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Dreams of :

Callimachus and Oneiric Inspiration

by

Austin Aozora Hattori

A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate School of the University of Cincinnati in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

in

Chair: Daniel Marković

Cincinnati, Ohio 2020 ABSTRACT

I begin this thesis by overviewing the papyri and testimonia for ’ dream in

Aetia. Callimachus relates that in this dream, he was transported to Mount Helicon and encountered the , who granted him a poetic initiation in the manner of ’s .

The first chapter looks back to the potential sources from which Callimachus drew for his dream, finding that lyric and philosophical sources provide the closest parallels. My research also indicates that there is no unambiguous source preceding Callimachus in which a poet describes, in their own poem, their poetic initiation as having occurred in a dream. The reason for this innovation is found in Callimachus’ desire to be a new Hesiod: the dream allows him access to the Muses on Helicon while grounded in his Alexandrian context. Moreover, the dream allows him to be both a young and old man in his poem, both the old man of in Telchinas and the youth

“with his beard just sprouting” in his somnium. In this way he is able to navigate the competing pressures of poetic senescence and juvenescence found in the ancient traditions surrounding

Hesiod.

The second chapter raises some problems that remain unanswered. Hesiod does not portray his poetic initiation as having occurred in a dream, and it does not appear that

Callimachus must utilize an oneiric Dichterweihe since he does not use a dream for his poetic instruction by in fr. 1. I therefore suggest that Callimachus’ desire to be a Novus

Hesiodus does not in itself fully explain his choice of a dream to portray his poetic initiation. To find further insights, I contextualize within contemporary Alexandrian discourse on dreams. The , including II who reigned for most of Callimachus’ career, spent many resources on temples associated with incubation, and Demotic texts indicate that the

Ptolemies asserted access to the gods through dreams. I suggest that Posidippus 36, in which

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Arsinoë II appears as Isis- to a devotee in a dream, is a parallel to Arsinoë’s appearance as a tenth Muse in Callimachus’ dream. Another motivation for Callimachus’ somnium, therefore, is to pay homage to his Ptolemaic patrons by deifying the queen and including her among those providing him the inspiration for the poem.

In my concluding section, I bridge the gap between Callimachus’ desire to be a new

Hesiod on one hand, and his motivation to advance Ptolemaic propaganda on the other. I return to the urtext, Hesiod’s Theogony, and outline how the relationships between poets, lords, and gods in Hesiod are closely paralleled and adapted in Callimachus’ poem. Callimachus praises his rulers as part of an exchange in the patron-client relationship, but I emphasize that he does so also because Hesiod himself praises his rulers. Moreover, while his dream deified Arsinoë,

Callimachus also positions himself as the semi-divine Hesiodus Redivivus, hearkening back to

Hesiod’s audē thespis. His Ptolemaic ideology is not merely Ptolemaic: ultimately, he manipulates the propaganda to bolster his own poetic persona.

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© 2020 Austin Aozora Hattori

All Rights Reserved

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DEDICATION

τῇ οἰκίᾳ μου τῇ παρὰ τὸ γένος τε καὶ τῇ παρὰ τὴν φιλίαν·

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This has been a challenging year to write a thesis. Amid library closures and the general disruption to academic life, I am deeply thankful for the people who helped me in the completion of this thesis, without whose editorial suggestions as well as general encouragement this project would have been impossible. I extend my thanks to Daniel Marković, my thesis chair, in whose class in my first semester in the graduate program I first explored oneirology in Classical literature. I am indebted to him for consistently prompting me to think critically about my argumentation. I express my thanks to Mirjam Kotwick, who also pushed me to rethink my argumentation and challenged me to seek clarity in my writing. I would also be remiss not to express gratitude to Jackie Murray, whose expertise was particularly helpful in the formation of my second chapter.

Words cannot express how fortunate I am to have my fellow graduate students in this department. They have constantly extended their support and encouragement to me in a time which we have been compelled to spend apart. I also thank my family for their support, as well as David, Megan, Jessie, and Alice.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………………ii

Dedication…………………………………………………………………………………………v

Acknowledgements……………………………………………………………………………….vi

Chapter

1: Callimachus and Literary Dreams

Background: Non Inflati Somnia Callimachi……………………………….……..1

Introduction: Poetic Inspiration and Initiation…………………………………….5

Literary Sources for Callimachus’ Dream………………………………………...9

Callimachus’ Dream as a Poetic Innovation……………………………………..18

Conclusion……………………………………………………………………….23

2: Hellenistic Dreams and Royal Ideology

Further Questions in Callimachus’ Dream of Helicon…………………………..25

Incubation and Dream Interpretation in Hellenistic ………………………27

Dreams in Ptolemaic Court Poetry………………………………………………37

Conclusion……………………………………………………………………….48

3: Conclusion…………………………………………………………………………….50

Editions of Primary Sources Cited……………………………………………………………….60

Secondary Sources Cited………………………………………………………………………...62

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CHAPTER 1: CALLIMACHUS AND LITERARY DREAMS

BACKGROUND: NON INFLATI SOMNIA CALLIMACHI

After his famous prologue to Aetia (fr. 1 Harder 2012),1 Callimachus transitions to an encounter he had with the Muses on Mt. Helicon in , where, as described in the proem to

Theogony, the Muses had appeared to Hesiod in Archaic times. A fragment of a passage introducing this experience is found in P.Oxy. 2208, first published in 1948:2

ποιμ⸥ένι μῆλα νέμ̣⸤οντι παρ’ ἴχνιον ὀξέοϲ ἵππου Ἡϲιόδ⸥ωι Μουϲέων ἑϲμὸ⸤ϲ ὅτ’ ἠντίαϲεν μ]έ̣ν οἱ Χάεοϲ γενεϲ̣[ ]ἐπὶ πτέρν̣ηϲ ὑδα[ τεύχω⸥ν ὡϲ ἑτέρωι τιϲ ἑῶι ⸤κακὸν ἥπατι τεύχει ]ῶ ζώειν ἄξιον α[ ].εν πάντεϲ ϲε· τὸ γα[ ].δε πρήϲϲειν εὐμα[ ]...ι̣π̣ὰ̣.ʽ[..].[ ......

…when a swarm of Muses encountered the shepherd Hesiod, who was setting his flocks to pasture near the hoof-print of the swift horse… …they told him the birth of ?... …on the water of the hoof?... …that if one causes evil for another, one causes it for one’s own liver… …worth living?... …we all…you; for the…?... …to do it with easy success?... … (Callim. Aet. fr. 2 mod. trans. Harder)

This is the only extant fragment of Callimachus’ introduction to his encounter with the Muses; the exact nature of its narrative continuity with fr. 1, the “Reply to the ,” is not clearly understood, although it seems likely that there was at least a brief narrative transition between in

1 Harder 2012 is used in this thesis except where otherwise noted. 2 The Papyri: XIX. Ed. Lobel, E.; Wegener, E. P.; Roberts, C. H.; Bell, H. I. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1948, pp. 1–3. 1

Telchinas and the somnium.3 What is clear, however, is that Callimachus explicitly rehearses the

Hesiodic experience and applies it to his own. The first two lines appear to be modeled on

Theog. 22–3, “they [the Muses] at one time taught a beautiful song to Hesiod, who was setting his sheep to pasture below holy Helicon,” (αἵ νύ ποθ’ Ἡσίοδον καλὴν ἐδίδαξαν ἀοιδήν, /

ἄρνας ποιμαίνονθ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὕπο ζαθέοιο). Callimachus’ “hoof-print of the swift horse”

(ἴχνιον ὀξέοϲ ἵππου, fr. 2.1) refers to the Hippocrene, a spring on Mt. Helicon in which Hesiod’s

Muses are said to bathe (Theog. 5–6),4 and the somewhat cryptic injunction that “that if one causes evil for another, one causes it for one’s own liver” (τεύχω⸥ν ὡϲ ἑτέρωι τιϲ ἑῶι

⸤κακὸν ἥπατι τεύχει, fr. 2.5) adapts Hesiod Op. 265, “a man causes evil for himself when he causes evil for someone else” (οἷ αὐτῷ κακὰ τεύχει ἀνὴρ ἄλλῳ κακὰ τεύχων).5 Though fragmentary, we can gather that Callimachus’ rehearsal of the Hesiodic experience serves to look back on the programmatic relationship between the Muse and the poet as established in fr. 1:

Callimachus stands in contrast to the Telchines, his muttering critics who are no friends of the

Muse (νήιδε⸥ϲ οἳ Μούϲηϲ οὐκ ἐγένοντο φίλοι, 1.2), and the fragment concludes with the poet asserting the Muses’ favor on a poet even in old age (Μοῦϲαι γ⸥ὰρ ὅϲουϲ ἴδον ὄθμα⸤τ⸥ι παῖδαϲ /

μὴ λοξῶι, πολιοὺϲ⸥ οὐκ ἀπέθεντο φίλουϲ, 1.37–8). Thus, by re-incorporating the proem of

Theogony and echoing in fr. 2, Callimachus invokes Hesiodic authority for his poetics. At the same time, the moralizing line 5 in fr. 2 looks forward to the theme of self-

3 The end of our fr. 1 includes the lines, “for whomsoever the Muses did not look at askance as a child / they will not reject as a friend when he is old” (Μοῦϲαι γ⸥ὰρ ὅϲουϲ ἴδον ὄθμα⸤τ⸥ι παῖδαϲ / μὴ λοξῶι, πολιοὺϲ⸥ οὐκ ἀπέθεντο φίλουϲ, fr. 1.37–8), which may be a segue to Callimachus’ encounter with the Muses as a young man; see Kerkhecker, A., “Ein Musenanruf am Anfang der Aitia des Kallimachos,” ZPE 71 (1988): pp. 16–24. 4 According to Phaen. 216–21, the Hippocrene was so named because his hoof struck the summit of Mt. Helicon, and from this cavity a fountain sprung forth. On the Hippocrene in Aetia, see Harder, 2012 (2), pp. 99–101. 5 Implying that the Muses imparted Op. as well as Theog. on Mt. Helicon; on Op. in this passage see Harder, 2012 (2), pp. 104–5. 2 destruction found later in the Aetia,6 and indeed, the Hesiodic-Heliconian motif is recalled in

Aetia’s epilogue at the end of Book 4.7

This is not all we know about Callimachus’ dream, however, as various scholia and testimonia fill in the gaps. In the Scholia Florentina of P.Oxy. 2208 (2/3c. CE) we read the following:8

[…… 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, ωνκ̣΄ῦ̣ε̣μνηϲ ̣ .... ἀ]π̣’ αὐτ(ῶν) ἀ̣ρχὴ̣[ν] λ̣αβὼ̣ν̣ ε΄οϲ΄α[...... ].λόγου〉

…that having met with the Muses on Helicon in a dream, he received from them the explanation of the aitia, being with his beard just sprouting… …(fr. 2d = Σ Flor. 15–20, mod. trans. Harder)

This is the most direct evidence we have for Callimachus’ encounter with the Muses as having occurred in a dream, specifying the “dream of the not bombastic Callimachus” mentioned by

Propertius (non inflati somnia Callimachi, 2.34.32) and identifying the anecdote of Synesius of

Cyrene concerning those who go to sleep and meet the Muses in a dream as referring to

Callimachus (τις καταδαρθὼν ἄμουσος, ἔπειτα ἐντυχὼν ὄναρ ταῖς μούσαις, De insomn. 4.26).

This scholion informs us that Callimachus is a youth in this passage (ἀ]ρ̣τ̣ιγένειο̣ϲ̣ ὤν̣, 2d.4), which most likely indicates that Callimachus as the old man of fr. 1 dreams he is a young man on

Helicon.9 Palatine Anthology 7.42, attributed to Diodorus, praises Callimachus’ dream (ἆ μέγα

6 See Harder, 2003, pp. 299–302; Hunter, R. “Hesiod, Callimachus, and the Invention of Morality.” in Bastianini, G., and Casanova, A. (eds.). Esiodo: cent’anni di papyri, 2008, pp. 153–64. 7 “…to whom the Muses, when he was herding many animals, / contributed stories near the hoof-print of the swift horse…I, however, will go to the foot-pasture of the Muses.” (…τῶι Μοῦϲαι πολλὰ νέμοντι βοτὰ / ϲὺν̣ μύθουϲ ἐβάλοντο παρ’ ἴχν[ι]ον ὀξέοϲ ἵππου…αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ Μουϲέων πεζὸν̣ [ἔ]πειμι νομόν, fr. 112.5–9, trans. mod. Harder). 8 Ed. Norsa, M., Vitelli, G. “Da papiri della Società Italiana,” BSAA 28 (1933): pp. 123–32. 9 Contra Kambylis 1965 (p. 95), and Massimilla 1996 (p. 237), who argue that Callimachus relates a dream that he had when he was a young man. Of course, no explicit indication of when this dream occurred appears in our papyri, so any theory concerning the matter must unfortunately be made a priori. Nevertheless, on balance it seems more 3

Βαττιάδαο σοφοῦ περίπυστον ὄνειαρ, 7.42.1) and provides the incidental detail that in this dream the poet was lifted from Libya and transported to Helicon (εὖτέ μιν ἐκ Λιβύης ἀναείρας

εἰς Ἑλικῶνα / ἤγαγες, 5–6).10 From the scholiasts of P.Lit.Lond. 181 (= 2e Harder)11 and P.Oxy.

2262 (= 2f Harder),12 we gather that in addition to the Hesiodic nine, Callimachus encountered a tenth divine figure, whose identity will be discussed in the next chapter.13 Diodorus’ poem also mentions that Callimachus’ interaction with the Muses took the form of a dialogue in which the goddesses expounded the aitia in a question-and-answer colloquy (αἱ δέ οἱ εἰρομένῳ ἀμφ’

ὠγυγίων ἡρώων / Αἴτια καὶ μακάρων εἶρον ἀμειβόμεναι, 7–8): this represents a departure from the Theogony, where the poet is not shown to provide any input to the Muses’ communication, and suggests the emphasis on questioning in contemporary scientific inquiry.14

Although fr. 2 is the only text extant from Callimachus’ introduction of his Heliconian scene, our papyri indicate that the narrative of the poet’s dream extended through the end of

Book 2, some three thousand lines later,15 given the scattered references to the Muses in our

likely that Callimachus dreamt of being young while an old man. Apollo, Callimachus tells us, appeared to him in his youth, and as Cameron (1995, pp. 131–2) argues, it would be thematically awkward for the poet to have two divine encounters in his youth within such proximity of each other within the text. More importantly, the encounter with the Muses occurs after the poet’s wish for rejuvenation in old age, and the idea that Callimachus introduces the dream as a means by which his wish is fulfilled is certainly compelling. Cf. also Lynn, J. K. Narrators and Narration in Callimachus. PhD Diss., Columbia University 1995, pp. 147–8; Andrews, N. E. “Philosophical Satire in the Aetia Prologue,” Hellenistica Groningana 3 (1998), p. 14; Fantuzzi and Hunter, 2004, p. 73. 10 Libya here is best understood as referring to North Africa generally, as in fr. 228.51, where “Libya” refers to the Ptolemaic dominion as a whole (ἦρά τι μοι Λιβύα κα[κοῦται;)—so it is not necessary to imagine that Callimachus was in his native Cyrene when he was transported to Helicon. See Harder, 2012 (1), p. 5. 11 Publ. Milne, H. J. M. “181. Unknown.” In Catalogue of the Literary Papyri in the British . London, 1927, pp. 148–50. 12 Publ. The Oxyrhynchus Papyri: XX. Ed. Lobel, E.; Wegener, E. P.; Roberts, C. H. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1952, pp. 115–24. 13 δεκ̣ά̣ϲ, 2e.1; δεκ]άϲ ἤ[τ]οι ε[ ]̣ του̣ ( ) / ...]αριθμ[ ]̣ τα̣ ῖϲ Μο̣ύ / ϲαι]ϲ…, 2f.5–7. This most likely refers to the deified Arsinoë II. See Harder, 2012 (2), pp. 106–7. 14 Sistakou, 2009, pp. 180–1. 15 On the length of Aetia, see Harder, 2012 (1), pp. 12–15. 4 remnant fragments reconstructed to belong in the first two books of the poem.16 Books 3 and 4, meanwhile, seem to have a different structure altogether: bookended by Victory and Lock of

Berenice, the latter half of Aetia seems to consist of a collection of etiological stories framed with little narrative thread to connect them.17 This is a significant departure from Hesiod, whose poetic initiation scene in Theogony occupies some thirteen lines (Theog. 22–34). In fact, given that Books 1 and 2 are longer than 3 and 4, at least based on our reconstruction of the fragments, we can surmise that Callimachus’ dream occupied a majority of Aetia’s totality.18 Hence,

Propertius fittingly refers to Callimachus’ poem tout court as non inflati somnia Callimachi, “the dream of the not bombastic Callimachus” (2.34.32).

