ambiguities of the Hesiod citation mirror the experiences of confronting deadly creatures. At the same time, εἰ ἐτεόν περ invites comparison with Aratus’ phrase εἰ ἐτεὸν δή and its accompanying narrative. Along with appearing at the beginning of the respective works, both mythical stories entail the origin of their poems’ major subjects: Zeus for

Aratus and dangerous creatures for Nicander. While the narrative at Phaenomena 30-35

291 For the rivalry between the Olympians and the Furies, see for instance Aesch. Eum. 225-34. 292 Spatafora 2008: 53. 293 For examples of personification, see Overduin 2015: 98-101. 80 illustrates Zeus’ continued and manifest concern for mankind, Nicander’s story emphasizes the vengeful hostility of dangerous creatures towards men. Thus, both narratives can be understood as imparting truths, albeit obliquely, employing mythical paradigms that shed light on observable phenomena.

Nicander’s presentation of the story, however, differs from Aratus’ in one crucial respect.

In the Phaenomena, the phrase εἰ ἐτεὸν δή precedes the story itself about the Bears and Zeus.

Nicander, on the other hand, uses εἰ ἐτεόν περ with reference to Hesiod, a literary source, as opposed to the mythical story. In doing so, Nicander injects a greater amount of doubt.

Questioning Hesiod not only problematizes the pertinent story, but anything that comes from

Hesiod, Nicander’s model for catalogue poetry. Moreover, unlike Aratus, who follows his story with a return to the visible world of the constellations (Phaen. 36-44), Nicander proceeds to another mythological story about a particular dangerous creature, the scorpion (Ther. 13-20; discussed below), leaving unresolved the question of Hesiod’s truth. In this way, Nicander replicates the uncertainties in learning about his subject matter, which, unlike the regularly visible constellations, is not always obvious and regular.

Myths of Decline

As aetiological myths influenced by Hesiod, Aratus’ Dike narrative (Phaen. 96-136) and

Nicander’s story of the Loss of Youth (Ther. 343-58) explain a particular phenomenon by narrating the decline and folly of mankind.294 The wickedness of the Bronze Age triggers the

294 In Aratus’ myth the progressive worsening of humanity over three generations recalls the Hesiodic Myth of Ages (Op. 106-201), which envisioned decline over five. Dike’s departure from Earth in Aratus mimics the flight of Nemesis and Aidos (Op. 197-201). For a discussion of Aratus’ imitation and revision of Hesiod, see Ludwig 1963: 440-42, Schwabl 1972: 336-56, and Fakas 2001a: 151-75. Nicander’s reference to Prometheus, who is obliquely called the “fire- thief” (πυρὸς ληΐστορα, 347), evokes Hesiod’s version of the myth at Theog. 521-616 and Op. 47-58. 81 goddess Dike’s catasterism, while the loss of Youth, caused by the foolishness of men handing it over to the ass, results in mankind’s experience of old age, the thirst caused by the dipsas’ bite, and the sloughing of skin by serpents. Since both passages stand out as the most elaborate passages in their respective works,295 they invite careful analysis of language and structure. Yet, as Schiesaro notes for Aratus’ Dike narrative, the tales should not be read in isolation from their larger works.296 Indeed, analysis of the two passages reveals that each author likens the story’s respective subject to objects of scientific inquiry. Throughout the narrative, Aratus’ goddess

Dike receives the attributes of a star, while Nicander portrays the gift of Youth like a drug. In doing so, I argue, both poets enable these passages to serve as comments on the ability to know the truth of their subject matter. Due to her visibility and regularity, Dike, as a sign, is a marker of truth, but one that must be interpreted by men. The gift of Youth, on the other hand, due to its loss, becomes symbolic of hidden knowledge that must be again acquired through direct experience when encountering unexpected threats.

Aratus: The Disappearance of Dike

Aratus prefaces his narrative about Dike with a reference to the Maiden constellation, which he describes as located beneath the feet of Boötes and holding the dazzling Spica in her hands (Ἀμφοτέροισι δὲ ποσσὶν ὕπο σκέπτοιο Βοώτεω / Παρθένον, ἥ ῥ’ ἐν χειρὶ φέρει Στάχυν

αἰγλήεντα, 96-97). In the subsequent lines, however, Aratus turns to a question appropriate for a personified goddess, namely the Maiden’s paternity, for which Aratus presents two options:

Astraeus or “some other” (τευ ἄλλου, 99). Since Hesiod identifies Zeus as the father of Dike, whom Aratus is equating with the Maiden constellation, we may read ἄλλου as an oblique

295 Gow and Scholfield 1953: 177. 296 Schiesaro 1996: 9. 82 reference to Zeus.297 This choice to suppress Zeus, the traditional father of Dike, as the unnamed other places more attention on the first option, Astraeus, whose name is connected etymologically with his status as father of the stars (ἄστρων ἀρχαῖον πατέρα, 99). By emphasizing Astraeus, the star father, as Dike’s possible parent, Aratus implies her eventual transformation into a constellation.298

The subsequent narrative in turn will continue these hints of a star-like Dike, as Aratus focuses on her changing location and visibility over the course of the Ages of Golden, Silver, and

Bronze. The regularly accessible Golden Age Dike is transformed into a constellation, who, despite her distance, remains as regularly visible as her Golden Age counterpart and attests to the existence of Justice. Van Noorden argues that the story of Dike’s departure from earth “descries the origin of the poem’s underlying principle that viewers must independently deduce meanings from signs.”299 Adopting Van Noorden’s emphasis on the importance of interpretation of signs, I will propose further that Aratus’ representation of a cyclical and star-like Dike, achieved by his ordered poetic language, reflects the circular processes of thought entailed in the interpretation of signs.

Aratus introduces his story as “another one that is current among men” (λόγος γε μὲν

ἐντρέχει ἄλλος / ἀνθρώποις, 100-1).300 The initial description of the Golden Age, moreover, continues this focus on men, as Dike is initially always available to them:

ὡς δῆθεν ἐπιχθονίη πάρος ἦεν,

297 Theog. 902 and Op. 256. Cf. Solmsen 1966: 124n4. 298 Kidd 1997: 217. According to Gee 2013: 24, “By turning Dike into a star, Aratus makes Hesiod’s open-ended narrative of decline into a closed loop in which the notion of cyclicality replaces the Hesiodic timeline.” 299 Van Noorden 2009: 260. 300 ἄλλος with λόγος evokes ἕτερον λόγον at Op. 106 (the introduction to the Myth of the Ages). However, as Gee 2013: 24-25 notes, Hesiod’s other story succeeds the Myth of Prometheus, while Aratus gives no other version. 83

ἤρχετο δ’ ἀνθρώπων κατεναντίη, οὐδέ ποτ’ ἀνδρῶν οὐδέ ποτ’ ἀρχαίων ἠνήνατο φῦλα γυναικῶν, ἀλλ’ ἀναμὶξ ἐκάθητο καὶ ἀθανάτη περ ἐοῦσα. καί ἑ Δίκην καλέεσκον· ἀγειρομένη δὲ γέροντας ἠέ που εἰν ἀγορῇ ἢ εὐρυχόρῳ ἐν ἀγυιῇ, δημοτέρας ἤειδεν ἐπισπέρχουσα θέμιστας.

How she actually used to dwell on earth, and came face to face with men, and never did she refuse the tribes of ancient men and women. But she sat in their midst, even though she was immortal. And they called her “Justice.” Gathering the elders either in the agora or on the broad street, she used to sing and urge them on to judgements for the people.

(Phaen. 101-7)

Despite the goddess’s immortal status (ἀθανάτη περ ἐοῦσα, 104), Aratus depicts her as both visible and accessible. While she resided on earth (ἐπιχθονίη, 100), never did she refuse these ancient men or women. Since the gods in Greek literature are typically concealed from normal mortal vision,301 the depiction of an accessible and visible goddess constitutes a paradox, and

Aratus highlights this paradox by making the adjective ἀθανάτη occupy the same metrical position as ἐπιχθονίη (“on earth”) in 101. Along with κατεναντίη (“face to face,” 102), which also occurs in this position, these two adjectives feature consonance (dental consonants and nus), as well as assonance. With this artful arrangement of the similarly sounding adjectives, all of which modify Dike, Aratus symbolizes the regularity of her availability during the Golden Age.

She appears in the same place in the line, just as she manifests always on earth. Indeed, even the participles ἀγειρομένη (“gathering,” 105) and ἐπισπέρχουσα (“urging,” 107) are situated at the end of the line. By such regularity, Dike resembles a star, and like a star, moreover, she receives a name. In this case, men name her Justice (καί ἑ Δίκην καλέεσκον, 105). As Van Noorden

301 For example, at Il. 1.198, Athena appears to Achilles alone. Hesiod describes his Dike as being “cloaked in air” (ἠέρα ἑσσαμένη, Op. 223). The same description applies to the immortal guardians who watch over mortals (Op. 255). 84 states, it is not until men call her Dike that she becomes Dike.302 Aratus thus, in noting this fact, signals the importance of humans in establishing the identity of Dike.

During the Silver Age, this regular availability of Dike diminishes, as she no longer favors humans:

ἀργυρέῳ δ’ὀλίγη τε καὶ οὐκέτι πάμπαν ἑτοίμη ὡμίλει, ποθέουσα παλαιῶν ἤθεα λαῶν ἀλλ’ ἔμπης ἔτι κεῖνο κατ’ ἀργύρεον γένος ἦεν ἤρχετο δ’ ὀρέων ὑποδείελος ἠχηέντων μουνάξ, οὐδέ τεῳ ἐπεμίσγετο μειλιχίοισιν.

She was accompanying the Silver Race only a little and no longer entirely readily, longing for the ways of the ancient men. But nevertheless she was still with that race. She used to come from resounding mountains near the evening time, alone, and she did not engage anyone in friendly words.

(Phaen. 115-19)

Aratus indicates this disruption of the formerly constant goddess by breaking the pattern established by the previous lines, situating the adjectives that modify Dike, ὀλίγη (“a little,” 115) and ἑτοίμη (“readily,” 115), in locations different than the fourth sedes. At the same time, the combination of these two adjectives recalls the descriptions of the constellations Cynosura and

Helice (Phaen. 40-42), thus expanding this notion of a star-like Dike. However, in repeating these adjectives for Dike, Aratus calls attention to the differences between the Bears and the

Silver Age Dike. While ὀλίγη and ἑτοίμη occurred in a discussion of the Bears’ utility for sailors, the words for Dike attest to her decreased helpfulness towards men. No longer (οὐκέτι, 115) is she ready, and unlike the Bears, her visibility is reduced.

Aratus elaborates on Dike’s reduced visibility in the subsequent lines. For instance, when upbraiding men for their wickedness (121), she threatens never to appear when they call (οὐδ’

302 Van Noorden 2009: 263. 85

ἔτ’ ἔφη εἰσωπὸς ἐλεύσεσθαι καλέουσιν, 122) and after abandoning them in the hills, she leaves all the people still looking towards her (τοὺς δ’ ἄρα λαοὺς εἰς αὐτὴν ἔτι πάντας ἐλίμπανε

παπταίνοντας, 127-28). As Schiesaro observes,303 Aratus, in making humans (λαοὺς πάντας

παπταίνοντας, 128) the passive recipients of Dike’s verbal action, indicates the shift from the mutual relationship between the two parties during the Golden Age. Such a mutual relationship involved her regular visibility and accessibility, and in altering her visibility, Dike becomes, in one sense, less like a constellation. Yet by absconding into the hills (ὀρέων ἐπεμαίετο, 127) and limiting her approachability, Dike comes closer to her eventual constellation status. Like a constellation, she is distant from men. Moreover, her absence forces men to exert effort in finding her, and indeed Kidd notes that the verb παπταίνοντας implies wistful sadness.304

With the advent of the Bronze Age (129-32), Dike’s withdrawal from mankind and ascent into the stars are finalized, since she despises their wicked ways:

καὶ τότε μισήσασα Δίκη κείνων γένος ἀνδρῶν ἔπταθ᾽ ὑπουρανίη: ταύτην δ᾽ ἄρα νάσσατο χώρην, ἧχί περ ἐννυχίη ἔτι φαίνεται ἀνθρώποισιν παρθένος, ἐγγὺς ἐοῦσα πολυσκέπτοιο Βοώτεω.

Dike, then coming to hate the generation of those men, flew into the sky. So she settled in that region where she still appears at night for men as the Maiden, near conspicuous Boötes.

(Phaen. 133-36)

The phrase ἔτι φαίνεται (“still appears,” 135) responds to ἔτι πάντας ἐλίμπανε παπταίνοντας

(“she left them all still looking,” 128), marking the contrast between her current visibility and her former absence during the Silver Age. Since she now dwells in the sky, in a fixed location, no longer must men search longingly for her. Indeed, Aratus suggests this regularity at the verbal

303 Schiesaro 1996: 11. 304 Kidd 1997: 228. 86 level by coordinating the words μισήσασα (“coming to hate,”133), ὑπουρανίη, (“into the sky,”

134), and ἐννυχίη (“at night, 135”), mimicking the artful parallel arrangement of adjectives featured in the Golden Age section. Yet, unlike the Golden Age version, this Dike in the sky is merely an object of viewing, rather than a personified goddess always available to men and their needs. As such, her presence in the sky requires interpretation on the part of the viewer, who must equate the goddess Dike of the narrative with the Maiden in the sky. Aratus calls attention to this fact by filling 136 with echoes from 96-97, where he introduced the constellation

Parthenos. Occupying the same sedes, παρθένος in 136 echoes παρθένον in 97, and the genitive

Βοώτεω ends lines 96 and 136. The adjective πολυσκέπτοιο (“conspicuous,” 137), moreover, recalls the verb σκέπτοιο (“you may regard”) in 96. The repetition of these words, which emphasize the constellation’s visibility, allows the passage to exhibit ring composition. 305

Such a circular structure, while attesting to the overall artfulness in the passage, serves a larger goal, mirroring the circular progression of Dike’s transformation, whereby, as a goddess, she began with the aspects of a constellation, only to be finalized as one. At the same time, the circular structure of the passage represents the circularity of thinking involved in interpreting a sign. For a sign to have a meaning, it must be constant and regular (like a constellation), but an amount of arbitrariness is at play. That is, there must be a preconceived notion brought in and then applied to the sign like Dike. In this way, the interpretation of signs is an active process, in which the agent who perceives is crucial in determining meaning.306 Aratus, in his account of

Dike, in fact emphasized the role of human beings as perceivers, including at the beginning of the story the dative ἀνθρώποις (“among men,” 101) and ending the story with ἀνθρώποισι (136).

305 For an analysis of the ring composition featured in the passage, see Gatz 1967: 63 and Schwabl 1972: 345. 306 Cf. Van Noorden 2015: 190. 87

Since Aratus paired these datives with λόγος ἄλλος (100) and φαίνεται (“appears,” 135), Aratus demonstrates how it is ultimately the task of humans to perceive a visible phenomenon and apply a rational account to it.

Nicander: The Disappearance of Youth

While Aratus labels his Dike narrative “another account” (λόγος ἄλλος) current among men, Nicander characterizes his tale, which he inserts in a discussion of the dipsas (“thirst- snake”), as an ancient μῦθος: ὠγύγιος δ’ ἄρα μῦθος ἐν αἰζηοῖσι φορεῖται (“so a very ancient tale is current among men,” 343). Since μῦθος can mean a fable, as well as a mythological narrative,307 the word is fitting for a story that narrates the interaction between anthropomorphized animals, the ass and the snake. Both animals cause the loss of the gift of

Youth, when the thirsty ass trades the snake Youth for a drink of water (Ther. 350-54). Since, as

I will show, Nicander suggests that Youth is like a drug, he allows this ornamental passage replete with kennings to encapsulate the larger scientific concerns of the Theriaca, namely the role of experience in discovering remedies against hidden and pernicious threats. Nicander’s use of riddling language not only forces the reader to figure out what the kennings mean and thus to enact the process of discovery, but also reveals the parallel roles of the ass and snake as unexpected threats.

Nicander establishes the physicality of Youth in the opening lines of the story, when he tells how Zeus first granted the gift to mortals only for them to waste it:

ὡς, ὁπότ’ οὐρανὸν ἔσχε Κρόνου πρεσβίστατον αἷμα, νειμάμενος κασίεσσιν ἑκὰς περικυδέας ἀρχάς ἱδμοσύνῃ νεότητα γέρας πόρεν ἡμερίοισι κυδαίνων· δὴ γάρ ῥα πυρὸς ληΐστορ’ ἔνιπτον. ἄφρονες, οὐ μὲν τῆς γε κακοφραδίῃς ἀπόνηντο· νωθεῖ γὰρ κάμνοντες ἀμορβεύοντο λεπάργῳ

307 For μῦθος as “fable,” see Van Dijk 1997: 84-88. 88

δῶρα· πολύσκαρθμος δὲ κεκαυμένος δίψῃ ῥώετο· γωλειοῖσι δ’ ἰδὼν ὁλκήρεα θῆρα οὐλοὸν ἐλλιτάνευε κακῇ ἐπαλαλκέμεν ἄτῃ σαίνων. Αὐτὰρ ὁ βρῖθος, ὃ δὴ ρ’ ἀνέδεξατο νώτοις ᾔτεεν ἄφρονα δῶρον, ὁ δ’ οὐκ ἀπανήνατο χρείω.

How, when the eldest offspring of Cronus acquired the heavens, he distributed illustrious realms separately to his brothers, and in his wisdom, he bestowed Youth as a gift for mortals, honoring them. For indeed, they denounced the fire-thief. Thoughtless ones! Because of their senselessness, they did not benefit from it! Feeling weary, they handed the gift over to the sluggish white-coated one. And that one, burning with thirst, rushed off, leaping. And when it saw the deadly trailing beast in its hole, it begged that one with fawning speech to ward off the terrible plight. But the snake asked the foolish one for a gift, the load that it carried on its back. The ass did not refuse the request. (Ther. 344-54)

Along with forming a pun that plays on the similarity between γέρας (“gift”) and γῆρας (“old age”),308 the juxtaposition of νεότητα (“Youth,” 346) and γέρας attributes a material form to the concept of Youth. Although the text does not explicitly indicate the shape of Youth, Overduin proposes that Youth could be an herb. His evidence for this claim is based on the parallel in the

Epic of Gilgamesh, in which a snake steals a plant-like coral of rejuvenation.309 In Aelian’s version, moreover, Youth is called “a drug that wards off old age” (φάρμακον γήρως

ἀμυντήριον).310 Applying this idea to the story is attractive, since a large portion of the Theriaca concerns the properties of herbs and plants and their roles in healing.311 In fact, Nicander also refers to Youth as a βρῖθος (“load,” 353). Since the noun βρῖθος occurs at two other places in the

Theriaca in the context of recipes for remedies, specifically two recipes that involve animal parts,312 its use here strongly implies that Nicander is imagining Youth as a kind of drug. The

308 Cf. Reeve 1996-7: 246 and Van Dijk 1997: 135. 309 Overduin 2015: 316-17. 310 Ael. NA 6.51. 311 The section detailing the herbs and remedies against snakebites begins at 493 and continues until 714. The remedies against other creatures are listed in 837-956. 312 For βρῖθος, see lines 102 and 712. The former is a prophylactic ointment against snakebites, consisting of two snakes mating in the crossroads, the marrow of a freshly killed stag, and rose 89 story, thus, recounts how men originally possessed knowledge of a remedy, but ultimately lost it in their folly (κακοφραδίῃς, 348).313

The loss of Youth occurs at the hands of an ass and a snake, both whom are designated by allusive kennings. The ass is a “sluggish white-coated one” (νωθεῖ λεπάργῳ, 349),314 and the snake is the “deadly trailing beast” (ὁλκήρεα θῆρα οὐλοόν, 351-52). The use of such riddling language is appropriate for the fable format. Indeed, Nagy notes that ainos, the Archaic word for fable, denotes “an allusive tale containing an ulterior purpose.”315 Here, however, the allusive kennings contribute to the overall theme of the concealment of Youth, working in conjunction with the famous acrostic embedded in 345-53.316 Like the acrostic, the kennings demand decipherment from the reader to determine the identity of the animals. Through these particular allusive kennings, which evoke the technical portions of the poem, Nicander constructs an analogy between the ass and snake, portraying both as dangerous and unpredictable creatures.

oil. At 700-13, the final recipe against snakebites, Nicander describes a mixture of sea-turtle blood, wild cumin, and the curd from a hare’s stomach. 313 Sullivan 2013: 241-42 argues that Nicander’s other acrostic at Alexipharmaca 266-74, which can be read with Jacques’ emendation of ἀσκηροῦ (“a type of chestnut”) for the MSS καστηνοῦ (“chestnut”) in 269, represents the antidote to the Loss of Youth. In these lines, Nicander gives the recipe against the deadly ἐφήμερον. In addition to having the acrostic with Nicander’s name, both passages feature verbal similarities, such as the verb ὀπάζει (Alex. 270 and Ther. 356), as well as a reference to Prometheus (Alex. 273 and Ther. 347). Since the Alexipharmaca passage describes the remedy against a deadly poison, Sullivan (241-42) argues that “the poet transforms the ‘victory over man’ in the Theriaca acrostic into a ‘victory of man’ in its Alexipharmaca passage, and a double victory for the man himself, ΝΙΚΑΝΔΡΟΣ.” 314 Following Hopkinson 1988, Jacques 2002, and Overduin 2015, I adopt the dative singular, as opposed to the nominative plural νωθεῖς, which Gow and Scholfield print and take to modify humans. The strongest evidence for reading the adjective as dative to modify the ass is an allusion to Il. 11.558-59, where the adjective is also applied to an ass. 315 Nagy 1999: 237 and Van Dijk 1997: 79-82. 316 See Lobel 1928: 114 for the discovery of the acrostic. For a summary of the functions of the Nicander’s acrostic, see Overduin 2015: 312-14. The acrostic can act as a seal (σφραγίς), a reminder for the reader of Aratus’ ΛΕΠΤΗ acrostic at Phaen. 783-87, and as a means of preserving the poet’s immortal fame. This wish for immorality is especially pertinent in the context of the loss of Youth. 90

Forms of the adjective νωθής occur twice in previous sections of the poem, both times in connection with the movement of snakes. At 165 Nicander relates how the aspis sluggishly throws off its sleep from its body (νωθρὴ μὲν ἀπὸ ῥέθεος βάλεν ὕπνον).317 The adjective νωθής appears in the discussion of the viper, modifying the noun ὁλκῷ: νωθεῖ δ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα διὰ

δρυμὰ νίσεται ὁλκῷ (“with its sluggish coil, it moves here and there through the thickets,” 222).

By using an adjective that was applied previously for snakes, Nicander implies a connection between snakes and the ass of the story. Like the aspis and the viper, the ass seems innocuous due to its normal sluggish movement. Yet, as Nicander makes clear with πολύσκαρθμος

(“leaping,” 350) and ῥώετο (“rushed off,” 351), the ass, burning with thirst (κεκαυμένος αὐχένα

δίψῃ, 350), quickens its movement and becomes active.318 In this way, the ass of the story compares to the aspis, who, when perceiving a new sight or sound, raises its bristling head in a terrifying manner (λευγαλέον δ’ ἀνὰ μέσσα κάρη πεφρικὸς ἀείρει, 167). It is in this aroused state when the snake becomes dangerous. In the story, the ass, while not dangerous and purposely malicious, does harm humans. Its desperation and foolishness make it relinquish the precious gift of Youth, cementing the loss from mankind.

While the adjective νωθεῖ produces an implicit parallel between the ass in the story and snakes, Nicander’s description of the snake as a “deadly trailing beast.” (ὁλκήρεα θῆρα οὐλοόν,

352) in the fable also matches the poem’s overall depiction of snakes. With the two adjectives

ὁλκήρεα (“trailing”) and οὐλοόν (“deadly”), Nicander indicates two important aspects of the

317 Νωθρός is a variant of νωθής. Jacques 2002: 15 prints the nominative νωθρή, preserved in Parisinus suppl. gr. 247. Gow and Scholfield 1953: 38 print νωθῆ, taking the adjective to agree with ὕπνον. Overduin’s (2015: 165) text shows νωθρῆ, a typo remedied in the commentary (251). 318 Due to the ass’s quick movement in the story, Hopkinson 1988: 145 wants to translate νωθής as “stupid.” However, as Jacques 1969: 48 contends, the adjective πολύσκαρθμος is not a natural characteristic, but rather indicates the ass’s current movement. 91 snake: its movement and its lethalness. Moreover, the dative noun γωλειοῖσι (“in its hole,” 351) refers to the snake’s habitat, a topic frequently mentioned by Nicander in his treatment of individual snakes.319 That snakes dwell in hidden locations like holes increases their deadliness, since their concealment accounts for the suddenness of their bites. Thus, in referencing the snake’s habitat here, Nicander corroborates the characterization of snakes as dangerous creatures, as was developed in the proem with the adjective ὀλοφώϊα (“deadly,” 1). In fact,

Nicander here adopts language from the proem.320 The placement of θῆρα (“beast”) at the end of

351 recalls θηρῶν in 1, and the participle ἰδών (“having seen,” 351), modifying the ass, picks up

ἀπροϊδῆ (“unforeseen”) in 2. In repeating this vocabulary from the proem, Nicander makes the story an enactment of the hypothetical situation posed in the proem. Like the workers in the woods or in the fields, the ass sees the snake unexpectedly, and although it is not attacked, the encounter results in harm for mankind.

In the final four lines of the section, Nicander summarizes the ramifications of this loss of

Youth:

ἐξότε γηραλέον μὲν ἀεὶ φλόον ἑρπετὰ βάλλει ὁλκήρη, θνητοὺς δὲ κακὸν περὶ γῆρας ὀπάζει· νοῦσον δ’ ἀζαλέην βρωμήτορος οὐλομένη θήρ δέξατο, καί τε τυπῇσιν ἀμυδροτέρῃσιν ἰάπτει.

From this point, trailing serpents always cast aside their skin in old age, but evil old age attends mortals. The deadly beast received the disease of thirst from the brayer and imparts it with its feeble blows. (Ther. 355-58)

319 The word occurs earlier in a description of the habitat of the dipsas: ἢ ὅτε σὺν τέκνοισι θερειομένοισιν ἀβοσκής / φωλειοῦ λοχάδην ὑπὸ γωλεὰ διψὰς ἰαύῃ (“or when the unfed dipsas sleeps with the children it broods, lurking in the recesses of its hole,” 124-25). 320 Ῥεῖά κέ τοι μορφάς τε σίνη τ’ ὀλοφώϊα θηρῶν / ἀπροϊδῆ τύψαντα λύσιν θ’ ἑτεραλκέα κήδευς (“easily and in due order I will tell you of the appearance of beasts and their deadly bites that strike unforeseen, and the countering remedy for the injury,” 1-2). 92

As in the prior lines, Nicander presents abstract physiological states like old age and thirst as bodily objects. Serpents throw aside their old age in the form of their sloughed skin, and old age attends (ὀπάζει, 356) men. Moreover, thirst is something that can be received (δέξατο, 358) and in turn given in the form of the dipsas’ bites. In emphasizing the physicality of these states,

Nicander points to the importance of directly experiencing such phenomena. Old age and thirst, while not literal objects, do nevertheless wreak changes on a body, the effects of which can be perceived and actually felt by people.

In this way, the focal point of Nicander’s story, Youth, differs greatly from Aratus’ star/goddess Dike, who, while visible in the sky, does not directly affect humans. In fact, her departure still allows men to enjoy her as a sign. In Nicander’s story, Youth becomes forever lost from humans, perceivable only in the phenomenon of snakes shedding their skin. Moreover,

Nicander’s story inverts the development as described in Aratus’ Dike narrative. While Aratus tracked the shift from a goddess on earth to a constellation in the sky, Nicander demonstrates how a gift from heaven, Youth, fell into the possession of the earth-dwelling snake. For this reason, it makes sense that Nicander continues the kennings in the concluding lines, calling the ass “the brayer” (βρωμήτορος, 357) and the snake the “deadly beast” (οὐλομένη θήρ, 357). With this sustained use of riddling language, Nicander thus represents the persistent loss of Youth, as well as constant threat of the dipsas snake.

Etymological myths

Just as aetiological myths offer rationalizations for the current state of the world, etymology tries to uncover the true explanation (etumos logos) behind a name. For instance, according to an etymology featured in Plato’s Cratylus (396a), the two roots of Zeus’ name

(Ζην) and (Δι) reflect the fact that life (ζῆν) occurs through him (δι’ ὃν). By connecting Zeus’

93 two names with his power to produce life, such a rationale presupposes a direct correspondence between the name of a thing and its essence. As a result, etymology, as a technique, is not only an investigation of a name, but reveals the true essence of a thing. While Socrates in the Cratylus challenges the idea that language directly represents reality, 321 the Stoic philosophers made serious use of etymology, especially when interpreting earlier poetry and the names of the gods.322 As Long observes, knowing the reasons for a god’s name allows an understanding of the original beliefs of the people who named the gods.323 Through etymology, myths thus can contain germs of truth.

Concurrent with the Stoic adoption of the technique, etymologies and etymological wordplays, while already popular in Greek poetry, occurred more frequently in Hellenistic poetry.324 O’Hara characterizes these Hellenistic etymologies as more learned, often obscure, and more closely tied to aetiological poetry’s appropriation of both the literary past and the mythological past.325 Indeed, in Aetia fragment 2, which alludes to Hesiod’s meeting with the

Muses on Mount Helicon, Callimachus obliquely calls the Hippocrene the “footprint of the swift horse” (ἴχνιον ὀξέος ἵππου, fr. 2.1) in reference to the story that the horse Pegasus created the spring by kicking the ground. Hence, the spring gained the name Hippocrene.

321 Socrates at 435c suggests that names were originally divine in origin and significant, but became corrupted over time. For a discussion of the Cratylus, see Silverman 1992: 25-71. As Sedley 2003: 28 argues, “The etymologies are, broadly speaking, exegetically correct, in that they do recover the original beliefs of the name-makers, but it remains a moot point whether they are philosophically correct, that is whether the beliefs they recover for us are true beliefs.” 322 See Chrysippus, SVF 2.1062: Ζεὺς μὲν οὖν φαίνεται ὠνομάσθαι ἀπὸ τοῦ πᾶσι δεδωκέναι τὸ ζῆν. Δία δὲ αὐτὸν λέγουσιν, ὅτι πάντων ἐστὶν αἴτιος καὶ δι’ αὐτὸν πάντα (“So, he seems to have been named Zeus from that fact that he has given life to all. They call him Dia because he is responsible for all things and all things occur through him”). 323 Long 2006 (1992): 224. 324 For a list of examples, see Kraus 1987: 22-41 and O’ Hara 1996: 7-16. 325 O’ Hara 1996: 41. 94

Aratus: The Hippocrene

In the Phaenomena, Aratus likewise tackles the etymology of this spring, by narrating a story (Phaen. 216-21) that equates the Horse constellation with the horse responsible for the spring. While Aratus defends this story by citing the mythical tradition as well as observable data, my analysis will demonstrate that his case for the story is based ultimately on the name

Hippocrene. In making etymology the prime evidence for this aetiological myth, Aratus, I argue, portrays the technique of etymology as an adequate means of grasping his subject matter of constellations. Indeed, it is only through the act of naming that constellations can be recognized easily in the sky. Nicander, on the other hand, while also invoking an etymology (Helen’s name) at Theriaca 309-19, undercuts the logic by questioning the appropriateness of Helen’s name.

After describing the Horse constellation’s appearance in the sky (204-15), Aratus transitions into the story about the creation of the Hippocrene: κεῖνον δὴ καί φασι καθ᾽ ὑψηλοῦ

Ἑλικῶνος / καλὸν ὕδωρ ἀγαγεῖν εὐαλδέος Ἱππου κρήνης (“that one, they say, from the heights of

Mount Helicon brought forth the fine water of the fertilizing Hippocrene,” 216-17). Unlike the constellation fixed in the sky, the phenomenon narrated in the story, namely this Horse’s involvement in the spring’s creation, cannot be subjected to direct visual confirmation. Rather, as

Aratus signals with the third person plural verb φασι (“they say,” 216), the story’s truth is based on the authority of an unspecified “they,” which could refer either to the oral tradition in general or to particular literary sources, such as Hesiod. Although the Theogony features both the

Hippocrene and the horse Pegasus,326 Hesiod does not credit Pegasus with the creation of the spring. Kidd as a result posits that the story is an invention on Aratus’ part, similar to the story of

326 For the Hippocrene, Theog. 6. For Pegasus, see Theog. 281. According to Hesiod, Pegasus’ name comes from the fact that he was born next to the streams (πηγάς) of the Ocean (Theog. 282). Kidd 1997: 262 proposes that πηγαῖς in 218 recalls this etymology. 95 the Bears.327 For this mythical story, however, Aratus appeals not only to the authority of the oral tradition, but also to name itself, placing Ἱππου κρήνης emphatically at the end of 216. This name, which literally means “spring of Horse,” implies a close connection between the Horse and the water of the spring, and Aratus highlights this connection by coordinating κεῖνον (“that one”) at the beginning of 216 with καλόν (“fine,” 217), the adjective that modifies ὕδωρ

(“water,” 217). This adjective, moreover, along with εὐαλδέος (“fertilizing,” 217) emphasizes the spring’s corporality. Despite the impossibility of confirming the story through perception, these qualities of the water can be observed presently on Mount Helicon, just like the Horse constellation in the sky. Thus, in focusing on the visibility of the spring, Aratus strengthens the parallel between the Horse and the water as is embodied by the name Hippocrene.

The emphasis on the name, as well as the connection between the Horse and spring, is further developed in the subsequent four lines, in which Aratus restates and expands the content of 216-17:

οὐ γάρ πω Ἑλικὼν ἄκρος κατελείβετο πηγαῖς, ἀλλ᾽ Ἵππος μιν ἔτυψε: τὸ δ᾽ ἀθρόον αὐτόθεν ὕδωρ ἐξέχυτο πληγῇ προτέρου ποδός: οἱ δὲ νομῆες πρῶτοι κεῖνο ποτὸν διεφήμισαν Ἱππου κρήνην.

For not yet was the peak of Helicon flowing with springs, but the Horse struck it, and from that very place a flood of water gushed out at the stroke of his front foot. The shepherds were the first to call that draught the Hippocrene.

(Phaen. 218-21)

Each line in the section corresponds to an element in 216-17. Ἑλικὼν ἄκρος (“the peak of

Helicon”) in 218 picks up ὑψηλοῦ Ἑλικῶνος (“the heights of Helicon”) in 216, repeating the focus on the location, while the Ἵππος (“Horse”) and ὕδωρ (“water”) recur in 219-20, where

327 Kidd 1997: 261. 96

Aratus specifies that the Horse yielded the water by kicking the ground with its front foot.

Finally, Ἱππου κρήνην at the end of 221 mirrors Ἱππου κρήνης in 217. By mentioning the name again, this time with reference to the act of naming by the shepherds, Aratus demonstrates how the name was a consequence of the narrated phenomenon, and as such, represents a piece of evidence for the story. Yet in reusing the name as evidence, Aratus causes the passage to exhibit a circular structure. The name, invoked in both the introduction and the conclusion of the story, serves as both a source for the story and the thing that justifies it. Indeed, at the verbal level, this circularity manifests through the chiastic arrangement generated by ὕδωρ (217), Ἱππου (217),

Ἵππος (219), and ὕδωρ (219). Combined, these words reinforce the connection between the

Horse and the water and thus the name Hippocrene.

The circular structure of the section culminates in the final lines, in which Aratus concludes by again referring to the spring and the Horse constellation as visible objects:

Ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν πέτρης ἀπολείβεται, οὐδέ τοι αὐτὸ Θεσπιέων ἀνδρῶν ἑκὰς ὄψεαι· αὐτὰρ ὅγ’ Ἵππος ἐν Διὸς εἱλεῖται, καί τοι πάρα θηήσασθαι.

But it flows from the rock, and you will never see it far from the men of Thespiae. But the Horse revolves in the realm of Zeus, and it is possible for you to behold.

(Phaen. 222-24)

Not only does Aratus emphasize the spring and Horse’s visibility with the verbs ὄψεαι (“you will see,” 223) and θηήσασθαι (“to behold,” 224), he also focuses on their movement. ἀπολείβεται

(“flows,” 218) responds to κατελείβετο (“was flowing,” 216) to indicate the contrast between present and past, while εἱλεῖται (“revolves,” 224) refers to the constant circular motion of the constellation. As Hunter comments, the visibility of the spring in Boeotia and the Horse in the

Heavens seems mutually reinforcing.328 However, despite their shared visibility, nothing about their physical existence necessitates a direct relationship between the two. Indeed, Aratus presents a contrast between the two entities, noting their separate locations. While the spring exists in the sphere of men (Θεσπιέων ἀνδρῶν, 223), the Horse moves in the heavenly sphere of

Zeus (ἐν Διός, 224). In mentioning this distance between the spring and Horse, Aratus somewhat undercuts the idea of their closeness, as was developed by the myth and particularly the name

Hippocrene, upon which the myth ultimately hinges. Yet in doing so, Aratus points to the logic behind aetiological myth as well as the etymology. Both processes impose a relationship between two separate objects, creating order to facilitate understanding.

This process of associating two separate objects is analogous to the task of identifying the constellations. Stars in the sky are perceived as a particular figure, such as an object, animal, or mythological character, and receive a name. This association with a name, while ultimately arbitrary, is the only way by which humans can comprehend the regularity and order of the cosmos. Indeed, Aratus makes this point explicit at 375-82, when mentioning the person of the past who first organized and named the constellations.329 Because of this, no wonder exists about the stars (382). At the same time, the Phaenomena includes frequent references to names, as well as the act of naming.330 For instance, in his description of the Bears Aratus gives their alternate designation: Ἄρκτοι ἅμα τροχόωσι· τὸ δὴ καλέονται Ἅμαξαι (“The Bears run together, for this

328 In Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 245. 329 Pendergraft 1990: 104 deems this explanation contradictory to the idea that Zeus formed the constellations (Phaen. 10-11) and to the catasterism narratives (e.g. Phaen. 30-35). For discussions of this passage, see Kidd 1997: 320 and Volk 2012: 220-22. 330 For the emphasis on names in the Phaenomena, see Pendergraft 1995: 56. For examples of naming in the Phaenomena, see 66 (Engonasin), 164 (Goat of Zeus), 245 (celestial knot), 261 (names of the Pleiades), 315 (Aetos), 331-32 (Sirius), 399 (Water), 444 (Hydra), 476 (Milk), 544 (Zodiac circle), and 898 (Asses). 98 reason they are dubbed the ‘Chariots,’” 27). By coordinating τροχόωσι (“they run”) and

καλέονται (“are dubbed”) in the chiastic structure, Aratus demonstrates the direct relationship between the Bears’ movement in the sky and their name Ἅμαξαι, thus pointing to the logic that underlies etymology, namely that a name is a reflection of an object’s nature. While the Stoics generally favored etymology, in the case of constellations, the name is an even closer reflection of identity. Calling a constellation a different figure would involve adding or subtracting certain stars, changing its makeup. Thus, “being called” is the equivalent of “being.”

This overall importance of naming and etymology to Aratus’ subject matter of constellations explains the centrality of the name Hippocrene to the myth. Since, as I have shown, the name serves as the primary evidence for the story as well as its proof, Aratus’ treatment of the myth reflects how information can be extracted from names and how in turn this information receives confirmation through visual means. Although the citation of the Horse and spring as visual objects seems to support this story on the surface, Aratus’ reliance on circular argumentation and the mythical tradition throws doubt on the story’s validity. Yet, as with the other myths, we must not consider truth in literal terms, but rather how this story can be construed as symbolically true. Despite their physical distance, the spring and Horse constellation are both subject to Zeus’ influence, which, according to Stoic philosophy, pervades all things. As a result, there is logic behind the name Hippocrene, since it conceptualizes an affinity between the Horse and the spring.

Nicander: Bane Helen and the haemorrhois

Just as the etymology of the Hippocrene figures in the story at Phaenomena 216-24,

Nicander also addresses this issue at Theriaca 309-19. Recounting how Helen’s injury of female haemorrhois produced this snake’s crooked movement, Nicander refers to her as Αἰνελένη

(“Bane Helen,” 310). As a combination of the αἰν- root and Helen, such an appellation embodies her destructive qualities, alluding to her status as casus belli for the Trojan War. This image of a destructive and culpable Helen appears in Homer, Alcaeus, and Aeschylus.331 However, the mythical tradition surrounding the figure of Helen was by no means uniform, as authors construed in various ways her motivations for absconding with Paris, her blameworthiness for the war, and even her presence in Troy.332 A variegated and contested portrayal problematizes the use of this ominous name. It thus becomes difficult to make a direct correlation between a name and thing. Yet in addition to recalling this varied mythical tradition, Nicander’s subsequent presentation of Helen in the narrative further destabilizes this notion that the name “Bane Helen” reflects her being. As I will demonstrate, Nicander, through the details and language of the passage, constructs a parallel between Helen and snakes. This parallel, while on the one hand supporting the image of Helen’s deadliness, ultimately undercuts this representation. Unlike some of her previous manifestations, this Helen is not wholly evil or seductive.

The myth concludes the section devoted to the haemorrhoos (282-319), a type of snake characterized by horns on the head (291-92), sidewinding movement (294-95), and bites that produce hemorrhaging (301-2).333 Nicander singles out the bite of the female as particularly

331 At Il. 6.344-48, Helen laments how she was not destroyed by a storm before causing so much suffering and despair. For attribution of blame, see Alcaeus 283.14-15 and Aeschylus Ag. 717- 22; 727-36. 332 For Helen’s motivations, see Sappho 16 and Gorgias’ Helen 6. In the Palinode, Stesichorus absolves Helen of blame by denying that she ever went to Troy (fr. 192 PMGF Davies). Herodotus in the Histories (2.113) preserves a similar story, which he attributes to the Egyptian priests. Proteus detained her in Egypt until Menelaus’ arrival. In Euripides’ Helen, Helen remained in Egypt, while her phantom double went to Troy. For some discussions of the rich tradition surrounding Helen, see Austin 1994, Naddaff 2009: 73-97, and Blondell 2013. 333 See Spatafora 2007: 126 for a list of possible identifications of this snake. These include the cerastes vipera and the echis carinatus. 100 deadly: μήποτέ τοι θήλει’ αἱμορροῒς ἰὸν ἐνείη (“may the female haemorrhois never inject its venom in you,” 305).334 This focus on the female snake’s bite leads into the story:

εἰ ἔτυμον, Τροίηθεν ἰοῦσ’ ἐχαλέψατο φύλοις Αἰνελένη, ὅτε νῆα πολύστροιβον παρὰ Νεῖλον ἔστησαν βορέαο κακὴν προφυγόντες ὁμοκλήν

If it is true, returning from Troy, Bane Helen became angry at their species, when the crew beached the ship next to the tempestuous Nile, after they fled the evil onslaught of the North Wind.

(Ther. 309-11)

These three lines establish the context of the story, which takes place in Egypt (πολύστροιβον

παρὰ Νεῖλον, 310) while a storm delays Helen and her crew during their return from Troy. While previous authors situated Helen in Egypt, Nicander’s story is the earliest extant account of

Helen’s encounter with this snake.335 Overduin, as a result, posits that the story might be an invention from Nicander, who introduces the tale with the phrase εἰ ἔτυμον (“if it is true,”

309).336 In doing so, Nicander implies uncertainty about the truth value of the story.337 Indeed, the story’s mythological content precludes its verifiability. At the same time, if Helen never went to Troy, as in the versions of Stesichorus, Herodotus, and Euripides’ Helen, a story that happens during her return would be false automatically. Nicander alludes to this issue by juxtaposing

ἔτυμον and Τροίηθεν (“from Troy,” 309). Moreover, the use of ἔτυμον recalls the fragment of

Stesichorus’ Palinode (192 PMGF Davies) as preserved in Plato’s Phaedrus (243a): οὐκ ἔστ’

ἔτυμος λόγος οὗτος / οὐδ’ ἔβας ἐν νηυσὶν ἐυσσέλμοις / οὐδ’ ἵκεο πέργαμα Τροία (“this story is

334 The side effects of this bite include swelling gums, bleeding fingernails, and loose teeth. Overduin 2017: 150 characterizes the construction as a “tricolon of horror.” 335 For Helen and Menelaus’ time in Egypt, see Od. 4.351-592. 336 Overduin 2015: 297. 337 Cf. Arat. Phaen. 30 (εἰ ἐτεὸν δή) and Ther. 10 (εἰ ἐτεόν περ). 101 not true; you did not go in the benched ships, you did not reach the citadel of the Troy”). Aside from adopting Stesichorus’ ἔτυμος, Nicander echoes νηυσὶν and Τροία with νῆα (310) and

Τροίηθεν (309). Yet whereas the three lines of Stesichorus generate an emphatic denial of a pre- existing tale, namely that Helen sailed to Troy, Nicander’s use of the conditional phrase εἰ

ἔτυμον establishes doubt.

Yet the phrase εἰ ἔτυμον, I argue, is vague and does not necessarily interrogate only the veracity of the narrative, but also the suitability of the compounded designation Αἰνελένη.

As a combination of the αἰν- root and the name Helen, such an appellation stresses her deadliness,338 and its appearance near the verb ἐχαλέψατο (“became angry,” 309) seems appropriate. However, Αἰνελένη occupies the same sedes as εἰ ἔτυμον, and I read this parallel placement as suggesting that εἰ ἔτυμον is directed towards Αἰνελένη. Indeed, both words begin with similar vowel sounds: εἰ and αἰ. Through this reading, the name Bane Helen, not the story, constitutes the subject of questioning. The issue is not whether Helen committed the acts in the following narrative, but whether Bane Helen did.

At the same time, the choice to call Helen “Bane Helen” calls to the mind the famous pun in the second stasimon of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, where the chorus contemplates the aptness of

Helen’s name:

τίς ποτ’ ὠνόμαζεν ὧδ’ ἐς τὸ πᾶν ἐτητύμως — μή τις ὅντιν’ οὐχ ὁρῶμεν προνοί- αισι τοῦ πεπρωμένου γλῶσσαν ἐν τύχαι νέμων — τὰν δορίγαμβρον ἀμφινει- κῆ θ’ Ἑλέναν; ἐπεὶ πρεπόντως ἑλένας ἕλανδρος ἑλέ- πτολις ἐκ τῶν ἁβροτίμων

338 This compounded name occurs in a fragment of the Epyllion of Diomedes (CA Epica Adespota 2.11). 102

προκαλυμμάτων ἔπλευσεν…

Who named her so truly in all respects? — Was it someone we do not see? Guiding his tongue on the mark with thoughts of fate — to her wooed by spears, for whom two sides fought, Helen. Since, as befits her name, that destroyer of ships, men, and the city sailed from her delicate curtains...

(Aesch. Ag. 681-92)

Playing on the meaning of ἑλ- as “destroying,” the chorus observes that Helen has been rightfully named (πρεπόντως, 687), since she destroys ships, men, and the city (ἑλένας ἕλανδρος

ἑλέπτολις, 688-89). The chorus prefaces this pun by asking, “Who named her so truly in all respects” (τίς ποτ’ ὠνόμαζεν ὧδ’ ἐς τὸ πᾶν ἐτητύμως, 681-82). Since ἔτυμος is a variant of the adjective ἐτήτυμος,339 Nicander’s ἔτυμον in 309 signals an intertextual relationship between these two passages, and Nicander reinforces this intertextual borrowing by placing νῆα (“ship,”

310) so close to Αἰνελένη in reference to ἑλένας (“destroyer of ships,” 688) in Aeschylus.

Consequently, we can see Nicander’s passage as interacting with both Stesichorus’ Palinode and this Aeschylean choral ode. Yet, while the Aeschylean chorus saw an unequivocal and total truth in Helen’s naming, questioning only the name-giver, Nicander, in using the conditional expression εἰ ἔτυμον, renders the name subject to doubt.

In the subsequent narrative, Nicander elaborates on the notion of her deadliness, specifying the way in which Helen maimed the snake:

ἦμος ἀποψύχοντα κυβερνητῆρα Κάνωβον Θώνιος ἐν ψαμάθοις ἀθρήσατο· τύψε γὰρ εὐνῇ αὐχέν’ ἀποθλιφθεῖσα καὶ ἐν βαρὺν ἤρυγεν ἰόν αἱμοροῒς θήλεια, κακὸν δέ οἱ ἔχραε κοῖτον τὼ δ’ Ἑλένη μέσον ὁλκὸν ἐνέθλασε, θραῦσε δ’ ἀκάνθης δεσμὰ πέριξ νωταῖα, ῥάχις δ’ ἐξέδραμε γυίων·

When she beheld the helmsman Canobus fainting in the sands of Thonis. For the female haemorrhois struck him on the neck in his bed, after she was crushed, and she belched

339 LSJ (II) ἐτήτυμος. 103

forth heavy venom and inflicted an evil sleep upon him. For this reason, Helen crushed the middle of the coil and broke the ligatures of the back surrounding the spine, and the backbone popped out from the body.

(Ther. 312-17)

In this story, the snake and Helen play analogous roles, both harming their targets in an act of vengeance. The snake kills Canobus after he had crushed her, and Helen consequently injures the snake in retaliation for Canobus’ death. This parallel, while apparent at the narrative level, is strengthened by the choice of details and language. Not only does the placement of αἱμοροΐς in

315 mirror Αἰνελένη in 310, both words begin with the same vowel sound, differing only in breathing. Similarly, the passage contains an accumulation of words with thetas applied to both

Helen and the haemorrhois: ἀθρήσατο (“beheld,” 313), ἀποθλιφθεῖσα (“crushed,” 314), θήλεια

(“female,” 316), ἐνέθλασε (“crushed,” 316), θραῦσε (“broke,” 316), and ἀκάνθης (“spine,” 316).

Nicander strengthens this equation between the two figures by ascribing human attributes to the snake and serpent qualities to Helen. On the surface, this parallel should speak to Helen’s deadliness and thus the appropriateness of Αἰνελένη. Yet, as my subsequent analysis will demonstrate, this assimilation between Helen and snakes in fact evidences Helen’s relative harmlessness.

Nicander associates Helen with a snake by employing language in 313-17 that looks back to the section describing the aspis (157-208), a snake that lives in Egypt (174-75).340 For instance, the verb ἀθρήσατο (“beheld,” 312), for Helen, is also used for the aspis:

ἀλλ’ ὅταν ἢ δοῦπον νέον οὔασιν ἠέ τιν’ αὐγήν ἀθρήσῃ, νωθρὴ μὲν ἀπὸ ῥέθεος βάλεν ὕπνον, ὁλκῷ δὲ τροχόεσσαν ἅλων εἱλίξατο γαίῃ, λευγαλέον δ’ ἀνὰ μέσσα κάρη πεφρικὸς ἀείρει.

340 The aspis has been identified with the Egyptian cobra (naia haie). 104

But whenever it hears a new sound or sees some bright light, it sluggishly throws off sleep from its body and wreathes its coil in a circular ring upon the ground, and in the midst rears its head, bristling in deadly fashion. (164-68)

In both sections, the verb ἀθρέω applies to a situation in which a perceived external stimulus triggers a hostile reaction. Though generally sluggish (νωθρή, 165), a sound or sight induces the aspis to prepare for an offensive by raising its head (166-67). Helen, after beholding Canobus fainting (ἀποψύχοντα κυβερνητῆρα Κάνωβον, 312), actually assails the haemorrhois, as is described in 316-17. At the same time, both 166-67 and 316-17 feature a focus on the anatomy of the snakes and exhibit verbal echoes. The expression μέσον ὁλκόν (“middle of the coil,” 316) is reminiscent of ὁλκῷ in 166 and μέσσα in 167. Thus, three verbal parallels connect the haemorrhois section (312-17) with this description of the aspis, and we can detect another similarity in the fact that sleeping figures in both passages. Just as the aspis is initially slumbering (βάλεν ὕπνον, 165), so too is Canobus resting in bed (εὐνῇ, 313) when bitten by the haemorrhois. A crucial difference, however, exists between the hostile reactions of the aspis and

Helen. The aspis, when striking, “in great anger brings death upon the wayfarers it meets”

(ἀντομένοισιν ὁδουροῖς / ἄιδα προσμάξηται ἐπὶ ζαμενὲς κοτέουσα, 180-81). Helen, on the other hand, merely maims the haemorrhois to stunt its movement and does not kill it. As a result, the implied comparison between Helen and the aspis sharpens the difference between the two, showing that Helen, in comparison with the aspis, is less harmful.

Just as Nicander tinges the representation of Helen with the characteristics of snakes, he attributes human qualities to the haemorrhois. In particular, Nicander emphasizes the femininity of the haemorrhois by including θήλεια (“female”) in 315, which is redundant with the feminine

105 form αἱμοροΐς.341 Moreover, Overduin interprets the haemorrhois as waiting until Canobus is sleeping in order to strike. This, for Overduin, implies the presence of intent.342 Such a depiction of deadly creatures as sentient evils does conform to the overall depiction in the Theriaca.343

However, it is possible that Canobus could have crushed the snake while sleeping, triggering an immediate attack.344 Nevertheless, the bed as the location for the attack is significant. Since the bed, by metonymy, indicates sex and marriage in Greek,345 the snake’s striking in the bed equates to a sexual crime. In this way, the haemorrhois compares to the traditional Helen, who despite not directly harming men, nevertheless destroys the bed, so to speak, by disrupting the bonds of marriage, both her own and those of the men who died fighting for her during the

Trojan War. In infusing the snake with sexuality as opposed to Helen, Nicander makes this

Helen of the story lack her most distinguishing trait and the one most connected to her destructiveness. Instead of harming men, Helen’s actions serve to avenge a man: Canobus.

In addition to portraying the haemorrhois as a sexually destructive creature akin to the traditional Helen, Nicander employs language in 315 that evokes another pertinent parallel:

Artemis, whose punishment of Orion is narrated at 13-16:

τὸν δὲ χαλαζήεντα κόρη Τιτηνὶς ἀνῆκε σκορπίον ἐκ κέντροιο τεθηγμένον. ἦμος ἐπέχρα Βοιωτῷ τεύχουσα κακὸν μόρον Ὠαρίωνι ἀχράντων ὅτε χερσὶ θεῆς ἐδράξατο πέπλων

The Titanian maiden sent forth the frost-biting scorpion with its sharpened sting, when she attacked, contriving an evil fate for Boeotian Orion, when he grabbed in his hands the untouchable robes of the goddess.

341 Cf. 305 (θήλει’ αἱμορροΐς). 342 Overduin 2014: 633-34; 2015: 302. 343 See Overduin 2015: 98-101 for an overview of personification in the Theriaca. 344 Gow and Scholfield 1953: 176 propose that εὐνῇ could mean “crushed by his bedding.” 345 LSJ for λέχος and εὐνή. 106

Infuriated at Orion’s attempted rape, Artemis created the scorpion to kill him. In accrediting the scorpion’s existence to female anger and vengeance, this story mirrors the Helen and haemorrhois tale, which similarly presents female anger as the cause for a particular phenomenon. Moreover, since Helen did receive cultic worship in some locations,346 her wrath, like Artemis’, qualifies as divine retribution. In addition to this analogy between Artemis and

Helen, Nicander implies correspondence between Artemis and the haemorrhois, using related verbs, ἐπέχρα (“attacked,” 14) and ἔχραε (“inflicted,” 315), to describe their attacks, as well as repeating the adjective κακόν (“evil”) in 15 and 315. Thus, these two mythological stories, when read together, construct a triple analogy between Artemis, Helen, and the haemorrhois, casting all three as vengeful and destructive feminine beings. However, the similarities in fact reveal crucial differences between the three figures. Unlike Artemis, whose creation of the scorpion will plague humans, Helen does not cause harm for human beings, but rather for the particular snake and its descendants. Furthermore, it is ironic that she, the quintessential adulteress, exacts vengeance for an attack with sexual undertones, in the same way that the maiden goddess

Artemis has Orion killed for his attempted rape.

Over the course of the story, Nicander undercuts the idea of a baneful and sexualized

Helen, transferring these qualities to the snake. Helen, despite her foreboding name, in this story is not a destroyer of men, ships, and the city, but instead an attacker of snakes. In challenging this initial impression of Helen, Nicander signals the role of experience in determining the relationship between name and thing. In this case, Helen’s actions in the story attest to the inability of a single name to capture completely something’s essence, especially a figure as

346 Clader 1976: 63-80 collates evidence for Helen’s worship throughout Greece. Herodotus (6.61-62) refers to the worship she received at Therapne in Sparta. Moreover, according to Pausanias (3.19.11), Helen was worshipped on Rhodes as Helen Dendritis. 107 debated and multi-faceted as Helen. Nicander in fact switches from calling her Bane Helen in

310 to Helen in 316, thus suggesting the level of arbitrariness involved in the act of naming.

Indeed, for Nicander’s subject matter of snakes and plants, names, although often indicative of the characteristics of the signified,347 are not as crucial as they are for Aratus’ constellations. For instance, Nicander lists three potential names for a snake: dryinas, chelydrus, and hydrus:

Κῆρα δέ τοι δρυΐναο πιφαύσκεο, τόν τε χέλυδρον ἐξέτεροι καλέουσιν· ὁ δ’ ἐν δρυσὶν οἰκία τεύξας ἢ ὅ γέ που φηγοῖσιν ὀρεσκεύει περὶ βήσσας ὕδρον μιν καλέουσι, μετεξέτεροι δὲ χέλυδρον ὅς τε βρύα προλιπὼν καὶ ἕλος καὶ ὁμήθεα λίμνην ἀγρώσσων λειμῶσι μολουρίδας ἢ βατραχῖδας σπέρχεται ἐκ μύωπος ἀήθεα δέγμενος ὁρμήν. ἔνθα κατὰ πρέμνον κοίλης ὑπεδύσατο φηγοῦ ὀξὺς ἀλείς, κοῖτον δὲ βαθεῖ ἐνεδείματο θάμνῳ.

Learn the bite of the dryinas, that which others dub the chelydrus, for it makes its home in the oak trees or in the Valonia oaks and dwells in the mountains around the glens. They call it the hydrus, others call it the chelydrus. For when it leaves the water-weeds, the swamp, and its accustomed lake and is hunting locusts and little frogs in the water, it rushes expecting the distasteful onslaught of the gadfly. There beneath the stump of the hollow oak, it slips swiftly in a coil and makes its bed in the deep brush. (411-19)

The first name, dryinas (“oak snake”), corresponds to the snake’s habitat in oak trees: ἐν δρυσὶν

οἰκία τεύξας (412), ἢ ὅγε που φηγοῖσιν (413), κοίλης ὑπεδύσατο φηγοῦ (418). The alternate names chelydrus and hydrus indicate an association with bodies of water, fitting with the creature’s time spent in the water when it attacks locusts and frogs (416).348 The snake, moreover, looks like the hydrus (ὕδρῳ ἐισκόμενος, 421), which Overduin posits is the same as

347 For instance, the panaceion is called thus because it cures everything (Ther. 508). 348 Cf. Jacques 2002: 134. 108 the chersydrus, a snake described at 359-71.349 Consequently, these names in some way reveal an aspect of this snake’s behavior. In fact, the designation chelydrus resembles the verb

χελλύσσομαι (“to expectorate”), thus anticipating the retching caused by the snake’s bite (435-

36).350 Nicander expands the wordplay by coordinating χέλυδρον in 411 and 413 with βήσσας

(“glens,” 412), a word similar to βήσσειν, another word for coughing.351 The name chelydrus, as a result, can reflect three aspects of this snake’s nature: its time in the water, its similarity to a similarly named snake (the chersydrus), and the symptoms of its bite.

The juxtaposition of these similar names (dryinas, chelydrus, and hydrus)352 implies the arbitrariness entailed in naming such complex creatures. Indeed, in contrast with the constellations described in Aratus’ Phaenomena, names do not dictate identity for Nicander’s creatures. That is, while calling a constellation something other than “Snake” would force a person to conceptualize something else in the sky, the name of the dryinas/chelydrus/hydrus snake ultimately does not matter. In the wild, the beast would attack and bite just the same, suddenly and unforeseen.

Conclusion

In their comparison of Aratus and Nicander’s poems as practical sources of technical information, Gow and Scholfield claim, “The difference between the two poets is that whereas the uninstructed reader may learn a good deal of astronomy from Aratus, the victim of snake-bite or poison who turned to Nicander for first-aid would be in a sorry plight.”353 Such an assessment

349 Overduin 2015: 338. See Jacques 2002: 122-24 for a discussion of the confusion between the chersydrus and the chelydrus. 350 See Nic. Alex. 81 for this verb. 351 Hsch. χ 330. 352 Cusset 2006b: 93n121 observes a repetition of the letters δρυ- in the three names. 353 Gow and Scholfield 1953: 18. 109 does not take into account the fundamental differences between the poets’ topics. Since signs are fixed and regular, it is easier to learn about them than small unpredictable creatures. Even the weather signs, which can differ in meaning depending on the perceiver, display regularity.354

Aratus, moreover, refuses to discuss the planets due to their irregular motion.355

Such irregularity characterizes the deadly creatures of Nicander’s Theriaca. This point is especially clear in the description of the scorpion mortally wounding Orion:

αὐτὰρ ὅγε στιβαροῖο κατὰ σφυρὸν ἤλασεν ἴχνευς σκορπίος ἀπροϊδὴς ὀλίγῳ ὑπὸ λᾶι λοχήσας· τοῦ δὲ τέρας περίσημον ὑπ’ ἀστέρας ἀπλανὲς αὔτως οἷα κυνηλατέοντος ἀείδελον ἐστήρικται.

But that scorpion, which had lurked unobserved beneath the tiny rock, struck him in the ankle of his mighty foot, but Orion’s sign is set conspicuous, fixed there amid the stars, as of one hunting, dazzling to behold.

(Ther. 17-20)

In contrast with the scorpion, which is hidden beneath a small rock (ὀλίγῳ ὑπὸ λᾶι λοχήσας, 18) and unobserved (ἀπροϊδής, 18), Orion’s constellation is conspicuous (περίσημον, 19) and dazzling (ἀείδελον, 20), as well as being fixed (ἐστήρικται, 20) in place. For this reason, a person can perceive something that looks like a hunter (οἷα κυνηλατέοντος, 20). By referring to a constellation, particularly one for which Aratus had included an extended mythological story

(Phaen. 637-47), Nicander points to Aratus’ astronomical poem.356 Indeed, the verb ἐστήρικται occupies the same sedes as in Aratus.357 Yet in reworking Aratus, Nicander illustrates the differences between the two poets’ subject matter. Not only does the scorpion differ from the

354 For instance, flocks of bird distress the farmer, but please the goatherd since they can indicate abundant milk in goats (Phaen. 1094-1100). 355 Phaen. 454-61. Cf. Hunter 1995. See Semanoff 2006: 313-14 for a discussion of this passage. 356 Effe 1974b: 120. 357 See Phaen. 230, 274, 351, and 500. 110 constellation by its small size and hiddenness, but its effects are felt immediately upon attacking.

The adjective χαλαζήεντα (“frost-biting,” 13) applied to the scorpion refers to its ability to produce shivering with its stings.358 As Sistakou points out, in contrast with Aratus, “Nicander highlights, through sensation and visualization, the amazing and horrifying dimension of nature as observed by the man of science.”359

That Nicander employs a myth to make this statement shows the importance of myths within the poets’ didactic works. Far more than ornate diversions from the scientific subject matter, both poets’ myths indicate two different ways of perceiving the physical world. For

Aratus, who deals with an ordered and regular universe, myths, despite their surface falsity, demonstrate how a person can interpret visible signs to understand Zeus’ care for men, the existence of Justice, and a logical relationship between names and things. Nicander highlights the dubiousness of his myths, as well as his source Hesiod, reproducing the doubt felt when learning through experience. It is only through experience that names come to describe things, that men are bitten by unpredictable beasts, and that they are saved.

358 For a discussion of the meaning of this word, see White 1987: 3-7. 359 Sistakou 2012: 200. 111

Chapter 5: Callimachus and Apollonius

Introduction

The perceptible world of the present occupied the scientific poems of Aratus and

Nicander, both of whom delved into the distant past through their myths. Yet an interest in the past abounded in Hellenistic poetry, as aetiology (the study of causes) occurred frequently in the works of Callimachus and Apollonius of Rhodes.360 Exploiting the resources of the Library of

Alexandria, Callimachus and Apollonius, like Aratus and Nicander, scoured prose sources for their poetry to impart information on the origins of places, names, rituals, and customs.361 In doing so, these two poets attempted to form a link between the remote past and the contemporary world.362 Information about the past, however, entails difficulties. Unlike the scientific

360 For the characteristics of aetiology in Greek poetry, see Fantuzzi 1996: 369-71. Hunter (Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 49) points out that aetiology is more prominent in Hellenistic and Roman poetry than in Archaic and Classical Greek poetry. 361 With a career lasting from the 270s-230s BCE under the reigns of Ptolemy Philadelpus (283/2-246 BCE) and Ptolemy Euergetes (246-222 BCE), Callimachus of Cyrene composed a variety of poetic works, such as the Hymns, epigrams, Iambi, a short hexameter poem the Hecale, as well as numerous works in prose. As Krevans 2004: 173 has observed, both Callimachus’ prose and poetic works showed an interest in aetiology and paradoxography. Moreover, Callimachus produced the Pinakes, a 120-book catalogue of all of Greek literature. According to the Suda (α 3420), Apollonius of Rhodes lived during the reign of Ptolemy Euergetes and served as Head Librarian at the Library of Alexandria. Fragments of foundation poetry attest to his interest in the origins of cities, and Krevans 2000: 78 deduces on the basis of these fragments a mix of obscure erotic myth, aetiology, and legendary history. For the topic of the supposed quarrel between Callimachus and Apollonius of Rhodes, see Lefkowitz 1980: 1-19. For a discussion of the dating between the authors, see Köhnken 2008: 73-94, who argues for dating Apollonius after Callimachus. It is impossible from the poems, however, to give a definitive answer on who is influencing whom, and as a result, it is most reasonable to posit mutual influence over an extended amount of time. Cf. Harder 1993: 110. See also J. Murray 2014, who pinpoints the constellations depicted in the Argonautica as dating to the year 238 BCE. 362 For the political implications of the poets’ aetiologies, see Stephens 2000: 208 (for Apollonius), who connects aetiology with the colonizing dimension of Ptolemaic rule. For the relationship between the Aetia and Ptolemaic ideology, see Acosta-Hughes and Stephens 2012: 170-96. Asper 2011: 155-59 identifies five regions featured in Callimachus’ poetry pertinent to the Ptolemaic political interests: Miletus (Phrygius and Pieria; fr. 80-83b), Attica (Hecale), Ceos 112 information catalogued in the Phaenomena and the Theriaca, the reasons for a place name cannot be directly tested, either by the reader or by the poet if he cared to substantiate his prose sources. Even though the narrators created by Callimachus and Apollonius can cite the current existence of a ritual or name as evidence for the truth of the claim,363 the temporal distance necessitates that the information comes from sources, whether written or oral, not from immediate perception. As a result, the question of truth and falsehood becomes all the more tangled. The evaluation of information must also depend on a critique of the credibility of the sources.

This chapter will examine how the poets’ personae grapple with the truth and falsehood of their information by focusing on Callimachus’ Aetia and Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica, two poetic works replete with aetiological concerns. While Aratus and Nicander employed a primarily descriptive mode for conveying their subject matter, Callimachus and Apollonius integrated information within a narrative frame, separating their poems into four books.364 For instance, Callimachus, whose elegiac Aetia arranges aetia (“causes”) about the origins of cults and rituals, structures the first two books as a dialogue between the narrator and the Muses, who

(Acontius and Cydippe, fr. 67-75e), Cos (Hymn 4.162-204), and Rome (Caius the Roman, fr. 106-107a). 363 For instance, the phrase ἔτι νῦν (“still now”) emphasizes the relevance to the present. For this phrase in the Argonautica, see 1.1061 (the tomb of Cyzicus), 2.526-27 (the sacrifices made by Cean priests), and 4.480 (the bones of Apsyrtus still lying in the ground). 364 The Aetia and the Argonautica feature an overlap in the choice of myths. For instance, Callimachus includes two Argonaut stories in the Aetia: the Argonauts’ rituals on Anaphe (fr. 7- 21) and the anchor at Cyzicus (fr. 108). In the Argonautica (1.953-59), the anchor at Cyzicus appears at the beginning of their expedition, while the rituals at Anaphe occur at the end (4.1711- 30). Callimachus’ choice to invert the order of these events and place them at key points in the Aetia (Anaphe at the beginning and Cyzicus towards the end) may suggest a dialogue with Apollonius. Cf. Harder 2010: 100. For my texts and numbering, I adopt Harder 2012 for Callimachus and Vian and Delage 1961, 1974, 1981 for Apollonius. 113 answer the narrator’s questions.365 Additionally, Apollonius of Rhodes inserts numerous aetiological digressions in the Argonautica, an epic poem that recounts the Argonauts’ expedition to Colchis to retrieve the Golden Fleece.366 In both cases, the narrative mode of the works makes the question of truth and falsehood more difficult. Is the narrated information true?

If not explicitly for instruction, what purpose then does the information serve within the work, and how would it affect a reader?

As I will show, the poets’ choice to include and remark on such information allows us to take these comments as reflective of larger ideas about truth and falsehood during the Hellenistic period. During this time, not only did increasing aesthetic concerns, particularly those espoused by the Euphonists, further problematize the truth-status of poetry, but schools like the Academics and the Pyrrhonists doubted the possibility of completely distinguishing truth from falsehood via a “criterion of truth.”367 The narrators in Callimachus and Apollonius in fact allude to such difficulties, as they do not simply transmit information but rather portray the task of knowing the truth as an active process. Indeed, unlike Aratus and Nicander, Callimachus and Apollonius present narrators with more personalized voices that seem to align closely with the author. Both narrators demonstrate a conscious awareness of their sources, the credibility of their information, and the limitations involved both in obtaining and transmitting the truth.

365 This device drops out in the second two books, which, as Parsons 1977: 49 has demonstrated, are framed by poems dealing with Berenice II, the Victoria Berenices and Coma Berenices. For an overview of the four books of the Aetia, see Massimilla 2011: 40-56. For the generic associations of the Aetia, see Harder 1998: 95-113, who identifies influences from epigram, epinician, epic, and hymns. 366 For a list of the aetiologies in the Argonautica, see Valverde Sánchez: 1989: 309-311. 367 Our evidence for the Euphonists comes Philodemus’ On Poems. These critics argued that the sound qualities alone constituted the basis for a judging a poem. Andromenides emphasized the selection of words and favored words with beautiful sounds. Heracleodorus stressed the arrangement of words, and Pausimachus of Miletus focused on good sound. See Janko 2000: 143-189. For the problems with the criterion of truth, see Striker 1996: 21-50. 114

To determine the effect of these distinct voices on the question of determining truth and falsehood, I will first give an overview of the narratorial voices, also taking into account the relationship between narrator and text. The second section will then turn to the narrators’ treatment of their sources, particularly the Muses. Finally, I will analyze two passages that encapsulate Callimachus and Apollonius’ narratorial voices and the ways information is critiqued: Aetia fr. 75.4-9 (the Callimachean narrator’s refusal to divulge the reasons for the marriage rites on Naxos) and Argonautica 4.982-92 (the origins of the name Drepane).

As this chapter will demonstrate, Callimachus constructs a narrator who displays a confident attitude in his ability to collect and critique information by employing personal experience as a criterion.368 Apollonius, on the other hand, portrays a narrator conflicted with uncertainty and doubt. In attempting to use and evaluate his sources the Muses, this narrator reveals an inability to trust them completely, despite their presumed omniscience and his status as narrator. For this reason, the Apollonian narrator implies, in the vein of the Skeptics, a lack of a firm criterion by which truth and falsehood can be judged.

Narrators

Due to the predominance of the narratorial voices in the Aetia and Argonautica, a brief outline of narratological theory and its application to Callimachus and Apollonius is necessary.

In her introduction to the edited volume on ancient narrators, de Jong defines the narrator as the figure who recounts the story, stressing that while the narrator is a creation of the author, the two

368 While Harder (e.g. 2004: 67-69) is correct to identify multiple narrators in the Aetia, such as the epinician singer in SH 254-68 (Victoria Berenices), the deceased poet Simonides in fr. 64, and the disembodied Lock in fr. 110. For the purposes of this chapter, I view all of these as extensions of the Callimachean voice. Harder, moreover, calls the narrator of fr. 67-75 (Acontius and Cydippe) a “scholar-poet.” 115 are not necessarily the same.369 Moreover, narratological theory distinguishes narrators by their involvement in the narrative. A narrator who participates as a character in the story is an internal narrator, while one who does not is an external narrator.370 This same distinction of internal/external applies to narratees, the recipients of the narration.

Since narrators can embed narration given by another, we may also characterize narrators as primary (existing at the first level of narration and reporting the main story) and secondary (a character who narrates in the main story).371 By these categories, the Callimachean narrator qualifies as an internal narrator due to his participation in the conversation with the Muses. At the same time, because the primary narrator reports the conversation as occurring in a dream when he was young (Σ Flor. 15-20), the Callimachean narrator and the Muses act as secondary narrators, as well as narratees.372 By contrast, the Apollonian narrator’s lack of direct participation in the Argonautica makes him an external narrator, as well as a primary one.