INTRODUCTION: POETIC INSPIRATION AND INITIATION

In the study of poetic composition, both ancient and modern, lies the acknowledgment of inspiration, that is, the sense that the impetus toward poetic creation originates in some sense beyond the conscious mind. A poet may seize a spark of an idea which arrives without forethought, or, enraptured in the poetic process, they may produce a full-fledged composition with an inexplicable fluidity and rapidity. At some point, this sudden creative impetus will inevitablely pass away, and the poet might in amazement ascribe their creativity to a supernatural influence.19 Jed Rasula, writing about poetic inspiration in Modernist poetry, contends that while poetic creation as a cultural activity is constantly subject to change, an awareness of the

16 Fr. 7c indicates that Calliope began the aition of Apollo Aegletes at Anaphe (ἤρχετο Καλλιόπη, 4); in fr. 43, after the poet finished speaking, “Clio began to speak for the second time” (Κλειὼ δὲ τ̣ὸ̣ [δ]εύτε̣ρ̣ον ἤρχ[ετο μ]ύθ̣[ου, 43.56), and Erato tells an aition—too fragmentary for us to determine which story16—in fr. 137a (Ἔρατὼ δ’ ἀνταπάμειπτο τά[δε, 137a.8). 17 Harder, 2012 (1), pp. 11–12. 18 See supra 14. Tentatively we may guess that Books 1 and 2 comprised ~1500 lines each, and Books 3 and 4 ~1000 lines each (p. 13). 19 Murray, 1981, p. 88 and nos. 11–13. 5

“unexpected promptings” in composition remain identifiable across time periods.20 In ancient

Greece, this inspiration was identified with the Muse or Muses:21 we first hear of them in , where the poet invokes the Muse implicitly in the proem to and explicitly in the proem to

Odyssey. In , moreover, the skilled bard Demodocus is said to have been “taught” by the

Muse, or Apollo (ἢ σέ γε Μοῦσ’ ἐδίδαξε, Διὸς πάϊς, ἢ σέ γ’ Ἀπόλλων, Od. 8.488). In a crucial passage in Iliad, the poet expresses his inability to enumerate the Catalogue of Ships unless he has the Muses’ aid:

πληθὺν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἐγὼ μυθήσομαι οὐδ’ ὀνομήνω, οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι, δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν, φωνὴ δ’ ἄρρηκτος, χάλκεον δέ μοι ἦτορ ἐνείη, εἰ μὴ Ὀλυμπιάδες Μοῦσαι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο θυγατέρες μνησαίαθ’ ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον· ἀρχοὺς αὖ νηῶν ἐρέω νῆάς τε προπάσας.

But the multitude I could not tell or name, not even if ten tongues were mine and ten mouths and a voice unwearying, and the heart within me were of bronze, unless the Muses of Olympus, daughters of who bears the , call to my mind all those who came beneath Ilios (Hom. Il. 2.488–493 trans. Murray).22

In this passage, the Muses are a source of memory for the poet, and for the Archaic bard it serves as an invocation to the goddesses to inspire him to accurately recount the overwhelming amount of information in the Catalogue.

20 Rasula, 2009, pp. 2–3. He identifies mid-late nineteenth-century poets such as Emily Dickinson, Stéphane Mallarmé, and Gerard Manley Hopkins as harbingers of Modernist poetic inspiration, particularly characterized by syntactical and orthographical breakdown as reflecting the author’s rapture (pp. 2–12). 21 Scholarly material on the Muses is immense and I do not attempt to provide an overview here. For a concise overview of the surrounding these deities, see Mojsik, T. Between Tradition and Innovation: Genealogy, Names and the Number of the Muses. Warsaw: Akme. Studia Historica, 2011; for a collected volume with a number of critical approaches, see Cultivating the Muse: Struggles for Power and Inspiration in Classical Literature. Ed. Spentzou, E., and Fowler, D. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002; on the etymology of Μοῦσα, which remains unresolved, see Chantraine, P. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue greque3 (1974) s.v. 22 n.b., lines 491–2 were condemned by Heyne and West puts them in brackets. 6

The Homeric connection between the Muses and the poet’s memory is adopted in

Hesiod’s Theogony; in highly symbolic language, Hesiod states that they are the daughters of

Memory (Μνημοσύνη, Theog. 54).23 He provides much more detail about the Muses than

Homer: we are told that they dwell on Mt. Helicon (Hes. Theog. 1–2) and are nine in number

(77–9). They bathe in the Parmessus, Hippocrene, or Olmeius (5–6), and while dancing on the summit of their dwelling place they sing of the gods and of the universe (11–21). Nevertheless, as Penelope Murray notes, that the Homeric and Hesiodic poets rely on the Muses for poetic creation when their own cognition fails them should not be understood that the poets are somehow manic or “enthused” in its original sense, mere passive mouthpieces for a divinity, an idea which does not appear until the fifth century BCE;24 it is instead a process in which the Muse imbues the poet both with long-term poetic ability and with ad hoc assistance in poetic creation whereby the work is composed.25

With Hesiod’s Theogony, we also find the first example of poetic initiation, an event in which a divinity grants a person the status of poet and endows the poet with the divine creative faculty which inspiration entails. This initiation, which Athanasios Kambylis terms Dichterweihe in a seminal 1965 volume, typically involves images and symbols which are exemplified in the proem to Theogony:

αἵ νύ ποθ’ Ἡσίοδον καλὴν ἐδίδαξαν ἀοιδήν, ἄρνας ποιμαίνονθ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὕπο ζαθέοιο. … καί μοι σκῆπτρον ἔδον δάφνης ἐριθηλέος ὄζον δρέψασαι, θηητόν· ἐνέπνευσαν δέ μοι αὐδὴν θέσπιν, ἵνα κλείοιμι τά τ’ ἐσσόμενα πρό τ’ ἐόντα,

23 As West (1966) notes, the Muses were sometimes depicted as personifications of memory, as (Quaest. conv. 743d9) refers to them as the Μνείαι, and informs us that one the Muses was originally named Μνήμη (9.29.2); cf. Pl. Euthyd. 275c-d, Hom. Hymn Herm. 425–33. 24 Murray, 1981, p. 87 and no. 6. 25 Ibid., pp. 89–90. 7

καί μ’ ἐκέλονθ’ ὑμνεῖν μακάρων γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων, σφᾶς δ’ αὐτὰς πρῶτόν τε καὶ ὕστατον αἰὲν ἀείδειν.

One time, they taught Hesiod beautiful song while he was pasturing lambs under holy Helicon. … and they plucked a staff, a branch of luxuriant laurel, a marvel, and gave it to me; and they breathed a divine voice into me, so that I might glorify what will be and what was before, and they commanded me to sing of the race of the blessed ones who always are, but always to sing of themselves first and last (Hes. Theog. 22–34, trans. Most 2018).

Kambylis outlines several elements here which constitute a trope followed by subsequent Greek poets: an appearance of a divinity or divinities involving an address to the poet, the literal inspiration of a divine voice into the initiand, and the conferral of laurel or another arboreal token as a symbol of the process.26 Although it does not appear explicitly in the proem to

Theogony, drawing from motifs from Hesiodic and other archaic sources, this trope later came to include often a spring or fountain of water as an additional symbol of inspiration.27 A

Dichterweihe is, like many initiations, a rite of passage, and as such is frequently associated with youth and liminality of age:28 hence, Callimachus is ἀρτιγένειοϲ (Call. Aet. fr. 2d.4), “with a beard just sprouting,” in his dream-encounter with the Muses, and he is a child with a writing- tablet on his knees when Apollo Lycius instructs him on poetics (ὅτ⸥ε πρώ̣τιϲτον ἐμοῖϲ ἐπὶ

δέλτον ἔθηκα / γούναϲι⸥ν, fr. 1.21–2).

Callimachus’ dream in Aetia is thus best termed a poetic initiation, since not only does he make clear his debt to Hesiod’s Heliconian experience in Theogony, but the structure of the

26 Kambylis, 1965, pp. 31–68. 27 Ibid., pp. 23–30. The image itself is already present in Hesiod with the three springs of Helicon in which the Muses bathe, but the notion that divine inspiration is to be found at springs is present by Callimachus’ time: cf. Pl. Phaed. 262c10–d6, Theoc. Id. 7.135–47; see Harder, 2012 (2), p. 100. 28 On youth and rejuvenation as a value in Greek poetics generally, see Scodel 1980. 8

Alexandrian poet’s encounter with the Muses closely follows the Dichterweihe trope—the divinities’ address to the poet, the poet’s reception of their knowledge—and the appearance of the Hippocrene at fr. 2.1 in Callimachus’ text points to the spring as a symbolic token of the process.29 However, the distinction between poetic inspiration and poetic initiation is not so much qualitative as that initiation refers to a specific point in time in which inspiration begins in a poet: Murray’s bipartite distinction between a divinity’s conferral of long-term poetic ability and discrete instances of divine assistance in poetic composition is a helpful heuristic.30 For this thesis, then, the terms inspiration and initiation will be used relatively interchangeably, since

Callimachus’ Dichterweihe in his dream represents a distinguishable moment of inspiration from the Muses.

LITERARY SOURCES FOR CALLIMACHUS’ DREAM

Dreams have a long and pervasive presence in all periods of Greek literature, and a full treatment would be a massive undertaking.31 Here, I wish to outline the most noteworthy and influential instances of dreams in Greek literature preceding Callimachus, in order to identify some of the most significant sources from which the Alexandrian poet could have drawn to construct his own dream in Books 1 and 2 of Aetia. We begin, of course, with the Iliad and

Odyssey, the epic urtexts,32 and we find a statement on the value of dreams as early as the

29 Whether Callimachus received a laurel branch or took a drink from the Hippocrene is not adducible from our fragments and scholia. The motif of imbibing from the Hippocrene in later indirect reception of Callimachus’ poetic initiation (cf. ex., Prop. 3.1; 4.6) has been taken by some scholars as evidence of its presence in Callimachus’ text (cf. Kambylis, 1965, pp. 98–102, 108–9), but these interpretations are likely too ambitious. See Harder, 2012 (2), pp. 94–5. 30 Supra, no. 23. 31 For an overview of dreams in Greek literature, see van Lieshout (1980); for a volume combining both literary and non-literary sources, see Harris (2009); cf. also , L. Traum und Traumdeutung in der Antike. Zürich, Düsseldorf: und Winkler, 1996; Walde, C. Antike Traumdeutung und moderne Traumforschung. Düsseldorf, Zürich: Artemis und Winkler, 2001; Chap. 4, “Dei in Remotis,” in Petridou (2015). 32 For a thorough overview of dreams in Homer, see Kessels (1978). For a rather dated but nevertheless helpful reference, see Messer, 1918, pp. 1–52; for a brief treatment see Redfield, J. “Dreams from Homer to ,” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 15 (2013): pp. 5–10. 9 incitement of the plot in the Iliad’s first book. When the Danaans take counsel concerning the scourge of Apollo upon their camp (Hom. Il. 1.43–52), suggests they consult “a seer or a priest or interpreter of dreams” (τινα μάντιν ἐρείομεν ἢ ἱερῆα, / ἢ καὶ ὀνειροπόλον, 62–3), for, he maintains, “a dream too is from Zeus” (καὶ γάρ τ᾿ ὄναρ ἐκ Διός ἐστιν, 63),33 and Zeus does in fact send a dream to Agamemnon in the guise of Nestor in the next book, ordering him to attack the Trojans (Il. 2.1–35). This is our first indication in Greek literature that divinities send dreams to human beings and that dreams offer an avenue for communication with the divine.

Moreover, from Achilles’ dream of the dead Patroclus appearing to him at night (Il. 23.62–108), we find that Homeric dreams allow dead humans to manifest to those on earth. It should be noted, however, that in Homer gods do not yet appear to humans as gods—they send oneiric visions of a message-bearer, as Zeus does in Iliad 2, or appear disguised in a dream, as does manifesting as Dymas’ daughter to Nausicaä in Odyssey 6.13–40, but the recipient of the dream does not apprehend the gods as such.

The most prominent Homeric discussion of dreams is in Odyssey 19. Penelope relates to the disguised a dream she had of twenty geese slaughtered by an eagle, which then perched on a roofbeam and told her in a man’s voice that the geese were the suitors, killed by the eagle indicating Odysseus (Od. 19.535–53). When Odysseus tells her this must be a premonition of her husband’s return (535–8), Penelope replies:

ξεῖν’, ἦ τοι μὲν ὄνειροι ἀμήχανοι ἀκριτόμυθοι γίνοντ’, οὐδέ τι πάντα τελείεται ἀνθρώποισι. δοιαὶ γάρ τε πύλαι ἀμενηνῶν εἰσὶν ὀνείρων· αἱ μὲν γὰρ κεράεσσι τετεύχαται, αἱ δ’ ἐλέφαντι. τῶν οἳ μέν κ’ ἔλθωσι διὰ πριστοῦ ἐλέφαντος, οἵ ῥ’ ἐλεφαίρονται, ἔπε’ ἀκράαντα φέροντες·

33 See Kessels, 1978, pp. 25–35. An interpreter of dreams (ὀνειροπόλος) is named in the person of Eurydamas in Il. 5.148–51. Note that Xenodotus excised Il. 1.63 but Aristarchus kept it; modern scholars retain it. See Kirk, 1985, p. 59. 10

οἳ δὲ διὰ ξεστῶν κεράων ἔλθωσι θύραζε, οἵ ῥ’ ἔτυμα κραίνουσι, βροτῶν ὅτε κέν τις ἴδηται.

Stranger, know that dreams are baffling and unclear of meaning, and that they do not at all find fulfillment for mankind in every case. For two are the gates of shadowy dreams, and one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those dreams that pass through the gate of sawn ivory deceive men, bringing words that find no fulfillment. But those that come forth through the gate of polished horn bring true things to pass, when any mortal sees them (560–7, trans. Murray 1995).

In Homer the possibility of dreams to be of divine origin is unequivocal,34 but Penelope nevertheless asserts the capacity of dreams to deceive. Though the significance of horn and ivory as it relates to dreams has been left behind in ,35 it is clear that Penelope’s distinction between true and misleading dreams belies the necessity of oneiric interpretation (cf.

Od. 19.535). In any event, the “Gates of Horn and Ivory” motif, emblematic of the tension between dreams’ capacity to both offer divine knowledge and to delude the dreamer, persisted as an oneiric paradigm through antiquity.36 When the poet in the Palatine Anthology praises the dream in Callimachus’ Aetia, he proclaims, “truly you were of horn and not of ivory!” (ἦ ῥ’

ἐτεὸν κεράων ουδ’ ἐλεφαντοϲ ἔηϲ, AP 7.42.2 = Harder T 6.2, trans. Harder).

Dreams continued to be a recurrent motif in the Archaic period. The earliest lyric reference to a dream is found in a fragment of Alcman preserved in Apollonius Dyscolus (Coni.

490 = i 223s. Schneider), “then did I see Phoebus in a dream?” (ἦρα τὸν Φοῖβον ὄνειρον εἶδον; fr. 47 Page = fr. 117 Calame). Unfortunately, we do not know if the answer to Alcman’s question was affirmative, but at the least we have in evidence the motif of a god making an oneiric

34 Leaving open the question of whether all dreams are sent from the gods; see Kessels, 1978, p. 153–5. 35 Much scholarly debate surrounds the meaning of horn and ivory in this passage, and no solution has been conclusive. See Russo et al, 1992, pp. 102–4. 36 For a list of ancient allusions and imitations of this passage see Anghelina, C. “The Homeric Gates of Horn and Ivory.” MH 67, 2 (2010): p. 65, no. 1. 11 appearance to a poet. addresses a personification of Dream in a ten-line poem, fr. 63

(Lobel-Page)— “O dream…black (night?)…you come whenever sleep…sweet god, truly (from) sorrow powerfully…” (Ὄνοιρε μελαινα[ / φ[ο]ίταιϲ, ὄτα τ’ ὔπνοϲ [ / γλύκυϲ̣ θ̣[έ]ο̣ϲ, ἦ δεῖν᾿

ὀνίαϲ μ], 1–3). There is the possibility that the “god” of line 3 refers to Dream itself, an interesting Sapphic conflation of the gods appearing in dreams and the dream itself. It is worth noting too that Sappho relates having talked with Aphrodite in a dream in fr. 134 (Ζὰ 〈.〉

ἐλεξάμαν ὄναρ Κυπρογενηα).37

As Greek poetry progresses into the Classical period, we find some of the most prominent dreams in the realm of tragedy. ’ Persae, the oldest of which we have more than fragments, introduces the dream of Atossa, Xerxes’ mother, early in its plot.