In addition to their identity (internal v. external) and status (primary v. secondary), narrators vary in their degrees of self-consciousness, the amount of their knowledge, and the distance between them and the narrated events.373 Since both the Aetia and the Argonautica focus on the happenings of the distant mythical past, there is a large disjunction between the narrator and the recounted material.374 Such a temporal distance affects what information can be

369 De Jong 2004: 1. 370 De Jong 1987: 33. In addition to the narrator, there is also the “focalizer,” the one who sees and interprets the events of a narrative. The narrator, however, can be distinct from the “focalizer,” since a narrator can report the interpretation of someone else. For the sake of ease, I will focus solely on the personae as “narrators.” 371 De Jong 2004: 2. 372 Harder 1988: 9. 373 De Jong 2004: 2-3. 374 Harder 2012.1: 25, comparing the Aetia with the Argonautica, observes, “In Apollonius’ Argonautica, the journey of the Argonauts results in a wide range of monuments, rituals, and other traces along their route. The approach is different from that in the Aetia if only because in 116 known and thus contributes to the high degree of self-consciousness that scholars have detected in the Callimachean and Apollonian narratorial voices.375 Indeed, such self-consciousness can also be tied to the authors’ simultaneous statuses as scholars and poets.376 Both professions involve different concerns. While a scholar aims to collate and evaluate data from various sources, a poet producing a narrative poem is concerned with selecting and organizing the material in such a way that it contributes to the poem, in both meaning and poetic effect. As my summary of the Callimachean and Apollonian narrators will show, both concerns are present, even though the voices differ with respect to how they critique the sources and the information.

In handling the information, Callimachus’ narrator assumes a tone of confidence, while the

Apollonian narrator has frequent expressions of doubt that become more obvious, particularly in the fourth book of the Argonautica.

The Narrator of Callimachus

Callimachus introduces his first-person narrator in the Prologue to the Aetia, the subject of which is the narrator’s quarrel with the so-called Telchines, who are depicted as criticizing the narrator’s song: πολλάκ]ι μοι Τελχῖνες ἐπιτρύζουσιν ἀ⸤οιδῇ, (“often the Telchines grumble at me

Apollonius the starting point is the Argonauts’ adventures in the past, which leave traces that ‘even now’ people can observe, whereas in the Aetia the starting point is the present in which the narrator is confronted by traces from the past which he seeks to explain.” See also Harder 2003: 290-396 for a discussion of past, present, and future in the Aetia. 375 Cf. Goldhill 1991: 285, Harder 1990: 309, and Harder 2004: 80. 376 Scholars (e.g. Pfeiffer 1968: 125) have construed fr. 612 Pf. (ἀμάρτυρον οὐδὲν ἀείδω; “I sing of nothing unattested”) as emblematic of Callimachus’ use of scholarship in poetic production. Due to the lack of a definite context for this fragment, I am hesitant to overstate the significance of this quotation. Callimachus, however, does extract information about the nautilus from Aristotle’s History of Animals (542b4-17) in epigram 5 Pf. (=14. G.-P.). See Prescott 1921: 329- 32 and Gutzwiller 1992: 195-97. Although noting the Peripatetic character of Callimachus’ prose production, Brink 1946 sees Callimachus and Aristotle as diametrically opposed with regards to literary criticism. 117 for my song,” fr. 1.1).377 According to the narrator, this group chastises him for not having completed “one continuous song of kings and heroes in many thousand lines” (fr. 1.3-4).378 In response, the narrator poses a series of metaphors that express the superiority of short over long works (fr. 1.9-16), poetic innovation (“untrodden paths”) as opposed to the common road (fr.

1.23-28), and the sweet sound of cicadas over the braying of asses (fr. 1.29-30).379 These statements combined have been construed as a general reflection of the aesthetics of Callimachus the poet.380 While Callimachean poetry does exhibit such characteristics of being short and sweet, we should not, as Schmitz observes, read a direct overlap with this narrator and the actual poet Callimachus nor should we construe the quarrel in the Prologue as a specific reference to a historical feud.381 Rather, as I argue, such explicit pronouncements contribute to the characterization of the persona, who, in emphasizing the superiority of his own preferences, exhibits a confident and sure attitude. Such an attitude empowers him to profess at 1.17-18 that

377 The Telchines, a mythical group of metal-workers residing on Ceos and Rhodes, were known for their envy. See Aetia fr. 75.64. Among the Telchines listed in the fragmentary Florentine scholia on fragment 1 (fr. 1b Harder) are Asclepiades, Posidippus, and Praxiphanes. 378 οὐχ ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκὲς ἢ βασιλ[η / ...... ]ας ἐν πολλαῖς ἤνυσα χιλιάσιν / ἢ .....] ους ἥρωας. See Cameron 1995: 342-43 for an overview of the varying interpretations of ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκές. The adjective διηνεκές involves telling a story completely from beginning to end. See Od. 7.241. As Asper 1997: 221 contends, the adjective refers only to the narrative continuity, not to meter or the contents. As Harder 2012.2: 21 notes, the Aetia is not διηνεκές since it lacks completeness and is not in chronological order. 379 For an overview of these lines, see Acosta-Hughes and Stephens 2002: 242-46. 380 See, for instance, Schwinge 1986: 20-23. On the relationship between the prologue and Greek literary criticism, see Clayman 1977: 27-34. 381 Schmitz 1999: 156. Schmitz, however, while not denying the possibility of connections to the real world, stresses, “Callimachus is not making a plain statement of his poetological principles. Instead, he uses these principles and their proclamation as a means to secure his audience’s concurrence and sympathy.” For a similar assessment, cf. Asper 2001: 89. 118 the criterion for judging σοφίη (“wisdom”) is not the “Persian league” (σχοίνῳ Περσίδι), but skill (τέχνῃ).382

Along with this confident attitude, the narrator associates himself with childhood and youth at several important points. For instance, he frames the Telchines’ reproach of him as composing like a child: ἔπος δ’ ἐπὶ τυτθὸν ἑλ[ίσσω / παῖς ἅτ⸥ε (“I turn around the words in my mind a little, like a child,” fr. 1.5-6).383 The association of the narrator with a child is ironic in several respects, most obvious of which is the fact that the narrator is of some age, as is indicated immediately with τῶν δ’ ἐτέων ἡ δεκὰ⸤ς⸥ οὐκ ὀλίγη (“although the decades of my years are not a few,” fr. 1.6) and later by the wish to toss off the burden of old-age (fr. 1.35-36).384 Childhood, moreover, should imply a lack of knowledge and skill, especially since the adjective νήπιος

(“childish”) functions as an insult in Homer.385 Yet in associating a childlike method of composition with his preferred poetic principles, the narrator reformulates childhood as a virtue.386 Indeed, it was when he first put the tablet on his knees that Apollo manifested to teach him the important precepts: καὶ γὰρ ὅτ⸥ε πρ⸤ώ⸥τιστον ἐμοῖς ἐπὶ δέλτον ἔθηκα / γούνασι⸥ν,

Ἀ[πό]λλων εἶπεν ὅ μοι Λύκιος (“for when I first set the writing tablet on my knees, Apollo

382 For the philosophical implications of σοφίη and τέχνη, see Andrews 1998: 8. She notes (10), “The position Callimachus takes on deliberation seems directly to repudiate the Pyrrhonists’ suspension of judgment.” 383 Following Harder 2012, I adopt the reading ἑλίσσω, taking it to mean “turning around in the mind.” For an overview of the various suggestions, see Harder 2012.2: 26-27. 384 As Acosta-Hughes and Stephens 2002: 240 and Hutchinson 2003: 49 note, the antithesis between youth and old age recurs throughout the Aetia. The childlike Callimachus represents an antithesis to the aged Telchines. Whether this claim of old age applies to the actual poet Callimachus at the time of writing remains subject to debate. Pfeiffer 1928: 302-41 took the statement as evidence that the Prologue was affixed later in life for a second edition of the Aetia. 385 For instance, at Iliad 2.338, Nestor insults the Achaeans by likening them to children. 386 For the role of childhood in Callimachus’ poetry in general, see Ambühl 2005. 119

Lycius said to me,” fr. 1.21-22). Thus, for the Callimachean narrator, childhood is not a time of ignorance, but rather enlightenment.

This emphasis on childhood, while producing a good deal of irony, in fact corresponds to the Callimachean narrator’s voice in the Aetia. Such a voice, as I will demonstrate, merges the confident air established in the Prologue with an eagerness to learn. This eagerness manifests most clearly in the dialogue structure of the first two books, which we could compare with the

Platonic dialogue.387 Yet, as Hutchinson points out, whereas the Platonic dialogues involve a superior engaging with inferiors about ideas, in the first two Aetia books, a supposed inferior (the

Callimachean narrator) probes the Muses, his superiors.388 The information the Muses provide is valuable, and a comment about the pleasures of learning occurs at the beginning of fragment 43:

κα⸤ὶ γὰρ ἐγὼ τὰ μὲν ὅσσα καρή⸥ατι τῆμος ἔ⸤δωκα ξα⸤νθὰ σὺν εὐόδμοις ἁβρὰ λίπ⸥η στεφάνο⸤ις, ἄπνο⸤α πάντ’ ἐγένοντο παρὰ χ⸥ρέος, ὅσσα τ’ ⸤ὀδόντων ἔνδο⸤θι νείαιράν τ’ εἰς ἀχάριστον ἔ⸥δυ, καὶ τῶν οὐδὲν ἔμεινεν ἐς αὔρι⸥ον· ὅσσα δ’ ἀ⸤κουαῖς εἰσεθέ⸤μην, ἔτι μοι μοῦνα πάρεσ⸥τι τάδ⸤ε.

For my part as well, everything I set on my head at that time, the soft golden oils with the fragrant garlands, died at once, and everything that went down into my teeth and my ungrateful stomach, none of those too remained the next day. But everything I admitted to my ears, only these are still with me. (fr. 43.12-17)

The mention of the oils and garlands suggests attendance at a symposium, where the participants would partake in food, drinking wine, and conversation. In this passage, however, the narrator

387 For the influences of Plato on the Aetia Prologue, see Acosta Hughes and Stephens 2012: 31- 47, who identify two important passages from Plato: the beginning of the Phaedo (60c8-61b7) and Phaedrus 259b5-d8. In the Phaedo, Socrates recounts how a dream induced him to compose poetry, a situation that parallels Apollo’s commands to the Callimachean narrator. In the Phaedrus, Socrates describes how men who abstained from food and devoted themselves to poetry became cicadas sacred to the Muses. The Callimachean narrator wishes to become a cicada (fr. 1.32-36) and shed off his old age. 388 Hutchinson 2003: 48. 120 treats conversation as the most superior aspect. Unlike oils, garlands, food, and wine, all of which bring about temporary pleasure due to their transitory nature, only what is received in the ears (ὅσσα δ’ ἀκουαῖς, 16) remains: ἔτι μοι μοῦνα πάρεστι τάδε (“these alone are still with me,”

17). In placing the personal pronoun μοι (“me”) next to the adjective μοῦνα (“alone”), which modifies the relative clause ὅσσα δ’ ἀκουαῖς / εἰσεθέμην (“everything I admitted to my ears,” 16-

17), Callimachus denotes the closeness between the narrator and the information he has received.

This information has become a part of him.

In addition to having this eagerness to learn, the narrator shows an enthusiasm for exhibiting knowledge that he already possesses. For instance, later in fragment 43 (“the Sicilian

Cities”), he boasts to the Muses:

οἶδα Γέλ⸤α⸥ ποταμο⸤ῦ⸥ κεφαλ⸤ῇ ἔπι κείμενον⸥ ἄ̣στ⸤υ Λίνδοθεν ἀρχαίῃ [σ]κ̣ιμπ[τόμενο]ν̣ γενε[ῇ, Μινῴη[ν] καὶ Κρῆσ[σ]αν, ἵ[να ζείον]τ̣α λοετ̣[ρὰ χεῦαν ἐ[π’] Εὐρώπης υἱέϊ Κ̣[ωκαλί]δες· οἶδα Λεοντίνους .δεδρα[ ].....[ καὶ Μεγαρεῖς ἕτερ[οι] τ̣ο̣ὺ̣ς̣ ἀ[πέ]ν̣ασσαν̣ ἐκεῖ Νισαῖοι Μεγαρῆες, ἔχω δ’ Εὔβοιαν ἐνισπε[ῖν φίλατο κα[ὶ] κεστ[ο]ῦ [δ]εσπότ[ι]ς ἣν Ἔρυκα·

I know of the town that lies upon the mouth of the river Gela, which boasts of its ancient lineage from Lindus, and of Cretan Minoa, where the daughters of Cocalus poured seething water on Europa’s son. I know of Leontini… and of the Megarians, whom the other Megarians, from Nisa, sent there as colonists. I can speak about Euboea and Eryx, which the mistress of the girdle loved. (fr. 43a46-53)

With the repetition of οἶδα (“I know”) in 46 and 50, Callimachus emphasizes the extent of his narrator’s knowledge,389 and such knowledge consists not only in an awareness of the places in

Sicily, but also their lineage (Gela’s descent from Lindus) and a tale about mythical violence (the daughters of Cocalus pouring water on Minos). Furthermore, the narrator is familiar with cultic

389 Harder 2012.2: 324. 121 activity, as he marks the city of Eryx as the one loved by Aphrodite (the mistress of the girdle).

Although the Muse Cleo offers a reply in 58-83 about the founding of Zancle, the Callimachean narrator nevertheless displays an impressive array of details, as would suit his scholarly persona.

Yet such a display is ironic in the context of the exchange, since we would expect the person asking questions to profess ignorance or at least not to possess such a great amount of pre- existing knowledge.390

In flaunting this previous knowledge, the Callimachean narrator both reveals his confident attitude about his existing abilities, while at the same time indicating his eagerness to supplement this information. Indeed, when Cleo’s speech ends, the narrator wishes to learn more: ὣ[ς] ἡ μὲν λίπε μῦθον, ἐγὼ δ’ ἐπὶ καὶ [τὸ πυ]θέσθαι / ἤ]θελον—ἦ γάρ μοι θάμβος

ὑπετρέφ[ετ]ο̣— (“thus she ended her tale, but I wanted to learn this too, for truly my wonder was fed,” fr. 43b1-2). Such a feeling of wonder Cozzoli connects to what she identifies as a “poetics of childhood” in Callimachus. As she states, “The poetics of childhood, then, involves a recalibration of the persona of the poet in its entirety, redefining him as philologist and scientist as well as bard. Curiosity, stupefaction, wonder, and imagination are shared by both the child and scientist, because they constitute the conditions of any desire to discover or learn.”391 No matter what, the Callimachean narrator, like an inquisitive child, always wants to uncover more.

It is not pedantry as much as an enthusiastic desire to learn that drives the plot of the Aetia.392

The Narrator of Apollonius

Like the Callimachean narrator, Apollonius’ narrator speaks in the first person, promising

“to remember the glories of ancient men” (παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν / μνήσομαι, 1.1-2). In

390 Cf. Harder 1988: 9. 391 Cozzoli 2011: 423. 392 Hutchinson 2003: 49. 122 announcing such a subject, that of epic, as his theme, the narrator brings in the expectations of an epic narrator like Homer, whose voice is not as clearly aligned with the historical author and whose knowledge of events comes from the omniscient Muses.393 Yet the Apollonian narrator diverges in many respects from his Homeric model. While both poets alternate between the narrator’s voice and speaking in the characters’ voices, the Apollonian narrator employs his own voice at a greater frequency.394 Indeed, the Apollonian narrator often addresses his characters as well as the implied reader, thus suggesting a greater level of emotional investment in the events of the narrative.395 For this reason, Berkowitz sees the Argonautica as displaying elements of a dialogue.396 In fact, since the epic begins with an address to Apollo (ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε, 1.1), we could read the whole work as an exchange between the narrator and the god Apollo, who fulfills the important role in the narrative by delivering the prophecy that initiates the Argonauts’ quest.397 The narrator, thus, in interacting with this crucial character, can likewise qualify as a participant in the narrative. Moreover, since scholars like Beye and Wray have noted an analogy between the act of narration and a journey, we can see the Apollonian narrator as undertaking a voyage as well.398 For instance, at the very end of the poem, the narrator announces that he has

393 For the generic associations of παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν / μνήσομαι, see Hunter 1993: 8. 394 Based on the word count of Cuypers 2005: 37, the Homeric narrator speaks 54.3% of the words in the Iliad and 31.4% in the Odyssey. The Apollonian narrator, on the other hand, is responsible for 70.4% of the words. 395 For a list and discussion of the places where the narrator addresses the narratee, see Byre 1991: 215-27, who argues that these direct addresses “posit a hypothetical world in which the narratee perceives and reacts to the events, characters, and objects of the fictional world” (227). Cf. Gummert 1992: 126. 396 Berkowitz 2004: 96. 397 Cf. DeForest 1994: 37 and Albis 1996: 25. 398 Beye 1982: 14, Goldhill 1991: 287, and Wray 2000: 244. 123 arrived at the ends of the Argonauts’ journey.399 In narrating the Argonauts’ deeds, the narrator too has had to encounter their toils.

The narrator’s assimilation with the epic’s characters also manifests in the fact that the narrator’s voice resembles that of his characters. These characters include Orpheus and Phineus, whose respective roles of poet and seer correspond to the tasks of the Apollonian narrator.400 At

2.317-407, Phineus in fact functions like a narrator by recounting the obstacles and places that the Argonauts will encounter on their journey to Colchis. As a seer inspired by the gods, Phineus should possess the omniscience that would suit an epic narrator. However, as Phineus makes explicit, his reverence for Zeus hinders a full revealing of the future for the Argonauts: οὐ μὲν

πάντα πέλει θέμις ὔμμι δαῆναι / ἀτρεκές, (“it is not right for you to know all things exactly,”

2.311-12). As a result, Phineus provides information that produces false expectations, implying for instance at 2.334-45 that the Argonauts’ safe crossing through the Symplegades will come from the strength of their rowing. In reality, Athena’s intervention (2.598-600) results in their salvation.401

Such a strategy of misdirection corresponds to the techniques of the Apollonian narrator, who, despite his presumed omniscience, often suppresses information, expresses uncertainty, and gives conflicting interpretations.402 All of these tendencies culminate in what Cuypers identifies as “a Protean narrative persona: an amalgam of (at least) the Homeric singer of epics, the hymnic

399 ἤδη γὰρ ἐπὶ κλυτὰ πείραθ’ ἱκάνω / ὑμετέρων καμάτων (“for now I have come to the famous end of your struggles,” 4.1775-76). Cf. Clare 2002: 284. 400 Albis 1996: 25. For instance, at 2.708-9, the narrator apologizes to Apollo with ἱλήκοις· αἰεί τοι, ἄναξ, ἄτμητοι ἔθειραι, / αἰὲν ἀδήλητοι, (“be propitious, lord, may your hair always be unshorn, always unharmed”), echoing Orpheus’ prayer to Apollo at 2.693: ἀλλ’ ἵληθι ἄναξ, ἵληθι φαανθείς (“be propitious, lord, be propitious, you who have appeared”). 401 Cf. Berkowitz 2004: 14-16. 402 Byre 2002: 11. 124 and Pindaric singers of praise, the Herodotean historian, and the Callimachean scholar.”403 Like

Pindar in his epinician poetry, the Apollonian narrator breaks off in the middle of a story, citing the information as too long or irrelevant.404 The narrator’s Herodotean characteristics can be observed in ethnographic digressions like the discussion of the Tower Dwellers at 2.1015-29.405

Moreover, the Apollonian narrator frequently assumes the inquisitive stance of a historian, and

Cuypers detects this aspect of the persona in the narrator’s use of που (“I guess, I suppose”), a particle that suggests a narrator does not want to be pinned down.406 According to Cuypers, the

Apollonian narrator, by adopting this doubtful tone in his roles as epic inspired bard and a researcher of customs and myths, presents a paradoxical situation. 407 In aiming to establish his credibility to express the truth, he undermines such authority.

At the same time, by assimilating himself with the characters of the epic, the narrator renders himself subject to the same limitations and uncertainties they face. Indeed, as Clayman has observed in her examination of the Skeptic influences in Hellenistic poetry, characters in the

Argonautica undergo states of ἀπορία and ἀμηχανία.408 Jason, in particular, exhibits these characteristics, whenever he struggles to choose a course of action. For instance, after learning about the disappearance of Heracles and Hylas, Jason is “overcome by helplessness”

403 Cuypers 2004b: 43. 404 Cuypers 2004b: 49. See Argon. 1.648-49. 405 See Morrison 2007: 274n18 for a list of ethnographic discussions in the Argonautica. 406 Cuypers 2005: 41. The particle που is particularly useful for sections where the narrator analyzes characters’ motivations, such as the assumption that the grisly murder of Apsyrtus induced Zeus’ wrath: Αὐτόν που μεγαλωστὶ δεδουπότος Ἀψύρτοιο / Ζῆνα θεῶν βασιλῆα χόλος λάβεν οἷον ἔρεξαν (“after Apsyrtus fell dead in his tall stature, I suppose, wrath seized Zeus himself, king of the gods, because of what they did,” 4.557-58). 407 Cuypers 2004b: 50-51. 408 Clayman 2000: 35-38. 125

(ἀμηχανίῃσιν ἀτυχθείς, 1.1286) and sits in silent brooding.409 In Skeptic terms, ἀπορία and

ἀμηχανία are the results of ἐποχή (suspension of judgment), the strategy employed by the

Pyrrhonists to account for the equal strength of opposites (ἰσοσθένεια).410 One can say only how something seems, not how it truly is.411 Although, as Clayman concedes, the Skeptic terminology does not map exactly onto the manifestations of ἀπορία and ἀμηχανία in the Argonautica, the experience is the same, for both the characters and the narrator.412 Like Jason, the Apollonian narrator’s indecision hampers the progression of the narrative, especially in places in the fourth book (e.g. 4.1-5). Such debilitating doubt, in the context of epic, the most authoritative genre, is surprising. Indeed, not only should the typical epic narrator record the achievements of heroes and not the difficulties, but he himself should be able to accomplish the function of narrator.

Through their distinct personal voices, the narrators of both poets’ works act like characters, rather than one-dimensional omniscient narrators isolated from the action. The

Callimachean narrator is in fact a character in the narrative, at least in the first two books of the

Aetia. The Apollonian narrator, on the other hand, although not directly involved in the story he recounts, absorbs elements of his characters’ experiences—not only their emotions, but also their uncertainties. A key difference, however, lies in the ways the authors associate the narrators with

409 See Klein 1983: 125 for an association between Jason’s helplessness and Skepticism. Hunter 1988: 436n6 rejects this suggestion, while also doubting the existence of a formal philosophy of Skepticism in the early third century BCE. While Klein goes too far in calling the author Apollonius a Skeptic, the Pyrrhonian influences for both the characters and the narrator are possible. 410 For ἀπορεῖν and ἀμηχανεῖν as characteristics of Skepticism, see Sext. Emp. Pyr. 1.7. 411 Diog. Laert. 9.105. See also Aristocles in Euseb. Praep. Ev. 14.18.1-5. See Long and Sedley 1987: 1.16-17 for a discussion of this passage. According to them, Pyrrho is not arguing against the criterion of truth, but rather denying truth and falsehood to any sensations or opinions. However, even if the early Skeptics were not directly dealing with the criterion, their noncommittal stance is by implication a rejection of a criterion. 412 Clayman 2000: 39. 126 the characters. Whereas the Callimachean narrator’s interactions in the narrative empower him to acquire more knowledge from the Muses and thus eventually abandon them in Aetia books 3 and

4, the more often the Apollonian narrator intrudes in the narrative, the more his uncertainty becomes apparent. As a result, he must rely more on his sources, the Muses, who, as I will demonstrate, do not function as unquestionable sources for the Apollonian narrator’s inquiries.

Through the different treatment of their sources, the Callimachean and Apollonian narrators offer two alternate processes of interrogating truth and falsehood. For the confident Callimachean narrator, the personal experience of researching and learning provides a means of having some amount of surety. The uncertain and Skeptic-leaning narrator of the Argonautica, on the other hand, only deepens his doubt amidst more information.

Sources

Callimachus

In the extant fragments of Callimachus’ Aetia, three different kinds of sources can be identified. The first two, the Muses and Theogenes, are characters who interact with the narrator in the narrative. Materializing in a dream, the Muses meet a younger version of the narrator, whose questions about the origins of various rituals guide the structure of the first two books of the Aetia. Theogenes, whom the narrator encounters at a symposium in fragment 178, fulfills a similar function, replying to the narrator’s inquiry about the customs on Icus. In these two cases,

Callimachus evokes scenes of oral communication, albeit in a written poetic form. The third type of source, however, is a written one: the prose author Xenomedes, cited as the source for the story of Acontius and Cydippe (fr. 67-75). Callimachus, in representing these sources, frames them in terms of closeness and distance, recalling in many places the immediacy of oral communication even though some of the material has been transmitted through written texts and

127 thus not directly perceived by either the author or his poetic persona. Despite this distance,

Callimachus makes his narrator boast an intimate connection with these sources, stressing the personal aspect of the accumulation of knowledge.

Since the Muses are predominant in the first two books of the Aetia, their complex presentation has occupied a good deal of Callimachean scholarship.413 According to Bing, who stresses the increased role of writing in poetic production during the Hellenistic period, the

Muses lose their traditional status as anthropomorphic inspirers of poets, instead becoming symbols of the dense literary tradition. The Muse is now a “written” one.414 Although Bing is correct to observe the increased association between writing and the Muses, the Muses in the

Aetia nevertheless retain some characteristics of their personified forms. Indeed, in two places in the Aetia prologue, Callimachus represents the relationship with the Muses as one of friendship.

For instance, the narrator, when attacking his critics, the Telchines, states νήιδε⸥ς οἳ Μούσης οὐκ

ἐγένοντο φίλοι, (“who, ignorant of the Muse, were not born her friends,” fr. 1.2). By associating ignorance with the absence of the Muses’ friendship, Callimachus emphasizes the personal dimension of the Muses’ favor. Moreover, as is stated later in the Prologue, such a relationship with the Muses does not cease with old age: Μοῦσαι γ⸥ὰρ ὅσους ἴδον ὄθμα⸤τ⸥ι παῖδας / μὴ λοξῷ,

πολιοὺς⸥ οὐκ ἀπέθεντο φίλους (“as many people as the Muses did not look upon with a slanting eye when they are children, they do not reject as friends when they are old,” fr. 1.37-38). While this reference to the love from the Muses finds parallels in Greek literature, such as Hesiod’s

Theogony,415 we may interpret a close relationship with the Muses, in the context of the literate

413 For instance, see Harder 1988: 1-14 and Morrison 2011: 329-48. 414 Bing 1988: 27. 415 Theog. 96-97. 128

Hellenistic milieu, as a kind of capability for collecting information as well as putting it in poetic form.

The Muses themselves appear in the next fragment, now called the Somnium: ποιμ⸥ένι

μῆλα νέμ̣⸤οντι παρ’ ἴχνιον ὀξέος ἵππου / Ἡσιόδ⸥ῳ Μουσέων ἑσμὸ⸤ς ὅτ’ ἠντίασεν (“when the swarm of Muses met Hesiod as he was shepherding his flocks next to the track of the swift horse,” fr. 2.1-2). This meeting with the Muses evokes the Dichterweihe of Hesiod’s

Theogony.416 Callimachus alludes to this famous encounter not only with the explicit naming of

Hesiod (Ἡσιόδῳ, fr. 2.2) and his occupation as shepherd (ποιμένι μῆλα νέμ̣οντι, fr. 2.1), but also with the phrase παρ’ ἴχνιον ὀξέος ἵππου (“next to the track of the swift horse,” fr. 2.2), an oblique periphrasis for the Hippocrene. Since the meeting with the Muses initiated the contents of the

Theogony, Callimachus’ reworking of this scene has programmatic qualities, marking Hesiod as

Callimachus’ predecessor. Indeed, both poets compose catalogue verse.417 At the same time, both poetic personae recount information received by the Muses personally, and Callimachus signifies the closeness of Hesiod’s relationship with the Muses by juxtaposing Ἡσιόδῳ with Μουσέων

ἑσμός (“swarm of the Muses,” fr. 2.2), a noun pairing linked together by the series of sigmas and the repeated rough breathings in Ἡσιόδῳ and ἑσμός.

A crucial difference, however, distinguishes the context of Callimachus’ meeting with the

Muses. According to the Florentine scholia, this run-in with the Muses took place in a dream when the narrator was a young man.418 The situation of the dream acts as a filter, and although

416 Cf. Kambylis 1965: 122. 417 Harder 1998: 95. 418[ὡς κ]ατ’ ὄναρ σ(υμ)μείξας ταῖς Μούσ[αις ἐν Ἑ-][λι]κ̣ῶνι εἰλήφοι π(αρ’ α)ὐτ(ῶν) τ(ὴν) τ(ῶν) αἰτίων [ἐξήγη-] [σιν ἀ]ρ̣τ̣ιγένειο̣ς̣ ὤν̣ (“that when he met the Muses on Mount Helicon in a dream, he received from them the explanation of the aetia, when he was a young man,” 2d Harder = Σ Flor. 15-20). See also AP 7.42. See Pretagostini 1995: 170-72 and Sistakou 2009b: 222-24 for a discussion of the differences between Callimachean and Hesiodic scenes. Sistakou 129

Callimachus takes away the immediacy of the Hesiodic encounter, he in fact makes it an even more personal one. Harder points out, “Although in the sequel their (the Muses’) stories are quoted in direct discourse, they are always subject to the narrator's control and may be understood as an extension of the narrator rather than as an outside force.”419 Thus, the Muses and the narrator are not simply just “friends” but the Muses are a part of him, so to speak.420

In fragment 112, identified as the epilogue to the Aetia, the Muses reappear, providing a ring composition structure to the work.421 Callimachus repeats the language of fragment 2, again alluding to the Muses’ meeting with Hesiod:

κ̣εί̣ν.. τῷ Μοῦσαι πολλὰ νέμοντι βοτά σὺν̣ μύθους ἐβάλοντο παρ’ ἴχν[ι]ον ὀξέος ἵππου· χαῖρε, σὺν εὐεστοῖ δ’ ἔρχ̣εο λωϊτέρῃ. χαῖρε, Ζεῦ, μέγα καὶ σύ, σάω δ’ [ὅλο]ν οἶκον ἀνάκτων· αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ Μουσέων πεζὸν̣ [ἔ]πειμι νομόν.

[Hesiod] to whom the Muses, when he was shepherding many animals, contributed stories next to the track of the swift horse; farewell, and come with even better prosperity. A great farewell to you too, Zeus, and preserve the whole house of my lords. I, however, will go to the pedestrian pasture of the Muses. (fr. 112.5-9)

In this section, Callimachus refers to Hesiod obliquely with the participial phrase πολλὰ νέμοντι

βοτά (“shepherding many animals,” fr. 112.5), which echoes ποιμένι μῆλα νέμ̣οντι in 2.1. The phrases παρ’ ἴχνιον ὀξέος ἵππου (fr. 112.6) and Μουσέων (fr. 112.9) both occur in the same metrical sedes as they did at 2.1 and 2.2, respectively. Callimachus, by situating the genitive

2009b: 223 points out that Callimachus, unlike Hesiod (Theog. 22), does not name the narrative persona. 419 Harder 2012.2: 94. 420 Cf. Nisetich 2001: XLI. 421 Agreeing with Parsons’s 1977 suggestion that Callimachus later in life affixed the second two books of the Aetia to the first two, Knox 1993: 175-78 argues that fragment 112 originally concluded the first two books of the Aetia, but was subsequently moved by an editor to the end of book 4. 130

Μουσέων after the emphatic personal pronoun ἐγώ, symbolizes the close connection between his persona and the Muses, just as he did by juxtaposing Ἡσιόδῳ and Μουσέων in 2.2. However,

Callimachus’ narrator frames the relationship with the Muses as an active one on his part. While the Muses met Hesiod (ἠντίασεν, 2.2) and contributed stories (σὺν μύθους ἐβάλοντο, fr. 112.6), it is the narrator himself who will embark in their pedestrian pasture: πεζὸν ἔπειμι νομόν (fr.

112.9). What exactly Callimachus means by the πεζὸν νομόν remains subject to debate.422

Nevertheless, the final lines attest to the impression that the Callimachean narrator can control the Muses. Indeed, in asking the questions in Aetia 1-2, the narrator shapes the discourse, exploiting the Muses to satiate his curiosity about particular topics, about which he is already familiar. For instance, the narrator knows of the existence of certain rituals, such as the use of scurrilous language by the Anaphaeans and of profane speech by the Lindians (fr. 7.19-20). The

Muses then serve to deepen this awareness by explicating the reasons for these rituals. That both the narrator and the Muses possess knowledge suggests equality between the two parties.

The function of answering questions is fulfilled by another character, the Ician

Theogenes. Fragment 178 preserves a portion of this exchange, which takes place at a symposium.423 The Callimachean narrator asks about certain Ician rituals, such as the worship of

Peleus and why Ician customs are similar to Thessalian ones.424 Before this interrogation,

422 For the argument that this phrase refers to the Iambi, which follow the Aetia in POxy. 7.1011 and the Diegesis, see Clayman 1988: 277-86. See Hutchinson 2003: 58n31 for the claim the “pedestrian pastures” means prose. 423 Due to the sympotic context of the fragment, Zetzel 1981: 32 argues that fragment 178 should be placed at the beginning of book 2, coming before the beginning of fragment 43, which also suggests a symposium. We know from Athenaeus 11.477c that the host’s name was Pollis. If this fragment occurs in the context of the conversation with the Muses, then the Callimachean narrator would be recalling it to them. 424 Μυρμιδόνων ἑσσῆνα τ[ί πάτριον ὔ]μμι σέβεσθαι / Πηλέα, κῶς Ἴκῳ ξυν[ὰ τὰ Θεσσαλι]κά (“Why is it your custom to revere Peleus, king of the Myrmidons, and why are Thessalian customs connected with Ician ones?” fr. 178.23-24). 131 however, Callimachus’ narrator goes to great lengths to establish Theogenes’ character, emphasizing not only Theogenes’ Ician origin, but also the similarities between himself and

Theogenes. In doing so, the narrator engages in a form of source criticism, representing how a person can come to identify another person as a credible font of information.

After making reference to the Attic wine festivals in 1-4, Callimachus provides the context for meeting Theogenes:

ἐ̣ς̣ δ̣α̣ίτη̣ν̣ ἐκ̣άλ̣ε̣σσεν ὁμηθέας, ἐν δέ νυ τοῖσι ξεῖνον ὃς Α[ἰ]γύπτῳ καινὸς ἀνεστρέφετο μεμβλωκὼς ἴδιόν τι κατὰ χρέος· ἦν δὲ γενέθλην Ἴκ̣ιος, ᾧ ξυνὴν εἶχον ἐγὼ κλισίην

He summoned people with similar habits to a dinner, and among them was a foreigner who, having just arrived, was staying in Egypt, since he had come for some personal business. He was an Ician by birth, and I shared a couch with him. (fr. 178.5-8)

With the adjective ὁμηθέας (“with similar habits,” fr. 178.5), Callimachus offers the first indication of the similarity between the narrator and Theogenes. Both are spending time in the company of people like their host. In the subsequent lines, Callimachus specifies Theogenes’ background, marking his status as a foreigner staying in Egypt (ξεῖνον ὃς Αἰγύπτῳ καινὸς

ἀνεστρέφετο, fr. 178.6), as well as his Ician lineage (γενέθλην / Ἴκιος, fr. 178.7-8). In making

Theogenes’ lineage the first part of the characterization, Callimachus points to its importance in using Theogenes as a source for questions about Ician rituals. Indeed, Theogenes’ proximity to the place grants him authority on such matters.

At the same time, as a foreigner in Egypt, Theogenes, is displaced,425 and Callimachus stresses this displacement by coordinating ξεῖνον and Ἴκιος at the beginning of their respective lines. This displacement from Icus not only enables Theogenes to participate in this symposium

425 For the theme of displacement in Callimachus’ poetry, see Selden 1998. 132 in Egypt, but also renders him like Odysseus, whose wanderings allowed knowledge of many peoples and customs.426 Callimachus in fact implies a parallel between Theogenes and Odysseus with the verb ἀνεστρέφετο (“was staying” fr. 178.6), which recalls ἀναστρέφομαι in Odyssey 13.

There Odysseus tells Athena his suspicion that he is currently in a land different from Ithaca: οὐ

γὰρ ὀΐω / ἥκειν εἰς Ἰθάκην εὐδείελον, ἀλλά τιν’ ἄλλην / γαῖαν ἀναστρέφομαι (“for I do not think

I have come to well-seen Ithaca, but I am roaming in some other land,” 13.324-26). As in the

Aetia passage, the verb in Homer occurs in the context of a place different than an individual’s place of origin. Yet while Odysseus only supposes he is currently in a foreign land, Theogenes actually is.

References to the Odyssey continue in the description of Theogenes, as Callimachus cites a Homeric saying to explain the reason for the couch shared between his narrator and Theogenes:

οὐκ ἐπιτάξ, ἀλλ’ αἶνος Ὁμηρικός, αἰὲν ὁμοῖον ὡς θεός, οὐ ψευδής, ἐς τὸν ὁμοῖον ἄγει. καὶ γὰρ ὁ Θρηϊκίην μὲν ἀπέστυγε χανδὸν ἄμυστιν ζωροποτεῖν, ὀλίγῳ δ’ ἥδετο κισσυβίῳ.

Not by prearranged seating, but the Homeric saying, that the god always brings like to like, is not untrue. For he despised to drink the Thracian draught with lips wide open, but took pleasure in the tiny cup. (fr. 178.9-12)

The maxim that “the god brings like to like” occurs in Odyssey 17, when Melanthius scolds

Eumaeus for bringing in the disguised Odysseus: νῦν μὲν δὴ μάλα πάγχυ κακὸς κακὸν ἡγηλάζει,

/ ὡς αἰεὶ τὸν ὁμοῖον ἄγει θεὸς ὡς τὸν ὁμοῖον (“now in truth, a base man leads a base man, as always, the god brings like to like,” 17.217-18). The citation of this phrase in Callimachus, however, is transformed. While in Homer the phrase is uttered by the disreputable figure

426 Od. 1.3. See Harder 2002: 212-17 for a discussion of the reminiscences of the Odyssey. 133

Melanthius who mistakenly perceives Odysseus as a base man, Callimachus makes his narrator reclaim the saying to attest to an actual similarity between two elegant and refined gentlemen.

In 11-12, Callimachus provides proof for the truth of the Homeric statement, specifying the ways in which his narrator and Theogenes are similar. Like the narrator, Theogenes detests immoderate Thracian drinking, but prefers “delighting in the tiny cup” (ὀλίγῳ δ’ ἥδετο

κισσυβίῳ, fr. 178.12). As Cameron notes, this antithesis between big and small recalls the aesthetic principles as espoused in the Aetia Prologue, where Callimachus’ narrator expressed preference for shorter works over longer works.427 Theogenes’ drinking habits, by the narrator’s judgment, signify the deeper similarities between the two, namely their ability to engage in refined discourse and thus exchange information. These similarities with the narrator render

Theogenes an appropriate source.

After determining Theogenes’ suitability, the narrator addresses him in an attempt to join him in conversation:

τῷ μὲν ἐγὼ τάδ’ ἔλεξα περιστείχοντος ἀλείσου τὸ τρίτον, εὖτ’ ἐδάην οὔνομα καὶ γενεήν· ‘ἦ μάλ’ ἔπος τόδ’ ἀληθές, ὅ τ’ οὐ μόνον ὕδατος αἶσαν, ἀλλ’ ἔτι καὶ λέσχης οἶνος ἔχειν ἐθέλει. τὴν ἡμε̣ῖ̣ς̣—ο̣ὐκ̣ ἐν̣ γ̣[ὰ]ρ ἀρυστήρεσσ̣ι̣ φορεῖται οὐδέ μι̣ν ε̣ἰ̣ς̣ ἀ̣τ̣[ενεῖ]ς̣ ὀφρ̣ύ̣ας οἰνοχόων αἰτήσεις ὁρόω[ν] ὅ̣τ̣’ ἐλεύθερος ἀτμένα σαίνει— βάλλωμεν χαλεπῷ φάρμακον ἐν πόματι, Θεύγενες· ὅσσ[α] δ̣’ ἐμεῖο σ[έ]θεν πάρα θυμὸς ἀκοῦσαι ἰχαίνει, τάδε μοι λ[έ]ξον [ἀνειρομέν]ῳ·

I said these things to him as the goblet was passing by for the third time, after I learned his name and lineage. “Indeed, this saying is quite true, that wine wants not only to have a portion of water, but also of conversation. Let us throw this as a drug into the harsh drink, Theogenes, for it is not carried in ladles nor will you ask for it looking towards the strained eyebrows of wine-pourers at the time when a free man fawns upon a slave. Everything my heart yearns to hear from you, tell me when I ask.”

427 Cameron 1995: 96. For the preference for smallness, see Aetia fr. 1.10-12. 134

(fr. 178.13-22)

The key point of the narrator’s appeal is the importance of conversation (λέσχη) in drinking wine, and Callimachus’ narrator makes this point by invoking a truism (ἔπος τόδ’ ἀληθές, fr.

178.15) that calls for the equal need for water and conversation. Like water, conversation is crucial for alleviating the effects of drinking. As the narrator exhorts in 20, he and Theogenes are to cast conversation in as a drug for the harsh drink: βάλλωμεν χαλεπῷ φάρμακον ἐν πόματι.

With this language, Callimachus recalls the scene in Odyssey 4, when Helen laces the wine drunk by Telemachus and Menelaus with a drug to induce forgetfulness of their sorrows:428

ἔνθ’ αὖτ’ ἄλλ’ ἐνόησ’ Ἑλένη Διὸς ἐκγεγαυῖα· αὐτίκ’ ἄρ’ εἰς οἶνον βάλε φάρμακον, ἔνθεν ἔπινον, νηπενθές τ’ ἄχολόν τε, κακῶν ἐπίληθον ἁπάντων.

Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, thought of a different plan. At once she cast a drug into the wine, which they were drinking, a drug that dulls pain and anger and makes them forget all evils.

(Od. 4.219-21)

As Hunter observes, the allusion to this particular scene is ironic, since the kind of drug envisioned by Callimachus will bring not forgetfulness, but rather memory.429 Moreover, conversation is something in which they can purposely partake, and as the narrator notes in the aside in 17-19, conversation does not depend on slaves to serve it.

Consequently, the joint sharing of information in a conversation is something that enables the narrator and Theogenes to transcend their surroundings, and in particular the festival context of the Aiora, one for which solitary drinking was the norm and whose origins are based in

428 See Massimilla 1996: 412. 429 Hunter 1996: 19. 135 excessive drinking.430 Eschewing this solitary immoderation, Callimachus’ narrator instead advocates for shared moderation, and to do so cites bits of Homeric wisdom, extracting them from their original contexts (Melanthius’ insults and Helen's forgetfulness causing drugs) to a contemporary setting of a symposium in Egypt. In making a symposium the setting for the narrator’s inquiry about Ician customs, however, Callimachus replicates one of the most traditional ways of obtaining information: hearing it from another person. Although receiving information secondhand is not as direct as perceiving something firsthand, a real life meeting, as depicted in this fragment, enables a better evaluation of a person’s credibility than when acquiring information from a written source. Indeed, the Callimachean narrator can directly assess Theogenes’ drinking habits to deduce that their similarities are conducive to stimulating conversation.

While the scene with Theogenes represents an instance of oral communication,

Xenomedes, cited in fragment 75 as the source for the Acontius and Cydippe story, is a written source.431 Callimachus’ narrator, however, still infuses the depiction with elements of orality, claiming to have heard (ἐκλύομεν) about Acontius’ love from Xenomedes:432

Κεῖε, τεὸν δ’ ἡμεῖς ἵμερον ἐκλύομεν τόνδε παρ’ ἀρχαίου Ξενομήδεος, ὅς ποτε πᾶσαν νῆσον ἐνὶ μνήμῃ κάτθετο μυθολόγῳ,

Cean, we heard about this love of yours from ancient Xenomedes, who once set down the whole island in a mythological record. (fr. 75.53-55)

430 See Harder 2012.2: 959-64 for an overview of the festivals mentioned by Callimachus. The Aiora commemorated Erigone’s suicide by hanging, which occurred after a drunken herdsman, given wine by Dionysus, murdered her father Icarius. Scodel 1980: 39 observes that whereas wine causes sorrow for Erigone, “for Callimachus, antiquarian conversation averts the chief danger in the drinking of wine, tedium.” 431 See Huxley 1965: 235-45. 432 Bruss 2004: 54. 136

By inserting the personal pronoun ἡμεῖς (“we,” fr. 75.53) between τεόν and ἵμερον (“this love of yours,” fr. 75.53), Callimachus illustrates the closeness between his narrator and the subject matter, and indeed the choice to address Acontius directly in 52 heightens the subjective qualities. Such subjectivity and closeness are ironic, especially since the Callimachean narrator does not participate in the narrated story, but rather has acquired it from another source,

Xenomedes. This distance between the receiver (the Callimachean narrator) and the source is increased by the fact that Xenomedes is an ancient one (ἀρχαίου, fr. 75.54). Moreover, despite the ostensible suggestion of oral communication with the verb ἐκλύομεν, the narrator has gathered this information from a written work, as Callimachus indicates in the relative clause ὅς

ποτε πᾶσαν / νῆσον ἐνὶ μνήμῃ κάτθετο μυθολόγῳ (“who once set down the entire island in a mythological record,” fr. 75.54-55) and with γέρων ἐνεθήκατο δέλτοις (“the old man set in his tablets,” fr. 75.66). The phrasing ἐνὶ μνήμῃ κάτθετο μυθολόγῳ in fact suggests orality, as it echoes Calliope’s command to the narrator during the conversation with the Muses: πρῶτον ἐνὶ

μνήμῃ κάτθεο καὶ Μινύας (“first set also the Minyans in your memory,” fr. 7c.6). In likening the process of receiving a written work to that of direct hearing, Callimachus makes the process appear to be a more personal and involved one.

After giving a detailed summary of the contents of Xenomedes’ work in 56-74,

Callimachus concludes by readdressing Acontius:

εἶπε δ̣έ̣, Κ̣ε̣ῖ̣ε̣ ξυγκραθέντ’ αὐταῖς ὀξὺν ἔρωτα σέθεν πρέσβυς ἐτητυμίῃ μεμελημένος, ἔ̣ν̣θεν̣ ὁ π̣α̣[ι]δ̣ός μῦθος ἐς ἡμετέρην ἔδραμε Καλλιόπην.

And he spoke, Cean, about your difficult love mixed in [with these towns], the old man, devoted to truth, from where the child’s story ran to our Calliope. (fr. 75.74-77)

137

With the verb εἶπε (“he spoke,” fr. 75.74), Callimachus again evokes orality. The emphasis on

Xenomedes’ old age (πρέσβυς, fr. 75.76) suggests his authority, as does the participial clause

ἐτητυμίῃ μεμελημένος (“devoted to truth,” fr. 75.76). Morrison, however, detects irony produced by this phrase.433 How can Xenomedes be devoted to truth (ἐτητυμίῃ, fr. 75.76), when his account is a mythological one (μυθολόγῳ, fr. 75.55) and so mixes in fantastical narratives like the story of Acontius’ love along with the foundation of cities (fr. 75.70-74)? Indeed,

Callimachus refers to the story as a μῦθος in 77, insinuating its possible falsity. At the same time, another question arises. What happens to the truth-status of the story when it has run over to “our

Calliope,” a word that has been taken to indicate “poetry?”434 Does it remain the same or does it undergo some change?

Callimachus, I suggest, subtly implies the latter, through the coordination of the noun

ἐτητυμίῃ with the adjective ἡμετέρην (“our,” fr. 75.77). Since ἡμετέρην repeats and rearranges the letters of ἐτητυμίῃ (the eta, mu, epsilon, and tau), we can see the coordination of these two words as reflective of the fact that the conversion of knowledge from prose into poetry involves some change. Like the letters in both words, the raw elements of prose remain the same in poetry, but become re-arranged in an artful way that befits verse. The Callimachean narrator has just condensed Xenomedes’ record of the whole island (πᾶσαν νῆσον, fr. 75.54) into a selective summary that has thematic implications for the Aetia as a whole. For instance, at fr. 75.65 the

Telchines are mentioned, recalling their appearance in the Prologue (fr. 1.1). At the same time, the narrator has extracted the tale of Acontius and Cydippe, which was mixed (ξυγκραθέντα, fr.

75.75) in Xenomedes’ work, for an extended treatment, in which the narrator features his voice

433 Morrison 2007: 197. 434 Harder 2012.2: 657. Sistakou 2017: 7 points out that ἡμετέρην is a deictic expression and implies the Muse Calliope’s presence. 138 so frequently.435 As Harder has argued, this prominence of the Callimachean personal voice, especially in this fragment, is what most distinguishes Callimachus from Homer.436 It is this personal voice and its evaluative language that define the Callimachean Calliope as his own.

In his depiction of these various sources (the Muses, Theogenes, and Xenomedes), the narrator of Callimachus emphasizes his personal connection with them. The Muses come to

Callimachus’ narrator in a dream, Theogenes is like the narrator, and finally Xenomedes’ work is transferred to “our Calliope.” Even when discussing a source written by Xenomedes,

Callimachus employs words that recall hearing and direct communication. Such a conceit of direct communication, while ironic given the highly literate nature of the Aetia, symbolizes the narrator’s deep understanding of his sources. He has absorbed them in such a way that he is confident enough of his existing knowledge to engage all three (even the Muses) in a dialogue.

Such dialogue, however, is ultimately controlled by him.

Apollonius of Rhodes

Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica also includes the Muses, the traditional inspirers of epic. Yet Apollonius’ portrayal of the Muses diverges in many ways from Homer.437 Indeed, the choice to invoke the god Apollo at the beginning of the poem (Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε, 1.1)

435 For instance, the narrator addresses Acontius to remark at fr. 75.44-49 that Acontius would not have exchanged that night with Cydippe for the ankle of Iphicles or the possessions of Minos. 436 Harder 1990: 309. According to her, while the Homeric narrator works in the background, the Callimachean one is “very self-conscious and very prominent, unashamedly interfering with his own story and imposing a great deal of rhythm and emphasis on it, taking great care this reader does not lose sight of him and directing their emotional response in unexpected ways.” 437 For an overview of the Muses’ appearances in the Argonautica, see Fusillo 1985: 365-74. In addition to the passages that I will discuss in detail, see 2.845 and 4.552-56. At 2.845, the narrator refers to his obligation to the Muses to mention Idmon’s tomb, while at 4.552-56, he asks the Muses about the Argonauts’ journey around Italy. 139 instead of the Muses represents a major distinction between the Argonautica and the Homeric epics.438 Rather, Apollonius’ narrator calls upon the Muses several lines later:

Νῆα μὲν οὖν οἱ πρόσθεν ἔτι κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί Ἄργον Ἀθηναίης καμέειν ὑποθημοσύνῃσι. νῦν δ’ ἂν ἐγὼ γενεήν τε καὶ οὔνομα μυθησαίμην ἡρώων, δολιχῆς τε πόρους ἁλός, ὅσσα τ’ ἔρεξαν πλαζόμενοι· Μοῦσαι δ’ ὑποφήτορες εἶεν ἀοιδῆς.

So the previous singers still sing about how Argos built the ship following Athena’s instructions, but I now wish to recount the lineage and name of the heroes, and their journeys on the immense sea, and as many things they achieved as they wandered. May the Muses be the interpreters of the song! (1.18-22)

Instead of telling about the construction of the Argo, a topic already sung by previous singers, the narrator will recount the lineage, name, routes, and deeds of their heroes in their wanderings.439 For this particular task, the Muses are to act as ὑποφήτορες (1.22) of the song.

While the exact meaning of this word ὑποφήτορες has been subject to scholarly debate,440 previous uses of the similar word ὑποφήτης suggest that word means “interpreters.”441 Yet, in what way would the Muses act as interpreters and what exactly do they interpret? González, noting the oracular context of the noun ὑποφῆται in Homer, argues the word deals with interpretation as a revelatory activity.442 According to him, Apollonius’ Muses are the interpreters of Apollo, who is preeminent in the narrative, as both the god first addressed and the

438 In particular, the language of the first line has been compared to a hymn (cf. Hymn to Selene 18-19). Goldhill 1991: 287 and Clauss 1993: 16. 439 The building of the Argo is mentioned at Odyssey 12.70. 440 Vian 1974: 239, for instance, argues that it refers to “inspirers of the song.” Paduano Faedo 1970: 378, taking ὑποφήτορες in 1.22 as “ministre,” sees in the Argonautica an inversion of the traditional relationship between poet and Muse. Garriga 1996: 110 adopts the translation “interpreters.” See Borgogno 2002: 5-21 and Cerri 2007: 159-65 for an overview of the possible interpretations of this word. 441 See LSJ ὑποφήτης. 442 González 2000: 276. ὑποφῆται appears at Iliad 16.235 in Achilles’ request for Patroclus’ safe homecoming and refers to the oracular priests of Zeus at Dodona. 140 source of the oracle that initiates the Argonauts’ quest. Due to the traditional association between the Muses and Apollo (e.g. Theog. 94-95), González’s argument carries weight. The Muses thus are divine mediators assisting the narrator in the verse, in the same way that Argos received instructions from Athena in the building of the Argo (1.18-19). In fact, the repetition of the ὑπο- root in ὑποθημοσύνῃσι (“instructions,” 1.18) and ὑποφήτορες suggests a parallel between these two actions. Like a person building a ship, the narrator must convert raw material, that is, his subject matter, into a structured entity.

The subject matter of the Argonautica comprises a wide array of topics. Aside from the traditional exploits of heroes, the poem features aetiologies, geographic excurses, and detailed descriptions of psychological states, particularly Medea’s love in book 3.443 The variety of these topics, each of which would be critiqued differently with regards to truth and falsehood, necessitates that the narrator employ his sources (the Muses) in different ways. As a result, it makes sense that Apollonius does not depict a static relationship between the narrator and the

Muses, as Hunter and Feeney have observed in examining the invocations in books 1, 3, and 4.444

Hunter claims that the “brash, modern self-confidence of the opening proem now retreats for safety to an archaic dependence upon the Muse.”445 Morrison connects this increased reliance on the Muses to the Apollonian narrator’s growing uncertainty.446 While agreeing with Morrison’s assessment, I will take the argument a step further to contend that, despite the narrator’s increased use of the Muses in book 3 and especially in book 4, the narrator problematizes their

443 For an overview of Apollonius’ use of geography, see Hurst 1998: 279-88 and Meyer 2008: 267-86. 444 Hunter 1987: 134 and Feeney 1991: 90-91. 445 Hunter 1993: 105. 446 Morrison 2007: 310. 141 roles as sources, particularly for the complex subject matter that occupies those two books.447

Such a problematization, in turn, reflects the difficulties of completely establishing the truth.

The beginning of book 3 features an invocation to the Muse, specifically Erato:

Εἰ δ’ ἄγε νῦν Ἐρατώ, παρ’ ἔμ’ ἵστασο καί μοι ἔνισπε ἔνθεν ὅπως ἐς Ἰωλκὸν ἀνήγαγε κῶας Ἰήσων Μηδείης ὑπ’ ἔρωτι· σὺ γὰρ καὶ Κύπριδος αἶσαν ἔμμορες, ἀδμῆτας δὲ τεοῖς μελεδήμασι θέλγεις παρθενικάς· τῶ καί τοι ἐπήρατον οὔνομ’ ἀνῆπται.

Come now, Erato, stand next to me and tell me how from here Jason brought the fleece to Iolcus with the help of Medea’s love. For you too have received a portion of Cypris’ power and enchant unmarried maidens with your love-cares. For this reason, your lovely name has been attached to you. (3.1-5)

In contrast to the polite optative of wish ὑποφήτορες εἶεν ἀοιδῆς in 1.22, the imperatives ἵστασο

(“stand,” 3.1) and ἔνισπε (“tell,” 3.1) connote a greater sense of immediacy.448 The repetition of the first person personal pronouns ἔμε and μοι emphasize the closeness desired between the narrator and Muse. The Muse’s closeness qualifies as a more active role.449 This particular subject matter of the third book, that is, the prominence of Medea’s eros (Μηδείης ὑπ’ ἔρωτι,

3.3), necessitates this role from Erato, since the desire of a young woman represents a topic especially foreign to a male perspective. The narrator appoints Erato specifically for this task, due to her association with love matters,450 and indeed, the narrator explicitly comments on

Erato’s appropriateness in 3-5, observing the connection between her enchantment of young maidens and her name: τῶ καί τοι ἐπήρατον οὔνομ’ ἀνῆπται. The adjective ἐπήρατον (5) echoes not only her actual name Ἐρατώ in 1, but also ἔρωτι in 3, and through this repetition, Apollonius

447 For a similar assessment, cf. Klooster 2011: 224-25, who makes a comparison between the Muses and the documents in the Museum. 448 Albis 1996: 69 detects a sense of anxiety in εἰ δ’ ἄγε. 449 Hunter 1989: 95 considers this a more equal role. 450 Campbell 1983: 3 notes that this association was first seen at Plato’s Phaedrus 259c. 142 emphasizes the connection between Erato’s name and her sphere of influence. By remarking on the relevance of this name, that is, citing an etymology, the narrator is engaging in a form of source criticism. Since love is expressed in her name, Erato qualifies as the best source for this information.

Yet Erato is not only a source for the information of the narrative, but the events themselves. Like Cypris, Erato can induce young women like Medea to act under the influence of eros, and this eros in turn is what enables the completion of the narrative, the conveyance of the Golden Fleece to Iolcus, as Apollonius makes clear with the expression Μηδείης ὑπ’ ἔρωτι.

Moreover, it is significant that the verb applied to Erato, θέλγεις (“you enchant,” 3.4), is often associated with the allures of poetry.451 It appears, for instance, at Argonautica 1.27 and 1.31, referring both times to the objects charmed by Orpheus’ song.452 The word also carries associations with deception and, as Albis notes, this verb appears in the third book to describe

Eros’ effect on Medea.453 Since Eros’ enchantment of Medea results in the dissolution of her rational self,454 we can see θέλγεις here in this proem as bringing in similar connotations.

Campbell, moreover, observes the suggestion of violence with the combination of the adjective

ἀδμῆτας (“untamed,” 3.4) and the noun μελεδήμασι (“love-cares,” 3.4).455 By framing Erato as a destructive force that disrupts the rationality of young girls, Apollonius depicts her as having two

451 Odyssey 12.40 452 See 1.26-27: αὐτὰρ τόνγ’ ἐνέπουσιν ἀτειρέας οὔρεσι πέτρας / θέλξαι ἀοιδάων ἐνοπῇ ποταμῶν τε ῥέεθρα (“and they say he enchanted the hard boulders in the mountains and the course of the rivers with the sound of his songs”) and 1.30-31: ἃς ὅγ’ ἐπιπρό / θελγομένας φόρμιγγι κατήγαγε Πιερίηθεν (“the ones he led forth down from Pieria, enchanted by his lyre”). 453 Albis 1996: 68. Cf. 3.85-86: ἀλλ’ αὔτως ἀκέουσα τεῷ ἐπικέκλεο παιδί / παρθένον Αἰήτεω θέλξαι πόθῳ Αἰσονίδαο (“so just calmly order your child to enchant the maiden daughter of Aeëtes with longing for Jason”) and 3.143. 454 See 3.284-98. 455 Campbell 1983: 2. 143 contradictory aspects. In being asked to speak (ἔνισπε, 3.1), Erato represents an authoritative source on the subject of love. Yet at the same time her authority on such matters renders her liable to deceive and thus untrustworthy for the narrator who must now rely on her.

In the proem to the fourth book, the narrator returns to invoke Erato, who is not named, but instead referred to as goddess and Muse:456

Αὐτὴ νῦν κάματόν γε θεὰ καὶ δήνεα κούρης Κολχίδος ἔννεπε Μοῦσα, Διὸς τέκος· ἦ γὰρ ἔμοιγε ἀμφασίῃ νόος ἔνδον ἑλίσσεται, ὁρμαίνοντι ἠὲ μιν ἄτης πῆμα δυσιμέρον ἦ τό γ’ ἐνίσπω φύζαν ἀεικελίην ᾗ κάλλιπεν ἔθνεα Κόλχων.

Now, goddess, you yourself speak of the struggle and the wiles of the Colchian maiden, Muse, child of Zeus. Truly for me at least, my mind whirls inside me in speechlessness, as I ponder whether I am to call this a painful infliction of infatuation or a shameful flight, by which she abandoned the Colchian peoples. (4.1-5)

The combination of αὐτή (“you yourself,”4.1) and νῦν (“now,”4.1) continues the sense of immediacy featured in the proem to book 3, and the imperative ἔννεπε (“speak,” 4.2), the same verb used in Odyssey 1.1, looks back to ἔνισπε (3.1). Unlike the proem to 3, however, here

Apollonius does not focus on the Muse’s authority concerning the subject matter as much as the limitations of the narrator, who is distinguished from the Muse with the emphatic personal pronoun ἔμοιγε (4.2).457 As Apollonius describes in 2-3, the narrator’s mind “is whirling”

(ἑλίσσεται, 4.3) in speechlessness (ἀμφασίῃ, 4.3). Such a state of speechlessness is antithetical to the function of an epic narrator to verbalize the events of the past. Rather, speechlessness befits the characters in the narrative, whose limited knowledge makes them uncertain and terrified

456 Livrea 1973: 3 observes that θεά recalls Iliad 1.1, while ἔννεπε Μοῦσα is reminiscent of the first line of the Odyssey. 457 Hurst 1967: 135 notes that the importance of the narrator is stressed by the use of the same verb ἔννεπε for the narrator (ἐνίσπω, 4). 144 about the future.458 Yet in the case of the beginning of book 4, the narrator’s issue is not a lack of knowledge, but rather a difficulty with interpretation.459 The narrator knows that Medea abandoned the Colchians (κάλλιπεν ἔθνεα Κόλχων, 4.5), but struggles to determine her true motivations, wavering between calling it a “painful infliction of infatuation” (ἄτης πῆμα

δυσιμέρον, 4.4) or “a shameful flight” (φύζαν ἀεικελίην, 4.5).

These two options in turn represent evaluations of Medea’s character. If her impetus for leaving her family and native land derives from a painful love for Jason, she appears more sympathetic. She is merely a lovesick young girl unable to control herself when overcome by passion and as a result not entirely culpable for her mistake. Indeed, Apollonius’ choice to call her a maiden (κούρης) in 1 implies a sense of youthful foolishness. The noun δήνεα (“wiles,”

3.1), however, suggests intention and at the same time culpability.460 Acknowledgment of her guilt corresponds with the second option: φύζαν ἀεικελίην. According to this option, Medea flees due to a fear of her father’s wrath and thus knows she has committed wrong. Her motivations then are less about loving and protecting Jason than on her need for self-preservation.

This struggle to define Medea’s motivations makes sense, as Apollonius’ narrator is no longer dealing with easily known pieces of information like the lineage and names of heroes, as in the Catalogue of Heroes in book 1, but is focusing instead on internal states like Medea’s

κάματον and δήνεα. For such inner states, the consequences can be directly perceived, but not the true source. While neither of the two options necessarily precludes the other, the narrator

458 For ἀμφασίη applied to characters, see 2.409 (the Argonauts) 3.284 (Medea), 3.811 (Medea), and 3.1372 (Aeëtes). 459 Hunter 1987: 134. Sens 2000: 188, however, views this confession of uncertainty as disingenuous, arguing that the particle ἤτοι in 4.6 reasserts the narrator’s control over the material. 460 Hunter 2015: 84 prefers the translation “intentions.” 145 does not establish a definite choice, neither here in the proem nor in the remainder of the book, where Medea’s depiction vacillates between a desperate helpless girl and a homicidal witch.461

Even though at 4.411-20 Medea admits that she made an error in helping Jason and blames the gods, she still consciously incites Jason to murder her brother Apsyrtus. For such a heinous deed, the narrator explicitly blames the god Eros, calling him a μέγα πῆμα (“great ruin” 4.445) and accusing him of implanting “hateful outrage” in her mind (στυγερὴν φρεσὶν ἔμβαλες ἄτην,

4.449). Through these two words, πῆμα and ἄτην, the narrator recalls the first option: ἄτης πῆμα

δυσιμέρον, thus suggesting that Medea’s actions are due to obsessive love. Medea’s aunt Circe, on the other hand, refers to the second option (φύζαν ἀεικελίην) when she disapproves of

Medea’s βουλάς (“plots”) and ἀεικέα φύξιν, which acts as a synonym for φύζαν ἀεικελίην.462

For Circe, Medea is culpable, and as Natzel observes, “Kirke spiegelt die Meinung der

Gesellschaft wider, d.h. die konventionelle Beurteilung eines Vergehens, dessen sich Medea schuldig gemacht hat.463 That the narrator does not explicitly provide a definitive assessment of

Medea’s behavior and motivations, evidences not only his limitations as narrator, but also that of his source Erato. Even though he has requested her direct help at the beginning of the book, she never fully dispels the doubt.

The Muses figure again later in the fourth book, during an episode in which the

Argonauts carry the boat across the Libyan desert, a story also recorded in Pindar’s Fourth

Pythian (25-27):

Μουσάων ὅδε μῦθος, ἐγὼ δ’ ὑπακουὸς ἀείδω Πιερίδων, καὶ τήνδε πανατρεκὲς ἔκλυον ὀμφήν, ὑμέας, ὦ πέρι δὴ μέγα φέρτατοι υἷες ἀνάκτων, ᾗ βίῃ, ᾗ ἀρετῇ Λιβύης ἀνὰ θῖνας ἐρήμους

461 For an overview of Medea’s character in book 4, see Dyck 1989: 455-70. 462 4.748. 463 Natzel 1992: 86. 146

νῆα μεταχρονίην ὅσα τ’ ἔνδοθι νηὸς ἄγεσθε ἀνθεμένους ὤμοισι φέρειν δυοκαίδεκα πάντα ἤμαθ’ ὁμοῦ νύκτας τε.

This story is from the Muses. I sing obedient to the Pieridian goddesses, and I heard this account entirely accurately, that you, o by far the mightiest sons of lords, by your strength and by your excellence, you lifted high in the air the ship and everything you brought inside on your shoulders and carried it through the desolate sands of Libya for twelve whole days and nights.

(4.1381-87)

In contrast to the previous mentions of the Muses (1.21-22, 3.1-4, and 4.1-5) the narrator is not requesting the Muses for aid at the current moment, but rather is treating them as a source that he heard in the past (ἔκλυον).464 As a result, we can read a sense of distance between the narrator and this story, even though the narrator claims to have received it “entirely accurately”

(πανατρεκές, 4.1382). Since the Muses are the source of the story, the story’s truth should be ensured, and Apollonius emphasizes the Muses by including two versions of their name:

Μουσάων and Πιερίδων. Indeed, the parallel placement of their names at the beginning of the lines reflects their status as originators of the tale.

The questions then become why does the narrator ascribe this particular tale to the

Muses, and what does the use of them here say about the evaluation of truth and falsehood?

Why, moreover, does he here characterize himself as obedient: ἐγὼ δ’ ὑπακουός? Such an admission of obedience has been read as his subordination to the Muses and thus a complete inversion from the role of the Muses as “interpreters.”465 While some scholars think that the incredibility of the tale has induced the narrator to call in the Muses for authentication,466 this

464 Berkowitz 2004: 93. “The passage is significant in that it evokes a conversation that the Muses had before the commencement of the public narrative.” 465 Feeney 1991: 91. 466 Fränkel 1968: 596-97 and Grillo 1988: 27. 147 explanation alone does not explain the choice of this story. In comparison with other such fantastical stories like Medea’s subjugation of Talos (4.1661-88), this tale does not seem that unbelievable.

Rather, I suggest that Apollonius makes the narrator ascribe this story to the Muses since the depiction of extreme struggle can function as a parallel for the difficulties of narration and by extension with determining truth. This proposal finds support not only in the analogy between a journey and the act of narration,467 but also by the immediate context. Just like the Apollonian narrator, who relies on the Muses for the story, Peleus concocts the plan to escape the Libyan desert with the help of the similarly omniscient Libyan Heroines.468 Such an effort to determine a future plan of action is analogous to the narrator’s grappling with the past, especially in a place as unknown and remote as Libya, as the narrator suggests with Λιβύης ἀνὰ θῖνας ἐρήμους

(“through the desolate sands of Libya,” 4.1384). The desolation of this environment contributes not only to the Argonauts’ struggles carrying the ship for such an extended amount of time, but also those of the narrator, who participates in this struggle in the act of narrating.

In the final lines of the section, the narrator explicitly remarks on the difficulty of recounting this tale:

δύην γε μὲν ἢ καὶ ὀιζύν τίς κ’ ἐνέποι τὴν κεῖνοι ἀνέπλησαν μογέοντες; ἔμπεδον ἀθανάτων ἔσαν αἵματος, οἷον ὑπέσταν ἔργον ἀναγκαίῃ βεβιημένοι. αὐτὰρ ἐπιπρό τῆλε μάλ’ ἀσπασίως Τριτωνίδος ὕδασι λίμνης ὡς φέρον, ὣς εἰσβάντες ἀπὸ στιβαρῶν θέσαν ὤμων.

467 Beye 1982: 14 and Wray 2000: 244. 468 As Apollonius describes in 4.1346-62, the Heroines appear to Peleus, telling him that the Argonauts “must pay back their mother” (τότε σφετέρῃ ἀπὸ μητέρι τίνετ’ ἀμοιβήν, 4.1327). To solve the Argonauts’ aporia, Peleus in turn must interpret this cryptic prophecy to mean “carry the ship,” in addition to discerning that the tracks of the horse omen lead to the sea (4.1377-79). For the omniscience of the Heroines, see 4.1319-21. As Hunter 1993: 126 notes, the Heroines’ omniscience makes them like the Sirens (Od. 12.189-91). 148

But who would be able to speak of their pain and suffering, which those men endured in their toils? Surely they were of the blood of immortals; for what a deed they achieved, when they were oppressed by necessity. And as gladly as they were carrying it far toward the waters of the Tritonian lake, so gladly they stepped in and set it down from their strong shoulders. (4.1387-92)

With the particle combination γε μέν, which suggests an opposition,469 the narratorial voice reappears to inquire about who could speak about their struggle (τίς κ’ ἐνέποι). By including this conditional question, the narrator implies the impossibility of the task, thus pointing to his limitations as narrator. This question, however, appears ironic, since the narrator has just articulated the story, albeit in a condensed manner in oratio obliqua dependent on the “report”

(ὀμφήν, 4.1382) of the Muses, to whom the story ultimately belongs. Does such a question then signal the Muses’ limitations as well? Are they also liable to repeat stories that are not entirely true?

In the subsequent lines, the narrator seems to support the story’s truth, noting the heroes’ divine ancestry (ἔμπεδον ἀθανάτων ἔσαν αἵματος, 4.1389). The adverb ἔμπεδον (“surely”) would exert an authenticating force. Yet at the same time, these lines can be read with a tone of incredulity. Although, as the narrator makes clear in 4.1390-92, the Argonauts do achieve this endeavor, the choice to restate this fact multiple times with τὴν κεῖνοι ἀνέπλησαν μογέοντες and

οἷον ὑπέσταν ἔργον ἀναγκαίῃ βεβιημένοι signals a level of uncertainty. It is not sufficient to tell the story or even to cite the Muses as sources, and in referring to the completion of the event multiple times, the narrator insinuates an inability to accept this story without reservation. He must strive to convince both himself and the reader of the story’s validity, in the process undermining the authority he sought to achieve by mentioning the Muses.

469 Vian 1981: 194. See Denniston 387. 149

This mention of the Muses marks their last appearance in the epic, over the course of which the narrator has employed them for various uses: “interpreters” (ὑποφήτορες) of the song before the Catalogue of Heroes in book 1, describing Medea’s love in book 3, determining

Medea’s motivations in book 4, and finally as the source of a μῦθος in book 4. Instead of alleviating his doubt, the narrator’s increased use of the Muses only intensifies it. Erato, as a source of deception, cannot be trusted completely nor can a single evaluation for Medea’s actions be established. Even the μῦθος assigned to the Muses at 4.1381-92 does not seem entirely credible. As a result, Apollonius’ narrator, even while attempting to draw the Muses closer to him, maintains a separation from them. As his interpreters, helpers, or the source for a story, the

Muses never become a part of him, unlike the Muses portrayed by Callimachus. For this reason, the Apollonian narrator can never attain the level of confidence that the Callimachean narrator exudes. Too great are the uncertainties in both the subject matter and sources.