Atossa, Xerxes’ mother, dreams of two women, one in Persian clothing and the other in Doric; when Xerxes appeared to yoke the two women to his chariot, the woman in Doric clothing struggled, broke the harness, and threw Xerxes to the ground (Aes. Pers. 176–99). Premonitory dreams like Atossa’s, with clear allegorical interpretations mirroring the plot, and much along the lines of Penelope’s dream of the geese-suitors (Hom. Od. 19.535–53), are a prevalent type in tragedy.38 Following the type of dream represented by Achilles’ oneiric vision of the dead

37 We also have testimonial evidence that gods appeared in dreams in the poetry of Alcaeus; the scholiast to Nicander’s Theriaca 613, in explaining the epithet “Apollo of the Tamarisk” (Μυρικαῖος), notes that “Alcaeus says that in the war against the Erythraeans Apollo appeared to Archeanactides and his companions in their sleep with a branch of tamarisk in his hand” (Ἀλκαῖός φησιν † ἐν † τοῖς περὶ Ἀρχεανακτίδην κατὰ τὸν πρὸς Ἐρυθραίους πόλεμον φανῆναι τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα καθ᾿ ὕπνον ἔχοντα μυρίκης κλῶνα, Lobel-Page fr. 444 = p. 230 Crugnola). , meanwhile, uses dreams for his mythology in a similar vein as in Homer: Pelias receives Phrixus’ bidding in a dream in Pyth. 4.159–68, and reports Hecabe’s dream-omen in fr. 52i(A). In contrast to Homer, however, Pindaric divinities appear to mortals undisguised in dreams, as Athena does to in Ol. 13.65– 82. 38 Such are Clytemnestra’s dream of a snake sucking milk and a clot of blood from her breast in Choephoroe 527– 33, the same character’s dream of the sprouting staff of Agamemnon in ’ Electra 419–23, and Iphigenia’s dream in ’ Iphigenia Taurica. Another example is the charioteer’s dream of the wolves driving off with his horses in the Rhesus attributed to Euripides; but the inauthenticity of the work is generally agreed upon by modern- day scholars. It nevertheless seems to be from before the , probably mid-late fourth century BCE 12

Patroclus (Hom. Il. 23.62–108), tragedy also features dead persons appearing to the living in dreams. In Aeschylus’ Eumenides, Clytemnestra visits the in a dream to rouse them to pursue Orestes (94–139), dramatically declaring, “I, Clytemnestra, call you now as a dream”

(ὄναρ γὰρ ὑμᾶς νῦν Κλυταιμήστρα καλῶ, 116).39 In contrast to epic, however, tragedy tends to be ambivalent concerning the divine origin of dreams.40

In the poetry preceding Callimachus, then, we find dreams to be a widely prevalent motif and plot device. In the case of tragedy, dreams can even serve as a crucial point of the plot, particularly in Aeschylus’ Oresteia, where Clytemnestra’s dream opens the action of

Choephoroe and she even appears onstage as a dream to the audience in Eumenides;41

Callimachus would therefore have found a precedent, broadly speaking, for dreams functioning programmatically in a μῦθος. Moreover, in these poetic precedents the truth-value of dreams is more or less taken for granted, as in both Homer and in tragedy dreams appear as both a prediction and an interpretation of the plot—and even when Penelope warns Odysseus of the deceptive dreams from the gates of ivory, she assumes the basic premise that dreams convey knowledge to the dreamer, even if they are wont to be obscure (cf. οἵ ῥ’ ἔτυμα κραίνουσι,

βροτῶν ὅτε κέν τις ἴδηται, Hom. Od. 19.567). In Homer and tragedy, however, gods do not

(see Liapis, V. A Commentary on the Rhesus Attributed to Euripides. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012, pp. 252–4). 39 See also Hecuba’s dream of Polydorus’ εἴδωλον in Euripides’ Hecuba 1–97. 40 With the exception of Io’s dream in Vinctus 640–86, ascribed to Aeschylus; in it, Zeus sends a dream in the voice of a messenger to inform Io that he desires to sleep with her. Contemporary scholars have both argued for and against the authenticity of Prometheus Vinctus; for a bibliography of this debate, see Oxford Classics Bibliographies Online, “Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound: Authenticity” at https://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780195389661/obo-9780195389661- 0001.xml?rskey=26lhYA&result=3#obo-9780195389661-0001-div2-0010, accessed 19 February 2020. Even if the play is not by Aeschylus, however, its style and themes likely indicate its composition by an unknown author in the fifth century BCE; see Griffith, M. The Authenticity of Prometheus Bound. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1977, pp. 252–4. I therefore still treat it as relevant source material. 41 For a detailed treatment of how dreams become progressively prominent over the course of the Oresteia trilogy, see Catenaccio, C. “Dream as Image and Action in Aeschylus’ Oresteia.” GRBS 51 (2011): pp. 202–31. 13 appear to humans in dreams undisguised or without messengers, and in no case do gods make oneiric appearances to the poets themselves: for that we must turn to Archaic lyric, as Alcman and Sappho report divine encounters in their dreams, and gods appear to humans directly in

Alcman and in Pindaric mythology. In describing a dream-encounter with the Muses, then, we find the closest affinity to Callimachus in lyric, rather than epic.42 Callimachus’ introduction of this ultimately lyric image of the poet encountering divinities in dreams into his etiological poem is an innovation on his part.

It is not only the realm of poetry from which Callimachus draws his sources in Aetia; as a poem on “the Causes,” philosophy occupies a fundamental role in his poem.43 Among the earliest philosophical parallels to the poet’s dream in Aetia is found in the pre-Socratic

Parmenides of Elea. In his hexametric work conventionally known as De Natura, the poet pictures epistemological inquiry as a journey to encounter a goddess who announces the Way of

Truth (ἀλήθεια) and the Way of Opinion (δόξα). In the proem to this work, the poet relates that after horses carried him upon the many-worded road of the daemon (1–3), he met the maiden

Heliades leaving the Palace of Night (δώματα Νυκτός, 9) to meet him at the gate of the Paths of

Night and Day (πύλαι Νυκτός τε καὶ Ἤματός, 11). It is implied that the maidens escort the poet

42 I do not mean to say definitively that Callimachus is responding directly to the Archaic lyric poets I have mentioned, as it is probable that he is working with them -à-vis the poet’s dream in , some of which will be discussed in the next chapter. It should be nevertheless noted that Aetia does interact with lyric, a fact acknowledged by scholars but easily overlooked. For a brief treatment of lyric parallels in Aetia, see Acosta-Hughes, B. and Stephens, S. “Callimachean ‘Lyric’,” Trends in Classics 9.2 [2017]: pp. 243–6. The same two authors in another publication have discussed Callimachus’ deep debt to Pindar Pae. 7b in Apollo’s injunction to traverse the untrodden path in Aet. 1.25–8, and its programmatic position in the Alexandrian poem (“Rereading Callimachus’ Aetia Fragment 1,” CPhil. 97.3 [2002]: pp. 238–55). On Callimachus’ debt to Sappho in Aet. fr. 1, see Geissler, C. “Der Tithonosmythos bei Sappho und Kallimachos,” Göttinger Forum für Altertumswissenschaft 8 (2005): pp. 105– 14. 43 On conceptions of cause in Greek philosophy, see Hankinson, R. Cause and Explanation in Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. 14 back into the Palace of Night,44 and the majority scholarly opinion is that the goddess whom the poet meets is Night herself (Νύξ).45 To be sure, there is no explicit mention of a dream in this poem, but the pervasive nocturnal motifs in the proem combined with the hazy, esoteric sequence of the poet’s journey easily leads to an identification of the setting as an oneiric one.46

It is also worth noting that if the account of Maximus of Tyre is to be believed, had some century before claimed by way of allegory to have fallen asleep in a cave and had encountered Truth and Justice in his dreams (ὄναρ ἔφη ἐντυχεῖν αὐτοῖς θεοῖς καὶ θεῶν λόγοις

καὶ ἀληθείᾳ καὶ δίκῃ, Diss. 10.1), and if in fact genuine, the narrative could be a parallel for

Parmenides’ dream-like encounter with the goddess who demonstrates the Ways of Truth and

Opinion.47 At the least, Parmenides’ image of Night as a dispenser of philosophical guidance provides a thematic parallel to Callimachus’ reception of the Causes while asleep, and the broad similarity of Parmenides’ journey to the Palace of Night to Callimachus’ conveyance to Mt.

Helicon is compelling.

Dreams appear throughout Plato’s corpus, and oneirology has a highly complex relationship with Platonic philosophy, such that a full treatment would be beyond my purposes here.48 As it relates to an author encountering divine figures in dreams, the most relevant

44 Older interpretations understood the poet as being led into the light; but the studies of J. Mansfield (“Insight by Hindsight,” BICS 40.1 [1995]: pp. 225–232) and W. Burkert (“Das Proömium des Parmenides und die Katabasis des ,” Phronesis 14 [1969]: pp. 1–30) have demonstrated this to be a misreading. 45 See Palmer, 2009, pp. 58–9 and no. 28. 46 M. Marciano (“Images and Experience,” Ancient Philosophy 28 [2008]: pp. 29–36) argues that the proem represents an episode of lucid dreaming, outlining the dream-like qualities of the passage. We should be judicious in reading too much into the poem, however, and the evidence she sites (pp. 31–2 and no. 26) that Parmenides was associated with incubation in antiquity is dubious at best (on this see Palmer, 2009, p. 61 no. 37). 47 Fantuzzi and Hunter draw a connection between Epimenides’ dream and Callimachus’ (2004, p. 7). 48 For Plato on dreams, see Rankin, H. “Dream-Vision as Philosophical Modifier in Plato’s Republic,” Eranos 57 (1964): pp. 75–83; Tigner, S. Plato’s Philosophical Uses of the Dream Metaphor,” AJPhil. 41 (1970): pp. 204–212; Roochnik, 2001, pp. 243–9; Holowchak, 2002, pp. 25–37; Harris, 2009, pp. 160–4. The dream in Tht. 201d8–202d7 itself comprises its own bibliography: at a glance, see Hicken, W. The Character and Provenance of ’ ‘Dream’ in the Theaetetus,” Phronesis 3.2 (1958): pp. 126–45; Burnyeat, M. “The Material and Sources of Plato’s 15 passages occur in two dialogues which are set shortly before the death of Socrates, Crito and

Phaedo. In the former, Crito tells Socrates that some were expecting that day the return of the ship to , which would allow for Socrates’ execution on the following day (Pl. Cri. 43c5–

44a4). Socrates disagrees, citing a dream he saw that night (44a5–8), in which a beautiful woman in white garments appeared to him and said, “Socrates, on the third day you may reach most fertile Phthia” (Ὦ Σώκρατες, ἤματί κεν τριτάτῳ Φθίην ἐρίβωλον ἵκοιο, 44b1–2, trans. Emlyn-

Jones 2017).49 Through this dream, Socrates not only provides a premonition of his own death, but points to a supernatural sanction of his remaining in prison and forsaking escape to

Thessaly.50

This motif is developed further when Echecrates asks Phaedo what dialogues occurred on the morning of Socrates’ death (Pl. Phd. 60c9), and Phaedo replies that Socrates began with an observation on (60c1–8), to which Cebes asked why Socrates had been putting Aesop in verse and composing a hymn to Apollo while imprisoned (60c9–d7). Socrates explains, “…the same dream often haunted me in my past life, sometimes appearing in one guise, sometimes another, but saying the same thing: ‘Socrates,’ it said, ‘cultivate the Muses’ arts and work at them’” (πολλάκις μοι φοιτῶν τὸ αὐτὸ ἐνύπνιον ἐν τῷ παρελθόντι βίῳ, ἄλλοτ’ ἐν ἄλλῃ ὄψει

φαινόμενον, τὰ αὐτὰ δὲ λέγον, “Ὦ Σώκρατες,” ἔφη, “μουσικὴν ποίει καὶ ἐργάζου,” 60e5–8, mod. trans. Emlyn-Jones 2017). Socrates, considering philosophy to be the foremost of the

Muses’ arts, at first understood this dream as an encouragement to continue his lifelong pursuit of philosophy (60e8–61a5),

Dream,” Phronesis 15 (1970): pp. 101–122; Morrow, G. “Plato and the Mathematicians,” Philosophical Review 79 (1970): pp. 309–333. 49 An adaptation of Hom. Il. 9.363, ἤματί κε τριτάτῳ Φθίην ἐρίβωλον ἱκοίμην. 50 See Kramer, S. “Socrates’ Dream: Crito 44a-b,” CJ 83.3 (1988): pp. 193–197. 16

νῦν δ’ ἐπειδὴ ἥ τε δίκη ἐγένετο καὶ ἡ τοῦ θεοῦ ἑορτὴ διεκώλυέ με ἀποθνῄσκειν, ἔδοξε χρῆναι, εἰ ἄρα πολλάκις μοι προστάττοι τὸ ἐνύπνιον ταύτην τὴν δημώδη μουσικὴν ποιεῖν, μὴ ἀπειθῆσαι αὐτῷ ἀλλὰ ποιεῖν· ἀσφαλέστερον γὰρ εἶναι μὴ ἀπιέναι πρὶν ἀφοσιώσασθαι ποιήσαντα ποιήματα [καὶ] πιθόμενον τῷ ἐνυπνίῳ.

But now, since the trial has taken place and while the festival of the god was holding up my execution, it seemed that if indeed the dream was repeatedly telling me to pursue this side of the Muses’ arts in the popular sense, I should not disobey it, but get on with it: it would be safer not to leave before clearing my conscience by composing poetry in obedience to the dream (61a5–10, mod. trans. Preddy 2017).

Socrates’ apologia for composing poetry before his death underscores a distinction between philosophical discourse, λόγος, and μῦθος, which may be divinely inspired, but is nonetheless subsumed in the figure of the philosopher when they are both subject to inquiry.51 Whatever we make of Socrates’ dream in Phaedo, its parallels to Callimachus’ dream in Aetia are striking.

Though Socrates does not explicitly identify the speaker in his dream, the Muses nevertheless appear, as it commands him to cultivate the “Muses’ arts,” μουσική: and Socrates justifies his philosophy as the highest pursuit of the Muses there is. It is worth noting that when Socrates composes poetry, he chooses the fables of Aesop, a significant source for Callimachus’ etiological poem—most importantly, in Callimachus’ image of the poet in fr. 1.29–36 as the dew-eating cicada as opposed to a braying donkey, owed largely to Aesop Fab. 195 (Hausrath

=184 Perry);52 and Socrates’ hymn to Apollo evokes Callimachus’ own Hymn 2 to Apollo.53 In any event, though Socrates’ dream is not an inspiration by the Muses as such, it is a supernatural instruction which justifies the composition of poetry as the Muses’ art. Though not exact, the

51 Roochnik, 2001, pp. 241, 255–7. 52 Acosta-Hughes and Stephens, 2002, p. 251; Harder, 2012 (2), p. 70. 53 Also, Apollo has a special relationship with the poet in Aetia. See the programmatic instruction by Apollo in fr. 1.21–8. 17 parallel to Callimachus’ dream is close, and in Plato Callimachus has found a precedent for associating the Muses with access to the divine through dreams.

CALLIMACHUS’ DREAM AS A POETIC INNOVATION

In the foregoing discussion of Callimachus’ sources for his dream in Books 1 and 2 of

Aetia, a conspicuous absence is Hesiod, whose poetic initiation by the Heliconian Muses in

Theogony is the primary model for Callimachus’ own Dichterweihe. This is due to the simple fact that Hesiod nowhere states that he was dreaming when encountering the Muses. Since the mid-twentieth century, the influence of West Asian late Iron Age sources on Hesiod have become more fully appreciated.54 As Martin West argues, Hesiod’s Heliconian experience in

Theogony is closely aligned with archaic Babylonian and Hebrew models of a deity’s instruction to a prophet in a vision, and this topos is one of a waking epiphany: the divinity appears to the prophet, frequently shepherding on a mountain or other remote locale, but nevertheless clearly awake.55 More to the point, there is no indication that those in Callimachus’ time understood

Hesiod as having encountered the Muses in a dream. The sources which state explicitly that

Hesiod dreamt of his initiation by the Muses are from the Late Antique and Byzantine periods; the earliest, Proclus (410/412–485 CE), writes that “having fallen asleep, Hesiod saw a dream”

(καθευδήσας Ἡσίοδος ὄναρ εἶδεν, Scholia in Hesiodum, p. 6 Gaisford). This is repeated later by the twelfth century Byzantine polymath Tzetzes (p. 47,21 Wilamowitz), and Nicephorus

Gregoras (fl. 14c.) makes similar observations (Explicatio in librum Synesii De insomniis 134 D

151, 01, Pietrosanti p. 25). The earliest indirect evidence we have of anyone believing Hesiod

54 See West, M. 1997. The East Face of Helicon. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997, particularly chap. 6, “Hesiod.” 55 West, 1966, pp. 158–61. 18 met the Muses in a dream is found in Fronto (ca. 95–ca. 166 CE): in a letter to Marcus Aurelius, he writes:

Hinc ad Hesiodum pastorem, quem dormientem poetam ais factum. atenim ego memini olim apud magistrum me legere: ποιμένι μῆλα νέμοντι παρ’ ἴχνιον ὀξέος ἵππου Ἡσιόδῳ Μουσέων ἑσμὸς ὅτ’ ἠντίασεν· τὸ ‘ὅτ’ ἠντίασεν’ vides quale sit, scilicet ambulanti obviam venisse Musas.

Here I move on to the shepherd Hesiod, who you say was made a poet while sleeping. But I remember that long ago I read this in front of my schoolteacher: When a swarm of Muses encountered the shepherd Hesiod, who was setting his flocks to pasture near the hoof-print of the swift horse; You see what sort of thing “encountered” is—that is, that the Muses came so as to meet him walking about (Fronto, Ep. ad Caes. 1.4.7).

The Greek lines Fronto quotes are, of course, Callimachus’ Aetia fr. 2.1–2, and according to him, the Alexandrian poet denies that the Muses appeared to Hesiod in a dream. Although we gather from this letter that there were at least some in the second century CE, like Marcus Aurelius, who thought that Hesiod had a dream in Theogony, given Fronto’s correction of this opinion, not much can be said as to how much currency this opinion had.

I argue that in fact, we have no extant evidence of anyone before Callimachus composing a poem in which the poet receives Dichterweihe in a dream. Some poets did accrue later traditions that they had been inspired in dreams—Isocrates notes that “some of the Homeridae relate that Helen appeared to Homer by night and commanded him to compose a poem on those who went on the expedition to Troy” (Λέγουσιν δέ τινες καὶ τῶν Ὁμηριδῶν ὡς ἐπιστᾶσα τῆς

νυκτὸς Ὁμήρῳ προσέταξεν ποιεῖν περὶ τῶν στρατευσαμένων ἐπὶ Τροίαν, Helen. encom. 65, trans. van Hook, 1945). However, if Callimachus was aware of the tradition concerning Homer mentioned by Isocrates, it does not change the fact that this narrative appears nowhere in the

Homeric corpus itself. The Hellenistic Vita Ambrosiana notes that visited Pindar in a dream (ἡ Δημήτηρ ὄναρ ἐπιστᾶσα αὐτῷ ἐμέμψατο, p. 2 Drachmann) and reproached him for

19 not having composed a hymn dedicated to her, prompting him to write the hymn from which we have Pindar fr. 37; but again, no account of this appears in the Pindar’s oeuvre. Similarly,

Pausanias writes, “Aeschylus himself said that when a youth he slept while watching grapes in a field, and that appeared and bade him write tragedy” (ἔφη δὲ Αἰσχύλος μειράκιον ὢν

καθεύδειν ἐν ἀγρῷ φυλάσσων σταφυλάς, καί οἱ Διόνυσον ἐπιστάντα κελεῦσαι τραγῳδίαν

ποιεῖν, 1.21.2, trans. Jones 1918), but we do not know his sources for this anecdote and whether they were available to Callimachus—and in any event, the poet’s dream obviously appears nowhere in his tragedy. Sophocles, we are told in his Hellenistic Vita, was shown by

Menytes in a dream the location of a golden wreath stolen from the Acropolis, which was subsequently awarded to him (Radt Test. A = fr. 31 Wehrli), but there is no indication that this constituted an initiation of his poetic career.56 In sum, traditions that poets preceding

Callimachus were instructed oneirically by divinities all significantly post-date the poets in question, and in none of these cases do we have extant an instance in which such oneiric inspiration is found in the poet’s own work.

We cannot rule out the possibility that a Greek author preceding Callimachus composed a poem in which they receive Dichterweihe in a dream, and that we lost this in our sources.

Callimachus is, however, the first to do so in the extant record, and as best we can tell, it is an innovation on his part to respond to the Hesiodic tradition of the Muses’ epiphany in Theogony with an oneiric experience.57 While it is, so far as we know, an innovation, Callimachus’

56 On the traditions and sources mentioned in this paragraph, see Kambylis, 1965, pp. 55–9, 106–8; Slings, 1989, p. 74 and nos. 15 and 16; Petridou, 2015, pp. 222–8. 57 Kambylis (1965) identifies Callimachus as the source of the later tradition that Hesiod encountered the Muses in a dream (p. 58), but I have yet to find another scholar who has suggested the motif of the poet receiving Dichterweihe in a dream as a Callimachean innovation. Contra Harder, for example, who says innocuously that Callimachus “wished to combine it [the Heliconian scene in Theogony] with the convention of poets receiving divine inspiration in dreams, which was widespread” (2012 [2], p. 94). As I have shown, there is in fact no clear evidence that this convention existed before Callimachus. 20 decision to portray his poetic initiation as having occurred in a dream is a next step in a trajectory found in the literary sources I have discussed in this chapter. The lyric poets already spoke of gods appearing to them in dreams, and Plato depicts Socrates as having been commanded to pursue the Muses’ arts in a dream. Callimachus draws from these precedents and uses a dream to construct his poetic persona as a new Hesiod. I conclude with a few observations on the motivations for this innovation. In the first place, a dream provides an avenue for Callimachus to have contact with the divine, in this case, the Muses. As we have seen in the foregoing sections, epic, lyric, and tragic Greek poetry all proffer dreams as a source of truth in some capacity, but lyric’s language of the poet encountering divinities in dream provides for Callimachus a unique medium by which he can both facilitate a divine encounter in the manner of Hesiod and renew it with cross-generic motif—and his indirect engagement with philosophers’ oneiric encounters with divinities contributes to a renovation of Hesiod by way of an infusion of philosophical discourse. A dream implies the additional possibility of unlimited mobility, and as Kambylis suggests, Callimachus is motivated to use a dream so that he could be transported to Helicon (T

6.5) and thereby rehearse the Hesiodic experience even more exactly,58 as a Libyan Greek firmly settled in .59 It is thus not simply that a dream allows Callimachus to have access to the Muses, but that with the utilization of a dream sequence the Alexandrian poet can build upon the Hesiodic tradition.60

Moreover, it is possible, though not certain, that by Callimachus’ time Hesiod was interpreted as being a youth when the Muses appeared to him on Mt. Helicon. This interpretation probably stems from Hesiod relating that the Heliconian Muses taught him his song “once upon

58 Kambylis, 1965, pp. 58–9. 59 Exactly how much time Callimachus spent in Greece is uncertain. See Cameron, 1995, pp. 210–11. 60 Harder, 2012 (2), pp. 94, 96. 21 a time” (ποθ’, Hes. Theog. 22),61 that is, at an earlier time of his life than at the time he is speaking; and the idea of his being initiated into poetry is most coherent at the beginning of his poetic career. Scodel argues that Callimachus implies this tradition when he says that

“whomsoever the Muses did not look at askance as a child / they will not reject as a friend when he is old” (Μοῦϲαι γ⸥ὰρ ὅϲουϲ ἴδον ὄθμα⸤τ⸥ι παῖδαϲ / μὴ λοξῶι, πολιοὺϲ⸥ οὐκ ἀπέθεντο

φίλουϲ, Aet. fr. 1.37–8): if the Muses favored Hesiod in old age, it suggests that they regarded him well as a youth.62 In close association with this story is the tradition that Hesiod actually lived twice, Hesiodus Redivivus. In his scholia to Works and Days, Proclus quotes an epigram attributed to Pindar: “Hail, you who were young twice, and who twice met the grave, / Hesiod, having humanity’s measure of wisdom” (Χαῖρε δὶς ἡβήσας, καὶ δὶς τάφου ἀντιβολήσας, /

Ἡσίοδ’, ἀνθρώποις μέτρον ἔχων σοφίης, Gaisford 9).63 Ruth Scodel, in a complex outline of allusions, argues that a choral on old age in Euripides’ Hercules furens 637–700 is also evidence for this tradition surrounding Hesiod.64

If we are inclined to believe that these Hesiodic interpretations were available to

Callimachus, it becomes apparent how the use of a dream permits Callimachus to work these traditions for his own purposes in Aetia. The desirability of youth for poetics is one of the most dominant themes of Aetia fr. 1: the Telchines accuse him of writing small-scale poetry “like a child” (παῖϲ ἅτ⸥ε, fr. 1.6), he is a boy when Apollo Lycius instructs him on poetry (ὅτ⸥ε

61 Fantuzzi and Hunter, 2004, p. 73, “Although in the proem to the Theogony, Hesiod himself gives no indication of how old he was when confronted on the mountainside by the Muses, it is a reasonable guess that the Hellenistic age constructed Hesiod’s encounter with the Muses as an experience of his youth—the boy sent out ‘once upon a time’ too look after the lambs…” 62 Scodel, 1980, p. 319. 63 Given its late attestation, we cannot be sure if this epigram is authentic, but neither can we rule it out. See Konig, 2010, p. 136 and no. 428. 64 Scodel, 1980, pp. 308–18. The earliest explicit attestation for this tradition is found in the Berne Scholiast to Verg. Ecl. 6.65, and Servius on Verg. Ecl. 6.70; see McKay, K. “Hesiod’s Rejuvenation,” CQ 9.1 (1959): p. 3. 22

πρ⸤ώ⸥τιϲτον ἐμοῖϲ ἐπὶ δέλτον ἔθηκα, 21), and the poet becomes so enraptured in his desire to become like a cicada and throw off oppressive old age that his syntax breaks down (ἵνα

γῆραϲ…αὖθι τ⸥ὸ̣ δ̣’ ⸤ἐκ⸥δύοιμ⸤ι⸥, 33–5). Callimachus can become young again in dream— rejuvenated—while simultaneously being able to assume the persona of an old poet well-versed in the way of poetry, for old age has its own value in Greek poetry.65 A dream facilitates a negotiation between these competing pressures of poetic senescence and juvenescence, and more specifically, enables Callimachus to inhabit his “real,” current age with the legendary youth of

Theogony’s Hesiod.

CONCLUSION

I stated at the beginning of this chapter that Aetia likely featured a transitional passage, now lost, connecting thematically our fragments 1 and 2. With such a deep, programmatic inter- reliance between the Reply to the Telchines and the Somnium which I have demonstrated in the foregoing pages—the themes and motifs of Hesiodic Dichterweihe, youth, old age, and poetic innovation, building upon each other in these two sections—makes it difficult to imagine how a formal connection between the passages could not be demanded of the poet. Indeed, his dream embodies the monumental undertaking the Aetia represents writ large. In receiving his poetic initiation in a dream, Callimachus responds to and adapts four hundred years of Greek epic, lyric, tragedy, and philosophy, and in the process makes something uniquely his own. He in turn becomes a progenitor of a tradition in its own right, as his trope of oneiric poetic inspiration is

65 On ancient praise for Hesiod’s old age—proverbially known as Ἡσιόδειον γῆρας—see Scodel, 1980, pp. 301–6. It should be noted that despite Callimachus’ expressed desire to shed old age in fr. 1, he simultaneously assigns a certain value in being old; in broad terms, the many decades of his life (τῶν δ’ ἐτέων ἡ δεκὰ⸤ϲ⸥ οὐκ ὀλίγη, 1.6) are set in opposition to the facile, unlearned mutterings of the Telchines (fr. 1.1–6). Also note that the cicada, into which Callimachus expresses a desire to transform in Aet. fr. 1.29–36, was associated with old age, particularly through the myth of the aged Tithonus metamorphosed into a cicada; see Harder, 2012 (2), p. 70. 23 continued by the likes of Ennius and Propertius.66 The debt owed to Callimachus’ dream in subsequent Greco-Roman literature cannot be overestimated, and we are justified in joining with the epigrammatist of the Palatine Anthology in assessing it as “the great and widely known dream of the clever Battiad” (ἆ μέγα Βαττιάδαο ϲοφοῦ περίπυϲτον ὄνειαρ, T 6.1).

66 Enn. Ann. fr. 5, Prop. 3.3. With fainter echoes in Cornelius Gallus in the Song of Silenus and Vergil Ecl. 6.13–30. 24

CHAPTER 2: HELLENISTIC DREAMS AND ROYAL IDEOLOGY

FURTHER QUESTIONS IN CALLIMACHUS’ DREAM OF HELICON

In the previous chapter, I argue that Callimachus encountered the Muses in a dream in order to fulfil several aspects of his poetic program stemming from his self-construction as a

Novus Hesiodus: a dream allows him a particular mode of access to the divine, transportation to

Mt. Helicon, and the chance to be both a young and old man in his poetic program. However, this does not complete the picture. As I discuss in chapter one, it is most likely that Callimachus and his contemporaries did not understand Hesiod’s poetic initiation in Theogony as having occurred oneirically. All things being equal, if Callimachus were to follow in Hesiod’s footsteps, he would have employed a waking epiphany in the manner of Hesiod, not a dream. Waking divine epiphanies were still a part of Greek cultural discourse in the third century BCE; for example, the mid-late third century Mnesiepes inscription from Paros relates a story in which

Archilochus led an ox to market to sell, and encountered a group of what appeared to be mortal women (22–33).1 When he sold them the ox, both they and the ox vanished, leaving to find a at his feet, and “he understood that the women who appeared to him were the

Muses and that he was given the gift of the lyre” (ὑπολαβεῖν τὰς Μούσας εἶναι τὰς φανείσας /

[κα]ὶ̣ τὴν λύραν αὐτῶι δωρησαμένας, 37–8).2 A Hellenistic Vita records that the god was found singing Pindar’s songs (Vita Thomana 4–11 Drachmann), and Sophocles was said to have hosted in his home (Etym. Magn. 256.6 Kallierges).3 The poet in Theocritus Idyll 7,

1 On the Mnesiepes inscription, see Rotstein, A. “The Parian Marble and the Mnesiepes Inscription.” ZPE 190 (2014): pp. 3–9. 2 Ed. Clay, D. Archilochos Heros. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2004, pp. 104–10. For a discussion see Petridou, 2015, pp. 219–21. 3 On the likely Hellenistic origins of the Sophoclean myth, see Wickkiser, B. Asklepios, Medicine, and the Politics of Healing in Fifth-Century Greece. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009, pp. 66–7. 25 moreover, follows the Hesiodic model in saying that the Muses taught him poetry while herding on Mt. Ida, with no mention of a dream (91–5).

Kambylis argues that Callimachus has an oneiric encounter in Aetia so he could be initiated on Mt. Helicon:4 but this begs the question of why Callimachus must be on Mt. Helicon to encounter the Muses, since the Mnesiepes inscription indicates that the Muses could potentially appear anywhere.5 Moreover, Callimachus has already described a divine encounter without the use of a dream, his instruction by Apollo in fr. 1.21–8. “Apollo Lycius spoke to me…I obeyed him” (Ἀπ[ό̣]λλων εἶπεν ὅ μοι Λύκιοϲ… τῶι πιθόμη]ν, fr. 1.21, 28), Callimachus says simply, with no elaboration as to how Apollo appeared or through what medium he communicated his injunctions. The poet’s desire to be initiated by the Muses on Mt. Helicon in the manner of Hesiod cannot in itself explain why Callimachus might use a dream for one initiation sequence but not the other. I suggest, then, that we have not exhausted the question, and I raise the possibility that there are other external motivations for Callimachus’ innovation not limited to the literary considerations discussed in the previous chapter.

In this chapter, I contextualize Callimachus’ utilization of a dream for his Dichterweihe within the scheme of dreaming as a culturally intelligible option for such an experience. As another stance by which we may analyze Callimachus’ somnium, I discuss Callimachus’ immediate social context in third century BCE Ptolemaic Egypt. First, I provide a broad outline of incubation and dream-interpretation in Hellenistic Egypt, arguing that in depicting a divine encounter facilitated by a dream in Aetia, Callimachus engages with a long-standing pharaonic tradition of mortals receiving gods oneirically. I demonstrate that this pharaonic tradition was

4 Kambylis, 1965, pp. 58–9. 5 Remember, too, that Callimachus was head of the Alexandrian library: one cannot help but consider the possibility of the poet encountering the Muses in their temple, the Musaeum. 26 deliberately adopted by the Ptolemies for the purposes of propaganda and royal self-image, and that a motivating factor in Callimachus’ decision to utilize a dream in books 1 and 2 of Aetia is to pay homage to his Ptolemaic royal patrons.

INCUBATION AND DREAM INTERPRETATION IN HELLENISTIC EGYPT

Incubation in the ancient Mediterranean is the process by which a person goes to sleep in a temple or sanctuary dedicated to the process, in order to receive a message from a god or gods.6

Though similar divine encounters are recorded in antiquity which occur on a private basis in one’s own home, incubation refers more strictly to those dreams which are facilitated in a designated cultic process.7 Incubation was frequently used to obtain divine instruction regarding the healing of sicknesses, or even to be healed by the god directly in the course of the process.

Nevertheless, Gil Renberg stresses that incubation need not be for the purposes of healing and often could be for on a wide variety of concerns—a distinction often not emphasized in earlier scholarship on the subject. For the purposes of his study, Renberg thus divides incubation into two main types, therapeutic and divinatory: the former seeks healing from a god while the latter seeks revelation from a god.8

The exact origins of incubatory practices among Hellenic peoples is obscure, but most scholars agree that incubation was not a native Greek practice, but one borrowed from West

Asian cultures, though some have argued that incubation developed independently in different places.9 Incubation was likely practiced in Mesopotamia, the Levant, and Anatolia since the second millennium BCE,10 and was adopted by the at some point in the Late Iron Age or

6 The current authoritative work on incubation in Greco-Roman antiquity is Gil H. Renberg’s monumental Where Dreams May Come (2017), in two volumes, to which I refer throughout this chapter. See also von Ehrenheim 2015; Holowchak, 2002, chap. 10, “Healing Dreams in Religious Incubation.” 7 von Ehrenheim, 2015, p. 18. 8 Renberg, 2017 (1), p. 21. 9 von Ehrenheim, 2015, pp. 149–51. 10 Renberg, 2017, pp. 36–8. 27

Archaic periods.11 Incubation may possibly be attested as early as Homer, where in a notoriously obscure passage Achilles praises Zeus as one around whom “live the Selloi, your interpreters, men with unwashed feet who sleep on the ground” (Σελλοὶ / σοὶ ναίουσ’ ὑποφῆται

ἀνιπτόποδες χαμαιεῦναι, Il. 16.234–5, trans. Murray), which may refer to dream interpreters who undergo incubation in a sanctuary; interestingly, this passage is echoed by Callimachus in

Hymn to Delos 284–6.12 Incubation is first unambiguously described by in Histories

8.133–4,13 and though the well-known cult of Asclepius and its therapeutic incubation appears in the fifth century BCE, our available evidence suggests that divinatory incubation for the purposes of encountering gods was an older practice in Greece than its therapeutic counterpart.14 In any event, incubation was a firmly established Greek cultural practice by the Hellenistic period, with

Asclepieia found not only on the Greek mainland with temples at Epidaurus, , and

Corinth, but across the Aegean—in , Kos, and Lebena.