Evaluating Stories

In addition to critiquing the credibility of their various sources, the narrators of

Apollonius and Callimachus also evaluate the information. Their evaluations, however, not only examine the truth of the information, but also its appropriateness. For instance, the Apollonian narrator refuses to disclose inappropriate information such as the rites on Samothrace and

Medea’s rites to Hecate.470 Scholars have compared the Medea section in particular to a passage in the Aetia, in which the Callimachean narrator breaks off before revealing the origins behind the marriage ritual on Naxos.471 In both cases, the narratorial voices exert control over their material, framing piety as their ostensible reasons for silence. In this way, the two narrators

470 See 1.916-21 and 4.248-52. 471 Cf. Hunter 2008: 120. 150 evoke Pindar, for whom appropriateness constituted a criterion of truth, allowing him to discount unseemly narratives as false.472 While we can tie moral and social concerns to Pindar’s use of silences, the question becomes more complicated for the narrators of Callimachus and

Apollonius, since, as I have shown, their voices, particularly Callimachus’, carry tones of irony.

Indeed, scholars have viewed Callimachus’ self-reproach of too much knowledge at fr. 75.4-9 as the epitome of Callimachean irony and playfulness.473 Although I agree with this assessment, I will argue that the passage also reflects the centrality of personal experience as a criterion for truth, albeit ironically in the context of a lament about the dangers of too much knowledge. For comparison, I will examine a passage in the Argonautica that deals with an inappropriate narrative (4.982-92) to argue that the Apollonian narrator, in juxtaposing two differing mythological stories and establishing neither as true, implies a lack of a criterion of truth.

Callimachus: Too Much Knowledge

The beginning of Aetia fragment 75, which is the longest section of the Acontius and

Cydippe story (fr. 67-75), deals with the various failed attempts to marry off Cydippe. Before describing these attempts and the illnesses that prevent the marriage (fr. 75.12-19), the narrator refers to the marriage ritual on Naxos in which Cydippe participated. This ritual consists of a maiden spending the night before her wedding sleeping with a young boy who has two living parents (fr. 75.1-3). Although initially beginning to enter into a digression explaining the origins of this ritual, the narrator instead breaks off mid-utterance for a different sort of digression:

Ἥρην γάρ κοτέ φασι — κύον, κύον, ἴσχεο, λαιδρέ θυμέ, σύ γ’ ἀείσῃ καὶ τά περ οὐχ ὁσίη· ὤναο κ̣άρτ̣’ ἕνεκ’ οὔ τι θεῆς ἴδες ἱερὰ φρικτῆς, ἐξ ἂν ἐπεὶ καὶ τῶν ἤρυγες ἱστ̣ορίην. ἦ πολυιδρείη χαλεπὸν κακόν, ὅστις ἀκαρτεῖ

472 For instance, see Pind. Ol. 1.52-53. 473 Cf. Meyer 1993: 329. 151

γλώσσης· ὡς ἐτεὸν παῖς ὅδε μαῦλιν ἔχει.

For they say Hera once — dog, dog, restrain yourself, impetuous heart, you will sing even what is not holy. You are very lucky because you did not see the rites of the dreadful goddess, since you would have vomited out an account of even those things. Indeed, knowledge of many things is a terrible evil, for whoever cannot control his tongue. How truly this man is a child with a knife! (fr. 75.4-9)

With the phrase Ἥρην γάρ κοτέ φασι (“for they say Hera once,” fr. 75.4), the narrator identifies

Hera’s involvement in the ritual’s origin. The decision to discontinue this statement with the insult κύον, κύον (“dog, dog”), however, implies the unsuitability of divulging the content of this

φασι clause. Since the narrator characterizes these things as not holy (τά περ οὐχ ὁσίη, fr. 75.5), it has been assumed that the Callimachean narrator is referring to Zeus and Hera’s premarital sex, which Homer mentions at Iliad 14.294-96.474 This racy subject matter about the gods is not proper for a mortal to articulate, inducing the narrator to address his thumos. The narrator targets his thumos for reproach, since, as Callimachus indicates at fr. 178.21-22, the thumos yearns to know. Even though the narrator has managed to check himself in this case, the thumos has a tendency to say too much: σύ γ’ ἀείσῃ καὶ τά περ οὐχ ὁσίη (“you will sing even what is not holy,” fr. 75.5). By placing the limiting particle γε after σύ, the narrator reveals that such a tendency is one particular to him. As a result, the statement points to the narrator’s self- awareness about his own knowledge.

The second-person address continues in the next two lines (fr. 75.6-7), where the narrator remarks on what would have occurred, had he seen the rites of the terrifying goddess (the

474 Clayman 2014: 91. Cf. Cameron 1995: 18-22 for the argument that these lines allude to the incestuous marriage between Ptolemy Philadelphus and Arsinoe II. Cameron also detects an allusion to Sotades fr. 16, agreeing with Pretagostini 1984: 146. 152

Eleusinian mysteries) as well.475 Instead of restraining himself, he would have uncontrollably vomited out a historie: ἐξ ἂν ἐπεὶ καὶ τῶν ἤρυγες ἱστορίην. The verb ἐξερεύγομαι (“I vomit”) generates an amusing image of uncontrollable utterance, which Callimachus further represents through the disjointed word order produced by the tmesis of the verb, the delay of ἐπεί to the third word, and the separation between the genitive καὶ τῶν and the noun ἱστορίην. By referring to this hypothetical situation in which uncontrolled speech is the consequence of seeing (ἴδες), the Callimachean narrator implies the importance of sight and personal experience as ways of determining and authenticating truth. Indeed, by placing ἱστορίην in the line after ἴδες,

Callimachus calls attention to the etymological connection between the words.476 When relying only on hearsay (φασι) about Hera for an account, the narrator can suppress his urge to blurt out forbidden information, but in the case of information acquired firsthand, his thumos would not be able to help itself.

Callimachus follows the second-person reproach and the hypothetical situation of the narrator’s divulging of the Eleusinian mysteries with two statements that confirm the truth in the dangers of possessing too much information. The first statement explicitly characterizes much knowledge without restraint of speech as an evil: ἦ πολυιδρείη χαλεπὸν κακόν ὅστις ἀκαρτεῖ /

γλώσσης (“indeed, knowledge of many things is a terrible evil, for whoever cannot control his tongue,” fr. 75.8-9). With the rare noun πολυιδρείη, a combination of πολυ and ἰδρείη,

Callimachus alludes to the Heraclitan saying that “knowledge of many things does not teach

475 Harder 2012.2: 588 points that this line offers a contrast with the makarismos of those who have beheld the Eleusinian mysteries (Hymn. Hom. Cer. 480). 476 Chantraine 2009: 751-52. 153 sense” (B 40 DK).477 At the same time, πολυιδρείη picks up ἴδες and ἱστορίην, again suggesting the association between knowing and seeing firsthand. In fact, the word’s sole occurrence in the

Odyssey appears in the context of Eurycleia faithfully watching over all of Odysseus’ possessions.478 Yet whereas the word in Homer denotes a positive trait for a prudent character,

Callimachus’ associates the word with the possibilities of a negative experience. For a person who cannot control his tongue, πολυιδρείη qualifies as a “terrible evil” (χαλεπὸν κακόν). Since the adjective κακός occurs later in the description of Cydippe’s paleness (fr. 75.12), we can see this description as evoking a disease, an image that Callimachus already implied with the vivid metaphor of belching out (ἤρυγες) the account. Thus, combined with an uncontrollable tongue,

πολυιδρείη qualifies as an aetion for a disease. In remarking on the dangers of πολυιδρείη, the narrator demonstrates an understanding of cause and effect, perhaps hinting at a previous experience of saying too much and suffering the consequences.

The subsequent saying restates the risks of too much knowledge, this time through the metaphor of a child wielding knife: ὡς ἐτεὸν παῖς ὅδε μαῦλιν ἔχει (“how truly this man here is a child with a knife,” fr. 75.9). Like ἀληθές at 178.15, the adverb ἐτεόν asserts the validity of this generalized statement. With the deictic pronoun ὅδε Callimachus makes this statement specific to the narrator, recalling the previous association between the Callimachean persona and a child.479 At the same time, the narrator’s reference to himself in the third person creates an ironic distancing effect. After speaking to his thumos in the previous lines, the Callimachean narrator steps back to offer an external assessment of himself, explicitly commenting on his playful and

477 πολυμαθίη νόον ἔχειν οὐ διδάσκει· Ἡσίοδον γὰρ ἂν ἐδίδαξε καὶ Πυθαγόρην αὖτίς τε Ξενοφάνεά τε καὶ Ἑκαταῖον (“Knowledge of many things does not teach sense. For it would have taught Hesiod, Pythagoras, Xenophanes, and Hecataeus”). 478 Od. 2.346. 479 Aetia fr. 1.6. 154 childlike persona. Moreover, since the narrator is merely like a child and not actually one, the authenticating force of ἐτεόν is undercut. The importance of such a statement, however, lies in the fact that the narrator can manipulate a piece of wisdom to correspond to his personal experience and his understanding of what and what not to tell.480

In this highly self-conscious digression, Callimachus’ narrator inserts himself into the narrative, treating the idea of personal experience in a variety of ways. Observing his propensity for saying too much, he shows an awareness of what is proper to say and to include in the narrative. Through a hypothetical situation about an experience, that is, seeing the Eleusinian mysteries, the narrator implies that direct experience represents an important criterion for truth and in his case, an uncontrollable urge to emit an inquiry. Finally, to support this ironic scenario, the Callimachean narrator applies two generalized statements that have particular relevance to himself, both of which frame too much knowledge as harmful. In warning about such dangers, the Callimachean narrator indicates the possibility of having too much knowledge. The difficulty lies not in determining what is true or false, but rather what should or should not be said, especially for the overly eager child that is this persona.

Apollonius: The Sickle Beneath Drepane

Apollonius’ narrator also faces this issue of distasteful narratives when discussing the island Drepane (4.982-92).481 This digression, which appears before the Argonauts’ arrival on the island, simultaneously tackles the issues of geography, etymology, and genealogy, as the

480 Lelli 2011: 402. “Like a child holding the knife, Callimachus too is aware of but fascinated by the danger of the powerful weapon of language. And the efficacy of the image is increased because it is proverbial.” 481 This island is the Homeric Scherie, home of the Phaeacians in the Odyssey and identified as Corcyra. Hellanicus (FGrHist 4 F77) provides the first attestation of the name Drepane. See Vian 1981: 29-33 for a discussion of the varying traditions. 155 narrator addresses the reason why the island has received the name Drepane (“Sickle”). Two versions are offered, the first of which induces the narrator to ask for the Muses’ forgiveness:

Ἔστι δέ τις πορθμοῖο παροιτέρη Ἰονίοιο ἀμφιλαφὴς πίειρα Κεραυνίῃ εἰν ἁλὶ νῆσος, ᾗ ὕπο δὴ κεῖσθαι δρέπανον φάτις—ἵλατε Μοῦσαι, οὐκ ἐθέλων ἐνέπω προτέρων ἔπος—ᾧ ἀπὸ πατρός μήδεα νηλειῶς ἔταμε Κρόνος

There is some expansive and fertile island, in front of the Ionian strait in the Ceraunian sea, under which it is said a sickle lies—Be gracious, Muses! Not willingly do I speak this word of my predecessors—the sickle with which Cronus pitilessly cut off his father’s genitals. (4.982-86)

In the first two lines, the narrator avoids telling the island’s name, instead focusing on its location and its geographic characteristics, namely its size (ἀμφιλαφής)482 and fertility (πίειρα). It is not until the end of 983 that the narrator indicates that he is discussing an island (νῆσος), and the hyperbaton between τις in 982 and this noun generates a sense of distance. This sense of distance is in turn furthered by the disjointed structure of 984-86. After first mentioning the rumored existence of the sickle beneath the island with a subordinate clause (ᾗ ὕπο δὴ κεῖσθαι

δρέπανον φάτις, 4.984), the narrator breaks in with a direct address to the Muses (ἵλατε Μοῦσαι,

984) to admit his unwillingness to utter this story (ἔπος), which he ascribes to his predecessors

(προτέρων).483 The story itself (Cronus castrating his father) then appears in another subordinate clause, introduced by ᾧ (“with which,” 4.985) and dependent on δρέπανον. The fact that the clause overlaps over two lines contributes to the disjointed structure, and indeed the line break occurs right at πατρός (“father”) and μήδεα (“genitals”), thus replicating the image of separation.

482 The scholiast interprets the adjective ἀμφιλαφής as meaning “having a harbor on both sides.” Lachenaud 2010: 483. 483 Fränkel 1968: 550 detects a parallel at Aratus Phaenomena 637: Ἄρτεμις ἱλήκοι· προτέρων λόγος, οἵ μιν ἔφαντο. The story of Cronus castrating his father occurs at Theog. 174-82. 156

Through this halted and staccato presentation, the narrator signifies his unwillingness to report this offensive tale, distancing himself from the contents by ascribing the tale to the unnamed predecessors.484 Such narratorial distancing suits not only the tale’s morally offensive character, but also the story’s mythological status. Since the sickle lies under (ὕπο δὴ κεῖσθαι,

4.984) the island, awareness of its existence comes not from direct sight, but from rumor (φάτις,

4.984). Along with this φάτις is the ἔπος, which, in serving as the explanation for the rumor, is dependent on it. Apollonius in fact suggests a relationship between φάτις and ἔπος by placing them in the same metrical sedes, reflecting the subordination of the ἔπος by the subsequent subordinate clause introduced by ᾧ. In alluding to this multi-layered tradition, the narrator suggests the complexities of dealing with an oral tradition; neither the φάτις nor the ἔπος can be subject to direct testing, and these difficulties become amplified since the narrator does not attach a named source, nor does he cite the Muses as sources.

Likewise, the narrator ascribes the alternate and less offensive version to an unnamed group of “others:”

οἱ δέ ἑ Δηοῦς κλείουσι χθονίης καλαμητόμον ἔμμεναι ἅρπην· Δηὼ γὰρ κείνῃ ἐνὶ δή ποτε νάσσατο γαίῃ, Τιτῆνας δ’ ἔδαε στάχυν ὄμπνιον ἀμήσασθαι, Μάκριδα φιλαμένη

Others, however, say that it is the reaping scythe of native Deo, for indeed Deo once dwelled in that land, and she taught the Titans how to reap the nourishing grain, out of love for Macris.

(4.986-90)

By coordinating the genitive expressions πατρός (4.985) and Δηοῦς (4.986), Apollonius makes the narrator form a contrast between two different types of “sources” for the rumored sickle:

484 Callimachus Aetia fr. 43.70-71, however, places this sickle at Zancle in Sicily. 157

Cronus’ father Uranus (the victim of the sickle) and Demeter (the owner of the sickle). As is indicated in 987, Demeter employed her sickle for reaping grain (καλαμητόμον, 4.987), as opposed to cutting flesh (μήδεα νηλειῶς ἔταμε, 4.986). Indeed, Demeter’s use of the sickle for agriculture differs from Cronus’ by the fact that it leads to fertility and production, instead of precluding it, as is the case with castration. At the same time, Demeter’s habitation on the island resulted in her teaching the Titans such skills (Τιτῆνας δ’ ἔδαε στάχυν ὄμπνιον ἀμήσασθαι,

4.489), thereby leading to a civilized state. As a result, the two stories represent a dichotomy between primeval violence and Olympian civilization.485 The task then becomes determining which of the two fits better for rationalizing the rumor (φάτις) of the sickle under the island. By what criterion can the narrator evaluate these stories?

With the criterion of appropriateness and based on his unwillingness, the narrator could eliminate the first story about the castration as false. Indeed, Pindar in Olympian 1 evoked such a standard to dismiss the tale that Demeter accidentally consumed a part of Pelops. Rather, since one must speak well of the gods (ἔστι δ’ ἀνδρὶ φάμεν ἐοικὸς ἀμφὶ δαιμόνων καλά, Ol. 1.35-36),

Pindar announces that he will speak differently from his predecessors: σὲ δ’ ἀντία προτέρων

φθέγξομαι (Ol. 1.37). Likewise, the Apollonian narrator, in offering a second version, could insinuate his rejection of the first rendition. At the same time, the narrator devotes more space to the second option, including a γάρ clause with an indicative verb (νάσσατο, “dwelled,” 4.988).

This clause, along with the subsequent clause about her teaching the Titans, not only explains, but also carries an authenticating force, giving details that validate the claim that the sickle belongs to Demeter, not to Cronus. In fact, a story about Demeter teaching agriculture fits with

485 Cf. Byre 2002: 140. 158 the geographic reality of the island, namely its fertility (πίειρα, 4.983), as mentioned at the beginning of the section.486

Although the narrator seems to favor the second option, the final lines of the section do not point to a definitive choice:

Δρεπάνη τόθεν ἐκλήισται οὔνομα Φαιήκων ἱερὴ τροφός· ὧς δὲ καὶ αὐτοί αἵματος Οὐρανίοιο γένος Φαίηκες ἔασιν.

Since then, it has been called Drepane by name, the sacred nurse of the Phaeacians, and thus the Phaeacians themselves come from the blood of Uranus. (4.990-92)

With Δρεπάνη τόθεν ἐκλήισται (“for this reason it has been called Drepane,” 4.990) the narrator finally reveals the island’s name as Drepane, thus indicating that the juxtaposition of the two stories serves as a discussion of an etymology. Yet for the purpose of explaining the name, both stories could work. The only thing that matters is the supposed existence of the sickle, not which god owned it for what purpose. The description of the island as the “sacred nurse of the

Phaeacians” (Φαιήκων ἱερὴ τροφός, 4.991) appears to corroborate the second option, as the phrase connotes fertility. However, the observation that the Phaeacians descend from the blood of Uranus (αἵματος Οὐρανίοιο γένος Φαίηκες ἔασιν, 4.992) looks back to the castration story. As the products of this act of primordial bloodshed, the Phaeacians, by their genealogy, would evidence the truth of the castration tale.487

Consequently, in this passage, the narrator deals with the sources in a variety of respects: two different sources of the story (“the predecessors vs. the others”), the source of the island’s

486 M. F. Williams 1991: 251. 487 Thalmann 2011: 178. Such a violent association, however, contrasts with their peaceful and hyper-idealized representation, as depicted in Homer, as well as their subsequent kind treatment of the Argonauts (4.995-97). 159 name, and finally the genealogical origin of the people, the Phaeacians. Two mythological stories, differing in the appropriateness of their content, qualify as possible options for the island’s name. Yet, despite distancing himself from the first version, the Apollonian narrator does not explicitly privilege one tale over the other. Nor does he directly call for the Muses to help resolve this issue. Rather, they must be gracious and passively accept the narrator’s reporting of the castration tale, which, as he makes clear with οὐκ ἐθέλων ἐνέπω, he does not want to recite.

The question then becomes: why does the narrator include it in the first place? Hunter observes that the castration tale carries echoes of the murder of Apsyrtus, which, since it was planned by his sister Medea, also qualifies as an example of kin murder.488 The second story, by contrast, with its emphasis on fertility and love, looks forward to the coming marriage of Jason and Medea, which will occur on Drepane and in particular in the cave of the nymph Macris

(4.1131-32), mentioned here as the object of Demeter’s love.489 This marriage, however, is not entirely marked by joy and love. The ceremony takes place after Arete informs Jason that

Alcinous will allow Medea to remain with him only if the two are married.490 Moreover, at

4.1168-69, the narrator describes how their love-making is tinged by fear about the future.491

As a result, we can see the juxtaposition of the two stories, which together symbolize an opposition between violence and love, as reflective of the uncertainty of the characters, who do not know whether Medea can stay with Jason without incurring violence from the Colchians.

488 Hunter 1993: 69. 489 The scholiast (Σ ad 1131; see Lachenaud 2010: 495) notes that this was the cave where the nymph Macris reared Dionysus. 490 See 4.1111-27. 491 γλυκερῇ περ ἰαινομένους φιλότητι / δεῖμ’ ἔχεν εἰ τελέοιτο διάκρισις Ἀλκινόοιο (“even though they were melting in sweet love, fear held them both, about whether Alcinous’ decision would be completed”). 160

George in fact has detected a parallel between the narrator’s difficulty dealing with the castration story and Medea’s troubles on Drepane after the arrival of the Colchians.492 For instance, just as the narrator begs the Muses to be propitious with ἵλατε, so too does Medea employ this plea when supplicating Arete at 4.1014.493 That both the narrator and Medea request help from external forces (the Muses and Arete, respectively) sharpens this parallel between the narrator and Medea, both of whom are beset by uncertainties. It is Medea who produces the most uncertainties for the narrator, who had to call upon the Muse Erato for the description of

Medea’s love in book 3, as well as for the issue of defining her motivations at the beginning of book 4. Since her motivations for absconding from Colchis correlate with the evaluation of her character as either loving or violent, the book 4 proem, as in 4.982-92, poses a dichotomy between the themes of love and violence. In both cases, the narrator offers a firm solution to neither question. Instead, Medea is simultaneously a girl in love and a murderous witch. In this same way, the island Drepane connotes both fertility and bloodshed, in its primordial past and through its present role in the narrative, where Medea and Jason’s relationship becomes subject to uncertainty. That the narrator infuses single entities with two contradictory aspects points to an inability to choose between two options.

In both passages, the respective narrators assess pieces of information, not explicitly for truth and falsehood, but rather for appropriateness and suitability. Nevertheless, truth still remains a concern, since some information, even if true, should not be divulged, especially concerning religious matters. While the Callimachean narrator manages to stop himself before

492 George 1977: 362. 493 Γουνοῦμαι, βασίλεια· σὺ δ’ ἵλαθι, μηδέ με Κόλχοις / ἐκδώῃς ᾧ πατρὶ κομιζέμεν (“I beg you queen, be propitious and do not hand me over to the Colchians to take me to my father”). Moreover, Medea’s μὴ μὲν ἐγὼν ἐθέλουσα (“not willingly”) at 4.1021 echoes the narrator’s οὐκ ἐθέλων at 4.985. 161 disclosing the story about Hera, Apollonius’ narrator reports the morally unsavory tale, albeit with hesitation and giving a milder version as an alternative. For Callimachus’ narrator, the refusal to impart information paradoxically points to his erudition.494 This narrator makes the reader aware that he has this knowledge, as well as the sense to restrain himself, despite his propensity for saying too much. Apollonius’ narrator, on the other hand, does say too much, and in doing so, signals his uncertainty. Not only is he unable to suppress the first story, he does not establish which of the two tales is the correct one, thus revealing an inability to judge which is true. Not only do both stories adhere to the realities of the island, namely its fertility and the genealogical origin of the people, but the themes of love and violence characterize the complex character of Medea.

Conclusion

Within their respective poetic works, the Aetia and the Argonautica, Callimachus and

Apollonius incorporate a variety of aetiological information: the foundation of cities (Aetia fr.

43), cultic rituals (the marriage ritual in Aetia fr. 75), the names of places (Drepane in the

Argonautica) and even love narratives (Acontius and Cydippe and Jason and Medea). Yet despite the seeming diversity of this subject matter, all share one common trait: the relevance of humans and their relationships with the physical landscape, the gods, and each other. It is this underlying importance of human interaction that might explain why Callimachus and Apollonius portray their narrators as so involved and connected to the narratives, as well as to the sources like the Muses. Their narrators are not simply instructors describing the present happenings in

494 Cf. Fuhrer 1988: 64. As Kaesser 2005: 105 observes, “It is remarkable that in the single passage where the poet talks at all about the communication of his knowledge, he does so in terms of restraining himself from spreading it. The trope of the teacher-poet is thus wholly reversed.” See Krevans 1984: 263, who considers this refusal to discuss “anti-aetiological.” 162 natural world, but appear engaged directly in comprehending the complex webs that tie the past with the present and that connect the disparate and remote places of the Hellenistic world.

For Callimachus, this task is achieved by the juxtaposition of disconnected narratives, framed initially by a conversation with the Muses in Aetia 1 and 2. Imbuing his narrator with a confident, eager, and childlike persona, Callimachus represents how the extraction of information is achieved through personal experience: the Muses in a dreamtime conversation,

Theogenes at a symposium, and finally the experience of receiving Xenomedes’ chronicles. In such intimate encounters, the narrator displays his ability to discern the credibility of these sources, evaluating this credibility with respect to himself and his existing knowledge. Indeed, since the Muses and Theogenes are similar to the narrator, they are appropriate sources to answer the questions that the narrator poses. Likewise, Xenomedes, in his devotion to truth, has his muthos become a part of “our Calliope.” In depicting a close relationship between the narrator and sources, Callimachus symbolizes how deeply the narrator (and by extension poet) has absorbed this information; it has become a part of him. As a result, the narrator can control how he articulates the information. Instead of a continuous narrative or a straightforward catalogue, he juxtaposes disparate stories that feature thematic links,495 thereby demonstrating that his erudition consists not only in collating facts, but in understanding the stories’ importance and relevance to one another.496 It is a “truth” that is not wide-encompassing and total, but selective and controlled, determined by the Callimachean narrator’s personal experience.

495 Harder 2012.1: 20 identifies some of the recurring themes as hospitality towards strangers (for instance fr. 25, Heracles and Thiodamas), crime and punishment (fr. 44, Busiris), and movement and expansion (fr. 43, the Sicilian cities). 496 Cf. Hutchinson 2003: 58. 163

Apollonius’ narrator, by contrast, recounts the Argonauts’ circuitous journey in chronological order, beginning at the beginning and ending at the end, albeit abruptly before the

Argonauts reach Iolcus. The numerous digressions, which disrupt the linearity of this plot, provide a variety of information about peoples, places, and customs, and while Apollonius the poet used prose sources for such information, he nevertheless still treats the Muses in the epic as sources. Yet, as I have shown, the narrator’s treatment of them reveals their possible fallibility at least for certain kinds of information: the love of a young girl Medea, the assessment of her actions, and even a particular story about the Argonauts’ valor, which I construed as a metaphor for the difficulties of narration. The difficulties of narration and in turn knowing the truth pervade the epic through the narrator’s uncertain voice. As narrator, he can only say how things seem or seemed, not how they actually are or were, as is the case for the evaluation of Medea’s actions in the fourth book. Moreover, like a Skeptic for whom all choices are equal, he does not settle on the correct reason for the name Drepane, thus mimicking the indecision and uncertainty experienced by the characters.

These narrative voices, as a result, model two different ways of assessing truth and falsehood when encountering the numerous and often conflicting sources. One can either rely on one’s own personal judgment and select only the best information and sources, like Callimachus’ narrator of the Aetia. Or, like Apollonius’ narrator, one can soften one’s assertions of truth with markers of doubt, aware that one cannot always establish one truth from an array of conflicting traditions and interpretations. In both cases, truth still remains an issue, despite the status of Aetia and the Argonautica as poetic works. Though they lack the explicit didactic frame of the

Phaenomena and Theriaca, we can instead say that Aetia and the Argonautica are poems that

164 thematize the processes of learning and discovery, not only for the narrators, but for the readers as well.497

497 Cf. Harder 2007: 44-45, who comes to a similar conclusion for the Aetia. 165

Chapter 6: Lycophron Introduction

The future, in contrast with the present and the past, entails the most difficulties for uncovering and assessing the truth. To attempt to forecast the future requires an understanding of both present and past, and even then, the existence of too many possibilities often precludes an accurate prediction. For this reason, in ancient Greece, knowledge of the future was reserved for those select individuals inspired by the gods. Yet with such knowledge came madness,498 and nowhere is this confluence of prophetic truth and madness more apparent than in the case of

Cassandra, the prophetess of Troy blessed with the gift of foresight by Apollo but subsequently cursed with an inability to persuade her listeners.499 Her prophecies concerning the aftermath of the Trojan War make up the subject of the Alexandra, a 1474-line poem in iambic trimeters ascribed to Lycophron of Chalcis.500 Yet, what qualifies as the future for Cassandra and her

498 See Pl. Phaedr. 244a-d for the association between prophecy and inspired madness. 499 Cassandra received this curse after rejecting Apollo’s sexual advances. See Alexandra 1454- 58. For an analysis of Cassandra’s utterances in the Agamemnon (1072-1330) as a shift between ecstasy and rational mediation, see Mazzoldi 2002: 145-54. 500 The dating of the Alexandra and the identity of its author have incurred numerous difficulties. The ancient evidence (Suda λ 827) identifies the author of the Alexandra as Lycophron of Chalcis, a tragedian and member of the Pleiad working during the reign of Ptolemy II (283/2-246 BCE). This date, however, does not fit with two passages concerned with the rise of Roman military might: 1226-80 (Aeneas in Italy) and 1446-50 (the ascendance of some unnamed wrestler who gains power over land and sea). One would not expect such an emphasis on Roman military power during the third century BCE (cf. Σ ad 1226; Leone 2002: 226). As a result, three different solutions have been proposed: 1) adhering to the ancient evidence and keeping Lycophron’s Alexandra in the third century, 2) positing the existence of another Lycophron and dating the poem to the beginning of the second century BCE, or 3) retaining the third century date and viewing the Roman sections as interpolations. The interpolation theory (3), as espoused by S. West 1984, rests on the assessment that the Roman passages are poorly integrated into what she views as the main theme of the later part of Cassandra’s prophecy, the clash between West and East (1984: 135-36). For arguments maintaining the unity of the poem and the third century date, see Momigliano 1945: 52, Lévêque 1955: 51, Hurst 2012b (1976), Lambin 2005: 11-41, and Fountoulakis 2014: 103-24. While I likewise reject the interpolation theory, I prefer the second century date, following Ziegler 1927: col. 2365-81, White 1997: 51, Gigante Lanzara 1998: 411, Kosmetatou 2000: 51, Hornblower 2015: passim, and McNelis and Sens 2016: 11. A 166 internal audience is in fact, for the author Lycophron and his extratextual audience, a condensation of the past, both mythological and historical.501 The question of truth, as a result, must be addressed in terms of two agents: a fictional character inspired by Apollo and a real author using a variety of literary sources.502 Both would evaluate truth differently.

Two characteristics of the poem further complicate the issue of truth. First, the poem lacks an external narrator to provide explicit comments on truth and falsehood, unlike the teacher personae in the Phaenomena and Theriaca and the poet-narrators in the Aetia and Argonautica.

Instead, an unnamed messenger introduces and concludes the work, promising to speak to a lord

(Priam): λέξω τὰ πάντα νητρεκῶς, ἅ μ’ ἱστορεῖς / ἀρχῆς ἀπ’ ἄκρας (“I will speak accurately all that you ask of me, from the very beginning,” 1-2).503 The work is entirely mimetic in its mode, containing the representation of the words of the messenger, who in turn replicates the discourse of the inspired and frenzied Cassandra.504 The narrative thus is filtered through four levels,

useful chart of the varying opinions on both the date of the text and the identity of the wrestler in 1447, up until 1991, can be found in Schade 1999: 220-28. 501 Her prophecy can be roughly divided as follows: the events occurring before and immediately after the Trojan War (31-416), the nostoi undertaken by the Greek heroes (417-1282), and the clashes between Asia and Europe (1283-1450). I use Hornblower’s 2015 text. 502 For an overview of Lycophron’s sources, which include both poetic works and prose texts, see Hornblower 2015: 7-35. As S. West 2009: 81-93 has demonstrated, Herodotus was an important influence. 503 The word νητρεκῶς is an alternate form of ἀτρεκῶς. According to Durbec 2011b (2006a): 13, its use has the strength of a poetic declaration. As Lambin 2005: 209 notes, the first word λέξω announces that the poem is about language. McNelis and Sens 2016: 54 point out that the promise for accuracy is a typical feature of tragic messenger speeches. 504 Although scholars have struggled to define the generic status of the Alexandra, the use of iambic trimeter, the meter employed in the spoken parts of drama, suggests an affinity with tragedy. Indeed, Lycophron makes numerous allusions to the tragedians, in particular Aeschylus and Euripides. However, as Cusset 2002/3: 139 points out, the Alexandra lacks the sung parts expected in a classical tragedy. Durbec 2011e (2008b): 57 analyzes the structure in terms of a five-act drama. At the same time, the work displays numerous influences from epic, such as the rewriting of the Odyssey at 648-819. For this reason, Fusillo 1984: 525 identifies in the work an interaction between an epic narrative and dramatic discourse. Cf. S. West 2000: 164. For other 167 emanating from Apollo to the author Lycophron.505 At the same time, Lycophron has Cassandra and the messenger employ cryptic language that obscures the intended referents of the poem.506

In this way, the Alexandra is allegorical in its presentation. Cassandra says one thing, but means something else,507 “imitating,” as the messenger observes, “the voice of the obscure Sphinx”

(Σφιγγὸς κελαινῆς γῆρυν ἐκμιμουμένη, 7). Indeed, it is with this line that Lycophron encapsulates the dual characteristics of the work itself: its mimeticism (ἐκμιμουμένη) and its allegorical dimension, as embodied by the obscure and riddling Sphinx.508

Yet this dual status of the work produces a paradox. While mimesis demands a correspondence between what is represented and its object, allegory involves a disjunction between what is stated and what is meant. Interpretation is necessary for both comprehending and assessing a truth expressed allegorically. In the proem to the Alexandra, the messenger explicitly calls for the need for interpretation, urging the king:

τῶν ἅσσα θυμῷ καὶ διὰ μνήμης ἔχω, κλύοις ἄν, ὦναξ, κἀναπεμπάζων φρενὶ

discussions of genre, see Fountoulakis 1998: 291-95 and Hurst 2012c (1998): 47-58. See Sistakou 2016: 168-92 for the Alexandra’s adoption and subversion of the tragic. 505 Lowe 2004: 308. 506 The poem’s obscurity has attracted much attention in its ancient and modern reception. The Suda refers to the work as τὸ σκοτεινὸν ποίημα (“the obscure poem”). For this reason, the Alexandra has a rich commentary tradition surrounding it. While Stephanus of Byzantium (50.12, 115.5, 399.7) in the Ethnica mentions a commentary by Theon (Augustan date), none of this work directly survives. The manuscripts transmit an ancient paraphrase, a later paraphrase, scholia vetera, and three versions of the 12th century commentary by Tzetzes. The two volumes of Scheer (1881-1908) contain the periphrases (vol. 1) and the scholia vetera and Tzetzean scholia (vol. 2). Leone 2002 includes the periphrases and scholia vetera. For discussion of the ancient sources about Lycophron’s obscurity, see Berra 2009: 259-318. Analyses of Lycophron’s complex language and naming strategies can be found in Ciani 1973, Cusset 2001; 2007, Lambin 2005: 233-60, Kalospyros 2009, and Sistakou 2009a. 507 It is in this sense that I interpret the poem as allegorical (“saying something else”). In many places Tzetzes rejects allegorical readings (see Σ ad 157; Scheer 2.75). 508 Kossaifi 2009: 147-48 notes the term does not have the same meaning as in Plato or Aristotle, arguing, “L’imitation se trouve ainsi déplacée, non sans humour, du concept idéal vers les profondeurs mystérieuses et terrifiantes que symbolisent ce monstre ambivalent.” 168

πυκνῇ διοίχνει δυσφάτους αἰνιγμάτων οἴμας τυλίσσων, ᾗπερ εὐμαθὴς τρίβος ὀρθῇ κελεύθῳ τἀν σκότῳ ποδηγετεῖ.

Listen, o lord, to what I hold in my heart and in my memory. Pondering with your clever mind, go through and unravel the obscure paths of her riddles, where a learned journey, by a straight path, guides the things in the shadows.

(8-12)

As Looijenga has observed, this request to assert mental energy applies also to the extratextual audience, who must navigate through the profusion of kennings, periphrases, new vocabulary, and obscure names.509 Yet the question then arises: how does the combination of allegorical expression and a mimetic mode affect the criteria for evaluating truth? What kind of criteria do

Cassandra, the messenger, and the author Lycophron favor? Do their criteria concentrate on an external existence that can be easily perceived and thus captured by mimesis or on a deeper essence, accessible only via sustained inquiry?

In this chapter, I will address this question by focusing on Cassandra’s depiction of three mythological figures that recur in the work: Helen of Troy, Odysseus, and the Sirens. All three figures boast a rich mythological background, with particular relevance to the topic of truth and falsehood in myth and poetry. After their prominent roles in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Helen and Odysseus assumed many different guises in subsequent depictions. Taking these traditions into consideration, Cassandra demonstrates how falsity defines both of their identities. In the

Alexandra, Helen is a destructive phantom, while Odysseus is a serial liar who is incapable of telling the truth and whose deceptions multiply his sufferings. By tagging Helen as a phantom in

Troy, Cassandra deviates from Homer and deprives Helen of an existence, even while paradoxically maintaining her culpability for causing the war. For Odysseus, Cassandra connects

509 Looijenga 2009: 75. 169 his innate deception not with resourcefulness and rhetorical prowess, as in Homer, but rather a degraded and dehumanized state. Moreover, Cassandra’s choice to rewrite his adventures at 648-

819 constitutes an effort to assert her own truth over the existing tradition of Homer.