Divinatory incubation is in evidence in Egypt since the Late Period (664–332 BCE), and

Egypt had a millennia-old tradition of oneiric divination in its own right.15 It seems, however, that therapeutic incubation was not practiced in Egypt until Greek colonial influence in the Late

Period.16 At any rate, it is clear that incubation became a significant part of the Ptolemies’ religious programme very early on after their rise to power. The cult of Serapis, relatively obscure before the Ptolemaic period, was likely adopted by (r. 305/4–282 BCE),

11 Ibid., pp. 100–6; von Ehrenheim, p. 150. 12 Renberg, p. 100 and no. 160. 13 Ibid., pp. 102–4. 14 Ibid., pp. 105–6. 15On dreams in native ancient Egyptian culture, see Szpakowska, K. Behind Closed Eyes. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003; Through a Glass Darkly. Ed. Szpakowska, K. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006; Mittermaier, A. Dreams that Matter. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. 16 Renberg, 2017, pp. 74–5. 28 though sources differ on precisely which Ptolemy established royal patronage of the deity;17 various sources place the first Macedonian sponsorship of the cult to Alexander himself.18

Serapis—whose name was a Hellenized contraction of Osiris-Apis and was a deity embodying syncretistic attributes of both Greek and Egyptian —was from its earliest origins associated with incubation, and the Ptolemies fostered the consultation of Serapis for healing and divinatory practices through the construction and funding of temples, the Serapea. According to

Pausanias (1.18.4), the most prominent Serapeum was that in Alexandria, for which Ptolemy I likely granted a cult statue19 and Ptolemy III Euergetes constructed extensive complexes.20 There is no direct, conclusive archaeological evidence for incubation at the Alexandrian Sarapeum,21 although it should be stressed that incubation is not something that easily lends itself to archaeological remains. However, if the account of Laertius can be believed (5.5.76),

Demetrius of Phalerum was healed of his blindness there under the reign of Ptolemy I; other later sources also provide anecdotes of incubation at the Alexandrian Sarapeum, such as Artemidorus

(4.22, 80) and Dio Chrysostom (Or. 32.12–13).22 Strabo, moreover, records explicitly that incubation occurred at the Serapeum at Canopus, another major temple of the cult: “the temple of

Sarapis…which brings about cures, so that…men of the highest repute sleep within it themselves

17 Later historical sources attributing the establishment of royal patronage of Serapis by Ptolemy I Soter are Plut. De Is. et Os. 361f–2a, Tac. Hist. 4.83–4, Clem. Al. Protr. 4.48.1–3; on its possible establishment under Ptolemies II or III, see Stambaugh, 1972, pp. 7–8. 18 John Malalas (p. 192 Bonn), Suda s.v. Σάραπις, ps-Callisthenes’ Alexander Romance 1.30–3; see Stambaugh, 1972, pp. 10–1. 19 On Ptolemy I’s cult statue of Serapis, see McKenzie et al., 2004, pp. 79–81 20 For the archaeology of the Ptolemaic structures of the Alexandrian Serapeum, see McKenzie et al., 2004, pp. 79– 90. 21 Renberg, 2017, pp. 333–6 no. 10. 22 Renberg is extremely judicious about the value of these anecdotes from later historians (2017, pp. 332–43), perhaps overly so. Though their late dates are reason enough for caution, taking the evidence as a whole it is reasonable to understand that incubation was practiced at Serapea under the Ptolemies, and Renberg himself concludes, “that therapeutic incubation first became a feature of the cult of Sarapis at Alexandria or Canopus seems likely” (p. 343). 29 on their own behalf” (τὸ τοῦ Σαράπιδος ἱερὸν…θεραπείας ἐκφέρον, ὥστε καὶ τοὺς

ἐλλογιμωτάτους ἄνδρας…ἐγκοιμᾶσθαι αὐτοὺς ὑπὲρ ἑαυτῶν ἢ ἑτέρους, Geog. 17.1.17).

It is admittedly difficult to discern each Ptolemaic royal’s attitude toward incubation, and we should be wary of assuming a monolithic stance enduring between Ptolemy I and III, the two

Ptolemies mentioned in the forgoing paragraph. Some consideration is warranted concerning

Ptolemy II (r. 284–246 BCE) specifically, since it was he who reigned through the most of the period in which Callimachus wrote Aetia (270s–240s BCE). Here, the evidence is not significantly more or less substantial than that of his predecessor or successor; most compelling is an altar uncovered in the excavation within the Alexandrian Serapeum. An inscription on the altar recorded in twentieth century excavations reads:

ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΠΤΟΛΕΜΑΙΟΥ ΚΑΙ ΑΡΣΙΝΟΗΣ ΦΙΛΑΔΕΛΦΟΥ ΘΕΩΝ ΣΩΤΗΡΩΝ23

This dedication by Ptolemy II Philadelphus and Arsinoë is to the θεοὶ σωτῆρες, “savior gods,” plausibly referring to their predecessor Ptolemy I Sōtēr and his consort Berenice I. Thought to date early in Ptolemy II’s reign,24 the altar is suggestive of later authors’ claims that the construction of Alexandria and its major edifices, including the Serapeum, were a continuous project of the Ptolemies.25 Indeed, the dedication of this altar by Ptolemy II to his predecessor belies a sense of official continuity between him and Ptolemy I at least insofar as the Serapeum is concerned.

Closely related to incubation in this Ptolemaic cultural milieu was the phenomenon of dream interpretation, or oneirocritica. The interpretation of dreams constituted a profession in

23 For an archaeological digest of this site, see Sabottka, 2008, pp. 50–66. 24 According to Sabottka (2008 p. 63), the 270s, on the basis that the altar refers to Arsinoë I. 25 Sabottka, 2008, p. 65. Ex., Strabo Geog. 17.1.8, Diod. Sic. 17.52. 30 antiquity, and is in evidence since the time of Homer, where Achilles suggests that the Argives consult a dream interpreter (ὀνειροπόλον, Il. 1.63). Egypt, which since Pharaonic times had an institutionalized tradition of professional dream interpreters affiliated with temples,26 was fertile ground for the continued development of Greek oneirocritica in a Ptolemaic environment. In the

Hellenistic period, the knowledge of dream interpreters was written down and collected, and though most of the oneirocritical corpus from the Ptolemaic period has been unfortunately lost, we know that writing on dream-interpretation was present in this period from extractions of sources from later authors. The most complete extant example of a book on dream interpretation is the Oneirocritica of Artemidorus, and although the work is of a rather late date, probably from the mid-second to early third centuries CE,27 it refers to some sources from the Hellenistic period—most notably, Aristander Telmessius.28 Hellenistic sources of oneirocritica also appear in such authors as Cicero, Philo, Macrobius, and Calcidius.29

The Ptolemies themselves utilized dreams and dream divination for purposes of self- image and royal propaganda. Being semi-divine figures themselves, the Ptolemies accessed the gods through dreams, which provided a divine underpinning to Ptolemaic interests. At least since the time of the New Kingdom (16c.–11c. BCE), Egyptian royals had oneirically encountered gods who instructed them on royal agenda: the Memphis Stele records that Amenhotep II (r. 1427–

1400 BCE) dreamt of a god rousing him for battle on the eve of his campaign—as did Merenptah

26 Renberg, 2017, pp. 17–18. 27 On the date of Artemidorus, see Harris-McCoy, 2012, p. 2; Thonemann, P. An Ancient Dream Manual. Oxford: OUP Oxford, 2020, p. 9. 28 Refer to del Corno’s (1969) commentary pp. 100 following for dates of some of the authors for which he outlines fragments: for example, Aristander Telmessius (pp. 104–5). 29 Näf, 2004, pp. 78–9, and the chapter “Neue Horizonte der Traumdeutung im Hellenismus” passim; see also the chapter entitled, “Hellenistische Traumdeutung und ihre Adaption in Rom.” 31

(r. 1213–1203), according to the Libyan War Inscription of Karnak.30 Similarly, Thutmose IV (r.

1400–1390) is recorded on the Sphinx Stele as having been promised kingship by the god

Horemakhet in a dream.31 It seems that this tradition of pharaohs receiving divine instruction through dreams extended to the Late Period, as we find the Kushite Tanutamun (664–656) on the

Dream Stele legitimizing his campaign on Lower Egypt with a dream bidding him to do so.32

Egyptian royal dreams were an aspect of pharaonic self-image that the Ptolemies quickly adopted for themselves while simultaneously drawing from the Greek tradition of dream interpretation. This is a trend possibly in evidence from as early as Alexander, who, Pausanias informs us, founded the city of Smyrna “in accordance with a vision in a dream” (Ἀλέξανδρος

δὲ ὁ Φιλίππου τῆς ἐφ’ ἡμῶν πόλεως ἐγένετο οἰκιστὴς κατ’ ὄψιν ὀνείρατος, Paus. 7.5.1):

Alexander, sleeping under a plane tree in rest from a hunt, was bidden by the Nemeses in a dream to found the city (7.5.2). Likewise, Arrian records that during the siege of Tyre, Alexander dreamt of Heracles leading him by the hand into the city (2.18.1), and both Plutarch (Alex. 24.5–

9), Diodorus Siculus (17.41.7–8), and Curtius Rufus (4.3.21–2) document that when Alexander dreamt that he caught a , “satyr,” σάτυρος, was straightforwardly interpreted as “σά

Τύρος,” that is, “yours is Tyre.”33 Of course, these sources are late, but even if we consider these stories to be traditions post-dating Alexander, it is likely that they emerged from a general

Hellenistic discourse concerning royal revelations by divinities in dreams.

Royal interest in dreams continued through the reigns of the Ptolemies. Tacitus (Hist.

4.83–4) and Plutarch (De Is. et Os. 28) write that Ptolemy I Soter had a dream which was

30 For a translation of the Memphis Stele inscription, see ANET3 245–7; and see Szpakowska, 2003, pp. 48–50. For a translation of the Karnak inscription, see Oppenheim, A. The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East, TAPA 46.3 (1956): p. 251 no. 16; and see Szpakowska, 2003, pp. 52–4. 31 For a translation of the Sphinx Stele inscription, see ANET3 449; see Szpakowska, 2003, pp. 50–2. 32 Renberg, 2017, pp. 84–8. 33 Näf, 2004, p. 65. 32 interpreted as a command to introduce a colossal cult statue of from Sinope into

Alexandria, which the religious authorities identified as Serapis, the god who, as discussed previously, was associated with dream incubation. The sources are again late, and we cannot be entirely sure as to authenticity of much of this story; but in a thorough overview, Bjørn

Paarmann finds it likely that the kernel of the narrative—the epiphany of Pluto to Ptolemy in a dream—is most likely to be original to Ptolemy I himself, even if other details, like the origin of the statue in Sinope, is a later accretion.34 If in fact genuine, Ptolemy I’s dream effects key ideological underpinnings for the regime: it establishes that the Ptolemaic monarchs are offered divine guidance with dreams as a medium, and it serves as an Egyptian-Hellenic syncretism of images of kingship, since, as Paarman notes, the dream straddles both Egyptian and Greek oneiric topoi.35 Ptolemy, in choosing to have Serapis serve as a patron god for Greek colonists who would be in need of a new one, places a dream at the root of the cult of Serapis; and it is through an oneiric encounter with Serapis that the Ptolemies can undergird incubation as a religious practice with royal support.36

The cult of Serapis was not the only means by which the Ptolemies exercised kingly self- image through dreams. The battle of Raphia (22 June 217 BCE), the decisive confrontation between Ptolemy IV Philopator and Antiochus III in the theatre of Coele Syria, was one of the largest battles in the entirety of Ptolemaic history, and in victory Ptolemy seized a critical opportunity for propaganda. In November 217, the Raphia Decree was issued, ostensibly a proclamation given in thanks by the priests of Memphis for Ptolemy’s victory and other beneficences. Like the famous Rosetta Stone of 196 BCE under Ptolemy V Epiphanes, the decree

34 Paarmann, 2013, pp. 262–9. 35 Ibid., pp. 256–7. 36 Ibid., pp. 258–9; p. 277. 33 was issued in hieroglyphs, Demotic, and Greek, and while the hieroglyphic and Greek versions are mostly inextant, substantial portions of the Demotic text have survived on stelae from Tell el-

Maskuta, Kom el-Qala‘a, and Tod. Among the many clauses in the lengthy preamble of the

Raphia Decree, we find the following:

…r nꜣ nṯr.w [n Kmy ḏr=w] (9) jrm nꜣy=w nṯre.w(t) ḥꜣ=f jw=w ṯ n=f myt jw=w mtw=f (n) tym n pꜣ wš n šm r-jr=f r pꜣ tš (n) pꜣ Jšr pꜣ tš (n) nꜣ H̠ r.w krp=w st r-r=f ꜥš=w n=f ḏ=w n=f wꜣḥ n rsw(.t) ḏ jw=f (r) ḏre r nꜣy=f ḏḏy[.w ḏr=w mtw=w tm] (10) we r-r=f n ṱꜣ nb…

…it happened that [all] the gods [of Egypt] and their goddesses were before him (sc. Ptolemy IV), directing him and being with him as protectors, at the time when he went to the country of Syria and the country of the Phoenicians; they revealed themselves to him, called to him, and gave him an in a dream, that he would prevail over [all] his enemies [and that they would not] abandon him at any time…37

Though we do not know much more concerning the nature of this dream, and it is uncertain whether he received this dream through incubation or in a private capacity, it is striking that

Ptolemy asserts divine support for his military action as having been given oneirically— especially given the extremely high profile afforded the Decree, memorializing one of the greatest victories of the .

It should be noted that Demotic papyri from the Ptolemaic period heavily utilized a trope of a pharaoh receiving divine instruction oneirically. Some scholars, such as Irene Shirun-

Grumach,38 have in fact identified a Demotic genre called the Königsnovelle, which typically involves a pharaoh encountering the gods and or otherwise obtaining communication from them; around half of these narratives, from the fourth century BCE on, involve a dream as a medium for

37 Text and translation found in Simpson, 1996, pp. 242–57 38 Shirun-Grumach, Irene. Offenbarung, Orakel und Königsnovelle. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1993. For a fuller bibliography, see Renberg, 2017, p. 85 no. 128. 34 the divinities’ communication with the pharaoh, and at least three involve incubatory scenes.39 In addition to these, accounts of pharaohs’ oneiric divine encounters are found on two stelae, the dream of Knum on the Ptolemaic-era Famine Stele from Sehel, and the dream of the prince of

Bakhtan on the Late Period or Ptolemaic period Bentresh Stele, the latter of which represents priestly propaganda in the guise of a Ramesside inscription.40 These examples fit into the wider tradition of Egyptian narratives featuring pharaohs receiving divine instruction through dreams, which extends over more than a millennium diachronically from the time of the New Kingdom into the Ptolemaic period.

Königsnovellen and their dream narratives served to provide religious support for

Ptolemaic rule: a prominent example is Dream of Nectanebo, an early Ptolemaic41 Königsnovelle discovered, interestingly enough, in the Serapeum at Memphis. Our does not contain the entire narrative, but scholars have identified the basic story as reflected in other available

Demotic-based tales of Nectanebo including the Alexander Romance of pseudo-Callisthenes.42

As reconstructed, Dream of Nectanebo relates that the last native ruler of Egypt, Nectanebo II (r.

360–342 BCE), was instructed in a dream of the goddess Isis to consult a man named Petesis concerning the completion of an adyton in the temple of -Onuris. Petesis shirks his duties however, and when summoned before Nectanebo he gives a speech in self-defense, prophesying

39 Ryholt, Kim. Narrative Literature from the Tebtunis Temple Library. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2012, pp. 199–208. 40 Renberg, 2017, p. 89 no. 137, and p. 90 no. 138. As is frequently inevitable with identifications of genre, some scholars, such as Joachim Quack, dispute that the Königsnovellen constitute a distinct generic category at all (see Quack, Joachim. “Pharao und Hofstaat, Palast und Tempel,” in Politische Kommunikation und öffentliche Meinung in der antiken Welt. Ed. Kuhn, C. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012, pp. 282–6). This does not affect my purposes here, as I raise these examples merely to demonstrate the widespread phenomenon of Demotic papyri with narratives of pharaohs’ oneiric instruction from the gods. 41 Scholars have not been able to produce a very precise date for Dream of Nectanebo, but based on internal evidence, an early Ptolemaic origin is likely; see Koenen, 1985, p. 193. 42 Koenen, 1985, pp. 171–2 nos. 3 and 4. 35

Nectanebo’s downfall with a greater king than he to replace him.43 This prophecy, of course, refers to Alexander,44 legitimizing Ptolemaic rule through continuity with Egypt’s native pharaohs. It must be stressed that based on the papyri found, the priests of the Memphis

Serapeum were greatly concerned with oneiric access to the divine: UPZ I 77, 78, 79, and 80 all involve such dream encounters.45

The influence of the Königsnovellen is wide: as Renberg argues, high-profile narratives like Ptolemy I’s dream of Pluto and Ptolemy IV’s dream in the Raphia Decree should be seen in reference to Demotic tales of divine instruction given to pharaohs oneirically.46 Crucially, the

Raphia Decree was displayed in hieroglyphs on a stela as were the Famine and Bentresh Stelae, and the Ptolemies’ use of the Egyptian language suggests a deliberate engagement with pharaonic and Demotic forms of royal self-image, made explicit in the ubiquitous references to the traditional Egyptian pantheon, and in the title Ptolemy IV received, H̠ r-nḏ-jṱ=f (Horus,

Vindicator of His Father, 33), in particular. The Ptolemies’ exact relationship to these narratives is impossible to determine, but it is undeniable that they provided justification of the Ptolemies’ rule by providing a link to the pharaonic past they deliberately sought to co-opt. We should also recall that the trope of kings receiving dreams of gods was not foreign to Greek culture either—a good example is the dream of Xerxes in Herodotus 7.12–18.47 As with other aspects of Ptolemaic propaganda, then, the image of the Ptolemies receiving instruction by gods in dreams would have been familiar to both the native Egyptian and Greek members of their kingdom.