At the same time, while denigrating Helen and Odysseus as false and destructive,

Cassandra offers a more positive portrayal of the Sirens, the deadly monsters of the Odyssey who enchanted sailors to death with their music. To signal the Sirens’ importance, Cassandra devotes an extended section in the Odyssey portion (712-37) to describe the Sirens’ death and the cults established in their honor. This section, replete with details about geography and cults, connects the Sirens with the world of the author’s present. As I will argue, the Sirens attain a permanence and regularity, becoming integrated into the landscape and culture of Italy. Indeed, Cassandra grants these monsters a level of commemoration that is denied or undercut for the majority of the male heroes in the work.

In elevating the Sirens and emphasizing the falsity of Helen and Odysseus, Cassandra reveals that her criteria for truth are not based on surface appearances. Rather, her concern is focused on an inner essence, which cannot be immediately observed, but must be contemplated and questioned. An understanding of patterns and relationships, both familial and temporal, elucidates this inner essence, as Cassandra judges these characters in relation to their parents, as well as to herself. The messenger, on the other hand, can only regard surface appearances, clouded by his limited mortal knowledge and inability to penetrate the obscurity of Cassandra’s words. The poet Lycophron, who shares the characteristics of both prophetess and messenger, must mediate between these two different approaches.

170

Helen

As the aetion of the Trojan War and the atrocities produced in its wake, Helen occupies a crucial place in Cassandra’s prophecy. Indeed, we can observe Helen’s role as a cause by the fact that Paris’ departure from Troy to abduct Helen instigates Cassandra’s frenzied utterances, as the messenger narrates at 20-27. While Cassandra does not divulge the purpose of Paris’ trip until

86-87, her synoptic view of past, present, and future allows us to read Helen’s presence here as well. Just the thought of Helen triggers Cassandra to recall the previous destruction of Troy by

Heracles (31-51), an event that presages the final razing in the Trojan War.510 Helen, as a result, possesses the power to evoke destruction, despite her absence. Yet, as Lycophron will highlight in Cassandra’s subsequent portrayal, Helen’s power and its deleterious effects transcend physical existence. Even as an eidolon, Helen still instigates war. Whereas the eidolon myth as recorded by Stesichorus and Euripides’ Helen absolved the real Helen of blame,511 Cassandra emphatically preserves this culpability. In the process, Helen, as filtered through Cassandra’s point of view, represents a paradoxical figure, straddling the poles of non-existence and guilt and appearing as both a victim and a destroyer. Through such paradoxes, however, Cassandra determines how Helen embodies the essence of destruction. It is through the irresistible power of

510 See Il. 5.640-42 and 20.145-48 for Heracles’ destruction of Troy. According to Tzetzes (Σ ad 34; Scheer 2: 29) Heracles sacks Troy because the king Laomedon breaks a promise and only gives Heracles mortal (not immortal) horses as a reward for killing the sea monster and saving Hesione. 511 In Plato’s Phaedrus (243a-b), Socrates claims that Stesichorus composed the Palinode after Helen blinded him for blaming her for the war. Fragment 192 PMGF Davies, preserved there, includes the denial that Helen ever went to Troy. Rather, as we can learn from the reference at Plat. Resp. 586c, the war was fought over an eidolon. According to a scholiast’s comment on POxy 2506, fr. 26, the real Helen stayed with Proteus. For discussions of the Palinode, see Bassi 1993 and Austin 1994: 90-117. Stesichorus’ version influenced Euripides’ Helen. This play not only involves the eidolon going to Troy, but explicitly portrays Helen residing in Egypt with Proteus until Menelaus’ return. See Allan 2008. The periphrasis to Lycophron on 822 (Leone 2002: 330) claims that Hesiod (fr. 358 M/W) first introduced the eidolon element. 171 her phantom appearance that Helen can inflict so much havoc. An understanding of Helen’s lineage and behavior serves as the criterion for Cassandra’s assessment of Helen.

The first extended mention of Helen occurs at 86-89, when Cassandra specifies the purpose of Paris’ fateful departure:

λεύσσω θέοντα γρυνὸν ἐπτερωμένον τρήρωνος εἰς ἅρπαγμα, Πεφναίας κυνός, ἣν τόργος ὑγρόφοιτος ἐκλοχεύεται, κελυφάνου στρόβιλον ὠστρακωμένην.

I see the winged firebrand rushing to seize the dove, the Pephnaean bitch, that which the water-roaming vulture birthed, enclosed in the round covering of a shell.

Identifying Paris as the “winged firebrand” (γρυνὸν ἐπτερωμένον, 86),512 Cassandra grants Helen two different designations within the span of the same line (87): Helen is a dove (τρήρωνος), as well as a Pephnaean bitch (Πεφναίας κυνός).513 The first descriptor, dove, associates Helen with

Aphrodite, the goddess for whom doves are sacred.514 The latter phrase κύων evokes Helen’s self-condemnation in the Iliad and Odyssey, thus providing a negative connotation and suggesting Helen’s shamelessness and wanton sexuality.515 Calling Helen, a dove, however, also casts her as a victim, since Cassandra frequently employs non-predatory bird names for female

512 Cassandra calls Paris a firebrand, since Hecuba dreamed that she was giving birth to a firebrand. This dream portended the fall of Troy. See Apollod. Bibl. 3.12.5 and Eur. Tro. 922. The scholiast (Σ ad 86a, Leone 2002: 20) also suggests that the “winged firebrand” refers to the ship. See Alex. 1362 for another reference to Paris as a firebrand. 513 According to the scholia (Σ ad 87c; Leone 2002: 20), Pephne is a place in Laconia where Helen and Paris set off. An alternative interpretation given by the scholia is to read the adjective as not a geographic designation but as πεφναίας (“deadly”). See Negri 2009: 189-90 for a discussion of this possibility. 514 See Σ ad 87b; Leone 2002: 20. 515 In Homer, Helen refers to herself as a bitch (Il. 3.180, 6.344, 6.356, and Od. 4.145). In a survey of “dog” words in Homer, Graver 1995: 53 determines that metaphors from this group act as a harsh form of abuse, “one which labels its object as greedy or potentially cannibalistic in the domain of material goods, or of fighting, sexuality, or speech.” 172 victims whom she pities.516 Yet how can Helen simultaneously be a weak victim and someone worthy of blame? Does, rather, the inclusion of “Pephnaean bitch” serve as a correction of dove?

Indeed, Cassandra acknowledges that, while Helen’s capture by Paris does render her a victim and powerless, Helen still remains responsible for the destruction of Troy.

The subsequent two lines, which deal with Helen’s birth, shed further light on the topic of

Helen’s characterization. In 88, Cassandra identifies her as the offspring of the τόργος

ὑγρόφοιτος (“water-roaming vulture”). This phrase, as a periphrasis for a swan, would refer to

Zeus, who transformed into a swan to rape Leda and then produce Helen.517 In calling Zeus a

τόργος, properly a bird of prey, Cassandra imports deadly associations for Zeus and by extension his daughter Helen.518 However, the water-roaming vulture could also refer to an alternate myth, in which Nemesis morphed into a goose in an attempt to avoid Zeus’ advances. The result of this sexual assault was the egg, described in 89.519 With Nemesis, the goddess of righteous indignation, as her mother,520 Helen exemplifies the quintessential force of destruction, serving as her mother’s proxy. Indeed, according to the Cypria, Helen’s sole purpose for existence is to bring death and enact Zeus’ plan to depopulate the world.521

516 Cf. Sistakou 2009a: 242. For examples in Lycophron, see 103 (πελειαῖν; “doves” for Helen’s daughters), 314 (διπλᾶς ἀηδόνας; “nightingales” for Laodice and Polyxena), and 357 (φάσσα; “dove” for Cassandra herself). 517 For this version of Helen’s birth, see Eur. Hel. 17-21, 214-16, 255-59, 1144-46, IA 794-98, and Or. 1385-88. Although acknowledging the ambiguity of τόργος ὑγρόφοιτος, Fusillo, Hurst, and Paduano 1991: 164 favor Zeus. Hornblower 2015: 143, however, points out that the verb ἐκλοχεύεται should refer to female parturition (Eur. Hel. 258). 518 For instance, Cassandra refers to Locrian Ajax, her rapist, as a “vulture” at 357. 519 The Cypria featured this version (F 11 West = Philodemus De pietate B 7369 Obbink; M. L. West 2013: 80-83). Apollod. Bibl. 3.10.7 records that a shepherd found the egg produced by this union and gave it to Leda to rear. 520 Pausanias (1.33.7) describes a scene at the temple of Nemesis at Rhamnus, in which Leda presents Helen to Nemesis. See Call. Hymn. 3.232 for the reference to Rhamnusian Helen. 521 Cypria F1 West. 173

In addition to suggesting two versions of Helen’s birth, the periphrasis “water-roaming vulture” combines bird and water imagery and, in doing so, parallels the kenning for Paris at 86

(γρυνὸν ἐπτερωμένον). Since Paris is travelling by ship (20-27), he too is connected with water, along with being likened to a bird with ἐπτερωμένον (“winged”). Through this analogy between

Paris and Helen’s avian parent (Zeus or Nemesis), Cassandra implies Helen’s innate association with acts of sexual violation that in turn carry deadly ramifications. Just as the union of Zeus with either Leda or Nemesis creates Helen, so too will Helen and Paris birth the Trojan War because of their illicit relations. Consequently, for Cassandra, familial relations represent a means of assessing an individual’s behavior. In remarking on Helen’s ominous parent, Cassandra can show that the term κύων (“bitch”) is a more accurate reflection of Helen’s character than

τρήρων (“dove”).

After outlining Paris’ journey in a second-person address (90-101), Cassandra describes the capture itself, which occurs while Helen is sacrificing to the Thysae (Maenads) and Byne

(Ino):

καὶ τὴν ἄνυμφον πόρτιν ἁρπάσας λύκος, δυοῖν πελειαῖν ὠρφανισμένην γονῆς καὶ δευτέραν εἰς ἄρκυν ὀθνείων βρόχων ληῖτιν ἐμπταίσασαν ἰξευτοῦ πτερῷ, Θύσῃσιν ἁρμοῖ μηλάτων ἀπάργματα φλέγουσαν ἐν κρόκῃσι καὶ Βύνῃ θεᾷ,

And you, a wolf, will seize the unwedded heifer, who is bereaved of her two dove daughters. She will fall into the second net of foreign snares, made victim by the feathered trap of the fowler, just when she is burning the victims of the flocks to the Thysae and the goddess Byne on the shore. (102-7)

As befits Lycophron’s complex system of naming, Cassandra now employs two different designations for Paris and Helen to signify the dynamic between predator and victim. This time

174

Paris appears as a wolf (λύκος, 102),522 while Helen is the “unwedded heifer” (τὴν ἄνυμφον

πόρτιν, 102), a phrase that seems paradoxical considering that Helen is currently married to

Menelaus.523 Cassandra heightens the paradox by applying the designation of dove not to Helen, as previously in 87, but rather to her two daughters (δυοῖν πελειαῖν).524 Whereas the use of

τρήρωνος for Helen calls attention to her dual role as victim and aggressor, the synonym

πελειαῖν connotes the daughters’ innocence.525 In indicating the innocence of the daughters,

Cassandra furthers her censure of Helen’s capture. Not only has Helen forgotten her spousal duties, but her parental obligations as well.526 In this way, the description of Helen as an unwedded heifer is accurate. Helen’s choice to elope with Paris negates her current marital status.

In fact, as Cassandra shows with δευτέραν (“second,” 104), Helen has a tendency for being taken by foreign predators. Prior to the abduction by Paris, Theseus carried Helen off while she was still a girl.527 By obliquely referring to this previous capture, Cassandra

522 Cusset 2001: 68 detects an anagram for Paris in πόρτιν ἁρπάσας. Other characters in the Alexandra called wolves include Theseus (147), Achilles (246), the Greeks (329), the Dioscouri (504), Idas and Lynceus (524), Heracles (871), Ares (938), the Achaeans at Siris (990), Elephenor (1034), Tarchon and Tyrsenos (1248), the Phoenicians (1293), the Argonauts (1309), and Alexander the Great (1444). 523 Cf. Gigante Lanzara 2000: 204 and Mari 2009: 433. Hornblower 2015: 145 rationalizes away the paradox of the unwedded heifer by noting that Helen is not married currently to Paris. Tzetzes (Σ ad 102; Scheer 2: 54), however, interprets ἄνυμφον to mean πολύανδρον (“with many husbands”). 524 These two daughters are Hermione and Iphigenia. While the Odyssey (4.12-14) lists Hermione as Helen’s only daughter, Stesichorus (PMGF 191 Davies) and Euphorion (fr. 86 Lightfoot) made Iphigenia Helen’s daughter by Theseus. See Paus 2.22.6-7. According to other sources, Helen had a son Nicostratus (Cat. fr. 175 M/W, Apollod. Bibl. 3.11.1) 525 Cf. Sistakou 2009a: 242. 526 For Helen abandoning her child, see Sappho fr. 16.10. 527 Theseus kidnapped Helen when she was seven years old. The evidence for this story is Stesichorus PMGF 191 Davies, Hellanicus 4 F 134 FGrHist (preserved in Σ ad Il. 3.144), Hellanicus 4 F 168 FGrHist (Plut. Thes. 31), Pherecydes FGrHist 3 F 153 (from Athenaeus 13.557a), and Duris FGrHist 76 F 92 (at Tzetzes Σ ad Lyc. 103, Scheer 2: 55). 175 emphasizes the inevitability of Helen’s abductions. Just as Helen becomes caught within the metaphorical nets (εἰς ἄρκυν ὀθνείων βρόχων, 104), so too is she ensnared by the serial kidnappings caused by her beauty. As Cusset observes, this imagery of the hunting net (ἄρκυν), which in Classical tragedy occurred in the contexts of murder, is now transferred to the sphere of illegitimate relations.528 Lycophron, I argue, retains this tragic connotation of murder, since the capture of Helen by Paris will cause death, albeit indirectly. For this reason, Cassandra can still insinuate blame, even while framing Helen here as a victim (ληῖτιν, 105). Yet in addition to this passive meaning, ληῖτις in the Iliad means “dispensing loot,” applied as an epithet to Athena (Il.

10.61). We can retain this sense here if we see Helen’s descent into the trap (ἐμπταίσασαν, 105) as a conscious action, brought about for her desire for Paris. Helen is not just the loot, but in fact dispenses herself.

At 108-14, Cassandra recounts the aftermath of the abduction, describing Paris and

Helen’s journey to an island off the coast of Attica, where the couple has sex:529

θρέξεις ὑπὲρ Σκάνδειαν Αἰγίλου τ’ ἄκραν, αἴθων ἐπακτὴρ καγχαλῶν ἀγρεύματι. νήσῳ δ’ ἐνὶ δράκοντος ἐκχέας πόθον Ἀκτῆς, διμόρφου γηγενοῦς σκηπτουχίας, τὴν δευτέραν ἕωλον οὐκ ὄψει Κύπριν, ψυχρὸν παραγκάλισμα κἀξ ὀνειράτων κεναῖς ἀφάσσων ὠλέναισι δέμνια.

528 Cusset 2002/3: 150. For other uses of ἄρκυς in tragedy, see Aesch. Ag. 1165, Choe. 1000, Eum. 460, Eur. Med. 1278, and Heracl. 729. 529 At Iliad 3.445, Homer records that Helen and Paris had sex on the island Cranae. Ancient scholars identified three separate locations for this island: Cythera (Σ ad Il. 3.445), an island off Gytheum (Paus. 3.22.1), or an island known as Helene off the coast of Attica (Strabo 9.1.22, Steph. Byz. 381.6). As Sens 2009: 22 notes, Lycophron rejects the first option by making Paris pass by Scandeia (the port of Cythera; Steph. Byz. 573.18). Since Acte is an alternate name for Attica (Eur. Hel. 1673 and Steph. Byz. 64.6), and the “two-formed earthborn” is a periphrasis for Cecrops (Apollod. Bibl. 3.14.1), the early king of Athens, we can see Lycophron as favoring Helene as the location for Paris and Helen’s sexual acts. 176

You [Paris] will rush beyond Scandeia and the cape of Aegilon, a fierce hunter exulting in your prey, and after you pour out your desire on the island of the Dragon, Acte, realm of the two-formed earthborn, you will not see a second day of sex, as you touch with empty arms a cold embrace and your bed in your dreams.

(108-14)

The adjective δευτέραν (“second”) in 112 echoes the word in 104, and both instances appear as the second word in the line. Yet while the word at 104 stressed the frequency of Helen’s victimization, δευτέραν, when applied to a periphrasis for sex (ἕωλον Κύπριν, 112), produces an ironic undermining of Paris’ purpose for stealing Helen in the first place. Despite his initial jubilation at the capture (ἐπακτὴρ καγχαλῶν ἀγρεύματι, 109) and one night of ejaculation

(ἐκχέας πόθον, 110), Paris will not enjoy a second day of sex, but instead will experience a cold embrace (ψυχρὸν παραγκάλισμα, 113) and touch his bed with empty arms (κεναῖς ἀφάσσων

ὠλέναισι δέμνια, 114). The collocation of ψυχρόν and παραγκάλισμα is a direct allusion to

Antigone 650-51, where Creon calls a bad woman a ψυχρὸν παραγκάλισμα: εἰδὼς ὅτι / ψυχρὸν

παραγκάλισμα τοῦτο γίγνεται / γυνὴ κακὴ ξύνευνος ἐν δόμοις (“knowing that this embrace becomes cold, an evil woman as a bedmate in the house”).530 The fact that ψυχρὸν

παραγκάλισμα occupies the same sedes in both authors sharpens the allusion. However, while

Creon in the Antigone is referring to an actual evil woman, albeit in a hypothetical situation, the

ψυχρὸν παραγκάλισμα of the Alexandra is in dreams (κἀξ ὀνειράτων, 113) and thus does not exist. Cassandra highlights the insubstantiality of this παραγκάλισμα by noting Paris’ empty arms (κεναῖς ὠλέναισι, 114).531 Yet, in mentioning Paris’ attempt to touch (ἀφάσσων, 114) this specter, Cassandra paradoxically attaches a sense of corporality to the παραγκάλισμα. Despite

530 Cf. Fusillo, Hurst, and Paduano 1991: 168. 531 Cf. Eur. Hel. 35-36: καὶ δοκεῖ μ’ ἔχειν / κενὴν δόκησιν, οὐκ ἔχων (“and he thinks he holds me, an empty opinion, when he does not.” 177 not being real, the nonexistent object of an embrace still possesses a quality that encourages Paris to attempt to caress. Helen, as an image, can elicit Paris’ longing.

In the subsequent lines (115-31), Cassandra clarifies that the god Proteus took away the

“real” Helen. While Proteus played some role in the various versions of the Helen myth,

Lycophron diverges by making Proteus take Helen after she and Paris have already had sex.

According to the account ascribed to the Egyptian priests in Herodotus (2.115), Proteus detained

Helen in Egypt, while in the Helen of Euripides, Hermes snatched Helen and deposited her for safe-keeping by Proteus, also in Egypt (Hel. 44-48).532 In the Alexandra, Proteus appears as an agent of divine vengeance, seeking to deprive Paris of the object of his desire:

κεῖνός σε, Γουνεὺς ὥσπερ, ἐργάτης δίκης, τῆς θ’ Ἡλίου θυγατρὸς Ἰχναίας βραβεύς, ἐπεσβολήσας λυγρὰ νοσφιεῖ γάμων, λίπτοντα κάσσης ἐκβαλὼν πελειάδος.

That one, just like Goneus, an exacter of justice and the arbiter of the Ichnaean daughter of the Sun, will rebuke you harshly and deprive you of your marriage, when he drives you, lustful, from your prostitute dove. (128-31)

The juxtaposition of κάσσης (“prostitute”) and πελειάδος (“dove”) recalls the pairing of κυνός and τρήρωνος at 87, thus again emphasizing Helen’s dual status as victim and sexual deviant.

Moreover, the coupling of the participle λίπτοντα (“lustful,” 131) for Paris and κάσσης creates an equivocation between the attacker Paris and his prey Helen to suggest the two are equally lecherous. Consequently, unlike in Euripides’ Helen, Helen being in Proteus’ custody does not maintain her chastity nor does it absolve her of blame.

After upbraiding Paris for his transgressions against Justice (132-38), Cassandra returns to focusing on Helen as an eidolon:

532 As S. West 2009: 83 observes, Helen in Herodotus still remains culpable. 178

τοιγὰρ ψαλάξεις εἰς κενὸν νευρᾶς κτύπον, ἄσιτα κἀδώρητα φορμίζων μέλη. κλαίων δὲ πάτραν τὴν πρὶν ᾐθαλωμένην ἵξῃ χεροῖν εἴδωλον ἠγκαλισμένος τῆς πενταλέκτρου θυιάδος Πλευρωνίας.

For this reason, in vain you will pluck the noisy string of the bow, playing songs that bring no food or gifts. Weeping, you will come to your fatherland that was burned before, embracing in your arms the phantom of the five-times wed Pleuronian Maenad.

(139-43)

The vocabulary in this section echoes the wording in 111-14: κενόν in 139 echoes κεναῖς in 114, and the participle ἠγκαλισμένος (“holding” 142) repeats παραγκάλισμα.533 Moreover, just as

Cassandra implies the paradox of Paris attempting to touch the fake Helen in his dreams at 113-

14, so too does she here stress the irony of Paris holding an image (εἴδωλον, 142) in his arms

(χεροῖν, 142). By commenting on the futility of Paris’ physical interaction with a phantom,

Cassandra again signals the power of Helen’s image to stimulate desire, as well as the ultimate fruitlessness of Paris’ quest.534 His acknowledgement of this fruitlessness results in playing songs that bring no benefit (ἄσιτα κἀδώρητα φορμίζων μέλη, 140) and weeping (κλαίων, 141).

Yet while useless as an object of Paris’ sexual longing, the phantom Helen nevertheless will exert physical effects by causing the destruction of Troy. Cassandra subtly alludes to this fact by referencing the previous razing of Troy by Heracles with πάτραν τὴν πρὶν ᾐθαλωμένην (“your fatherland that was burned before,” 141). Indeed, the coordination of the participles ᾐθαλωμένην and ἠγκαλισμένος, two five-syllable words beginning with same letter, eta, in the same position

533 McNelis and Sens 2016: 73. 534 The scholiast (Σ ad 139b; Leone 2002: 31), citing the proverb (“you will strike the lyre in vain,” εἰς κενὸν κρούσεις τὰς χορδὰς) sees a hint about male genitalia. 179 at the end of the lines further suggests this causal link between Paris’ capture of Helen and the annihilation of Troy.

Even though Cassandra treats Helen as an eidolon, the description “five-times wed

Pleuronian Maenad” (πενταλέκτρου θυιάδος Πλευρωνίας, 143) leads into a digression cataloguing Helen’s five “husbands,” as ordained by the Fates (144-45). Cassandra’s choice to list these husbands corresponds to the emphasis on Helen’s serial monogamy, as well as evoking the catalogue format of pseudo-Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women.535 Moreover, unlike in the other instances, where Cassandra portrays her as an object of desire or capture,536 Helen is the subject of verbs. She “will see” (αὐγάσαι, 147) the “two greedy wolves” (δοιὼ ἁρπακτῆρας λύκους,

Theseus and Paris) and “the half-Cretan barbarian, an Epeian, not pure Argive by birth”

(ἡμικρῆτα βάρβαρον, Ἐπειόν, οὐκ Ἀργεῖον ἀκραιφνῆ γοναῖς, Menelaus, 150-51).537 She will behold (ὄψεται, 168) “the brother of the down-swooping falcon” (αὐθόμαιμον κίρκου

καταρρακτῆρος, Deiphobus, 168-69).538 By making Helen the subject of verbs, after referring to her eidolon status in 142, Cassandra ironically implies that Helen assumes greater agency in this phantom form.

The catalogue culminates in a description of the effects of this form on the fifth husband:

ἐν δὲ δεμνίοις τὸν ἐξ ὀνείρων πέμπτον ἐστροβημένον εἰδωλοπλάστῳ προσκαταξανεῖ ῥέθει, τὸν μελλόνυμφον εὐνέτην Κυταϊκῆς

535 See Hornblower 2015: 11. The catalogue of Helen’s suitors appears in Cat. fr. 204 M/W. 536 Aside from the catalogue of her husbands, Helen (or Helen as phantom) appears in the following cases: genitive in 131, 143, 505, and 850-51, dative in 513, and accusative in 87, 102- 7, 113, and 820-22. 537 A digression about Menelaus’ ancestor Pelops spans 152-67. 538 Helen marries Hector’s brother Deiphobus after the death of Paris. See Od. 4.276 and Little Iliad (Proclus Arg. 2 West). 180

And the fifth, disturbed by dreams, she will make waste away with her phantom form in his bed, the intended groom of the Cytaean woman.

(171-74)

This fifth husband is Achilles, whose designation is based on his eventual marital status (τὸν

μελλόνυμφον εὐνέτην) to the woman of Cyta (Κυταϊκῆς, 174), i.e. Medea.539 Achilles’ marriage to Helen, however, takes places in a dream, as Cassandra signifies with ἐξ ὀνείρων (“by dreams,”

172).540 At the same time, the placement of ὀνείρων near δεμνίοις (“bed,” 171) parallels the coordination of κἀξ ὀνειράτων in 113 and δέμνια in 114, where Cassandra refers to Paris’ attempt to caress his dream Helen. Likewise, the compounded adjective εἰδωλοπλάστῳ

(“phantom,” 173) looks back to the εἴδωλον grasped by Paris in 142.541 The accumulation of these verbal parallels signals an analogy between Paris and Achilles.542 As Helen’s husbands, both men become enchanted by the powers of her phantom form. Yet for Achilles, Cassandra lays particular emphasis on the violence of this dreamtime intercourse with the verb

προσκαταξανεῖ (“will make waste away,” 173) and the participle ἐστροβημένον (“disturbed,”

172), which typically refers to physical movement but is used metaphorically here for emotional turmoil.543 Indeed, Cassandra conveys Achilles’ emotional upset at the semantic level by positioning ἐξ ὀνείρων between the definite article (τόν) and the substantive adjective πέμπτον

(“fifth,” 172). These dreams, both verbally and literally, are rending Achilles apart. That Helen,

539 Cyta is a city in Colchis (Steph. Byz. 398.14). Achilles and Medea marry in the afterlife. See Σ ad Ap. Rhod. 4.810-15 (Ib. fr. 291 PMGF Davies). 540 According to Proclus’ summary (Arg. 11b West) in the Cypria, Achilles desired to look upon Helen. Pausanias 3.19.11-13 records a story told by the Crotonites how Achilles and Helen cohabitated on Leuce, an island in the Black Sea. 541 For the formation of this compounded adjective, see Guilleux 2009: 230, who translates the word as “façonné comme un simulacre.” 542 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2016: 106. 543 Gigante Lanzara 2009: 100 points out that this verb is related to στρόβιλος (“ball”). The noun στρόβιλος occurs at 506, in a description of the Dioscuri’s egg-shaped helmets. 181 as an eidolon, can unravel Achilles, the greatest of Greek heroes, attests to the ultimate power of this beauty. To Cassandra, Achilles is not the best of the Achaeans, but simply another man (the fifth) affected by Helen.544

After this predominance in the earlier sections of the prophecy, Helen is mentioned only a few more times in the poem. For instance, when dealing with the Dioscuri’s invasion of Attica to retrieve Helen after her first abduction by Theseus, Cassandra calls Helen “the seized

Maenad” (τῆς ἁρπαγείσης θυιάδος, 505), echoing θυιάδος at 143. Moreover, while praying that

Dioscuri never set foot in Troy (512-16), Cassandra repeats the bird imagery and dubs Helen a

δισαρπάγῳ κρεκί (“twice-snatched corncrake,” 513). While both names underline Helen’s status as a victim (ἁρπαγείσης and δισαρπάγῳ), θυιάδος in particular indicates Helen’s sexual promiscuity,545 and κρεκί connotes her disastrousness for marriage.546 Cassandra thus again points to the inextricable link between Helen’s repeated victimization and the creation of conflict. Indeed, the Dioscuri’s attack on Attica to retrieve Helen presages the Greeks’ expedition to Troy.

In addition to making men fight, Helen spurs Menelaus to look for her even after the war ends. Cassandra opens Menelaus’ nostos by referring to Helen as the “fatally married, captured wife:”547

Ὁ δ’ αἰνόλεκτρον ἁρπαγεῖσαν εὐνέτης πλᾶτιν ματεύων, κληδόνων πεπυσμένος, ποθῶν δὲ φάσμα πτηνόν, εἰς αἴθραν φυγόν,

544 For a discussion of the unfavorable depiction of Achilles in the Alexandra, see Sistakou 2008: 166, Durbec 2011d (2008a): 35-54, and McNelis and Sens 2016: 101-30. 545 As Mari 2009: 434 observes, Helen’s sacrifice to the Thysae at 106 anticipates this designation. 546 For literary evidence concerning the corncrake’s status as an omen of bad marriages, Tzetzes (Σ ad 513 Scheer 2.186) cites Euphorion (fr. 6 Lightfoot) and Callimachus (fr. 428 Pf.) 547 As Cusset 2002/3: 144 observes, αἰνόλεκτρος is an Aeschylean hapax used at Aesch. Ag. 713 to describe Paris. 182

ποίους θαλάσσης οὐκ ἐρευνήσει μυχούς; ποίαν δὲ χέρσον οὐκ ἀνιχνεύσει μολών;

And the husband, searching for his fatally married, captured wife, after he has learned from rumors, longing for a winged phantom that fled into the air, what sort of recesses of the sea will he not search? What sort of land will he not come to and investigate?

(820-24)

As Cassandra indicates with the participial clause εἰς αἴθραν φυγόν (“that fled into the air,” 822),

Helen’s φάσμα πτηνόν (“winged phantom,” 822) has vanished at the end of the Trojan War.548

As a result, Menelaus must rely on rumors (κληδόνων, 821) to recover his wife. Such rumors propel him to probe everywhere in the sea (θαλάσσης οὐκ ἐρευνήσει μυχούς, 823) and on land

(χέρσον, 824), and Cassandra anticipates the magnitude of this journey by including two rhetorical questions, both introduced by ποίους and ποίαν and negated (οὐκ...οὐκ). Yet in noting this extensive scouring, Cassandra implies the futility of Menelaus’ searches at sea and on land.

The phantom Helen, in fleeing into the air, exists in neither.

Cassandra strengthens this emphasis on the futility of Menelaus’ quest by forming a parallel between Menelaus and Odysseus. We can see this parallel most clearly by the fact that the section dedicated to Menelaus’ nostos (820-76) immediately succeeds Odysseus’ (648-819).

Verbal echoes, moreover, tie together the two heroes. The rhetorical questions employed for

Menelaus at 823-24 recall those for Odysseus at 668-69 (ποία, ποία),549 while the collocation of

ἐρευνήσει (“he will seek”) and μυχούς (“recesses”) in 823 reappears in a description of Odysseus at 1244-45: πλάναισι πάντ’ ἐρευνήσας μυχὸν / ἁλός τε καὶ γῆς, (“in his wanderings searching

548 For similar language, cf. Eur. Hel. 605-6, when the servant announces to Menelaus that the phantom Helen has disappeared into the sky. For other intertexts between the Helen and the Alexandra, see Gigante Lanzara 2010: 257-64. 549 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2016: 154. 183 each recess of sea and land”), which refers to Odysseus’ meeting with Aeneas.550 Just as

Cassandra’s account emphasizes Odysseus’ journeys in the West, so too does Menelaus, unlike in Homer, end up in Taras, Croton, Sicily, and Elba (852-76) after Egypt.551 In constructing this link between Menelaus and Odysseus, Cassandra demonstrates how both men struggle in their great wanderings, ultimately because of the nonexistent woman Helen. Yet, whereas Odysseus’ prolonged nostos is only indirectly caused by Helen, Menelaus amplifies his own travail by continuing to search for her.

In framing Menelaus’ travels as a quest for a woman, Cassandra evokes another parallel,

Achilles, who wanders in the Black Sea region to look for Iphigenia:

ἣν ὁ ξύνευνος Σαλμυδησίας ἁλὸς ἐντὸς ματεύων, Ἑλλάδος καρατόμον, δαρὸν φαληριῶσαν οἰκήσει σπίλον Κέλτρου πρὸς ἐκβολαῖσι λιμναίων ποτῶν, ποθῶν δάμαρτα, τήν ποτ’ ἐν σφαγαῖς κεμὰς λαιμὸν προθεῖσα φασγάνων ἒκ ῥύσεται.

Her husband will look for her, the decapitator of Greece, within the Salmydesian sea. For a long time he will inhabit the white rock near the outpouring of the marshy waters of the Celtic river, longing for his wife, whom one day at the sacrifice a deer will save from the sword when it offers its throat. (186-91)

Several verbal echoes connect this section with the Menelaus passage: the participles ματεύων

(“searching,” 187) and ποθῶν (“longing,” 190) occupy the same sedes as in 821 and 822, respectively, while ξύνευνος (“husband,” 186) for Achilles looks forward to εὐνέτης in 820.552

550 Hellanicus FGrHist 4 F 84 (in Dion. Hal. 1.72.2) mentions Odysseus founding Rome with Aeneas. At 1244, Cassandra calls Odysseus a νάνος (“dwarf”), which not only plays on Odysseus’ short stature (Il. 3.193 and Od. 6.230), but also the name of the Etruscan name Nanas. Hellanicus FGrHist 4 F 4 describes Nanas as a wandering leader of Pelasgians. According to the scholiast (Σ ad 1244a; Leone 2002: 228), νάνος means “wanderer.” See Phillips 1953: 61. 551 In the Odyssey (4.83-85), Menelaus claims that his travels after Troy included Cyprus, Phoenicia, Egypt, the Ethiopians, Sidonians, Erembi, and Libya. 552 Durbec 2011d (2008a): 43 also discerns this parallel. 184

By labeling Menelaus and Achilles as “husbands,” Cassandra underscores the importance of erotic desires in driving their exertions. Indeed, Sistakou views the lovesick Achilles in the

Alexandra as the prototype for the Romantic lover.553 Yet from Cassandra’s point of view,

Menelaus and Achilles not only fall short as traditional heroes by striving for women, but specifically ones that cause harm for the larger community. Like Helen, who is “fatally married,”

(αἰνόλεκτρον, 820), Iphigenia is harmful to Greeks, as Cassandra signifies with the phrase

Ἑλλάδος καρατόμον (“decapitator of Greece,” 187), a reference to Iphigenia sacrificing Greeks as a priestess among the Taurians.554 At the same time, just as both the real and phantom Helen vanish, Iphigenia disappears, first at Aulis when replaced with a deer (κεμὰς / λαιμὸν προθεῖσα

φασγάνων ἒκ ῥύσεται, 190-91) and then at Tauris, where she transforms into an old woman who cooks human flesh: καὶ τὴν ἄφαντον εἶδος ἠλλοιωμένην / γραῖαν (“she who has vanished, changed into an old woman,” 195-96). Iphigenia, as Helen’s daughter by Theseus, has inherited her mother’s ability to disappear but still make men seek her out.

While the parallels with Odysseus and Achilles implicitly speak to the futility of

Menelaus’ quest, Cassandra, after describing Menelaus’ time in Egypt, makes this point explicit at 850-51: καὶ πάντα τλήσεθ’ οὕνεκ’ Αἰγύας κυνὸς / τῆς θηλύπαιδος καὶ τριάνορος κόρης (“and he will endure all these things for the sake of an Aegyan bitch, a mother of female children and a maiden with three husbands”). With these particular labels, Cassandra recapitulates the recurring themes of Helen’s representation: shamelessness (κυνός, 850), the fact she gave birth to

553 Sistakou 2012: 158-61. 554 As the scholiast (Σ ad 187a; Leone 2002: 40-41) points out, the word can have two meanings, depending on the accentuation. If accented on the penult, καρατόμον is active in sense and means “decapitator.” However, accentuation on the antepenult gives the adjective a passive meaning: “she is who is decapitated.” The word, as a result, would refer to Iphigenia being sacrificed at Aulis. Cf. Sistakou 2009a: 244 n18. 185 daughters (θηλύπαιδος, 851),555 and finally her serial monogamy (τριάνορος, 851), which the scholiast construes as “many husbands” as opposed to three.556 Nevertheless, whatever the exact meaning of the word, the juxtaposition of τριάνορος with κόρης (“maiden,” 851) generates a paradox. How can Helen be both promiscuous and a maiden? At the same time, κόρης contrasts with κυνός in the previous line, and Cassandra calls attention to this disjunction by coordinating both words at the end of the line. Thus, within the span of these two lines, Cassandra can encapsulate the paradoxes that suffuse Helen’s being, not only in the Alexandra, but in the literary tradition as a whole. Helen simultaneously constitutes a shameless bitch, a passive victim, and a phantom that induces men to fight and die for her sake (οὕνεκα, 850).557

In exploring these multiple aspects of Helen, Cassandra is attempting to comprehend

Helen’s true identity and thus the aetion of the war. Endowed with a synoptic view of past, present, and future, Cassandra can synthesize these varying manifestations to isolate a single

Helen, one that ultimately does not exist but through her nonexistence inflicts devastation.

Destruction is the true essence of Helen, as befits her birth from an act of sexual violence.

Helen’s incessant kidnappings by men substantiate these innate qualities. Yet for what reason does Cassandra underscore Helen’s status as a phantom, while still ascribing culpability to Helen

555 Holford-Strevens 2000: 608-9 proposes that the compound adjective θηλύπαις means “female-boy child” and would obliquely refer to Helen being used as Theseus’ beloved boy, i.e. sodomized. This meaning, while it would suit Cassandra’s vitriolic tone, lacks corroboration elsewhere in the text. Nowhere does Cassandra specify the nature of the sexual intercourse between Helen and Theseus. She does, however, mention Helen’s dove daughters at 103, and for this reason, I adopt the meaning of Hornblower 2015. 556 See Σ ad 851c (Leone 2002: 169). With this interpretation, the scholiast is attempting to harmonize this section with the description of Helen as five-times wed (143). However, one could also argue that Theseus and Achilles do not count as husbands (cf. Hornblower 2015: 327), since Theseus abducted her and Achilles only saw her in a dream. For Helen described as “of many husbands” (πολυάνωρ), see Aesch. Ag. 62. 557 See Bergen 2008 (1983): 26 for a discussion of Helen’s ambivalent nature. Cf. Zeitlin 2010: 263-82 for a similar assessment, with a focus on Helen in Euripidean tragedy. 186 herself? On the one hand, the eidolon element indicates the futility of the Trojan War. The Greek and Trojans fight and die for nothing. While this explanation for the eidolon corresponds to

Cassandra’s pervasive denigration of masculine efforts, another reason is possible, if we consider the similar situations of Helen and Cassandra. Indeed, like Helen, Cassandra is both a victim and a source of destruction. After Locrian Ajax assaults Cassandra in the temple of Athena, many

Greeks die at sea and wander in retribution for this outrage (365-66). Although we would not expect a Trojan princess to form solidarity with a Greek woman, especially the one responsible for her own pain, interpreting Helen as nonexistent force makes it easier to avoid feeling pity for a fellow victim of sexual assault. By Cassandra’s assessment, Helen is not even human, much less worthy of compassion. Indeed, Cassandra further minimizes Helen’s existence by offering no reference to a reunion with Menelaus or her fate after death.558 Rather, after 850-51, Helen vanishes from the text, just like the phantom she is.

Odysseus

Along with Helen, Odysseus plays a significant role in Cassandra’s prophecy, as his nostos takes up a large portion of the poem (648-819). While the Odyssey depicts him as a wily and resourceful trickster beset by struggles, later representations, particularly those in tragedy, framed Odysseus as an immoral and villainous rogue.559 Within Cassandra’s anti-Greek version, such a depiction is expanded, and as McNelis and Sens have demonstrated, Cassandra systematically deflates the heroism of Odysseus’ deeds in order to undermine the kleos granted

558 For instance, in the Odyssey (4.561-69), Proteus informs Menelaus that he will live forever in the Elysian Fields. Cf. Eur. Hel. 1667, where Castor tells Helen she will be called a “goddess.” See Clader 1976: 63-80. 559For an overview of these negative tragic depictions, see Stanford 1963: 102-17. Particularly negative portrayals can be observed in Sophocles’ Philoctetes and Euripides’ Hecuba. 187 to him by the epic tradition.560 Rather, in her rendition, Cassandra focuses on his constant falsity, his passivity in his suffering, and the futility of his wanderings. By this, I argue,

Cassandra not only challenges the epic tradition of Homer, but interrogates Odysseus’ authority in assessing his own personal experiences. For her, Odysseus’ lies do not attest to his skillful manipulation of logos, but instead point to his inability to construe reality and be a source for his lived experiences. His natural propensity for falsity precludes any possibility for an accurate rendering, as does the multitude of his woes, which in many cases are caused by his deception.

Before the section devoted to his nostos, Odysseus is mentioned in relation to other characters. For instance, Cassandra dubs Sinon “the cousin of the wily Sisyphean fox” (τῆς

Σισυφείας δ’ ἀγκύλης λαμπούριδος / αὐτανέψιος, 344-45), that is, the cousin of Odysseus. By pairing the adjective ἀγκύλης (“wily”), which connotes deception, with λαμπούριδος, an animal known for its craftiness,561 Cassandra emphasizes Odysseus’ trickery. At the same time, the choice to make Odysseus the son of the ultimate trickster Sisyphus, rather than Laertes, suggests that this deception is an inherited trait.562 Moreover, Odysseus’ cousin Sinon shares this characteristic, as both figures employ trickery to achieve the destruction of Troy. According to the Cyclic tradition, Odysseus steals the Palladium, while Sinon signals for the Greeks to attack

(344).563

560 McNelis and Sens 2016: 129-54. See Pind. Nem. 7.22-3 for the thought that Homer was responsible for an exaggerated portrayal of Odysseus’ sufferings. 561 A λαμπουρίς is a type of fox with a white tail (Σ ad 344c; Leone 2002: 68). As Del Ponte 1981: 116 observes, there is a verbal play with λαμπουρίς and λάμψῃ in 344. 562 The scholiast (Σ ad 344a; Leone 2002: 68) clarifies that Anticlea (Odysseus’ mother) slept with Sisyphus. Odysseus is Sinon’s cousin because Anticlea is the sister of Aesimus, the father of Sinon. See Alex. 1030. 563 For Sinon raising the signal, see Proclus’ summary of the Iliou Persis (Arg. 2a West) and Little Iliad F 12 West (Apollod. Epit. 5.14-15). 188

Odysseus’ deception, moreover, is referenced in another cameo appearance, when

Cassandra calls the Cretan Idomeneus “the brother of Aethon in the fictitious writings” (Αἴθωνος

αὐτάδελφον ἐν πλασταῖς γραφαῖς, 432). We can identify Odysseus as Aethon based on Odyssey

19, where Odysseus adopts this Cretan persona when concealing his identity to Penelope.

Δευκαλίων δ’ ἐμὲ τίκτε καὶ Ἰδομενῆα ἄνακτα ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν ἐν νήεσσι κορωνίσιν Ἴλιον εἴσω ᾤχεθ’ ἅμ’ Ἀτρεΐδῃσιν· ἐμοὶ δ’ ὄνομα κλυτὸν Αἴθων, ὁπλότερος γενεῇ· ὁ δ’ ἅμα πρότερος καὶ ἀρείων. ἔνθ’ Ὀδυσῆα ἐγὼν ἰδόμην καὶ ξείνια δῶκα.

Deucalion begat me and lord Idomeneus. But he went to Troy with the Atreids on his curved ships. My famed name is Aethon. I am younger by birth. He is both older and better. There I saw Odysseus and gave him guest-gifts.

(Od. 19.181-85)

As with Odysseus’ other Cretan lies (Od. 13.256-86 and 14.191-359), this fib serves to mask his identity.564 With ἰδόμην (“I saw,” 185), the Aethon persona cites autopsy and personal experience as the basis for his knowledge of Odysseus, and to bolster the believability of the

Aethon identity, Odysseus employs the Cretan Idomeneus as a frame of reference. In the

Alexandra, on the other hand, Cassandra subverts the strategy, using the name Aethon to define

Idomeneus and thus coopting Odysseus’ falsehood for her own purposes. By reframing

Odysseus’ lie, she deprives him of the agency he had in telling it. As Homer remarks at 19.203-

8, such a lie seamlessly mixed truth and falsehood, causing Penelope to weep. Cassandra, however, can see past Odysseus’ lies, as she indicates with the phrase ἐν πλασταῖς γραφαῖς (“in the fictitious writings,” 432). This expression, as Hurst and Kolde observe, can refer both to the

564 For an overview of Odysseus’ Cretan lies, see Haft 1984: 289-306. 189 written text of the Odyssey as well as Odysseus’ falsehoods within said text.565 By pointing to the fictitious status of the work that records Odysseus’ experiences, Cassandra calls into question the validity of all the utterances made by Odysseus, not just those explicitly marked as lies. As a result, while Cassandra’s version does draw from the Homeric model for her treatment of

Odysseus’ wanderings, the entire Homeric account is subject to interrogation.

In the Odyssey, Odysseus’ first-person account of his sufferings spans books 9-12, and while the Homeric poet does not explicitly comment on the truth and falsehood of this section,

Odysseus’ perpetual mendacity does raise suspicions of distortion.566 For Lycophron’s

Cassandra, however, there is no doubt concerning the falsity of Odysseus’ version, and her reinterpretation goes to great lengths to recast Odysseus’ experiences. The beginning of her version does so by placing more emphasis on his deceased comrades:

Τοὺς δ’ ἀμφὶ Σύρτιν καὶ Λιβυστικὰς πλάκας στενήν τε πορθμοῦ συνδρομὴν Τυρσηνικοῦ καὶ μιξόθηρος ναυτιλοφθόρους σκοπάς, τῆς πρὶν θανούσης ἐκ χερῶν Μηκιστέως τοῦ στερφοπέπλου Σκαπανέως Βοαγίδα, ἁρπυιογούνων κλώμακάς τ’ ἀηδόνων πλαγχθέντας, ὠμόσιτα δαιταλωμένους, πρόπαντας Ἅιδης πανδοκεὺς ἀγρεύσεται, λώβαισι παντοίαισιν ἐσπαραγμένους, ἕνα φθαρέντων ἄγγελον λιπὼν φίλων,

565 Hurst and Kolde 2008: 163. Tzetzes ad loc. (Scheer 2.159) deems γραφαῖς nonsense on the grounds that Odysseus did not write his account. See also Sens 2010: 306 for a discussion of Cassandra attacking Odysseus’ narrative authority. 566 See Od. 13.291-95 for Athena’s observation about Odysseus’ incessant trickery. As S. Richardson 1996: 396 points out, since Homer does not go over this point in Odysseus’ life, for the most part we cannot know what is truth or fabrication in 9-12. Pucci 1998a: 143 notes that the Homeric narrator does reaffirm the contents of Odysseus’ tale in a few places, such as at 1.68-69 (Zeus’ reference to Polyphemus) and at 2.19-20 (a mention of the Cyclops eating the son of the Ithacan Aegyptius). In considering the effect of Odysseus’ Phaeacian narrative, Goldhill 1991: 55-56 states, “To recognize a possibility of uncertainty about the boundaries between truth and fiction in Odysseus’ narrative (especially with regard to the importance of this narrative for understanding nostos and ‘a/the man’) is to recognize in Odyssean (polumetis) language an essential duplicitousness.” 190

δελφινόσημον κλῶπα Φοινίκης θεᾶς.

Others will wander around Syrtis, the Libyan plains, the narrow meet of the Tyrrhenian Strait, and the ship-destroying lookout-places of the hybrid who previously died by the hands of Mecisteus, the hide-wearing Spademan, Cattle-driver, and the rocks of the harpy-legged nightingales. When they are eaten raw, the innkeeper Hades will take them all, as they are rent by all sorts of injuries. He will leave behind one, a messenger of his deceased friends, he of the dolphin sign, thief of the Phoenician goddess. (648-58)

Over the course of nine lines (648-56), Cassandra condenses Odysseus and his men’s wanderings, stressing the geographic extent and the various monsters faced. As commentators have noted, the participle πλαγχθέντας (“wandering,” 654) produces an allusion to πλάγχθη (Od.

1.2) in the Odyssey proem.567 Yet whereas the Odyssey begins with Odysseus as a “man” (ἄνδρα,

Od. 1.1), Cassandra focuses first on his comrades as a collective and delays mentioning him until

657 with ἕνα φθαρέντων ἄγγελον λιπὼν φίλων (“one, a messenger of his deceased friends”) .568

By labeling Odysseus as a messenger (ἄγγελον, 657), Cassandra signifies his role in recounting his experiences wandering. The choice to introduce him as the messenger of his deceased friends, however, takes away Odysseus’ individuality, instead framing him as the member of a group whom Hades happened to spare from death. Odysseus is not an active agent in his own experiences, but rather a passive reporter.

While the designation messenger is vague, Cassandra in the subsequent line gives hints that point to Odysseus’ identity with δελφινόσημον and κλῶπα (658). The adjective

δελφινόσημον refers to the dolphin sign he carried on his shield,569 and κλῶπα Φοινίκης θεᾶς alludes to his theft of the Palladium, the statue of Athena upon which the safety of Troy

567 For instance, cf. Hurst and Kolde 2008: 193 and McNelis and Sens 2016: 135. 568 Hurst 2012d (2002): 101. 569 According to the scholiast, the sources for this story are Stesichorus (225 PMGF Davies) and Euphorion (fr. 87 Lightfoot). Odysseus chose this animal as a sign because a dolphin saved the baby Telemachus from drowning (Plut. De soll. an. 985 B-C). 191 depended.570 Since neither of these stories comes from the Homeric tradition, the pairing of these monikers reflects a conscious blending of sources. Instead of characterizing Odysseus as

πολύτροπον (“much-turning,” Od. 1.1), an ambivalent adjective that embodies his versatility,571

Cassandra associates him with a sign, which Cusset interprets as reflecting the link between

Odysseus and representation.572 Indeed, the Odyssey portrays Odysseus as acutely concerned with his self-representation, especially when disguising his identity or recounting his adventures.

The phrase κλῶπα Φοινίκης θεᾶς, however, casts Odysseus’ deceptive skills in a distinctly negative light. Not only does the word signify the theft that enables the destruction of Troy, through a verbal play, κλῶπα, also anticipates the Cyclops, whose blinding occurs because of

Odysseus’ deception.573 At the same time, the decision to call Athena the Phoenician, an epiclesis for her among the Corinthians according to the scholiast, evokes the deceitful

Phoenician who figured in Odysseus’ lie to Eumaeus at 14.288.574 As a result, with κλῶπα

Φοινίκης θεᾶς, Cassandra expresses Odysseus’ falsity in a variety of respects, suggesting both his deceitful actions and his lying words. Moreover, by coordinating ἄγγελον and κλῶπα,

Cassandra implies that Odysseus’ status as messenger is marked by deceit.

In the subsequent lines, Cassandra summarizes Odysseus’ adventures at sea. Although covering many of the incidents included in the Odyssey, her account does not follow the same

570 In the Little Iliad (Proclus Arg. 4e F 11 West), Diomedes and Odysseus steal the Palladium. In the Iliou Persis (F 4 West = Dion. Hal. Ant. 1.69.3), however, a fake version is stolen. 571 See Pucci 1998c (1982): 23-27 for a discussion of the meaning of polytropos. In addition to the meanings “of many journeys” or “many turns of the minds,” Pucci proposes the notion of “many turns of speech.” 572 Cusset 2007: 207. 573 Cusset 2007: 207. 574 Σ ad 658b; Leone 2002: 133. Cf. Hornblower 2015: 277. 192 order,575 and for some episodes, such as the Sirens and Scylla, she refers to them multiple times.

The result is a broad, impressionistic sweep that underscores the constancy of Odysseus’ toils.576

As recorded in Cassandra’s version, Odysseus experiences the Cyclops (659-61), Laestrygonians

(662-65), Charybdis (668), Scylla (669), the Sirens (670-72), Circe (673-80), the Underworld

(681-87), Pithecusae (688-93), Campania (694-711), the Sirens again (712-37), the winds of

Aeolus (738-41), Charybdis (742-43), Calypso (744), and being tossed at sea on his raft (745-

61). Within this catalogue of so many struggles, Odysseus’ role is minimized. Cassandra frames his involvement in terms of seeing (ὄψεται; 659 and ἐπόψεται; 662 and 673) and suffering

(ταλάσσει, 746). Instead of achieving great deeds in his wanderings with his polytropia,

Odysseus remains passive, wretched (τάλας, 746) and buffeted by the constant stream of monsters and storms.

Finally, after being saved by Ino (757-58), Odysseus will arrive among the Phaeacians:

νῆσον δ’ εἰς Κρόνῳ στυγουμένην Ἅρπην περάσας, μεζέων κρεανόμον, ἄχλαινος ἵκτης πημάτων λυγρῶν κόπις, τὸν μυθοπλάστην ἐξυλακτήσει γόον, ἀρὰς τετικὼς τοῦ τυφλωθέντος δάκους.

575The order of events in the Odyssey runs as follows: Cicones (9.39-61), a storm (9.62-81), Lotus Eaters (9.82-104), Cyclops (9.105-566), Aeolus and the bag of winds (10.1-79), Laestrygonians, (10.80-132), Circe (10.133-574), Underworld (book 11), the return to Circe’s island (12.1-141), Sirens (12.166-200), Scylla and Charybdis (12.234-59), the island of the Sun (12.260-402), the death of everyone but Odysseus (12.403-446), and Calypso (12.447-53). See Schade 1999: 55-56 for a comparison of the ordering in the Homeric account and the version in the Alexandra. Hurst 2012d (2002): 103-8 also provides an overview of the Lycophron’s engagement with the Odyssey, listing agreements, contradictions, and innovations. See Tzetzes ad. 740 (Scheer 2.238) for the complaint about the disjointed order of Lycophron’s version. In Euripides’ Trojan Women (431-43), Cassandra gives an overview of Odysseus’ journeys. 576 Gigante Lanzara 1997: 45 observes, “Sulla base di un itinerario in parte diverso da quello omerico il racconto procede con ritmo sussultorio, avviluppato in se stesso come un spirale, toccando più volte gli stesse duo volte Scilla, tre volte le Sirene, mentre l'esposizione diacronica ricorre solo saltuariamente nelle digressioni.” 193

He will come to the island hated by Cronos, the Sickle, cutter of genitals. As a suppliant without a cloak and a babbler of his painful woes, he will bark out a groan that produces tales, after he has paid for the curses of the blinded monster. (761-65)

Indicating Scherie, the home of the Phaeacians, as the Sickle island hated by Cronus (εἰς Κρόνῳ

στυγουμένην, 761),577 Cassandra concentrates on Odysseus’ degraded state when arriving on the island. He is a “suppliant without a cloak” (ἄχλαινος ἵκτης, 763) and a “babbler of his painful woes” (πημάτων λυγρῶν κόπις, 763). As commentators have noted, the noun κόπις appears in

Euripides’ Hecuba in a description of Odysseus as an evil smooth talker (Hec. 132).578 The word, if related to the verb κόπτω (“cut”), as the scholiast and Tzetzes suggest, not only carries the sense of deception, but specifically that of “logic-chopping.”579 Odysseus, by botching the logic of his own painful experiences, exhibits an inability to express them accurately. Rather,

Odysseus “will bark out a groan that produces tales.” (τὸν μυθοπλάστην ἐξυλακτήσει γόον,

764).580 With the compounded adjective μυθοπλάστην, which looks back to πλασταῖς at 432,

Cassandra calls attention to the fabricated status of Odysseus’ utterances among the

Phaeacians.581 Yet by coupling it with the noun γόον, Cassandra implies the incomprehensibility of such an expression, which she likens to that of animal with the verb ἐξυλακτήσει (“will bark

577 According Timaeus (FGrHist 566 F 79 from Σ ad Ap. Rh. 4.982), Zeus cut off Cronus’ genitals, and the sickle ended up beneath Scherie/Drepane/Corcyra. 578 Schade 1999: 167 and Gigante Lanzara 2009: 112. 579 Σ ad 763 (Leone 2002: 154). 580 Ciani 1975: 196. 581 S. West 1983: 116 sees a contradiction in Cassandra calling Odysseus’ Phaeacian tales false, since Cassandra also includes much of this same information. For this reason, S. West suggests transposing 763-64 to follow 788 (μόνος πρὸς οἴκους ναυτίλων σωθεὶς τάλας), where Cassandra deals with Odysseus’ return home. As a result, τὸν μυθοπλάστην γόον would refer to the lies Odysseus tells on Ithaca, and ἄχλαινος would allude to the tale that Odysseus spins to acquire a cloak from Eumaeus at 14.462-506. For a rejection of this transposition, see Schade 1999: 166, who follows Holzinger 1895: 282-83 in seeing γόον as referencing Odysseus’ groan among the Phaeacians after listening to Demodocus (Od. 8.540). Hornblower 2015: 308, however, suggests that the phrase τὸν μυθοπλάστην γόον represents Odysseus’ Phaeacian tales in general. 194 out”). Instead of crafting a speech that induces the Phaeacians’ wonder and amazement (Od.

13.1-2), Odysseus in this version speaks in such a way that signals his degraded and animalistic state.582 As Cassandra implies by immediately referencing Polyphemus’ curses in 765 (ἀρὰς τοῦ

τυφλωθέντος δάκους), Odysseus’ experience of this condition is a consequence of blinding the

Cyclops. By attacking the monster, Odysseus has become like him: a desperate animal.

Cassandra’s humiliation of Odysseus continues even during his return to Ithaca (768-71).

She heightens his suffering by portraying Penelope as a wasteful prostitute (771-73), a sharp contrast from the faithful and prudent Penelope of Homer.583 Since returning to a stable household and wife was Odysseus’ goal in his nostos, the depiction of the house as depleted by

Penelope renders such exertions futile. Cassandra in fact notes that Odysseus undergoes more misery at home than at Troy:

αὐτὸς δὲ πλείω τῶν ἐπὶ Σκαιαῖς πόνους ἰδὼν μολοβρὸς τλήσεται μὲν οἰκετῶν στυγνὰς ἀπειλὰς εὐλόφῳ νώτῳ φέρειν δέννοις κολασθείς. τλήσεται δὲ καὶ χερῶν πληγαῖς ὑπείκειν καὶ βολαῖσιν ὀστράκων.

After he has seen more struggles than at the Scaean Gates, he, a greedy knave, will endure bearing the hateful threats of the slaves on his patient back, castigated by rebukes. He will endure submitting to blows of the fists and thrown sherds.

(774-78)

In this case, Odysseus’ suffering happens because he has assumed the outward appearance of a beggar with Athena’s help (Od. 13.397-401), as Cassandra indicates obliquely with μολοβρός

(“greedy knave,” 775). This word appears in the Odyssey twice, both times when other

582 Gigante Lanzara 2000: 329. 583For evidence for Penelope’s promiscuity, the scholiast (Σ ad 772e, Leone 2002: 155) cites Duris of Samos (FGrHist 76 F 21). In the Odyssey, Penelope is described as πινυτή (11.445) and περίφρων (11.446), and ἐχέφρων (13.406, 16.130, etc.). 195 disreputable characters (Melanthius, 17.219; the beggar Irus, 18.26) insult the disguised

Odysseus.584 By repeating this word, Cassandra lends validity to their perceptions. For her,

Odysseus, although not truly a beggar, has become so well assimilated with this lowly persona that he brings about sufferings for himself that exceed those experienced in the Trojan War.

Indeed, unlike at Troy, at home in Ithaca, he is constantly bombarded by physical attacks, not with weapons by other warriors, but with mundane household items.585 The repetition of the

τλήσεται (“he will endure”) in 775 and 777 reflects the constancy of such attacks.

This reference to Odysseus’ abasement at Ithaca leads Cassandra to recall another instance of his willingness to be tormented:

οὐ γὰρ ξέναι μάστιγες, ἀλλὰ δαψιλὴς σφραγὶς μενεῖ Θόαντος ἐν πλευραῖς ἔτι, λύγοισι τετρανθεῖσα, τὰς ὁ λυμεὼν ἐπεγκολάπτειν ἀστένακτος αἰνέσει, ἑκουσίαν σμώδιγγα προσμάσσων δομῇ, ὅπως παλεύσῃ δυσμενεῖς, κατασκόποις λώβαισι καὶ κλαυθμοῖσι φηλώσας πρόμον.

For not foreign whips, but the broad seal of Thoas will still remain on his side, incised with switches. The destroyer will allow, without a groan, these wounds to be engraved, as he takes a willing welt on his body, so that he can overthrow his enemies, tricking our leader with the wounds of a spy and tears. (779-85)

For this incident, the scholiast supplies further context. Wishing to enter Troy as a spy, Odysseus allows Thoas to whip him until the point of being unrecognized. 586 While indicating Odysseus’ willingness with ἀστένακτος αἰνέσει (“will allow without a groan,” 782) and ἑκουσίαν

(“willing,” 783) Cassandra stresses the brutality of this beating by remarking that a seal

584 See Rengakos 1994b: 124 for a discussion of this word’s meaning. 585 In the Odyssey, Odysseus has a footstool (17.462) and a cow hoof (20.299) hurled at him. In the Bone Gatherers of Aeschylus (fr. 180 Radt), a chamber pot is flung at him. 586 Σ ad 780 (Leone 2002: 156). This episode occurred in the Little Iliad. See M. L. West 2013: 195-97. At Od. 4.244-50, Helen recounts how Odysseus snuck into Troy in disguise. 196

(σφραγίς, 780), the mark of the beating, will remain. Such a σφραγίς not only symbolizes

Odysseus’ submission to Thoas’ violence, but Odysseus’ ulterior motive, that is, deceiving Priam

(πρόμον, 785) and the Trojans. In causing himself brutal damage, Odysseus ultimately seeks to harm the Trojans (ὅπως παλεύσῃ δυσμενεῖς, 784), using the outward manifestation of his pain and his weeping as a part of this deception. Indeed, Cassandra personifies the wounds by labeling them “spies” (κατασκόποις, 784). As a result, as in her description of Ithaca earlier,

Cassandra envisions Odysseus’ suffering as connected to his falsehood. In doing so, she calls into question the veracity of all of Odysseus’ claimed experiences. For a person willing to employ weeping as a means of trickery, how could one trust any expression of his woe and pain?

After this allusion to Odysseus’ trickery at Troy, Cassandra offers a recapitulation of

Odysseus’ birth, wanderings, return home, and finally death:

ὃν Βομβυλείας κλιτὺς ἡ Τεμμικία ὕψιστον ἡμῖν πῆμ’ ἐτέκνωσέν ποτε, μόνος πρὸς οἴκους ναυτίλων σωθεὶς τάλας. λοῖσθον δὲ καύηξ ὥστε κυμάτων δρομεύς, ὡς κόγχος ἅλμῃ πάντοθεν περιτριβείς κτῆσίν τε θοίναις Πρωνίων λαφυστίαν πρὸς τῆς Λακαίνης αἰνοβακχεύτου κιχὼν σῦφαρ θανεῖται, πόντιον φυγὼν σκέπας, κόραξ σὺν ὅπλοις Νηρίτων δρυμῶν πέλας. κτενεῖ δὲ τύψας πλευρὰ λοίγιος στόνυξ κέντρῳ δυσαλθὴς ἔλλοπος Σαρδωνικῆς. κέλωρ δὲ πατρὸς ἄρταμος κληθήσεται.

He, whom the Temmician hill of Bombyleia once bore as the greatest pain for us, wretched and the only one of the sailors will come safely home. At last, like a sea swallow running in the waves or a shell worn down on all sides by the sea, he will come upon his property devoured in the feasts of the Pronians because of the dread Bacchic Laconian woman. He will die, although he fled the refuge of the sea, a wrinkled armed crow near the oaks of Neriton. Striking his sides, a spear-point, deadly and incurable with the barb of the Sardonian fish will kill him, and the son will be called the butcher of his father.

(786-97)

197

Beginning with Odysseus’ birth (ἐτέκνωσέν ποτε, 786) and culminating in his death (θανεῖται,

793), Cassandra characterizes Odysseus’ life as one of decay. Though a source of misery for the

Trojans (ὕψιστον ἡμῖν πῆμα, 787), Odysseus causes agony for himself, as Cassandra signifies with the adjective τάλας (“wretched,” 788), which picks up τλήσεται at 775 and 777 and

τλήμονος at 773. At the same time, the comparison to a shell worn down by the sea in 790 accentuates Odysseus’ degradation and loss of humanity. Just as the feasts of the suitors and

Penelope have depleted his property at home (791-92), so too has his identity been eroded at sea.

However, while the Odyssey features Odysseus regaining both his property and identity by murdering the suitors and reuniting with Penelope and his father Laertes, Cassandra denies

Odysseus this reintegration into society, instead focusing on his death in 794-800 and 805-11.587

Unlike the gentle demise predicted by Teiresias in the Odyssey (11.134-37), Odysseus perishes when his son by Circe Telegonus stabs him with the barb of a stingray (795-97).588 Not only does this death constitute a shameful end for Odysseus, but it is caused by Telegonus’ inability to recognize him. Odysseus’ old age has rendered him a wrinkled crow (σῦφαρ κόραξ, 794), unrecognizable to even his son.

After elaborating on the aftermath of Odysseus’ death (799-811),589 Cassandra concludes this portion devoted to Odysseus by providing a final assessment of his experiences:

χὡ μὲν τοσούτων θῖνα πημάτων ἰδὼν ἄστρεπτον Ἅιδην δύσεται τὸ δεύτερον, γαληνὸν ἦμαρ οὔποτ’ ἐν ζωῇ δρακών.

587 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2016: 149-50. 588 This version is derived from the Telegony of Eugammon of Cyrene (sixth century BCE). Arg. 3 F5 West. 589 For instance, at 805-6, Odysseus’ body ends up in Etruria, near the mountain of Perge. See Malkin 1998: 174. 198

And he who has seen a heap of so many struggles, for a second time will sink down to Hades, from whence there is no return, after he has never in his life beheld a peaceful day. (812-14)

Cassandra conceptualizes Odysseus’ sufferings (πημάτων, 812) as a metaphorical heap (θῖνα,

812), recalling this word’s use in Homer’s Odyssey and Aeschylus’ Persians to refer to the countless piles of corpses in the sea.590 By stressing the constancy and multitude of these struggles, Cassandra suggests the impossibility of Odysseus describing them all accurately.

Indeed, when he has never seen a peaceful day in his life (814), how could he distinguish between all the terrible ones? Which experiences are truly awful, and are they simply embellished by his account? At the same time, how many of these woes were the result of his deception, such as the beatings he willingly endured at Troy and Ithaca while disguised?

Since falsehood is so tied up with Odysseus’ experiences, Cassandra determines, with bitter irony, that it would have been better for him to remain in Ithaca while assuming the guise of a mad person:

ὦ σχέτλι’, ὥς σοι κρεῖσσον ἦν μίμνειν πάτρᾳ βοηλατοῦντα καὶ τὸν ἐργάτην μύκλον κάνθων’ ὑπὸ ζεύγλαισι μεσσαβοῦν ἔτι πλασταῖσι λύσσης μηχαναῖς οἰστρημένον ἢ τηλικῶνδε πεῖραν ὀτλῆσαι κακῶν.

O miserable one, how it would have been better for you to remain in your fatherland, as you were driving oxen, and to attach the lusty working ass to the yoke, while goaded by the fabricated devices of madness, than to have endured a test of such great evils. (815-19)

According to the scholiast, Odysseus attempts to evade the Trojan War by pretending to be mad and yoke asses.591 Palamedes exposes this ruse by dropping the baby Telemachus in the way of

590 Od. 12.45 and Aesch. Pers. 818. 591 Σ ad 815a (Leone 2002: 163). Cf. Cypria Arg 5b West (Apollod. Epit. 3.7) for a similar version. Sophocles’ Odysseus Mainomenos covered this incident. 199 the plough, forcing Odysseus to abandon the ruse to save his son. For Cassandra, however, this feigned experience of madness is ultimately less deleterious than Odysseus’ decision to go to war in Troy and practice his deception there. Odysseus in Troy will not only effect the annihilation of the city, but also suffering for himself and the death of all his comrades. By staying in Ithaca, on the other hand, only Telemachus dies, while Odysseus is engaged in the useless task of driving asses. By framing such a vain task as preferable to a life of war and adventure, Cassandra offers the ultimate repudiation of the heroic experience, which, as McNelis and Sens have observed, echoes Achilles’ denigration of the heroic life in the Odyssey (11.489-91).592 At the same time, in revealing the futility of Odysseus’ exertions, Cassandra demonstrates her superior understanding of causation, specifically the effect of Odysseus’ innate deception. Since, as she has shown, such falsehood inevitably leads to suffering, Cassandra bitterly proposes an option that minimizes such pain, both for him and more importantly for Troy.

By touching upon Odysseus’ fake madness, Cassandra invites a comparison between

Odysseus and herself. Indeed, her frenzied speech leads others, such as the messenger, to perceive her as mad.593 Furthermore, as Cusset observes, both receive veneration after death:

Cassandra in Daunia (1126-40) and Odysseus as a mantis among the Eurytanians (799).594

Finally, both Cassandra and Odysseus suffer because of Helen. Just as Odysseus loses his property and identity after the war, Cassandra has her virginity robbed by Locrian Ajax.

However, while Cassandra possesses knowledge about others’ future woes, Odysseus, with his limited human knowledge, can be a source only for his past experiences. Yet, as Cassandra’s

592 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2016: 153. 593 See 28, where the messenger refers to her “Bacchic mouth” (βακχεῖον στόμα). See Looijenga 2009: 69. 594 Cusset 2009: 137. The scholiast cites Aristotle’s Constitution of the Ithacans (fr. 508 Rose) as evidence for an oracular cult for Odysseus among the Eurytanians, a tribe of Aetolians. 200 hostile representation has stressed, Odysseus fails even in that respect. His natural propensity for falsehood results in more anguish for himself and others, and in turn this multitude of pains has divested Odysseus of his ability to report accurately. Cassandra, in challenging the Homeric account, is not necessarily arguing against what happened during Odysseus’ journeys, but rather how it happened, that is, the correct interpretation of Odysseus’ actions in a given event. For her, crafty heroism has dissolved into pure knavery, and by calling Odysseus a κόπις (763), the same word the messenger uses when comparing her to the Sibyl (Μελαγκραίρας κόπις, 1464),595

Cassandra reveals that Odysseus truly is what others mistakenly perceive her to be: an unreliable babbler.

The Sirens

Just as Cassandra’s recasting of the Odyssey takes up a large portion of the prophecy

(648-819), so too does the description of the Sirens’ death at 712-37 feature predominantly in the

Odyssey section.596 In fact, as observed by Hurst and Kolde’s analysis of the poem’s structure, the Siren section occupies the very center of the poem.597 In addition to this structural centrality, the Sirens boast thematic importance, as they mirror in multiple respects Cassandra herself. Like

Cassandra, the Sirens are virgins, dwelling at the margins of society.598 Just as the Sirens live

595 Μελαγκραίρα is another name for the Sibyl of Cumae (Arist. [Mir. ausc.] 95). For an analysis of the parallels between Cassandra and the Cumaean Sibyl, see Cusset 2004: 53-60. 596 S. West 1984: 140-41 targets the Siren section as an interpolation based on the assumption that the Italian places names are too obscure for Lycophron or his readers to know. As a result, she posits that this passage was added later to appeal to an Italian audience. The weakness of her argument lies in the fact that these passages, metrically and stylistically, do not differ from the rest of the poem. See Schade 1999: 9. 597 Hurst and Kolde 2008: xxvii. 598 Cf. Biffis 2016: 70 for similar observations. For Cassandra’s virginity, see 348-56. According to the scholion on Odyssey 12.39, Aphrodite became angered at the Sirens’ choice to remain virgins and transformed them into birds. 201 upon a cliff in the middle of the sea (653),599 Cassandra languishes inside of a stone prison (348-

51; 1461). The Homeric Sirens, moreover, also possess divine omniscience in their songs, proclaiming to Odysseus:

ἴδμεν γάρ τοι πάνθ’, ὅσ’ ἐνὶ Τροίῃ εὐρείῃ Ἀργεῖοι Τρῶές τε θεῶν ἰότητι μόγησαν, ἴδμεν δ’ ὅσσα γένηται ἐπὶ χθονὶ πουλυβοτείρῃ.

For we know all the toils the Argives and Trojans endured in wide Troy by the will of the gods. We know everything that happens on the fruitful earth. (Od. 12.189-91)

The Sirens’ preternatural awareness of the atrocities of Trojan War parallels Cassandra’s prophetic knowledge.600 Yet with this divine enchanting truth of the Sirens comes death for the listeners. According to Homer’s Circe (12.45-46), “Around them is a giant heap of the bones of moldering men, and around the bones the skin is shriveling.” Cassandra’s speech, though not directly causing death, does frequently focus on death and destruction, particularly of the Greeks at sea who die as a result of her rape by Locrian Ajax.