43 Ibid., pp. 185, 191–2. 44 Ibid., p. 193. 45 Id. 46 Renberg, 2017, pp. 91–2. 47 Dreams to kings (though not involving gods) are also found in Herodotus 1.34–45, 209–11, 3.30, 6.107. 36

In sum, dreams were a deliberate and prominent vehicle for Ptolemaic royal self-image and ideology. The Ptolemies were able to draw a synthesis of Greek traditions of dream interpretation and divination, as represented in incubation and the cult of Asclepius, and the long-established native Egyptian tradition of pharaonic royals receiving communication from the gods in dreams. The cult of Serapis in particular encapsulates this synthesis, as a god who visits mortals in incubatory practices, and is himself established by an oneiric encounter to a royal person, Ptolemy I. Crucially, archaeological evidence suggests that the regnant during the time of

Aetia’s composition, Ptolemy II Philadelphus, was also invested in the construction of the

Alexandrian Serapeum and linked his dedication to his predecessor; his successor in turn demonstrates a deep commitment to the royal ideology of dreams in the Raphia Decree. The

Königsnovellen be read closely with Demotic papyri and stelae which position the pharaoh as having oneiric access to the divine. As a motif effecting their objective to draw from Egyptian culture to undergird their rule, the Ptolemies had a clear and vested interest in maintaining oneiric encounters with the gods as a part of their ideological programme, and the evidence available is suggestive of significant continuity in this programme across the Ptolemaic rulers of the third century BCE.

DREAMS IN PTOLEMAIC COURT POETRY

The Ptolemies’ use of dreams in projecting royal self-image is evident in their decrees and inscriptions, but it also affected Alexandrian poets’ negotiation of the patronage of the

Ptolemaic royals. We find dreams scattered throughout the œuvre of the Hellenistic poets; of the so-called “Alexandrian triad,”48—Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius, and Theocritus—

Apollonius depicts a dream in one of the most famous scenes in his , that of Medea

48 Gutzwiller, 2005, p. 3. 37 dreaming that she chose over the wishes of her parents at 3.619–32; dreams are found also in ’s nightmare of horrific portents in 4.665–84, and Euphemus’ vision of himself as a female wet nurse in 4.1733–45.49

Here, however, I wish to focus on a contemporary of this triad, Posidippus, the study of whose poetry was greatly expanded by the publication of P.Mil.Vogl.VIII 309 by Bastianini and

Gallazzi in 2001.50 Posidippus has contributed to our understanding of the relationship between

Alexandrian poets and the Ptolemaic royals, as his are filled with nods to the

Ptolemies: the section entitled Hippica in particular contains several poems praising the equestrian victories of Ptolemies I and II, Berenices I and II, and Arsinoë II (74, 78, 79, 82, 87,

88),51 with scattered references to the Ptolemies occurring throughout the rest of Posidippus’ corpus.52 Reading between the lines, we gather that Posidippus was patronized by the royals,53 and Dorothy Thompson argues that in the frequent references to his patrons’ empire, this collection presents a uniquely Hellenistic vision of the world connected by Ptolemaic hegemony.54

Epigram 33 is found in the section called the Oeonoscopica (Οἰωνοσκοπικά),

“Auspices,” and it tells of a dream of a presumably fictional Aristoxinus: “Aristoxinus the

Arcadian had a dream too big / for himself, and reached (fool that he was) for greatness…”

(μεῖζον Ἀριϲτόξεινοϲ ἐνύπνιον ἢ καθ’ ἑω‹υ›τὸν / Ὡρκὰϲ ἰδὼν μεγάλων νήπιοϲ ὠρέγετο, 33.1–

2, trans. Nisetich). He has a dream of himself as Athena’s bridegroom (3–4) and understands the

49 On dreams in Apollonius, see Giangrande 2000. 50 Bastianini, G., and Gallazzi, C., with Austin, C. Posidippo di Pella: Epigrammi (P. Mil. Vogl. VIII 309). Milan: LED, 2001. 51 On the Hippica and its modelling of Ptolemaic royal self-image, see Fantuzzi 2005. 52 For more extensive treatments of Posidippus’ poems and the Ptolemies, see Thompson 2005. 53 Thompson, 2005, p. 269. 54 Ibid., pp. 269–70; pp. 282–83. 38 vision to be premonitory of an impending victory in battle; unfortunately, he misunderstands its meaning and goes to (7–8). As Manuel Baumbach notes, this epigram engages with contemporary oneirocritica and is reminiscent of the interpretation of dreams found in authors like Artemidorus55—the interpretation of dreams of Athena are found in his Oneirocritica 34 and

35.56 Oneiric visions of deities are found also in the section entitled Iamatica (Ἰαματικά),

“Cures,” with direct and indirect references to dreams in the context of healing incubation.

Epigram 97 offers a dedication to Asclepius in thanks for an incubatory healing: “you came and wiped away his six-year ailment / in a single night, and left, taking his epilepsy too!” (ϲὺ τὸν

ἑξαέτη {α}κάματόν θ’ ἅμα καὶ νόϲον ἱ{ε}ρήν, / δαῖμον, ἀποξύϲαϲ ὤιχεο νυκτὶ̣ μ̣ιῆι, 97.3–4, mod. trans. Nisetich). Likewise, epigram 98 expresses gratitude to Apollo for the remedy of a six-year festering wound, “when, O , [at sight] of you, as in a dream, [he shed] / his pain

[and escaped], cured of a long agony” (Παιάν, ϲ’ εὐ[± 11 ω]δυνο̣ϲ̣, ὡ̣ϲ ἐπ̣’ ὀ̣νείρωι / τὸν πολὺν

ἰηθ̣ε̣ὶ̣[ϲ ……]εν κάματον, 98.3–4, mod. trans. Nisetich). These epigrams indicate Posidippus’ interest among Alexandrian poets to draw from oneirocritical and incubatory material in fashioning occasional verse.

Perhaps the most innovative of Posidippus’ epigrams dealing with dreams, however, is epigram 36, dedicated to Arsinoë II:

Ἀρϲινόη, ϲοὶ τοῦτο διὰ ϲτολίδων ἀνεμοῦϲθαι βύϲϲινον ἄγκειται βρέγμ’ ἀπὸ Ναυκράτιοϲ, ὧι ϲύ, φίλη, κατ’ ὄνειρον ὀμόρξαϲθαι γλυκὺν ἱδρῶ ἤθελεϲ, ὀτρηρῶν παυϲαμένη καμάτων· ὣϲ ἐφάνη‹ϲ›, Φιλάδελφε, καὶ ἐν χερὶ δούρατοϲ αἰχμήν,

55 Baumbach, 2015, p. 147. 56 Athena is thought to be one of the “aethereal” gods as opposed to the “”: αἰθέριοι μὲν οὖν λέγοιντο ἂν εἰκότως Ζεὺς <καὶ> Ἥρα καὶ Ἀφροδίτη ἡ Οὐρανία καὶ Ἄρτεμις καὶ Ἀπόλλων καὶ Πῦρ τὸ αἰθέριον καὶ Ἀθηνᾶ, 34; a dream of her is thought to be a good omen for those going to war: Ἀθηνᾶ…τοῖς ἐπὶ πόλεμον ὁρμῶσιν ἀγαθή, 35. 39

πότνα, καὶ ἐν πήχει κοῖλον ἔχουϲα ϲάκοϲ· ἡ δὲ ϲοὶ αἰτηθεῖϲα τὸ λευχέανον κανόνιϲμα παρθένοϲ Ἡγηϲὼ θῆκε γένοϲ Μακέ̣̣[τη.

Arsinoe, yours be this tissue of linen from Naucratis here hung up (may the breeze play through its folds!): in my dream, beloved, your eager struggles over, you seemed to reach for it, as if to wipe the fragrant sweat from your limbs—I see you still, Philadelphus, the sharp spear in your hand, the hollow shield on your arm. Here, then, it is: to you from maiden Hegeso, of Macedonian lineage, this delicate strip of white cloth (Posid. 36, trans. Nisetich).

In this epigram, my previous observations about the Ptolemies’ utilization of dreams as a tool for royal self-image are clearly in play. Arsinoë II had received the title Philadelphus, used as an explicit appellation in line 5, after her marriage to her brother Ptolemy II, at some point after 280 but no later than 272/1 BCE. We also know that Arsinoë II was divinized, either in 270/69 or

269/68, and although there is no explicit identification of Arsinoë as deified in this epigram, the image of the Ptolemaic queen here is that of Aphrodite (Ἀφροδίτη Ἀρεία).57 Although the war imagery of battle sweat, spear, and shield might lead the reader at first glance to identify

Arsinoë with Athena, an identification with Martial Aphrodite is more straightforward since the

Ptolemies’ deification of Arsinoë as Aphrodite is well-documented—they built a temple to her at

Cape Zephyrium and patronized Callimachus’ own identification of Arsinoë with Cypris in Lock of Berenice at Aetia fr. 110.58 Moreover, it is well-attested that the Ptolemies, in deifying their queens as Aphrodite, syncretized the Greek goddess with the Egyptian Isis,59 and the evidence

57 This is the argument of Agnieszka Fulinska (2012a). Peter Bing (“Posidippus and the Admiral.” GRBS 43 [2003]: pp. 257–60) suggests that Arsinoe appears here as Aphrodite in reference to her cult at the temple of Cape Zephyrium, pointing to Hegeso’s cloth fluttering in the wind (line 2) as a reference to the gusty promontory on which the temple was located. An attractive interpretation perhaps, but we should be wary of reading too much into the text. For a concise introduction to Martial Aphrodite, see Pironti, G. “Rethinking Aphrodite as a Goddess at Work.” in Brill’s Companion to Aphrodite. Ed. Smith, A.C., and Pickup, S. Leiden: Brill, 2010, pp. 120–5. 58 Contra Stephens, 2004, pp. 167–9; Thompson, 2005, p. 281 and no. 78; Wessels and Stähli, 2015, p. 160. 59 See Fulinska 2012b. There is some difficulty in the fact that no inscriptions include Egyptian deities as part of the title of a reigning Ptolemaic ruler until Ptolemy V Epiphanes (ibid. p. 58 no. 17), even though scholars are in wide agreement that the Ptolemies identified themselves with the Egyptian pantheon very early on. 40 suggests that Arsinoë II was identified with Isis even within her lifetime, as Ptolemy II established her cult in the temple of Isis at Philae (the Isaeum).60 Callimachus’ final dedicatee,

Ptolemy III, explicitly linked Isis with the imagery of Martial Aphrodite at the Isaeum at Aswan, which is dedicated to Isis “who is at the head of the army,” “who fights in the front line.”61 It is then to this convergence of goddesses—Arsinoë-Martial Aphrodite-Isis—that appears to the maiden Hegeso of Posidippus 36 in a dream.

As Susan Stephens notes, poem 36 is connected to with the previous collection of

Posidippus’ poems, Oenoscopica (“Auspices”): in poem 30, we are told that a sweating deity is a propitious sign if beseeched (ἀλλ̣ὰ̣ τὸν ἱδρ[ώϲα]ντα κάλει θεόν, 30.3). The image of Arsinoë-

Martial Aphrodite-Isis sweating thus connects the poem to the omens of the previous section, which contained several examples of dream interpretation. I press this further by pointing out that the appearance of a divinity to a mortal in a dream, and in a specifically royal context, is reminiscent of the Egyptian tradition of the so-called Königsnovellen—and more widely, the identification of the royal as a divinity is an aspect of pharaonic royal self-presentation which was assumed by the Ptolemies. Posidippus’ epigram 36 does, however, represent a certain innovation; in the Königsnovellen, it is the royal who receives a dream of a deity, but here the queen is herself portrayed as a goddess who appears to an ordinary woman, Hegeso. Posidippus’ epigram demonstrates the vested interest the Ptolemies had in using dreams as a means of access to the divine, and here, a dream even allows the Hellenistic queen Arsinoë II to appear as a divinity in her own right. More to the point, though this Ptolemaic interest in dreams is

60 For a bibliography see Sfameni Gasparro, 2007, p. 63 no. 69. Also, Arsinoë-Aphrodite of the Zephyrium temple was known as Aphrodite Euploia, the patroness of mariners (see Harder, 2012, pp. 830–1); scholars believe that Isis was associated with this marine aspect of Aphrodite. For example, Ptolemy II-era coinage depicts the queen with the pilei of the Dioscuri, protectors of seafarers, who were identified as agents of Isis; see Witt, R.E. Isis in the Ancient World. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1997, p. 126. 61 Sfameni Gasparro, 2007, p. 69. 41 demonstrable in the Dream of Nectanebo and other sources, Posidippus 36 suggests that this interest extended to the poetry the Ptolemies patronized.

I draw particular attention to Posidippus 36—a poem in which Arsinoë II appears in a dream to the narrator as a divinity (or at the least, with divine imagery)—because it provides a potential parallel to Callimachus’ somnium in the first half of Aetia. As mentioned briefly in the first chapter, in addition to the Hesiodic nine, it seems that Callimachus encountered an additional tenth divinity on Helicon with the Muses. The word δεκάϲ, which was in

Callimachus’ text but in a portion now inextant, is glossed by two of our scholiasts. In the

London scholia of P.Lit.Lond. 181 (ca. late 1c. CE, = 2e Harder),62 appears the following:

δεκ̣ά̣ϲ· ..ο̣ξ̣.ελυϲ̣ παλον̣...τ̣η̣ρ παιδ( ) π̣α̣..οκ.τ̣.( ) η Ἀρϲιν̣(όη) δυ̣ω... ἦν ἄνω̣(θεν?) ἢ ὅτι δ(ε)κάτ̣η̣(ν) Μοῦϲαν ἐκδ̣(ε)....( )

Likewise, the scholiast of P.Oxy.2262 (ca. second half 2c. CE, = 2f Harder)63 provides the following note:

……δεκ]άϲ· ἤ[τ]οι ε[.].του( ) ...]αριθμ[.]. ταῖϲ [Μ]ο̣ύ- ϲαι]ϲ ἢ μετὰ τῶν Μου- ϲῶν] τὸν Ἀ[π]όλλωνα ϲη]μ̣αίνει· Μου̣ϲηγέ- τηϲ] γ̣ὰ̣ρ ὁ θ̣ε[ό]ϲ· ἢ Ἀρ̣ϲι- νόη]ν π̣ροϲαριθμεῖ[] ὅτι] τετίμηται ταῖϲ τῶν] Μουϲῶν τιμαῖ[ϲ καὶ] ϲ̣υ̣νίδρυται αὐ- ταῖ]ϲ̣ ἐν τῶι Μουϲείῶι.

62 For publication citation, see chap. 1, no. 10. 63 For publication citation, see chap. 1, no. 11. 42

The commentary of the London scholiast is too fragmentary to glean much more than that

Arsinoë is associated with the tenth figure among the Muses, and after its publication scholarly opinion identified Callimachus’ tenth Muse as Arsinoë II.64 The scholiast of

P.Oxy. 2262, meanwhile, appears to offer two possibilities for the tenth Muse, Apollo

Musagetes65 or the deified Ptolemaic queen (…ἢ μετὰ τῶν Μου- / ϲῶν] τὸν Ἀ[π]όλλωνα

/ ϲη]μ̣αίνει…ἢ Ἀρ̣ϲι- / νόη]ν π̣ροϲαριθμεῖ…, Harder 2f.3–7). Luigi Torraca (1969), followed by Enrico Livrea (1995), suggests Zeus as an additional possibility for the tenth

Muse,66 but nothing in the text itself suggests Zeus and this is likely an over- interpretation. It may be possible that the three divine figures—Arsinoë II, Apollo

Musagetes, and Zeus—may have all featured in some part of the stemma that is now missing,67 but the exact reasons for these diverging possibilities remain obscure. On balance, however, it is most likely that Callimachus left his text in some way ambiguous enough for the scholiast to provide different interpretations.68

As Annette Harder points out, there are nevertheless good reasons for interpreting

Callimachus’ tenth Muse as a reference to Arsinoë II even if we assume an ambiguity or subtlety in Callimachus’ original (now lost) text. First is an a priori sense that a female figure fits best with a group of nine female deities, and the incongruity of a male divinity with the Muses.69

Second, as part of Ptolemaic self-image, Arsinoë was promulgated as a patron of poetry. In

64 See Rostagni, A. “Nuovo Callimacho 1. Il prologo degli Αἴτια.” RFIC 56 (1928): pp. 32–4. 65 On Apollo Musagetes, see Massimilla (1996) ad loc. 66 Following Torraca (1972), he understands a supplement of Διὸϲ δεκ]άϲ· ἤ[τ]οι ἐ[π]ε̣ὶ̣ τοῦ(τον) | ϲυν]αριθμ[ε]ῖ̣, where the pronoun’s antecedent is Ζεύϲ, and thus assigns a further possibility of Zeus as a tenth deity on Helicon; he provides this suggestion on account of Zeus’ presence among the Muses in Hesiod’s Theogony. 67 Cf. “Se la schiera delle Muse era così designata, è evidente che il contesto perduto offrisse adito a tutte e tre le interpretazioni esposte da schol. O, fr. 2 a 5–15 PF. Callimaco cioè consentiva, con dotta e voluta ambiguitá, di includere nella ‘decina’ sia il padre Zeus che il Musagete Apollo che la regina Arsinoe” (Livrea, 1995, p. 56). Torraca, 1972, p. 84. 68 Harder, 2012, p. 107. 69 Id. 43

Posidippus 37, for example, the temple guard Lysus offers Arsinoë a lyre as a dedication, a lyre of “the dolphin of Arion” which “[a poet’s] hand once made to speak” (Ἀ̣ρϲινόη, ϲοὶ τ̣ή̣[ν]δε

λύρην ὑπὸ χειρ[……]ῦ̣ / φ̣θ̣έγξαμ[ένην] δ̣ελφὶϲ ἤγαγ’ Ἀριόνιο̣[ϲ, Posid. 37.1–2). Wessels and

Stähli read the lyre in Posidippus 37 as a metonym for the Greek poetic tradition,70 and it is evident that Lysus dedicates a lyre to Arsinoë insofar as it honors her role as a protector of poetry.71 Likewise, it is thought that the rather obscure assertion in the final salutation of

Theocritus Idyll 22 that poets are dear to Helen (φίλοι δέ τε πάντες ἀοιδοί / Τυνδαρίδαις

Ἑλένῃ τε καὶ ἄλλοις ἡρώεσσιν, 22.214–5), an attribute unattested elsewhere, is in fact a reference to the Arsinoë’s patronage of poets; Theocritus compares the queen to Helen in Id.