These points of intersection between the Sirens and Cassandra constitute the crux of

Cassandra’s character: a marginalized know-it-all virgin who wreaks havoc upon men. At the end of the poem, the messenger makes this comparison explicit, equating Cassandra’s speech with a Siren song: Σειρῆνος ἐστέναξε λοίσθιον μέλος (“she groaned the last song of the Siren,”

1463). Moreover, we may also detect another parallel between Cassandra and the Sirens at 670-

72, when Cassandra lists them as one of the dangers encountered by Odysseus:

τίς οὐκ ἀηδὼν στεῖρα Κενταυροκτόνος Αἰτωλὶς ἢ Κουρῆτις αἰόλῳ μέλει πείσει τακῆναι σάρκας ἀκμήνους βορᾶς;

599 In Homer, the Sirens live in a meadow (Od. 12.45). Strabo (1.2.12) records a tradition that places the Sirens on the Sirenussae, a three-peaked rock between the gulf of Cumae and Paestum. See Arist. [Mir. ausc.] 103. 600 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2016: 62. 202

What barren Centaur-slaying nightingale, Aetolian or Curetid, will not with her varied song persuade their flesh to waste away starving?

Labeled a nightingale (ἀηδών, 670; cf. 653), as befits their musicality, the Sirens exert their power by means of their “varied song” (αἰόλῳ μέλει, 671). Not only does the noun μέλει look forward to μέλος for Cassandra at 1463, the adjective αἰόλῳ recalls the messenger’s description of Cassandra’s utterances at 3-4: οὐ γὰρ ἥσυχος κόρη / ἔλυσε χρησμῶν, ὡς πρίν, αἰόλον στόμα

(“for not peacefully, as before, did she loosen the varied mouth of her oracles”). Since the scholiast equates this adjective αἰόλος with ποικίλος (“varied”),601 we can see the messenger characterizing Cassandra by the same kind of variegated and complex speech she ascribes to the

Sirens.

Despite the messenger’s perceived analogy between Cassandra and the Sirens, they differ in the effects of their speech. The divine truth sung by the Sirens induces men to fall into a state of forgetfulness and consequently non-existence.602 Indeed, Cassandra frames this ability as persuading (πείσει, 672), and the assonance (Αἰτωλίς; αἰόλῳ) and repetition of lambdas

(Αἰτωλίς; αἰόλῳ μέλει) in 671 replicate the musicality of their song. Cassandra, on the other hand, lacks the ability to sway people with her words: πίστιν γὰρ ἡμῶν Λεψιεὺς ἐνόσφισε (“the

Lepsian deprived us of credibility,” 1454). In the case of Odysseus, however, the Sirens’ power does not succeed, and for this reason they commit suicide, as Cassandra recounts at 712-37.603

601 For the equation between αἰόλος and ποικίλος, see Σ ad 3a-4a (Leone 2002: 2). At Plat. Crat. 409a Socrates equates ποικίλλειν and αἰολεῖν. Looijenga 2009: 65 proposes that αἰόλος could also denote “false,” in addition to ambiguous. See Aesch. PV. 661 for the adjective αἰολοστόμους. 602 See Od. 12.39-46. 603 In the Odyssey, Odysseus and his men manage to escape death by following Circe’s instructions. As the men row with wax stuffed in their ears, Odysseus listens to the songs while tied to the mast. For the Sirens’ suicide as caused by Odysseus, see Apollod. Epit. 7.19 and Hyg. Fab. 125. 203

These deaths, I argue, while terminating the performance of an enchanting divine truth, enable the Sirens to acquire a different relationship to truth. Instead, the Sirens become transmuted into permanent fixtures of the Italian landscape and cult. In this way, the Sirens can symbolize the poem’s pervading focus on Italy.

Before describing each Siren’s death in detail, Cassandra introduces them as a group:

κτενεῖ δὲ κούρας Τηθύος παιδὸς τριπλᾶς, οἴμας μελῳδοῦ μητρὸς ἐκμεμαγμένας, αὐτοκτόνοις ῥιφαῖσιν ἐξ ἄκρας σκοπῆς Τυρσηνικὸν πρὸς κῦμα δυπτούσας πτεροῖς, ὅπου λινεργὴς κλῶσις ἑλκύσει πικρά.

He will kill the three maiden daughters of the child of Tethys, who imitated the songs of their melodious mother. With suicidal leaps they will dive on their wings from the top of their lookout-place towards the Tyrrhenian wave, where the bitter linen thread will draw them. (712-16)

In 712-13, Cassandra indicates the Sirens’ status as maidens (κούρας), their number (τριπλᾶς), and their lineage.604 While Cassandra frequently refers to characters in terms of parentage,605 she here alludes to both the father and mother of the Sirens. Their father, called the child of Tethys

(Τηθύος παιδὸς), is the river-god Achelous,606 and Cassandra previously made this point with the designation Αἰτωλὶς ἢ Κουρῆτις at 671. As the scholiast points out, these two geographic determinations allude to the fact that the river Achelous separates Aetolia and Acarnania, the home to Curetes.607 As a result, on their father’s side, the Sirens possess a connection to the

604 In the Odyssey, there are two Sirens, as indicated by the dual Σειρήνοιϊν at 12.52. Since Σειρήνοιϊν appeared at the end of the line, Hurst 2012d (2002): 98 points out that τριπλᾶς, also at the end of the line, directs the reader to the Odyssey passage. See Zwicker 1927: 291-93 for a discussion of the various names of the Sirens. 605 For a list of names based on lineage, see Ciani 1973: 138-39. 606 Σ ad 712b (Leone 2002: 143). See Arg. 4.895-96. 607 Σ ad 671 (Leone 2002: 136). Sens 2009: 23 sees the description Αἰτωλὶς ἢ Κουρῆτις as bringing up an academic question. 204 physical landscape, specifically bodies of water. Their musical ability, however, derives from their mother, as Cassandra indicates with the participial phrase οἴμας μελῳδοῦ μητρὸς

ἐκμεμαγμένας (“imitating the songs of their melodious mother,” 713). This mother, according to the scholiast, is the Muse Terpsichore.608 In mimicking the songs (οἴμας) of a Muse, the Sirens likewise have access to the divine knowledge of the Muses. Indeed, the Sirens’ claim to divine omniscience (Od. 12.189-91) echoes Homer’s description of the Muses at Iliad 2.485.609 Thus, through their parentage, the Sirens overlap two spheres: the physical world in which they sing and a transcendent sphere of divine knowledge, not available to humans and which, when performed by the Sirens, results in death.

Cassandra immediately follows this reference to the Sirens’ singing by clarifying the nature of their demise. The Sirens dive into the Tyrrhenian Sea (Τυρσηνικὸν πρὸς κῦμα, 715), committing their bodies to the threads of Fate. This self-committed act reconfigures the Sirens’ relationship to their parents. By dying, they will no longer sing the strains of their mother, and through the submersion into the water they acquire a closer association with their paternal side.

At the same time, they shift from a conspicuous location on the top of a hill (ἐξ ἄκρας σκοπῆς,

714) to being hidden, first by the waves, then later when they are buried on land. Cassandra specifies this geographic shift when describing the tomb of Parthenope, the first dead Siren:

τὴν μὲν Φαλήρου τύρσις ἐκβεβρασμένην Γλάνις τε ῥείθροις δέξεται τέγγων χθόνα. οὗ σῆμα δωμήσαντες ἔγχωροι κόρης λοιβαῖσι καὶ θύσθλοισι Παρθενόπην βοῶν ἔτεια κυδανοῦσιν οἰωνὸν θεάν.

608 Σ ad 712a (Leone 2002: 142). Other sources (Apollod. Epit. 7.18; Hyg. Fab. 141) list Melpomene as the Sirens’ mother. In the Sophoclean fragment (fr. 861 Radt), the Sirens are the children of Phorcys. 609 Cf. Pucci 1998b (1979): 7. For discussion of the similarities between the Muses and Sirens, see Doherty 1995: 83-85. 205

The tower of Phalerus and Glanis, watering the earth with its streams, will receive one of them, when she is cast on the shore. There the inhabitants will construct a tomb for the maiden and will honor Parthenope, the bird goddess, with yearly libations and the sacrifices of oxen.

(717-21)

Initially referring to Parthenope as “the one cast ashore” (τὴν ἐκβεβρασμένην, 717), Cassandra in

717-18 includes two geographic markers to demarcate this Siren’s final destination: the tower of

Phalerus and the river Glanis. Although interpreters have struggled with these two references, particularly Φαλήρου τύρσις, it is certain that Lycophron is referring to the region of Naples.610

According to Strabo, Parthenope received a cult there.611 The river Γλάνις, (Latin Clanius), while not directly near Naples, nevertheless runs in Campania.612 This mention of a river emphasizes

Parthenope’s descent from the river Achelous,613 in addition to marking her current fixed placement in Campania. It is in this place where the inhabitants (ἔγχωροι, 719) construct a tomb

(σῆμα, 719) and honor her with yearly libations and sacrifices (ἔτεια κυδανοῦσιν, 721).

Parthenope, in the process, has transformed into a “bird goddess” (οἰωνὸν θεάν, 721), a designation that fits her appearance as a woman-bird hybrid.614

610 The scholiast (Σ ad 717b; Leone 2002: 143) states that Parthenope ended up at Naples and identifies Phalerus as the founder of Naples. Stephanus of Byzantium (656.20) records that Phalerum is the city where Parthenope was cast ashore. However, as Raviola 2006: 139 observes, this material does not make a direct correlation between a Φαλήρου τύρσις and Naples. 611 Strabo 1.2.18 and 5.4.7. 612 For a discussion of the name Glanis, see Schade 1999: 130-31. The Clanius river is mentioned in the Georgics (2.225). Citing the Lycophron passage, Stephanus of Byzantium (208.12) identifies it as a river of Cumae. 613 Cf. Aston 2011: 69. 614 While Homer does not specify the Sirens’ appearance, later literary and pictorial depictions portrayed them as bird-women hybrids. See Eur. Hel. 167 and Apollon. Arg. 4.895-99. For an overview of the Siren iconography, see Neils 1995: 178-81. 206

In describing the establishment of Parthenope’s cult, Cassandra evokes two other recipients of cult: Philoctetes at 929 and Hector at 1213.615 Indeed, both male heroes receive the same verb κυδανοῦσιν, which appears in the identical metrical position in 721, 929, and 1213.

However, in contrast with the description of the cults of Philoctetes and Hector, Cassandra features Parthenope’s real name in 720. This decision is highly unusual considering Lycophron’s predilection for pseudonyms and periphrases. Even Cassandra herself is designated by the alternate name Alexandra at 30.616 Sistakou and Hornblower explain this choice to name the

Sirens as due to their status as “secondary characters.”617 I, however, contend that the centrality of their placement in the poem prevents us from classing them as “secondary characters.”

Although not appearing as crucial as Helen, Odysseus, or other major players like Paris and

Achilles, the Sirens do receive a lengthy section as well as multiple mentions. At the same time, the Sirens, as a group, are famous, unlike the two anonymous Cypriot heroes Cepheus and

Praxandrus, named at 586.618 For Parthenope and the other two Sirens, on the other hand, the use of real names corresponds to the context of them receiving commemoration. Indeed, Parthenope, whose name reflects her virginity and her voice, becomes closely associated with Naples, with

Parthenope as an eponym for the settlement before Naples.619

615 Philoctetes is venerated at Croton and Hector is worshipped at Thebes. 616 The scholiast (Σ ad 30; Leone 2002: 7) explains this name by the fact that Cassandra “wards off men,” since she is a virgin. Pausanias 3.26.5 records that Alexandra was an alternative name at Sparta. See Salapata 2002: 11-59 for a discussion of this cult. Lambin 2005: 212 proposes that A-lex-andra can be interpreted as “not speaking man.” 617 Sistakou 2009a: 249 and Hornblower 2015: 293. 618 According to the scholiast (Σ ad 586; Leone 2002: 116-17), Lycophron gives the names of these two Cypriots because they are not kings nor are they in the Homeric Catalogue of Ships. 619 For the relevance of Parthenope’s name, cf. Breglia Pulci Dorsia 1987: 88. See Pliny HN 3.62. 207

The next Siren, Leucosia does not receive a cult like Parthenope but acquires commemoration in a different way:

ἀκτὴν δὲ τὴν προὔχουσαν εἰς Ἐνιπέως Λευκωσία ῥιφεῖσα τὴν ἐπώνυμον πέτραν ὀχήσει δαρόν, ἔνθα λάβρος Ἲς γείτων θ’ ὁ Λᾶρις ἐξερεύγονται ποτά.

Leucosia, hurled towards the projecting headland of Enipeus, will occupy for a long time the rock that bears her name, where the rushing Is and neighboring Laris discharge their streams. (722-25)

As with Parthenope, Cassandra gives the geographic destination of this Siren. Since Ἐνιπέως is a cult title for Poseidon,620 the “projecting headland of Enipeus” (ἀκτὴν τὴν προὔχουσαν εἰς

Ἐνιπέως, 722) suggests Poseidonia. Moreover, Cassandra mentions two rivers, the Is and the

Laris, to delineate further this location, as well as repeating the emphasis on bodies of water.621

Leucosia, through the act of hurling herself (ῥιφεῖσα, 723), becomes incorporated into this landscape, granting her name to the πέτραν, which scholars have identified with the Punta Licosa between Poseidonia/Paestum and Elea/Velea.622 Though hidden beneath the ground and silent in death, Leucosia will have her name memorialized for a long time (δαρόν, 724).

The final Siren Ligeia ends the farthest south, at Tereina:623

620 The scholiast (Σ ad 722a; Leone 2002: 144) reveals that Enipeus is a cult title for Poseidon at Miletus. This name also alludes to a story preserved in the Nekuia section the Odyssey (11.235- 59). Poseidon took the form of the river Enipeus in Thessaly to seduce Tyro. See Cusset and Kolde 2013: 181. 621 The scholiast (Σ ad 724f-725a; Leone 2002: 145) identifies the Is and Laris as rivers in Italy. While the Laris is unattested elsewhere, the Is is mentioned in association with Paestum (Parthax FGrHist 825 F 1). See Holzinger 1895: 279 for the suggestion that Is and Laris form a wordplay of Silaris (a river near Paestum mentioned by Strabo 5.4.13). 622 According to the scholiast (Σ ad 724a; Leone 2002: 145), πέτρα means island. See Coviello 2006: 157 for the argument that the promontory of Enipeus is the Punta Licosa. 623 Tereina is a Crotonite foundation in Bruttium. Its exact location, however, is uncertain. See Steph. Byz. 617.5. 208

Λίγεια δ’ εἰς Τέρειναν ἐκναυσθλώσεται, κλύδωνα χελλύσσουσα, τὴν δὲ ναυβάται κρόκαισι ταρχύσουσιν ἐν παρακτίαις, Ὠκινάρου δίναισιν ἀγχιτέρμονα. λούσει δὲ σῆμα βούκερως νασμοῖς Ἄρης ὀρνιθόπαιδος ἵσμα φοιβάζων ποτοῖς.

Ligeia will disembark at Tereina, spitting out a wave, and the sailors will bury her on shore by the sea, near the eddies of Ocinarus. The bull-horned Ares will wash the tomb with its streams, purifying the foundation of the bird-child with its waters.

(726-31)

In contrast with Parthenope and Leucosia, Ligeia’s name appears as the first word of her respective section. Indeed, this name, meaning “sweet-sounding,” is connected closely with the enchanting beauty of the Sirens’ song.624 Yet, as Ligeia “disembarks” (ἐκναυσθλώσεται, 726), her singing ability becomes debilitated, when she spits out waves (κλύδωνα χελλύσσουσα, 727).

This participial phrase, while referring to the muffling of this Siren’s song, in fact displays the sonority that one would expect from a singer. Κλύδωνα and χελλύσσουσα both contain lambdas and upsilons, and in 728 the sense of musicality is sustained by the coordination of κρόκαισι

(“shore”) with κλύδωνα and ταρχύσουσιν (“they will bury”) with χελλύσσουσα. When dead and buried, however, Ligeia’s mellifluous voice becomes forever silenced, and we can detect an irony in the fact that those who bury her here, sailors, are the same people she and her sisters would have caused to perish at sea, without proper burial. Ligeia, on the other hand, receives such rites, and Cassandra emphasizes the permanence of this tomb placement by using two similar words for the structure: σῆμα (“tomb,” 730) and ἵσμα (“foundation,” 731).625 At the same

624 For a description of the sweet-sounding song of the Sirens, see Od. 12.44 and 12.183. Cf. Alcman fr. 30 PMGF Davies. 625 Holzinger 1895: 279, however, argues that σῆμα refers to the tomb, while the ἵσμα is the city Tereina. 209 time, as with Parthenope and Leucosia, Ligeia is associated with bodies of waters: the Ocinarus river and the Ares river,626 which purifies (φοιβάζων, 731) her tomb.

Before concluding this digression about the Sirens, Cassandra returns to Parthenope to mention the rites performed for this Siren at Naples:

πρώτῃ δὲ καί ποτ’ αὖθι συγγόνων θεᾷ κραίνων ἁπάσης Μόψοπος ναυαρχίας πλωτῆρσι λαμπαδοῦχον ἐντυνεῖ δρόμον χρησμοῖς πιθήσας, ὅν ποτ’ αὐξήσει λεὼς Νεαπολιτῶν, οἳ παρ’ ἄκλυστον σκέπας ὅρμων Μισηνοῦ στύφλα νάσσονται κλίτη.

And hereafter one day, for the first of the sister goddesses, the leader of the entire fleet of Mopsus will institute a torch race for the sailors, obeying the oracles. This custom the people of Naples will increase, those who dwell upon the rough cliffs next to the peaceful refuge of the harbor Misenum.

(732-37)

As Hornblower observes, this passage offers an allusion to one of the more securely attested historical individuals mentioned in the poem.627 According to the scholiast, the commander of the fleet of Mopsus (κραίνων ἁπάσης Μόψοπος ναυαρχίας, i.e. Athenian fleet) is the fifth century commander Diotimus.628 In making this reference to a real historical personage,

Cassandra establishes a link between the mythical Sirens and the contemporary world of

Lycophron. Parthenope, as the recipient of the torch race ritual, shapes human actions, spurring not only Diotimus’ decision to obey the oracles and establish the ritual, but also the people of

626 The Ocinarus recurs at 1009. It has been identified with the San Biase (Bérard 1957: 161), Fiumi dei Bagni, Savuto, and Zinnavo. See Amiotti 1999: 89. For the Ares river, the scholiast (Σ ad 730b; Leone 2002: 146) notes that it is not a river around Tereina and gives alternate readings: Ἔρης and Ἔρις, both of which are rivers in the area. Holzinger 1895: 279 proposes an allusion to the union of the god Ares and the nymph Terina (see Antonin. 21.1). 627 Hornblower 2015: 297. 628 The scholiast (Σ ad 732; Leone 2002: 147) cites Timaeus (FGrHist 566 F 98). In Thucydides (1.45), Diotimus is one of the Athenian leaders sent to Corcyra. 210

Naples, who continue and expand the custom. Yet what about a torch race is significant? Edlund points out that torch races were a major feature of the Panathenaic festival at Athens.629 Since

Strabo stresses the Athenian role in the foundation of Naples,630 the establishment of a torch race by Diotimus would symbolize the ties between Athens and Naples. Such a political interest in connecting traditional Greece with the Greek West does fit within the poem’s overall design, which not only emphasizes the western locations, spatially, but also portrays the rise of Roman power as the chronological telos.631 Because it was instituted by an Athenian general and still observed by the Neapolitans in Lycophron’s day, Parthenope’s torch race participates in this spatial and temporal progression, connecting East and West, as well as past and present.

While reinterpreting the Sirens as recipients of cultic worship in Italy, Cassandra anticipates her own cult, also in Italy, at Daunia:632

οὐ μὴν ἐμὸν νώνυμνον ἀνθρώποις σέβας ἔσται, μαρανθὲν αὖθι ληθαίῳ σκότῳ. ναὸν δέ μοι τεύξουσι Δαυνίων ἄκροι Σάλπης παρ’ ὄχθαις, οἵ τε Δάρδανον πόλιν ναίουσι, λίμνης ἀγχιτέρμονες ποτῶν. κοῦραι δὲ παρθένειον ἐκφυγεῖν ζυγὸν ὅταν θέλωσι, νυμφίους ἀρνούμεναι, τοὺς Ἑκτορείοις ἠγλαϊσμένους κόμαις, μορφῆς ἔχοντας σίφλον ἢ μῶμαρ γένους, ἐμὸν περιπτύξουσιν ὠλέναις βρέτας ἄλκαρ μέγιστον κτώμεναι νυμφευμάτων, Ἐρινύων ἐσθῆτα καὶ ῥέθους βαφὰς πεπαμέναι θρόνοισι φαρμακτηρίοις. κείναις ἐγὼ δηναιὸν ἄφθιτος θεὰ

629 Edlund 1987: 47. 630 Strabo 5.4.7. 631 Cf. McNelis and Sens 2011: 78-80; 2016: 11. When interpreting 1446-50, the rise of the Roman power, scholars have struggled with the identification of the wrestler, as well as the date and context of the poem. For an overview of this issue, see Hornblower 2015: 491-93, who identifies the wrestler as Titus Quinctius Flamininus, the victor at the Battle of Cynoscephalae in 197 BCE. Jones 2014: 41-55 argues for dating the Roman passages to the time of the Antiochene War. 632 For a discussion of this cult, see Mari 2009: 415-27. 211

ῥαβδηφόροις γυναιξὶν αὐδηθήσομαι.

My glory will not be nameless among men, withered hereafter by the shadow of oblivion. The best of the Daunians will build a temple for me next to the banks of the Salpe, those who dwell in the Dardanian city, near the waters of the marsh. Girls, whenever they wish to flee the yoke of maidens, refusing their grooms, who are decorated with the hairstyle of Hector, but possess some blemish on their body or fault in their lineage, will embrace my image in their arms, acquiring the greatest defense against marriage. They will take up the garb of the Erinyes and dye their faces with magic herbs. For a long time, I shall be called an undying goddess by those rod-bearing women.

(1126-40)

Cassandra’s description of her own cult comes after the mention of the worship of Agamemnon

(1123-25), her Greek captor with whom she will be murdered (1099-1122).633 As with the cults of Parthenope and Ligeia, Cassandra specifies the creators of her temple (Δαυνίων ἄκροι, 1128), as well as its geographic location near a river (Σάλπης, 1129). Moreover, the section contains several verbal echoes of the Siren passages. For instance, νώνυμνον (“nameless”) in 1126 recalls

ἐπώνυμον for Leucosia in 723, and αὖθι (“hereafter”) in 1127 appears in the same sedes as it does for Parthenope in 732. The collocation ἀγχιτέρμονες ποτῶν (“near the streams”) in 1130 echoes ἀγχιτέρμονα in 729 and ποτοῖς in 731 for Ligeia. Finally, θεά (“goddess”) at the end of

1139 for Cassandra looks back to θεάν in 721 and θεᾷ in 732, both applied to Parthenope. This accumulation of verbal echoes attests to the importance of the Sirens as models for Cassandra.

For these marginalized female voices, death allows for the preservation of their names and fame, as well as integration into society. The deceased Sirens acquire honor from sailors instead of causing them to die. Similarly, Cassandra, as a θεά, aids other maidens in avoiding marriage, a task she was unable to achieve in her own life. Thus, it is through the silencing caused by death that Cassandra and the Sirens attain power.

633 See Durbec 2011c (2006b): 17-25 for a list of the verbal echoes of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon in this section. 212

Cast originally as deadly monsters endured by Odysseus (653, 670-72), the Sirens are unable to destroy him and in the process, gain a new existence in death. No longer the singers of an enchanting and deadly divine truth, the Sirens instead become symbols, marking parts of the

Italian landscape. Parthenope and Ligeia have tombs (σῆμα), while Leucosia is assimilated with her eponymous rock. In construing the deceased Sirens as constructive elements of Italian society, Cassandra resolves the numerous dualities surrounding them. Just like Helen of Troy, the hybrid Sirens are simultaneously beautiful and lethal, luring men to forgetfulness and death.

Yet whereas Cassandra reconciled Helen’s paradoxical nature by reducing her to a nonexistent image and depriving her of commemoration, the Sirens maintain aspects of their identity in an

Italian context, such as their actual names and association with rivers, as suits their patrilineal descent. The mention of these bodies of waters, moreover, lends a level of verisimilitude by situating the Sirens in concrete locations. In this way, these mythical femme fatales, although silent and hidden beneath the ground, have become real, more so than the specter Helen or their killer Odysseus, creator of fabricated stories.

Conclusion

In mimicking the speech of the cryptic Sphinx, Cassandra utters complex language that initially veils its referent only to reveal a deeper essence. The multiplicity of obscure designations corresponds to the complexity of the figures discussed. Indeed, for Helen and

Odysseus especially, literary sources grappled with the ambiguous nature of the two figures.

Stesichorus and Euripides (Helen) remade the Homeric Helen into a phantom at Troy, while

Attic tragedy reinterpreted the Homeric Odysseus’ trickery as knavery. In the Alexandra,

Cassandra’s representation of Helen and Odysseus expands and amplifies such depictions to elucidate the falsity entailed in both characters. Helen with her phantom form (εἰδωλοπλάστῳ

213

ῥέθει, 173) causes longing as well as death. Odysseus, with his laments producing muthoi (τὸν

μυθοπλάστην γόον, 764), manufactures pain for himself, and in doing so, loses his ability to express his experiences accurately. Thus, a disjunction between appearance and reality exists for both. Helen is split between a real and a phantom Helen, and the duplicitous Odysseus’ words distort his lived experiences, just as his disguises mask his appearance. Odysseus may have seen many woes, but he cannot tell them truthfully.

Cassandra’s comprehension of this truth derives from two main types of criteria. First, in presenting characters with reference to lineage, Cassandra demonstrates the relationship between parent and child. As a source of destruction, Helen takes after her menacing avian parent (swan-

Zeus or goose-Nemesis), and Odysseus assumes the traits of his crafty father Sisyphus. At the same time, Cassandra subtly assesses these characters in comparison to herself and her experiences. Both Helen and Cassandra endure sexual victimization and in turn wreak devastation. Moreover, Cassandra shares Odysseus’ wretchedness and suffering after the destruction of Troy.634 Like Odysseus, Cassandra behaves as a messenger, but of the future in addition to the past. Yet Cassandra’s omniscience distinguishes her from these two characters.

Although unable to persuade others, Cassandra can situate her sufferings in a larger context, realizing that cultic worship constitutes the compensation for her pain and the silencing of her voice in death. The same applies to the Sirens, who, as deadly half-avian monsters, straddled the realms of divine knowledge (from their Muse mother) and the physical world (from their river- god father Achelous). In death, however, the Sirens become reinterpreted by Cassandra as symbols, attached to the geography of Italy and commemorated by their real names, an honor

634 Cf. 348 and 1451 for Cassandra calling herself wretched (τλήμων). 214 denied to the majority of the characters in the Alexandra. Enclosed in the center of the prophecy, they represent the ultimate truth, one that is hidden and must be interpreted.

Just as Cassandra embeds the Siren section in the middle of the prophecy, so too does the messenger’s speech frame Cassandra’s true utterances. For him, truth consists of an accurate replication of her oracles, as he makes clear in both the prologue (1-2) and the epilogue, which contains many echoes of the prologue:635

Τόσσ’ ἠγόρευε καὶ παλίσσυτος ποσὶν ἔβαινεν εἱρκτῆς ἐντός, ἐν δὲ καρδίᾳ Σειρῆνος ἐστέναξε λοίσθιον μέλος, Κλάρου Μιμαλλὼν ἢ Μελαγκραίρας κόπις Νησοῦς θυγατρός, ἤ τι Φίκιον τέρας, ἑλικτὰ κωτίλλουσα δυσφράστως ἔπη. ἐγὼ δὲ λοξὸν ἦλθον ἀγγέλλων, ἄναξ, σοὶ τόνδε μῦθον παρθένου φοιβαστρίας, ἐπεὶ μ’ ἔταξας φύλακα λαΐνου στέγης καὶ πάντα φράζειν κἀναπεμπάζειν λόγον ἐτητύμως ἄψορρον ὤτρυνας τρόχιν. δαίμων δὲ φήμας ἐς τὸ λῷον ἐκδραμεῖν τεύξειεν, ὅσπερ σῶν προκήδεται θρόνων, σώζων παλαιὰν Βεβρύκων παγκληρίαν.

So many things she said and she stepped back inside her enclosure. In her heart, she groaned the last song of the Siren, like a Mimallon of Clarus or the babbler of Melancraera, daughter of Neso, or some Phician monster, chattering twisted difficult words. And I came, lord, announcing for you this oblique speech of the prophetic maiden, since you placed me as a guard of the stone prison and ordered me to come back as a messenger and to report and repeat the whole speech truthfully. May the god make these rumors turn out for the better, he who cares for your rule, preserving the ancient realm of the Bebrycians!

(1461-74)

635 These echoes are λοξόν (“oblique”) in 1467 (cf. λοξῶν, 14), ἄναξ (“lord”) in 1467 (cf. 9), φοιβαστρίας in 1468 (“prophetic”) (cf. 6, φοίβαζεν,), πάντα (“all”) in 1470 (cf. 1), κἀναπεμπάζειν (“repeat”) in 1470 (cf. κἀναπεμπάζων, 9), λόγον (“speech”) in 1470 (cf. λόγος, 2). Moreover, ἐτητύμως (“truthfully”) in 1471 is an equivalent of νητρεκῶς in 1, just as Φίκιον τέρας in 1465 corresponds to Σφιγγός in 7. 215

Although devoted to repeating the contents of the speech truthfully (ἐτητύμως, 1471), the messenger refuses to believe the crux of the words, wishing for a better outcome (1472-73). His limited mortal knowledge has forced him to rely only on surface appearances as his criterion for truth, and for this reason he discounts Cassandra’s words as unintelligible chatter (1464-66).

Indeed, at 9-12, the messenger admitted his inadequacy in understanding these words by transferring the act of interpretation to the intratextual audience (Priam) and by extension to the reader. As the winged runner (ὡς πτηνὸς δρομεύς, 15) navigating the difficult paths of her words,636 this messenger skims only the surface, not the depths.

Behind the omniscient Cassandra and ignorant messenger is their creator, the real author

Lycophron, whose Apollo (source of inspiration) is the profusion of literary and historical sources used to produce the poem. Existing in his present (most likely the second century BCE),

Lycophron possesses Cassandra’s knowledge up until that point. Yet, as with the messenger, he too is subject to human limitations, confronted with a variety of conflicting accounts, which become condensed and reconciled, sometimes paradoxically, in Cassandra’s oracular speech.

Moreover, as a male who assumes her voice, Lycophron further parallels the male messenger, subjecting female speech for his poetic project. Yet in doing so, Lycophron uses Cassandra and her experiences during the Trojan War to encapsulate the complex nexuses of causation that connect past, present, and future in the Greek literary and historical tradition. It is through the voice of a victim of the Trojan War that we can comprehend the true ramifications of violence, sexuality, war, and death.

636 As Cusset 2006c: 58 points out, this image works with the metaphor that presents poetry as a road (cf. Call. Aet. 1.27-28). Sens 2014: 110n34 observes that the phrase evokes the convention in tragic messenger speeches where the messenger claims to have arrived in haste (S. Ant. 223- 24). 216

Conclusion

In beginning my analysis with Aratus’ Phaenomena and ending with Lycophron’s

Alexandra, I offered a progression from clarity to obscurity, the opposite trend exhibited by

Cassandra’s prophetic utterances in the Agamemnon.637 In fact, these concepts of “clarity” and

“obscurity” map onto the respective poems in multiple ways. Aratus’ Phaenomena possesses clarity in the sense that it catalogues perceptible signs. The Alexandra, while also a catalogue, contains multiple pseudonyms, periphrases, and riddles, all of which mask the obvious meaning of the poem. The titles, moreover, Phaenomena and Alexandra, embody clarity and obscurity.

Phaenomena means “things seen,” while Alexandra, an alternate name for Cassandra, veils her identity.

This opposition between clarity and obscurity, and by extension certainty and doubt, underlies the treatments of truth and falsehood in the five works analyzed. Dubious mythical material appears in tandem with potentially verifiable technical information about the natural world, human settlements, customs, and rituals. The poets gathered this information from various sources, in the same way that we study sources to understand the ancient world. Yet, unlike the writers of prose treatises, these poets conveyed this information by employing personae, myths, and poetic language. Through such elements, as I have demonstrated, the poets have represented different methods for evaluating truth, paralleling, but not necessarily directly engaging with, contemporary philosophic debates about the methods for assessing knowledge.

With his poetic language and myths, Aratus in the Phaenomena constructs a world characterized by regularity. Under the direction of an omnipresent and omnipotent Stoic Zeus,

637 Ag. 1072-1330. At 1183, Cassandra proclaims that she will no longer give information from riddles: φρενώσω δ’ οὐκέτ’ ἐξ αἰνιγμάτων. 217 celestial and terrestrial signs appear as expected and consequently lead to interpretation.

Humans, however, must perceive this divine regularity, imposing order themselves by forming the stars into recognizable shapes, giving names, and assigning myths. Indeed, the extended myths (Phaen. 30-35, 96-136, and 216-24) featured in the poem, although false on the surface level, model this process of interpretation by emphasizing the correlation between visible signs and certain consequences. The irregularity that does exist in this world, such as the movements of the planets (Phaen. 454-61), does not matter, and it is in that area where the teacher professes uncertainty.

In the dangerous world depicted in Nicander’s Theriaca, irregularity is pervasive and has deadly consequences. Small malevolent creatures attack randomly and without warning.

Similarly, the remedies for these bites are hidden. For this reason, the teacher persona frames direct experience as the criterion for learning about this material. Yet direct experience is itself as variable as the creatures, and as a result, Nicander’s myths highlight this uncertainty, questioning

Hesiod’s authority as a source (8-12), symbolizing the concealment of knowledge (343-58), and alluding to the arbitrariness of naming (309-19).

While personal experience in Nicander’s chaotic world involves a level of doubt, for

Callimachus’ childlike persona in the Aetia, it brings certainty. Although dealing with obscure information about rituals and customs from all over the Greek world, the Callimachean speaker can confidently assess sources and information, due to a close relationship with the Muses.

Indeed, as figments of a dream, they are a part of him. At the same time, the conversation format in books 1-2 enables the speaker to ask questions and thus shape the discourse. Even with the frame dropped in the final two books, the juxtaposition of separate narratives continues. The result is a disjointed narrative, connected, however, by thematic links and by the ironic personal

218 voice of the speaker. Callimachus, through this childlike speaker, has created his truth, one derived from prose but ultimately reconfigured to be his own.

Over the course of the Argonautica, the certainty of the narrator becomes increasingly tinged with doubt, when, like a Skeptic, he exhibits the indecision felt by his characters.

Confronted with the complexity of the subject matter in the final two books and the impossibility of determining character motivations, the doubtful narrator consults his sources, the Muses. Yet, as I have shown, even their authority can be dubious, as the Muse in book 4 fails to elucidate the nature of Medea’s motivations at the beginning of the book. Neither does the narrator, and as a result, we are left with two versions of Medea, just as the narrator provides two conflicting legends about Drepane (4.982-92). In both cases, the narrator’s inability to decide implies his lack of a firm criterion for truth.

Of the five works studied, the Alexandra features the most explicit concern with truth and falsehood. The ignorant messenger, although claiming to report Cassandra’s words accurately, disregards their truth value, since he focuses solely on surface appearances. Beneath the incomprehensible surface meaning of Cassandra’s words, however, emerges her understanding of the hidden essences of the agents in the Trojan War. Using genealogy and personal experience as criteria, Cassandra deduces Helen’s destructive nonexistence and Odysseus’ incessant mendacity. The deleterious and enchanting Sirens, by contrast, are reinterpreted as symbols of

Roman power. Despite the uncertainties about the poem’s authorship and date, the ascendance of

Roman might represents the ultimate truth of the poem, which, for Cassandra, is the future, but for her creator Lycophron, the present and the past.

It is an interrogation of the past that shapes the poetic personae’s assessments of knowledge and sources. While traditional poets like Homer and Hesiod framed the Muses as the

219 main sources for this kind of information, these Hellenistic poets allude to additional fonts of authority. In addition to the unnamed sources of stories (“they say,” “it is said”), Zeus (via his signs) in the Phaenomena, Hesiod in the Theriaca, Xenomedes and the Ician Theogenes in the

Aetia, the Muses in the Aetia and Argonautica, and Apollo in Alexandra function as sources. Yet these personae address their sources differently with contrasting criteria. Certainty arises when perceiving the signs sent by Zeus, and Callimachus’ speaker can deftly extract and critique information from his Muses, the Ician Theogenes, and Xenomedes. Nicander’s Hesiod and

Apollonius’ Muses, on the other hand, constitute questionable sources, despite their traditional authority. For Lycophron’s Cassandra, Apollo grants her the truth but takes away her credibility.

In this way, Cassandra, as a source, becomes the inversion of the Hesiodic Muses. Instead of uttering falsehoods like truth, she speaks things, both true and real, that seem like falsehood.

220

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