15.110–1 (ἁ Βερενικεία θυγάτηρ Ἑλένᾳ εἰκυῖα / Ἀρσινόα πάντεσσι καλοῖς ἀτιτάλλει

Ἄδωνιν).72 Lastly, Pausanias records that there was a statue of Arsinoë II on Mt. Helicon

(Ἀρσινόης ἐστὶν ἐν Ἑλικῶνι εἰκών, ἣν Πτολεμαῖος ἔγημεν ἀδελφὸς ὤν, Paus. 9.31.1), among statues of the Muses sculpted by Cephidotus, Strongylion, and Olympiosthenes (9.30.1) which had probably been arranged on Helicon by around 390 BCE.73 Although Pausanias gives no indication as to when the statue of Arsinoë II was placed on Helicon, it cannot be ruled out that the statue was erected in Callimachus’ lifetime.74 The scholiast informs us that the queen was

70 Wessels and Stähli, 2015, p. 167; cf. Bertazzoli, 2002, pp. 150–2. 71 “…deve essere sembrato naturale al ναοπόλος dedicare un oggetto che nell’immaginario collettivo simboleggia la poesia alla de ache ne è la protettrice” (Bertazzoli, 2002, p. 152). 72 Cameron, 1995, pp. 434–6; Bertazzoli, 2002, p. 148. 73 Corso, A. The Art of . Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2004, pp. 66–7. 74 Thompson, D. B. “A Portrait of Arsinoe Philadelphos.” AJA 59 no. 3 (1955): p. 201 no. 29. Cameron resurrects an older argument that Callimachus in fact refers to the Heliconian statue of the queen at Aet. 110.53–4, where the “winged horse of Arsinoë” refers to the ostrich upon which Pausanias informs us Arsinoë II was depicted riding (τὴν δὲ Ἀρσινόην στρουθὸς φέρει χαλκῆ τῶν ἀπτήνων, Paus. 9.31.1). This argument is not warranted from the text. Ιn context, the Locrian horse (ἵ̣ππ̣ο[ϲ]...Λοκρικὸϲ) is the winds of Zephyrus, “the brother of Ethiopian Memnon” γνωτὸϲ Μέμνονοϲ Αἰθίοποϲ), and there is nothing at all connecting ostriches to either Zephyrus or in southern Italy. 44 already bestowed with the honors of the Muses by a statue in the Museum (ϲ̣υ̣νίδρυται αὐτ-αῖ]ϲ̣

ἐν τῶι Μουϲείῶι, Harder 2f.6–11), and her image among statues of the Muses on Mt. Helicon would have been a powerful statement of Arsinoë’s patronage of the arts. Callimachus’ contribution to the image of the Arsinoë as a Heliconian Muse would have been quite attractive to the Ptolemies.

If we therefore interpret Arsinoë II as Callimachus’ tenth Muse, Posidippus 36 becomes a parallel to Callimachus’ dream of Mt. Helicon in Aetia. In Posidippus’ poem, Arsinoë appears to the devotee Hegeso as a divinity, namely Martial Aphrodite-Isis, as in Callimachus the Ptolemaic queen grants poetic initiation, as she appears as a goddess among the bevy of Muses praised by

Hesiod in the Theogony. More importantly, the maiden Hegeso gained access to the divinized

Arsinoë in a dream, just as the youthful Callimachus does in his dream of his Heliconian

Dichterweihe. The generic and thematic differences between Posidippus’ corpus and

Callimachus’ Aetia are large enough that I do not go so far as to say that Callimachus directly alludes to Posidippus 36 (or vice versa), and it is worth noting that the Florentine scholiast (ca.

2c. CE) names Posidippus as one of the Telchines against whom Callimachus sets himself in opposition in Aetia fr. 1.75 However, current scholarship is critical of placing much biographical weight on the list provided by the Florentine scholiast,76 and the reason as to why Posidippus might be opposed to Callimachus, given their shared preference for small-scale poetry, remains largely obscure.77

75 Σ Flor. 1.5 (Harder 1b = Pfeiffer 1, p.3), PSI 1219 fr.1. 76 Sens, A. “Art of Poetry, Poetry of Art.” in The New Posidippus. ed. Gutzwiller, K. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, p. 222. 77 A similar hostility was anciently ascribed between Callimachus and Apollonius, which modern scholars have also discarded (Lefkowitz, M. “The Quarrel between Callimachus and Apollonius.” ZPE 40 [1980]: pp. 1–19). Susan Stephens in The New Posidippus edited volume (“Battle of the Books,” pp. 229–48) explores differences between Callimachus’ and Posidippus’ corpora, but concludes that any kind of “quarrel” could not have been more than literary competition as the two contemporaries vied for Ptolemaic patronage (p. 248). 45

Moreover, the two poets were both writing in the same sphere of the Ptolemaic court,78 and we should recall that Posidippus was an almost exact contemporary, writing within the same period as Callimachus between the 270s through the 240s.79 Scholars have already identified some allusive links between Callimachus and Posidippus in Reply to the Telchines (Callim. Aet. fr. 1) and the Seal of Posidippus (Posid. 118); both treat issues of poetic composition in old age

(Aet. fr. 1.31–8, Posid. 118.5–6, 24–8), and both mention the Muses (Aet. fr. 1.2, 24, 37, Posid.

118.1–8) and Apollo (Aet. 1.21–30 Posid. 118.9–16).80 I have already argued that Posidippus 36 engages with pharaonic Egyptian dream narratives which the Ptolemies would eventually incorporate into their official self-image, of which the Raphia Decree is an example; if this is the case, it is likely that Callimachus would have been equally aware of this development in

Ptolemaic discourse, and if Posidippus is motivated to elevate his patrons by portraying them as deities who appear to mortals, it should not be surprising if Callimachus does the same. Both

Posidippus and Callimachus are engaging with the Ptolemies’ identification of Arsinoë II with

Aphrodite-Isis, as Isis was closely associated with Serapis and hence with incubation: for example, an early Ptolemaic votive (OGIS 31, ca. 305–285 BCE), deposited at the Alexandrian

Serapeum, is dedicated to Serapis and Isis together.81 The evidence suggests, moreover, that Isis

78 “That he [Callimachus] and the other main epigrammatist of the period, Posidippus, were writing in one and the same environment…is clear from the similarity of treatment and identity of theme by which their epigrams are marked” (Fraser, 1972, p. 719.) 79 “Posidippus…received public recognition as early as the 270s and seems to have continued working into the decade of the 240s” (Gutzwiller, 2005, p. 3); “Presumably Callimachus began to write the Aetia in the 270s…” (Harder, 2012 (1), p. 22); “The final redaction of the four books of the Aetia…have a clear terminus post quem of 246/5 BC…” (ibid., p. 21). 80 See Hunter, R. “The Reputation of Callimachus.” in Culture in Pieces, ed. Obbink, D., and Rutherford, R. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011, pp. 235–6. 81 ὑπὲρ βασιλέως Πτολεμαίου καὶ τῶν τέκνων Σαράπιδι, Ἴσιδι Νικάνωρ καὶ Νίκανδρος Νίκωνος Πολυδεύκειοι. There is an extensive bibliography on the close association, both in incubatory and in non-incubatory contexts, of Isis and Serapis in Ptolemaic times; see Renberg, 2017, pp. 329–32 and nos. 2 and 6. 46 was in her own right accessed through incubation.82 We recall that Dream of Nectanebo is contemporaneous to Callimachus, and it legitimizes Ptolemaic rule through a narrative initiated by the appearance of Isis in a dream. Posidippus 36 thus exploits this connection through the appearance of Arsinoë in a dream as Martial Aphrodite, while Callimachus, in order to have

Arsinoë appear in a dream as a tenth Muse, more loosely draws from the pre-existing association of his queen (qua Isis) with oneiric inspiration; scholars, such as John Dillery, suggests that this in turn created an association of Isis with the Muses.83

It should be noted that Callimachus concludes his Aetia with a kind of deification of a living Ptolemaic queen, Berenice II: in Lock of Berenice (fr. 110), Callimachus assumes the first- person voice of the lock of hair Berenice dedicated to the gods to ensure Ptolemy III’s safe return from his Seleucid campaign, which Cypris catasterizes “among the immortals, a new star among the old ones” (παρ’ ἀθα̣[νάτουϲ ἀνάγουϲα / Κύπρι]ϲ̣ ἐν ἀρχαιοιϲ ἄϲτρον [ἔθηκε νέον, fr.

110.63–4). The semi-deification of Berenice in fr. 110 leads naturally to Aetia’s epilogue (fr.

112), where Callimachus refers to the Ptolemies as ἄνακτεϲ (112.8), and the queen as ἄναϲϲα

(112.2)84—as Harder points out, the poet deliberately chooses ἄναξ because it is applied to both mortal kings and gods in the Greek poetic tradition.85 Thus, just as Aetia concludes with the immortalization of Berenice II, so it opens with an (allusive) deification of Arsinoë II.

Posidippus 36 indicates that a dream is a convenient avenue to depict a still-living Ptolemaic

82 See Renberg’s (2017) characteristically judicious assessments at pp. 386–9. Most of the literary sources explicitly identifying Isis with incubation are late (ibid. p. 386 no. 141; see Diod. Sic. 1.25.2–5; Paus. 10.32.13; I.Delos 2114), but given her association with Serapis as well as the early evidence of the Dream of Nectanebo, in which she appears to the pharaoh in a dream, makes her consultation in incubation in the time of Callimachus a relatively safe one (cf. “It is, of course, certainly plausible that it [incubation in Isis cult] was being practiced at Menouthis and perhaps other sites as well,” Renberg, 2017, p. 389). 83 Dillery, 1999, p. 276. 84 Most likely Berenice II, since he calls her “our lady” (ἀνά̣ϲ̣ϲ̣ηϲ / [ἡμε]τέρεϲ, fr. 112.2–3), implying the queen is still alive (Harder, 2012, p. 860). 85 Harder, 2012, pp. 895–6. 47 queen as a goddess, a kind of deification that need not occur after the royal’s death, as Arsinoë herself was deified post mortem as Aphrodite with her temple at Cape Zephyrium. In Lock of

Berenice, Callimachus demonstrates his motivation to deify a living Ptolemaic queen through catasterism, and a dream allows him to do the same in Aetia 1 and 2.

One can hardly think of a better way to compliment the Ptolemaic queen as patron of the arts than to make her a Muse. Moreover, the dream allows Arsinoë to take part in the initiation of the poet which facilitates the inspiration to write Aetia, and in this way, Callimachus brings royal patronage and poetic initiation together. For Callimachus to make the living Arsinoë a goddess on Helicon requires some finesse, and dreaming presents an unbounded realm of possibilities.

Thus, a motivating factor in Callimachus’ decision to depict his poetic initiation on Helicon as having occurred in a dream is to pay homage to Arsinoë in a way parallel to Posidippus’ oneiric deification of the queen in epigram 36.

CONCLUSION

In portraying his Dichterweihe as having occurred in a dream, Callimachus engages with a trope ultimately rooted in native Egyptian dream narratives synthesized with Greek traditions of incubation and oneirocriticism, which the Ptolemies adopted as part of their political and religious programme. When Alexander and his heirs rose to power in Egypt, they entered into a landscape in which dreams and their interpretation were a prominent cultural discourse: the narratives represented by stelae and the so-called Köningsnovellen, in which pharaonic royals would receive instruction by the gods in dreams, was an attractive avenue for the Ptolemies to help undergird their rule. As demonstrated by the introduction of the cult of Serapis,

Königsnovellen like Dream of Nectanebo, and the dream narrative of the Raphia Decree, the

Ptolemies were clearly invested in perpetuating dreams as a method of contact with the divine. I

48 suggest, then, that Callimachus’ dream in Aetia of receiving instruction from the Muses in a dream should be read as part of this wider cultural discourse.

Moreover, the epigrams of Posidippus demonstrate that the Ptolemies were interested in propagating these narratives of oneiric divine epiphanies in the Greek poetry they patronized.

Posidippus’ epigram 36 innovates the narrative of gods appearing to pharaohs in dreams by having the royal figure Arsinoë II appear to an ordinary person as a goddess in her own right, drawing from the tradition of dream appearances of the goddess Isis to portray the queen as Isis-

Martial Aphrodite. Epigram 37, next in the collection, depicts Arsinoë as a patron of poetry as she appears elsewhere in the Hellenistic poetic corpora, so it is natural that we come to expect a depiction of Arsinoë II as a goddess patron of poetry. The scholiast confirms this expectation by informing us that Arsinoë was fêted in the Museum with the honors of the Muses, and it is possible that her statue was erected among statues of the Muses on Helicon. Callimachus affords a similar homage to his royal patron by alluding to her as his tenth Muse, and his poetic deification of the queen is parallel to Posidippus 36 and 37. His deification of Arsinoë provides a kind of symmetry to Aetia, whereby the poem opens with a depiction of Arsinoë II as a goddess, and closes with Berenice II’s lock of hair immortalized in the heavens. In the epilogue, the poet prays to Zeus, “…save the house of my lords; I, however, will go to the foot-pasture of the

Muses” (…σάω δ’ [ἐμὸ]ν οἶκον ἀνάκτων· / αὐταρ ἐγὼ Μουσέων πεζὸν̣ [ἔ]πειμι νομόν, fr.

112.8–9 trans. Harder). Ultimately, the poet’s differentiation between his “lords’ house” and the

“pasture of the Muses” is a conceit, since in encountering the Muses in a dream, Callimachus brings his lords to Helicon.

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CONCLUSION

In the first chapter of this thesis, I conduct a source study for Callimachus’ dream in

Aetia, finding no clear precedent for poets’ dreams in the epic genre but finding evidence in lyric and philosophical sources. Traditions that poets preceding Callimachus received inspiration in dreams all appear much later than the poets in question, and Callimachus is the first from our extant sources to construct an oneiric Dichterweihe. This innovation—integrating lyric and philosophical topoi in an aetiological poem—is motivated by Callimachus’ desire to portray himself as a Hesiodus Redivivus, allowing him to rehearse Hesiod’s Heliconian experience while rooted in third century BCE Alexandria. Contemporary traditions that Hesiod was a youth when the Muses appeared to him also allows Callimachus to build on themes of poetic juvenescence and senescence in the beginning of Aetia, and the dream is a way for him to be both a young and old man when establishing his poetic program.

The second chapter interrogates Callimachus’ innovation further, pointing to problems like the fact that Callimachus portrays his initiation by Apollo in his youth without using a dream

(Aet. fr. 1.21–30), and I suggested the possibility of external motivations for an oneiric

Dichterweihe beyond the literary precedents discussed in the previous chapter. In the second chapter, I therefore seek to contextualize Aetia’s somnium in third century Alexandrian discourse about dreams, and I demonstrate that the Ptolemies were invested in dreaming as a trope in their royal ideology and propaganda. Since the Ptolemies were Callimachus’ patrons and he operated within the sphere of the Ptolemaic court and its affiliated institutions, I argue that Callimachus’ use of a dream in Aetia serves to pay homage to his royal patrons and to bolster their image.

Posidippus 36 emerged as a parallel, a poem in which Arsinoë II appears as the goddess

Aphrodite-Isis to the young woman Hegeso in a dream, just as the same queen appears in Aetia

50 as a Muse to the young Callimachus in a dream. Not only does this deify the Ptolemies, but it permits the poet’s patrons to participate in the poet’s initiation, bringing royal patronage and poetic inspiration together.

These two chapters take very different approaches, one more strictly literary and the other with a more socio-political bent, and I identify two distinct drives or motivations for

Callimachus’ innovation with his dream: the desire to be a Hesiodus Redivivus/Novus on one hand, and the aim to pay homage to his Ptolemaic patrons on the other. In the pages that follow, I form some concluding remarks by bridging the gap between these two approaches I have developed. As we shall see, the distance between Hesiod and Ptolemaic royal patronage are not so far apart as they may first appear.

We return to Theogony, the ur-text for Aetia’s poetic program as constructed in its prologue. “Let us start to sing from the Heliconian Muses” (Μουϲάων Ἑλικωνιάδων ἀρχώμεθ’

ἀείδειν, Hes. Theog. 1), begins the poet, and he proceeds to describe them and what they sing

(1–21). After he relates his initiation by the Muses into poetry (22–34), Hesiod returns to describing their song (35–52) and relates their origins (53–67). After a nod to Zeus (68–74), the poet lists the nine Muses, ending with Calliope:

…ἡ δὲ προφερεϲτάτη ἐϲτὶν ἁπαϲέων. ἡ γὰρ καὶ βαϲιλεῦϲιν ἅμ’ αἰδοίοιϲιν ὀπηδεῖ. ὅντινα τιμήϲουϲι Διὸϲ κοῦραι μεγάλοιο γεινόμενόν τε ἴδωϲι διοτρεφέων βαϲιλήων, τῷ μὲν ἐπὶ γλώϲϲῃ γλυκερὴν χείουϲιν ἐέρϲην, τοῦ δ’ ἔπε’ ἐκ ϲτόματοϲ ῥεῖ μείλιχα· οἱ δέ νυ λαοὶ πάντεϲ ἐϲ αὐτὸν ὁρῶϲι διακρίνοντα θέμιϲταϲ ἰθείῃϲι δίκῃϲιν· ὁ δ’ ἀϲφαλέωϲ ἀγορεύων αἶψά τι καὶ μέγα νεῖκοϲ ἐπιϲταμένωϲ κατέπαυϲε· … τοίη Μουϲάων ἱερὴ δόϲιϲ ἀνθρώποιϲιν. ἐκ γάρ τοι Μουϲέων καὶ ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνοϲ ἄνδρεϲ ἀοιδοὶ ἔαϲιν ἐπὶ χθόνα καὶ κιθαριϲταί,

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ἐκ δὲ Διὸϲ βαϲιλῆεϲ· ὁ δ’ ὄλβιοϲ, ὅντινα Μοῦϲαι φίλωνται· γλυκερή οἱ ἀπὸ ϲτόματοϲ ῥέει αὐδή.

…she [Calliope] is the greatest of them all, for she attends upon venerated kings too. Whomever among Zeus-nourished lords the daughters of great Zeus honor and behold when he is born, they pour sweet dew upon his tongue, and his words flow soothingly from his mouth. The populace all look to him as he decides disputes with straight judgments; and speaking publicly without erring, he quickly ends even a great quarrel by his skill. … Such is the holy gift of the Muses to human beings. For it is from the Muses and far-shooting Apollo that men are poets upon the earth and lyre players, but it is from Zeus that they are lords; and that man is blessed, whomever the Muses love, for the speech flows sweet from his mouth (Hes. Theog. 79–87, 93–7, mod. trans. Most 2018).

As the selection above indicates, Hesiod makes certain claims about the relationships between gods, poets (ἀοιδοί), and lords (βαϲιλῆεϲ).1 These relationships are complex and must be gleaned from various passages, and for the sake of clarity I have diagrammed these relationships in figure 1. Callimachus also makes claims about gods, poets, and lords in Aetia that are adapted from the Hesiodic paradigm, and I have diagrammed these for comparison in figure 2 (see next page). (1) In Hesiod, poets are “from the Muses” (ἐκ γάρ τοι Μουϲέων…ἀοιδοὶ ἔαϲιν, Theog.

94–5), and the Muses grant poets the gift of inspiration (22–34). The Muses, moreover, “love” poets (Μοῦϲαι φίλωνται, 96–7). Callimachus draws from this “loving” language when he states that “the Telchines…/ being ignorant of the Muse, they were not born as her friends…

(Τελχῖνεϲ… / νήιδε⸥ϲ οἳ Μούϲηϲ οὐκ ἐγένοντο φίλοι…, Callim. Aet. fr. 1.1–2), and that

1 The Hesiodic βασιλέυς is often translated “king,” but as social historians of the Archaic period are keen to point out, the basileus in its original context refers less to a king than to a person with authority in the community who mediates and pronounces verdicts on disputes. See Tandy, 2018, pp. 52–3; Rose (2012) chap. 4, “Hesiod: Cosmogony, Basilêes, Farmers, and Justice,” pp. 166–200. 52

Fig. 1: Relationships between gods, Fig. 2: Relationships between gods, poets, and lords in Hesiod. poets, and lords in Callimachus.

“whomever the Muses did not look at askance as a child / they will not reject as a friend when he is old” (Μοῦϲαι γ⸥ὰρ ὅϲουϲ ἴδον ὄθμα⸤τ⸥ι παῖδαϲ / μὴ λοξῶι, πολιοὺϲ⸥ οὐκ ἀπέθεντο φίλουϲ,

Aet. fr. 1.37–80). (2) In Hesiod it is not only the aoidos who receives inspiration from the Muses, but also the basileus, whose inspiration is exemplified in his capacity to persuade the populace

(Theog. 80–93). In Callimachus, the basilēes and the Muses are equated insofar as Arsinoë II is made a Muse (more on this later).

(3) Zeus has a special relationship with the Hesiodic basileus: the basileus is called

“Zeus-nourished” (διοτρεφέων βαϲιλήων, Theog. 82), and basilēes are “from Zeus” (ἐκ δὲ Διὸϲ

βαϲιλῆεϲ, Theog. 96). Likewise, in the Aetia epilogue the poet states that he will depart to the pasture of the Muses (fr. 112.9), but it is Zeus who saves his anaktes (Ζεῦ, …ϲάω δ’ [ἐμὸ]ν οἶκον

ἀνάκτων, 112.8); we should note that in his corpus, Callimachus can refer to the Ptolemies as either anaktes, as they are in the Aetia epilogue, or basilēes, as in Hymn to Delos 187

(ἀϲπίδαϲ…αἱ…κείϲονται βαϲιλῆοϲ ἀέθλια πολλὰ καμόντοϲ. / ἐϲϲόμενε Πτολεμαῖε…, Hymn

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4.184–8).2 (4) In both Hesiod and Callimachus, Apollo inspires aoidoi in addition to the Muses

(ἐκ γάρ τοι…ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνοϲ…ἀοιδοὶ ἔαϲιν, Theog. 94–5; …Ἀπ̣[ό]λλων εἶπεν ὅ μοι

Λύκιοϲ, Aet. fr. 1.22). (5) Lastly, in Hesiod the Muses are daughters of Zeus (Διὶ πατρὶ, Theog.

36; πατρὸϲ Ζηνὸϲ, 40–1); this relationship is not found in Aetia, although we cannot rule out the possibility that it appears in an inexant portion.

Callimachus models the relationship between gods, poets, and lords closely after Hesiod.

It forms an integral part of his poetic program, as the poet’s inspiration from the Muses and

Apollo constitutes a primary theme in in Telchinas and the Somnium, and these are the deities who are the source of poets in Theogony. Callimachus remembers his Hesiodic model also in the epilogue:

...]..ιν ὅτ’ ἐμὴ μοῦϲα τ̣[.....]ά̣ϲεται ...]τ̣ου καὶ Χαρίτων [...... ]ρ̣ι̣α̣ μο̣ιαδ̣’ ἀνά̣ϲ̣ϲ̣ηϲ ...]τερηϲ οὔ ϲε ψευδον[...... ]μ̣ατι̣ πάντ’ ἀγαθὴν καὶ πάντ̣α̣ τ̣[ελ]εϲφόρον εἶπέν̣...[..].[ κ̣εί̣ν.. τῶι Μοῦϲαι πολλὰ νέμοντι βοτὰ ϲὺν̣ μύθουϲ ἐβάλοντο παρ’ ἴχν[ι]ον ὀξέοϲ ἵππου·

…when my Muse will . O of and the Graces and of our lady, not untruthfully called you good in everything and a fulfiller of everything, of him (?) with whom the Muses had a conversation when he was tending his plentiful herds near the trace of the quick horse (mod. trans. Harder 2012).

The papyrus in this section is too lacunose to make much sense of it, but the broader importance of these lines is how closely royalty, deity, and poetry operate. Callimachus praises his anassa

2 There is the possibility that Callimachus refers to the Ptolemies as basilēes also in Aetia fr. 86 (Μοῦ]ϲαί μοι βαϲιλη[ ἀεί]δειν), but the papyrus is too fragmentary to tell whether it is the Ptolemies who are meant, or Zeus or Apollo. See Barbantani, 2011, pp. 179–80; Harder, 2012, p. 715. 54

(112.2), likely Berenice II,3 and the vocative earlier in line 2 likely refers to Arsinoë-Aphrodite who appeared to the poet in his dream.4 It is telling that after his praise of the Ptolemaic queens,

Callimachus returns immediately to Hesiod’s Heliconian experience, repeating quite closely his reference to Hesiod’s encounter with the Muses in fr. 2 (ποιμένι μῆλα νέμοντι παρ’ ἴχνιον

ὀξέοϲ ἵππου / Ἡϲιόδωι Μουϲέων ἑϲμὸϲ ὅτ’ ἠντίαϲεν, 2.1–2). This is in turn followed by an invocation to Zeus to save his Ptolemaic anaktes (fr. 112.8), echoing Hesiod’s association of

Zeus with the basilēes (Theog. 82, 96). My point is that Callimachus consistently associates the

Ptolemies with Hesiod because Hesiod himself praises his rulers and attributes their speaking authority with the Muses: the Alexandrian poet’s shifting between praise of Muse and praise of ruler is patterned after a distinctly Theogonic phenomenon. It is a crucial element of

Callimachus’ following of his Hesiodic model, and the importance of the close association between gods, poets, and rulers is underscored in the fact that it appears in both Aetia’s prologue and epilogue, forming a ring composition.

There is a major Callimachean departure from Hesiod’s model, however. As illustrated in

(2) of figures 1 and 2, in Aetia the Muses do not inspire the basilēes as they do in Theogony, because in Callimachus’ poem the basileus, or rather, the basileia Arsinoë II, becomes a Muse herself. The paradigm has shifted: in Hesiod, the Muse dispenses inspiration to both poets and lords, but now that the lords have become Muses, as a combined entity the Muses and lords initiate and inspire the poet. Callimachus faces a radically different political landscape than his

Archaic predecessor. The Archaic basileus is simply a judge among many5 who settles disputes

3 The most likely reconstruction is ἀνά̣ϲ̣ϲ̣ηϲ / [ἡμε]τέρεϲ, and that she is “our” lady implies that she is still living and so Berenice is preferred. See Harder, 2012, p. 859–60. 4 Instead of μο̣ιαδ̣’ ἀνά̣ϲ̣ϲ̣ηϲ, Harder prefers a reading of μαῖα δ’ ἀνά̣ϲ̣ϲ̣ηϲ because it fits more smoothly with the previous vocative, thus, “mother of our lady” which would refer to Arsinoë-Aphrodite. 5 In Works and Days, the basilēes are always plural; see Tandy, 2012, pp. 52–3. 55 among the common people; the Ptolemaic basileus, continuing a tradition from the monarchic pharaohs, becomes a god. Callimachus must adapt the Hesiodic model to the world of Hellenistic ruler-cult, and the dream both allows the sovereign to operate simultaneously as a lord and god, and brings the lords and gods together on Helicon—like the statue of Arsinoë II erected among those of the Muses on the mountain.

While the equation of the ruler with the Muses is an innovation on Callimachus’ part, it should be noted that Hesiod’s text already points to a connection between the basileus and divinity. Hesiod explains that the Muses inspire the ruler so that his “words flow soothingly from his mouth” (Theog. 84) when rendering judgements for the people, “and as he goes up to the gathering they [the people] seek his favor like a god” (ἐρχόμενον δ’ ἀν’ ἀγῶνα θεὸν ὣϲ

ἱλάϲκονται…, Theog. 91–2). Even in Hesiod, the line between the gods and the mortal basileus is blurred, as the basileus embodies the divine inspiration granted him by the Muses. The people,

λαοί, respond to the divine source of his inspired words by regarding him as a god. Callimachus’ portrayal of a Ptolemaic royal as a deity can in this light be viewed as another step in a trajectory present in Theogony, exemplary of his innovating the genre while building upon it.

As the lines between god and ruler are blurred, so are the lines between god and poet. In

Theogony’s Dichterweihe scene, the poet relates that the Muses breathed “a divine voice” in him, an αὐδή θέσπις (Theog. 31–2). The poet is imbued with the breath of the Muses—literally, in- spired—and his voice has a divine character; as Kathryn Stoddard argues, “only the inspired poet possesses a human αὐδή that is divinely θέσπις.”6 Moreover, a connection is formed between the god-like basileus and the poet in the Muses’ conferral of a skeptron to Hesiod (30–1), the

6 Stoddard, 2003, p. 7. 56 symbol of kingly authority in Archaic literature.7 The skeptron is emblematic of the authority with which the poet declares “that which will be and was before” (τά τ’ ἐϲϲόμενα πρό τ’ ἐόντα,

Theog. 32), a seer-like conveyance of that which only the gods know.8 The basileus, meanwhile, is afforded the recognition of divinity when he is inspired in pronouncing verdicts to the laoi, and both the poet’s and the lord’s authority is rooted in their affinity with the divine.9

We should remember that in the dream sequences of the Egyptian Königsnovellen, it is the pharaoh who receives instruction from a god in a dream. In Aetia, the pharaoh becomes the god appearing in the dream, which allows the poet to take pharaoh’s place as the dream’s recipient. I argued in the second chapter that the Callimachean dream sequence draws from the tradition of the Königsnovellen; since the pharaoh operates in the mortal human sphere but is also a god, and insofar as Callimachus takes the usual place of the pharaoh in this topos, the

Alexandrian poet partakes in a revelation typically reserved for a divine (or semi-divine) figure.

In Hesiod, the poet is also portrayed with royal and divine characterizations, and the Demotic dream trope which Callimachus adapts aligns closely with this multiplicity of attributes.

Moreover, the traditions of the Hesiodus Redivivus, the Hesiod who was resurrected or rejuvenated, imbues Hesiod with a mythical, semi-divine status,10 and as I discussed in the first chapter, it is to the Hesiodus Redivivus that Callimachus aligns himself in Aetia: Callimachus’ somnium allows him to be the rejuvenated Hesiod, ἀ]ρτιγένειοϲ ὤν (Harder 2d.4). It is not only

Arsinoë who is deified in Callimachus’ dream—the poet mythicizes himself, emerging as the semi-divine Hesiod of tradition who was “twice-young.”

7 Ex., Il. 1.279, 2.86. 8 West, 1966, p. 166. 9 Stoddard, 2003, p. 8. 10 Cf. Scodel, 1980, p. 318. 57

In his seminal commentary on Theogony, Martin West is unimpressed by Hesiod’s praise of the basilēes: speaking of lines 80 following, he complains that “there is now a somewhat contrived transition to the subject of kings…At the end (94 ff.) there is an even more awkward transition from kings to singers.”11 He wonders why the basilēes are brought up at all, and suggests that “Hesiod has introduced their praise because the poem was designed for their ears.”12 We may grant West that Hesiod’s shifts in focus and scattered praises of the basilēes can come across as contrived. However, the anxiety about praise of patron and ruler propaganda in ancient Greek poetry is surely a modern one, rooted in Romantic notions of art pour l’art that simply do not meet ancient texts on their own terms. Negative assessments of anything redolent of royal propaganda have featured in Callimachean scholarship too; this was a dominating attitude of many scholars of Callimachus from the late nineteenth onward, a trend which has thankfully been reversed with the renewal of interest in Hellenistic poetry in the latter decades of the twentieth century.13

As I demonstrate in this section, poetic homage to his Ptolemaic patrons is not something extricable from the key themes constructed by Callimachus in his programmatic prologue and epilogue. It is doubtless the case that certain features of the text, like making Arsinoë II a Muse and his salutation to Zeus to save his lords, stem from the currency of the patron-poet relationship, where the poet gets support and the patron gets propaganda. Nevertheless, I emphasize that Callimachus pays homage to his Ptolemaic rulers also because he follows in the footsteps of Hesiod. His desire to be a Novus Hesiodus and his bolstering of ruler-ideology are fully integrated features of the text, as they are in Theogony. We may be tempted to view royal

11 West, 1966, p. 181. 12 Ibid., p. 182. 13 See ex., the discussion of older critics’ assessments of Lock of Berenice in Gutzwiller, 1992, pp. 359–61. 58 propaganda in the text as essentially one-sided, serving the interests of the royals in question: more subtle are the ways the poet can manipulate propaganda for his own poetic persona. The

Ptolemies were deeply invested in dreams as an avenue for both accessing the gods and to become gods themselves: but in this respect Callimachus’ motivations for using a dream are not so different from those of his royal patrons, since his dream both takes him to the Muses of

Helicon and enables him to embody the legendary Hesiod.

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